GOT: Chapter 255/256

Chapter 255: Daughter of the Sea Monster

Perhaps the dream of becoming king was an obsession deeply rooted in the Greyjoy bloodline, a kind of madness from which no family member was immune. But compared to her father's blind confidence and recklessness, Asha Greyjoy considered herself far more sober and rational.

Her uncle had been absolutely right: the Old Way had once suited the Iron Islands because they were one of many small kingdoms with similar strength, and the natural barrier of the sea had protected them. The Ironborn could plunder freely, without fear of devastating retaliation. But Aegon's conquest had ended that era of fragmentation, and the Old Way had died alongside Black Harren and his sons.

The current strength of the Iron Islands was nowhere near enough to shake the continent of Westeros.

So, when her father stubbornly launched another rebellion, Asha had been powerless to stop him, but she still did all she could to convince him to abandon the fantasy of conquering the entire North. Instead, she advocated a more cautious strategy: she would lead a surprise attack to seize Deepwood Motte, the central hub of the western North, while her uncle Victarion led the Iron Fleet to capture Caitlin Bay.

If those two objectives were secured, the Ironborn could cut off the enemy, using the West Coast and Wolfswood as a base to intercept Northern forces returning to defend their lands, while launching countless small raids to harass the North. This would prevent the Northern houses from gathering their strength or assisting Robb Stark in reopening the path between North and South. Over time, the Ironborn occupation of the Rocky Coast and Sea Dragon Point would become a fait accompli. In the end, with a combination of migration, hostages, and diplomacy, they could force the North to cede the sparsely populated western coastline near the Iron Islands—land ten times the size of the isles themselves.

With rebels in the South keeping the Iron Throne occupied, the plan's chances of success—while not high—were still far greater than her father's last rebellion. And even if it failed, the worst-case scenario was being driven back to the Iron Islands. Without a ruler like Robert Baratheon to unify the Seven Kingdoms, no one had the strength to defeat the Iron Fleet and launch a counterattack on the isles.

Even in defeat, they had a fallback: they could join the rebels. If Aegon Targaryen overthrew Stannis Baratheon and seized the Iron Throne, the Ironborn could rise again by earning rewards.

And whether that boy flying the Targaryen banner was a true dragon or not… who the hell cared?

...

The plan had progressed surprisingly well. Though the attacks on Torrhen's Square and Barrowton were repelled, the "unrestricted plundering war" soon filled the poorly defended North with dread. Fear spread quickly… West of the Kingsroad, there was no resistance left. The Umbers, Boltons, Karstarks, and other eastern houses kept their gates firmly shut, only defending their own holdings. The Winterfell garrison occasionally sallied out to drive off invaders, rushing between villages and small castles to put out fires. But even they, after suffering steady losses, had begun to slow their response.

No one had foreseen that her father—so healthy and strong—would die at such a critical moment in the Ironborn's destiny. A sudden storm, a broken rope bridge, and Balon Greyjoy was dead. Or so they said. If the Drowned God truly existed, then he must be deaf, blind, and fond of cruel jokes.

And then came the news that her long-absent uncle Euron had "just so happened" to return. With calculated preparation, he defeated her, who had rushed back, and her tongue-tied Uncle Victarion at the Kingsmoot, using a magical horn to win the driftwood crown.

To avoid being killed or forced into marriage, Asha fled the Iron Islands with her loyal men and returned to Deepwood Motte. The former occupier was now a fugitive, a stray dog with nowhere to run.


---

Moonlight poured over the distant mountains, reflected by snow-capped peaks that gleamed like icy crowns. But the Sea Monster's Daughter had no mind to appreciate the scenery. She was filled with resentment and dissatisfaction. If she had been born a man, she would have won the Kingsmoot without question, inheriting her father's crown and legacy. But because she lacked that piece of flesh between her legs, even Victarion—who had always been close to her—turned on her and joined the competition.

Had he supported her, Euron, no matter how many tricks he had, would never have succeeded in stealing the crown.

It wasn't just the contempt for women that stung. What enraged Asha most was that even after Euron, with his slick tongue, won the driftwood crown, Victarion—knowing full well that Euron had likely murdered their brother—still bent the knee without hesitation, obeying the new king out of blind loyalty.

Her father had ordered Victarion to lead the Iron Fleet in guarding the southern gateway to the North, to intercept Robb Stark's inevitable return. With the Ironborn main force stationed there, even the Young Wolf, leading a vast host, would have struggled to break through. But once Euron issued his new commands, dear Uncle Victarion abandoned that critical position and joyfully sailed south to raid the Shield Islands.

If her uncle still held Caitlin Bay with the fleet, Asha would be like a dog safe in its kennel. But now, with only a few hundred men left defending the port, it couldn't hold off the Northerners for long. Once Robb Stark returned through the Neck, who would be the dog in the kennel then?

Her father had given her thirty longships and a thousand men to take Deepwood Motte. Now she had only four ships and fewer than two hundred men. She had indeed reached a preliminary agreement with the Glovers, hoping to finalize the peace terms with the Lord of the North. But the conditions required to enforce such a treaty—holding off the Young Wolf's army with the Iron Fleet, and maintaining firm control of Sea Dragon Point and the Rocky Coast—were gone.

