Chapter 508

The hollow growling of her stomach urged her to seek food, but the prison meals sent by Euron Greyjoy were hardly edible—maggot-infested bread, salted meat as hard as wood, or fish beginning to rot. These were things Asha Greyjoy would only touch if she were on the brink of starvation. Around her, the darkness was absolute. The manacles around her wrists and ankles bit into skin already calloused from long captivity, rats scurried past her feet, and lice burrowed under her clothes, leaving her skin itching and burning. Bound by chains, she couldn't even scratch herself.

This was the Dreadfort, one of the largest structures in Pyke. Unlike the main keep, the Dreadfort stood on a massive crag jutting vertically out of the sea, further from the island itself. Its upper halls were more spacious and lavishly decorated, serving as accommodations for important guests, while its hollowed lower levels had been repurposed as a dungeon. Here, Asha, once on the cusp of becoming the Queen of the Iron Islands, found herself once again imprisoned—this time in her own home. The treatment she endured now was worse than what she'd faced in the hands of her enemies. The irony was cutting.

Yet more tormenting than the discomfort of her imprisonment was the sting of repeated failures and the confusion swirling in her mind. How had her uncle mastered such unnatural powers?

That day in the great hall, her speech had successfully shifted the Ironborn leaders' hostility away from her and toward the Night’s Watch. Her plan to infiltrate her people again seemed to be going smoothly: even if Euron denied her request for a ship, she could settle for staying by his side as an assistant—an apparently humiliating position, but one that would make finding an opening to strike far easier.

Everything had been on track until Euron removed his eyepatch. The moment his cursed eye met hers, her entire body froze, paralyzed as though an invisible hand had gripped her by the throat. Her breath faltered, her thoughts scattered, and in that instant, it was as if every scheme, calculation, and secret in her mind had been laid bare under a merciless sun.

But it wasn’t just that. Their shared gaze forged an inexplicable bridge between their minds, and in the fleeting moments that followed, images and sensations she couldn’t comprehend flooded her vision. They were strange and alien—bizarre, terrifying, and impossibly vivid. Though she could remember none of it now, the experience left a stain on her consciousness, something formless and unshakable.

Looking back, she suspected those flashes were fragments of Euron's memories—whether delusions or reality, she couldn’t say. And just as she had glimpsed fragments of his mind, it seemed Euron had seen right through hers, exposing every detail of her assassination plot.
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In the damp, dimly lit dungeon, the only illumination came from the torches carried by the silent, hostile jailer. He was a strange man, nameless and uncommunicative, whose eyes betrayed neither sympathy nor malice. Asha had tried everything—conversation, negotiation, even seduction—but none of it worked. Eventually, she realized why: this man likely wasn’t Ironborn but one of Euron’s foreign recruits from the Silence. Perhaps he was mute, unable to respond even if he wanted to. Or perhaps he feared Euron more than he desired a woman. There was even a chance he lacked not only a tongue but also... other parts.

When this realization dawned, Asha stopped wasting her breath and resigned herself to silence, playing the role of an obedient prisoner. Euron had captured her publicly; even he wouldn’t dare kill her outright. And if he wanted to fabricate a crime against her, he couldn’t very well tell the Ironborn she had plotted his assassination based on some “cursed eye” that revealed her thoughts. Besides, she still held one title, unwanted as it was, that served to protect her: she was Erik Anvilbreaker’s wife.

Killing a bannerman’s wife without cause would be a bold and reckless move, even for Euron. For now, it seemed her fate would be exile or imprisonment in her husband’s keep—neither of which sounded promising, but at least they were survivable.

Amid the stench of rot and decay, surrounded by shadows, Asha picked up a piece of rock-hard dried beef from her meal tray and began gnawing on it. The daughter of Balon Greyjoy would not surrender to fate. The food was vile, but it was still food, and she would need her strength. The next time she left this dungeon—wherever she might end up—she would be ready to seize whatever chance presented itself.
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Clink, clink... clink...

Just as she resolved to endure, faint footsteps reached her ears. Asha initially ignored them, assuming it was the mute jailer on his rounds. But seconds later, the sound grew louder and quicker, followed by the unmistakable scuffle of hurried footsteps, heavy breathing, and the scrape of furniture being knocked over.

This wasn’t her usual jailer. Intrigued and cautious, Asha stopped chewing and perked her ears. Someone was coming. Could it be that Euron had finally decided how to deal with her? Was she being moved to another cell—or perhaps, to her death?

The footsteps multiplied, along with muffled sounds of combat—a clash, a grunt, something heavy hitting the ground. Asha’s heart raced. Who would attack her guards in the depths of Pyke? Could it really be... rescue?

Her spirits lifted at the thought. Tossing aside the inedible meat, she struggled upright and fixed her gaze on the cell door. Moments later, torchlight flared in the corridor, blinding her light-deprived eyes. She could hear voices calling her name.

“Here! I’m here!” she shouted back.

The brightness of three torches overwhelmed her vision. She couldn’t make out faces as the rescuers reached her cell and wasted no time. Rather than fumble with keys, they smashed the lock with an axe, breaking her chains in swift, efficient strikes. Asha barely had time to react before she was yanked to her feet.

“Who sent you?” she asked, shielding her eyes.

“The Reader,” one of them answered curtly, steadying her arm.

Of course—it was her uncle Rodrik. But Pyke’s dungeon wasn’t easily accessed. “How did you even get down here?”

“Euron announced your capture to the captains and summoned your uncle to discuss your fate,” said one of her rescuers, a tall man holding her other arm. “We came with him, staying the night in the guest quarters above the Dreadfort. Now stop asking questions. We need to leave—quickly.”

Asha didn’t understand why Euron would allow such an opportunity for Rodrik to act. It didn’t make sense, but there was no time to debate it. “Wait! I have two crewmen imprisoned elsewhere—”

“Our orders were to get you out,” snapped the third man, a blunt and humorless figure holding the torch. “Your crew is not our concern.”

Asha bit her lip, suppressing the urge to argue. Her loyal men, Harl and Hogen, were as good as dead if left behind. But challenging her rescuers now risked her own escape. Her uncle had sent these men, not her crew. If she tried to push her luck, they might leave her behind.

She couldn’t afford to die here. Gritting her teeth, Asha allowed herself to be half-carried out of the cell. The lifeless body of her mute jailer lay slumped at the dungeon entrance, his blood pooling beneath him. She wanted to spit on the man, but her mouth was too dry.

As they ascended the stairs and left the dungeon behind, Asha noticed something strange. There were no guards—none at all. The eerie emptiness of the Dreadfort’s defenses was unnatural, and it filled her with unease. Still, the rescuers pressed on without incident, eventually leading her to an eastern cliff overlooking the sea.

Ropes had been secured to the rocky edge, and a small boat waited below. Though exhausted, Asha managed to climb down with assistance, collapsing into the waiting craft. Her rescuers joined her moments later, and under cover of night, they rowed away from Pyke.

“What about the guards? Did you kill them all?” Asha asked, still puzzled by their escape.

“No one stopped us. Maybe Euron trusts the cliffs of Pyke too much,” one of them replied.

“And my uncle? Where is he?” Asha pressed.

“He’s already fled. He’s waiting on the Sea Song,” the man said, pointing to a shadowy ship in the distance.

Through the starlit night, Asha squinted at the vessel. She recognized it immediately: her uncle’s flagship, one of the finest warships in the Iron Islands. She pinched her thigh to confirm she wasn’t dreaming, and the sharp pain reassured her. She had escaped.

Just as relief washed over her, the distant tolling of a bell shattered the quiet. The alarm had been raised. The impossible rescue was over—now came the pursuit.