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Chapter 261
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 23:08:29 +0000 UTCA small squad of soldiers escorted a well-fed and well-watered Asha to the northernmost end of the causeway. One of them unlocked her shackles, while another returned her weapons to her hands.
“Be quick about it,” the officer leading them said, before turning back with his subordinates to the camp.
Asha didn’t respond. She sheathed her dagger into her jacket, hooked her hand axe onto her shoulder strap, and rubbed her wrists, flexing her ankles and even hopping on the spot a few times to shake off the constraints on her body.
Then she turned back, casting a complicated glance at the camp behind her. The combined encampment of two thousand Gift troops and several hundred White Harbor soldiers wasn’t enormous, but for the sparsely populated Iron Islands, it was an impressive military force.
The army, led by a Night’s Watchman and composed of men from the Gift, was peculiar. Asha could say with absolute certainty that most of these farmers had never undergone any formal training. Their strength came solely from the harshness of their lives, and many didn’t even know how to properly hold a weapon.
Even so, they demonstrated an uncanny discipline in tactics and command execution. Whether it was leaving a southern gap while besieging Deepwood Motte, cutting off her retreat to the coast at dawn, or maintaining swift yet orderly marches for days after retaking the fortress, their performance resembled that of a seasoned force. To an outsider, this army might even appear to be an elite unit, unless they fought them or examined their camp closely.
This discrepancy between Asha’s experience and the reality before her baffled the Kraken’s Daughter, whose military instincts were lacking.
...
Since she couldn’t figure it out, Asha decided not to dwell on it. At least for now, she had her weapons back and a fleeting sense of freedom. If given the choice, she’d prefer to drive her dagger into that accursed Night’s Watchman’s heart rather than negotiate, but unfortunately, the man hadn’t come to personally see her off. She had also considered convincing the Ironborn in Moat Cailin to break north and flee to the coast, but given the consequences of her abandoning Deepwood Motte, coupled with the numbers and performance of the Gift army, she had no real chance of success.
There was no other choice. For the sake of the safety of those fifty-three brothers, she had to swallow her pride and follow the enemy’s orders.
After warming up, she stretched her legs and started southward toward the small fortress. The causeway leading to Moat Cailin was short. This ancient stronghold, perched at the northernmost edge of the Neck, guarded the narrow passage. To the south lay the treacherous swamps, while the land gradually hardened to the north—shifting from pools to wet mud within a few hundred feet, and eventually to solid ground.
The air was damp and heavy. The northern swamps posed less of a threat, and no one had bothered to maintain the causeway, which blended into the surrounding mud. Asha carefully treaded her way south, stepping on the logs and planks the northern army had laid down months ago during their advance, making her way toward the three towers.
As she neared the fortress, the ruins of ancient Moat Cailin loomed before her. Once mighty walls of black basalt now lay scattered in enormous chunks, each so massive that it would take a hundred men to move them. Some were partially submerged in the muck, with only a corner visible, while others jutted out like toppled blocks abandoned by gods. Moss and lichen crept over their fractured surfaces.
Of the three remaining towers, one leaned precariously, as if about to collapse at any moment. Another stood straight like a spear piercing the sky, though its tip was broken. The last was broad and sturdy, but a gnarled tree had burst through its northern wall, its roots splitting the stone. The only banner flying over this ancient ruin was the black-and-gold kraken of the Ironborn, a sight that should have brought Asha comfort. But it didn’t. Not at all.
For a warrior, the despair of knowing the battle was lost was far worse than death.
Corpses littered the way. When the Ironborn had landed at the Fever River and seized Moat Cailin in a surprise attack, the Manderlys had sent forces to reclaim it. But with Victarion Greyjoy and his Iron Fleet holding the line, the Manderly soldiers had failed miserably, leaving dozens of men and horses behind. The bodies were rotting now, green with decay and crawling with maggots. A few had sunk into the mire, their faces and fingers the only parts visible. It was easy to imagine how many more had been completely swallowed by the swamp. After centuries, the Neck might well be Westeros’s largest graveyard—one without headstones.
Captured by the Night’s Watchman, Asha hadn’t been tortured or mistreated. When she approached the towers, the sentries quickly recognized her.