The dream of expanding the Ironborn's lands was already shattered. At this point, even holding Deepwood Motte for a few more days was uncertain.

She didn't even know whether the few hundred brothers left at Caitlin Bay still held the place. Or rather… was Caitlin Bay even still in Ironborn hands?


---

It was bitterly cold outside. Asha's body urged her to return to the warm lord's bedchamber, pick a pleasing and loyal man from those still following her, enjoy a hard round of bedding, and sleep until dawn. But her mind was in no state for that.

She hadn't received word from Caitlin Bay in two weeks. That meant Robb Stark's forces could arrive outside Deepwood Motte at any moment, catching her asleep and hanging her from the battlements.

With pressure mounting, even sleep had become a luxury. She had to arrange the defenses and find an escape route for herself and the men who still followed her.

Deepwood Motte was built around a wide, circular hill. The hilltop was leveled, with a deep great hall built atop it. At one end stood a fifty-foot watchtower. The outer ward lay at the base of the hill, housing stables, a paddock, blacksmith's shop, a well, and sheep pens, all enclosed by a ditch, sloping earthworks, and a palisade. The defenses were terrain-based and formed an oval perimeter. The castle had two main gates, each protected by a pair of square wooden towers linked by walkways atop the walls.

It was a textbook Northern stronghold. Not elegant, but practical. Yet unlike most castles in Westeros, all of Deepwood Motte's buildings were made of wood—hall, walls, and towers alike. The surrounding forest lacked stone. And that meant the fortress she now held was famous, but not strong.

Without a large army, even seven or eight hundred well-trained soldiers with ladders could likely scale the walls and retake it.

With enemy troops closing in, she would either have to retreat or fight to the death. Maybe holding this place was a mistake from the start. Though Deepwood Motte was close to the sea, when Asha stood atop the wall, all she saw was an endless stretch of trees. The Northerners called this place Wolfswood, a sea of trees, but it smelled of pine, not salt.

Fleeing the castle was easy enough—but where could she go? Back to the Iron Islands? Even if Euron didn't kill her himself, he'd send one of his "husbands" to drag her back. The Rocky Coast and Sea Dragon Point had no proper fortresses, only caves and scattered shelters. With the North chasing her like a hound, she'd have nowhere to hide. And sailing out… with four longships and fewer than two hundred men, she wouldn't even be a proper pirate.

How had Balon Greyjoy's heir fallen so low?

Deep in thought, Asha paced the wooden walls. Two of her men on watch passed by and saluted quietly.

"Keep your eyes wide. Report anything you see, even a rabbit."

"Understood, Captain."

There was no spirit in the man's reply. As they passed, one even looked her up and down with hungry eyes. Among those who still followed her, half saw her as a daughter or sister, but the other half hoped to get between her legs. Asha knew this. And she couldn't help but worry: if despair kept spreading, the second half might forget restraint and take what they wanted.

No… they wouldn't, another voice inside her said. They love you. They'd never hurt you. And she wasn't some fragile girl in need of protection.

Shaking off the thought, she tried to resume her planning… but less than a minute after parting ways with the sentries, an alarm broke the night.

"Fire! The south watchtower is on fire!"

(To be continued.)

Chapter 256: The Conquest of Deepwood Motte

Although Deepwood Motte was made of wood, it wasn't vulnerable to fire attacks. The timber walls were packed with cold, frozen soil, and the outer surfaces were covered in moss that had grown for who knew how many years. Even if set ablaze, the fire would have a hard time spreading.

Of course, such concerns were meaningless in the face of wildfire.

Aegor had brought several jars of wildfire from Crown Town, but he had no intention of burning the entire fortress to the ground. Whether it was necessary given their ten-to-one troop advantage was one matter, but if he marched a hundred miles deep into the Wolfswood only to hand the Northmen a pile of charred ruins, it was hard to say whether he would be met with gratitude or resentment.

His purpose in ordering the watchtower set ablaze was twofold: first, to incite fear and chaos among the defenders and push them into panic; second, to bluff. From within the light of the flames, the defenders would be blinded to what lay beyond the walls. The "light under the lamp" effect would prevent them from gauging the number of attackers lurking in the darkness.

Though the wooden castle was far from sturdy, siege warfare always favored the defenders. And neither the Free Folk nor the Mountain Clans had any real siege capabilities. Without knowing the internal layout of Deepwood Motte, a reckless frontal assault could lead to heavy casualties.

Aegor hoped to force the enemy into the open, to draw them into a field battle where traps and terrain could decide the fight.

As the wooden tower erupted into an inferno with the help of a single jar of wildfire, blazing bright against the night, Aegor knew it was time.

"Begin."

"Yes."

The command was swiftly passed down the ranks to the lowest officers. Then, in the darkness of the Wolfswood beyond Deepwood Motte, thousands of lights suddenly appeared, and the blast of horns echoed through the night. Aegor had borrowed every horn and torch the Ambers could spare from Last Hearth—far more than he needed. He intended to make the defenders inside believe the main Northern army was attacking through illusion and deception.


