Silence. The air was thick with it, like the fog that hung heavy over the harbor yet to be burned away by the morning sun. A dozen pairs of hands paused in their chores, and a dozen pair of eyes fixed themselves on the trio nearest the railing.

Ingvar moved closer, one slow step after another until his forehead was pressed flush against Andrik's, if the other man didn't back away. "There's blood of ironmen still lappin' at the shores of Cape Kraken. My men, my father an' brothers, an' you want to march on the North again already."

"In case you forgot, Lord Reaper," that title was spat with vehemence, "House Harlaw won the Kraken 'is Conquest. House Drumm was there too. You've got a cock, comin' on board my ship an' callin' men who fought for your father cowards. He was a real reaver."

Pulling away abruptly, Ingvar moved around the deck with arms raised and voice rising in pitch until he was shouting. It was a harsh sound, deep and guttural. "Cowards, all of you! That's what your liege here thinks you are. That you only fight the weak an' the helpless." A murmur of dissent passed through the crowd of sailors gathered on the deck.

"I say any man who's pride is fragile enough t'be trampled by a woman is craven. Where are your stones at, Greyjoy? Did you leave 'em back on Pyke? Or maybe you never even had any at all."