“Stop!” a voice shouted. “Are those men camped behind you your troops? What are you doing with Manderly’s forces?”
Irritated, Asha placed her hands on her hips and glared at the speaker atop the wall. “You know who I am. Are you going to let me in, or shall we keep shouting at each other through a wall?”
The sentry hesitated, then disappeared. Moments later, the gate creaked open, and the same voice called out, “Hurry inside!”
Asha checked her dagger’s position and stepped through.
...
The gates slammed shut behind her. But instead of the armed host she expected, there was only one man standing there—a solitary and ugly figure. Asha vaguely recognized him but couldn’t recall his name. He slid the crossbar back into place, then turned to her nervously, scrutinizing her with squinted eyes and a suspiciously curled lip.
“Well, now that you’re here, mind telling me what you’re doing? Did Victarion send you to reinforce us? Where is everyone else? What’s that northern army doing?”
“They’re Northerners,” Asha said, exasperated. “I was captured at Deepwood Motte.”
“Captured?” His eyes widened as he glanced at the axe strapped to her shoulder, his hand reaching for his sword hilt. “Then why are you here?”
“I’ve been sent by the Starks to negotiate,” she replied, her tone sharp as the foul stench of decay filled her lungs. The man’s incessant questions grated on her nerves. “Are you the commander here?”
“Me?” Her calm demeanor seemed to give the man pause. Perhaps he remembered the stories about her—or simply her surname. He pulled his hand back from the sword, his tone turning deferential. “No, lady. Commander Raff Kenning was in charge, but I’m just a gatekeeper.”
Asha glanced at a rotting corpse lying nearby and held back the urge to ask about its identity. From the man’s demeanor and the state of Moat Cailin, it was clear the defenders were barely holding on. “Take me to your commander.”
“Kenning’s dead,” the man said grimly.
Asha frowned. “How did he die?”
“Swamp dwellers shot him with a poisoned arrow. Just a scratch, but...” He shook his head. “We cleaned the wound with boiling wine, but it didn’t help.”
So, the “swamp devils” had struck again—not demons, just the Ironborn’s name for the crannogmen. Asha shrugged. “Then forget him. Who’s in charge now?”
“One of the others, maybe. They’re either on the walls or in the hall drinking. I can take you if you want.” Her commanding air seemed to cow the gatekeeper, and he abandoned his post to lead her toward the central tower.
The hall was a relic of black stone, with a high ceiling that reeked of smoke despite its ventilation. The walls were streaked with pale lichen, and the massive hearth held only a smoldering chunk of peat. A centuries-old carved stone table dominated the room.
Two or three dozen Ironborn were gathered, drinking. Most barely glanced at her guide as he entered. It wasn’t until Asha followed him that their eyes lit up.
...
“Asha Greyjoy!” One man stood, his voice commanding. “Where is your uncle? Where is the Iron Fleet? Have you come to take us home?”
“If you hadn’t killed the maester and his ravens, you’d already know: my long-lost uncle Euron Greyjoy returned to the Iron Islands and won the kingsmoot. Victarion now serves under him, raiding the Reach and ‘supporting’ Stannis.”
“What?” The assembled Ironborn were clearly unaware, and her words sparked an uproar.
“That bastard abandoned us!?”
“We never should’ve killed the maester!”
“More mouths to feed? You didn’t complain when we were boiling raven stew!”
“Enough!” A man with a silver fish-shaped cloak clasp shouted. “Victarion swore he’d return crowned and victorious with a thousand men. He broke his oath. We’ll deal with him later. For now, we need to focus on ourselves. Asha, how many men did you bring? Where are the ships? How did you evade the Manderly patrols?”
“I didn’t. I’m a prisoner, sent here to negotiate.”
...
Her answer caused another uproar. The Ironborn erupted in anger, some shouting of betrayal, others of despair.
“Negotiate? The Northerners won’t let us live!”
“The Greyjoy men led us into this mess, and now their women will pay for it!” One man, who had long lusted after Asha, slammed the table and approached her menacingly. He shoved her back until she hit the wall.
...