---

When the deep, booming horns rang out alongside cries of "For Winterfell!" echoing like a crashing tide, the psychological effect on the Ironborn was immediate.

Asha stared at the countless flames beyond the walls and knew at once that this battle was unwinnable. "Raven, wake everyone and gather them in the outer yard!"

Not that anyone could sleep under such conditions. The courtyard of Deepwood Motte soon swarmed with people. The Ironborn loyal to Asha, armored and armed, assembled in the torchlight before their captain.

"Should we put out the fire first or prepare for battle?"

"Put out your mother's fire!" Asha snapped at the man who asked such a foolish question. She climbed atop a wooden barrel so that all could see her. "The wolf cubs bare their fangs and charge at us, hunting Ironborn blood. Should we cast aside our armor and beg for mercy?"

"No!" cried the first man, drawing his sword.

"No!" echoed another.

"Never!" a third added.

Soon, the whole company roared with defiance.

Asha was satisfied by their spirit. She brandished her short axe. "Even if we must die, we'll go down cursing them, blades and battleaxes in hand!"

"Aye!"

"To the walls!"

The Ironborn scrambled up the walls. But what they saw atop them chilled the fire in their veins. The enemy made no move to storm the walls. Instead, they advanced slowly through the trees with torches, shouting in a manner more chaotic than disciplined. It seemed they meant to surround the keep. Between the dense branches and shifting shadows, it was impossible to gauge their true numbers—but there were certainly thousands. Unless the Northern host had broken through Caitlin Bay, no single house could muster such strength.

At first ready to fight to the last, the Ironborn now hesitated. Their adrenaline cooled into unease.

"They're going to surround Deepwood Motte!"

"There's a battering ram at the north gate!"

"That wooden gate won't hold. Once they're in… we can't fight so many."

"We can use the terrain inside the keep to fight."

"The terrain?" someone snapped. "You pig-brained fool, you think you know Deepwood Motte better than the Glovers? You think they won't lead the charge?"

"We could retreat to the fortress atop the hill."

"And be burned alive? If they can light the watchtower, they can light this whole wooden shit-pile!" another man turned to Asha. "Captain, the sea's only five miles away. Why die here in this useless wood heap? If we must meet the Drowned God, let it be with wet feet!"

"Right! We're Ironborn! If we die, it should be with the sea behind us!"

"Captain! There's no enemy at the south gate! We can break out from there!"

...

No enemy at the south gate? Asha didn't believe it. If Robb Stark had half the battlefield instincts the tales claimed, he would've stationed men to burn the longships, sweep the coast, and cut off all possible escape.

Still, she knew staying was death. Breaking out could be a trap, but even that offered better odds. And the words of her last man struck a chord—she wanted to live. But if she must die, let it be with wet feet.

"Well said. I've changed my mind. Let the wolf pups have their gloomy forest and this cursed wooden chamber pot. We're not dying on the walls. Break out, and fall back to the ships!"

...

The trumpeter blew three short blasts, the signal to retreat to the sea. The Ironborn rushed from the walls to the courtyard, scrambling to regroup. No one found this sudden reversal strange—or if they did, they had no time to question it. For all their shouting of "Winterfell," the attackers had yet to even scale the walls.

There weren't enough horses, so some would have to flee on foot. Asha Greyjoy was not one of them. She mounted her chestnut mare and shouted, "Open the south gate!"

As the wooden gate swung open with a creak, a deafening thud rang from the north gate—the battering ram had struck.

Asha drew a throwing axe from her shoulder strap. Sitting tall on her horse, she roared, "Escape is no longer an option. Brothers, carve us a bloody path! We're going home!"

"Going home!"

"Long live Asha!"

The road beyond the gate was empty, which only deepened her suspicion, but no matter what waited ahead, death was the worst that could happen. She spurred her horse forward. "Move!"

The mass of riders and footmen surged through the gate, across the field, and into the woods. By the time they reached the far side of the clearing, their lines were already in disarray. Under the moonlight, the crops they had trampled during the siege had turned to mud. Asha sent scouts forward and rear guards behind, urging stragglers to move faster and making sure no one was left behind.

Tall firs and ancient oaks loomed overhead. Deepwood Motte had earned its name. The trees grew thick and close, their twisted limbs swaying in the wind with groans like dying men. Their branches arched skyward like claws, scraping the moon itself.

The sooner they left this place, the better. Asha felt it in her bones. This was the North, and even the trees seemed to loathe the Ironborn. The forest was watching. She could feel it.

Soon, the scouts returned with news. There were signs of men on the road ahead—an ambush, most likely.

"Leave the road. Head west," Asha ordered without hesitation.

This didn't surprise her. She thought for a moment, then said, "They'll expect us to go north toward the coast. That's where they'll be waiting. But if we avoid the urge to flee to the ships…"

One of her men caught on at once. "Don't take the roads. Pick a direction at random. If even we don't know where we're going, the wolf pups sure as hell won't be able to stop us!"

(To be continued.)