A small squad of soldiers escorted a well-fed Asha to the northern end of the causeway. One of them unlocked her shackles, while another handed back her weapons.
"Go quickly, and return quickly," the lead officer said before turning back toward the camp with his subordinates.
Asha didn't reply. She slipped her dagger into her jacket, clipped the short axe onto her shoulder strap, rubbed her wrists, flexed her feet, and even bounced in place, trying to reacquaint herself with the sensation of freedom.
Then she turned and looked behind her with a complicated expression. The joint camp of two thousand Gift Army troops and several hundred White Harbor soldiers wasn't large, but for the sparsely populated Iron Islands, it was a formidable force.
The "army" led by a Night's Watchman from the Gift was strange. Asha was certain: most of these peasants had never received proper training. Their robust physiques were due to the harsh conditions they lived in, and so of them didn't even know how to hold a weapon correctly.
Yet, as a whole, they demonstrated high discipline and excellent execution of tactics. Whether it was surrounding Deepwood Motte while intentionally leaving a gap to the south, reaching the coastline first the next morning to cut off her retreat, or the swift but orderly march for several days after retaking Deepwood Motte, their every move—from setting up camp to maintaining vigilance and conducting patrols—was carried out with precision. Unless you fought them or examined their camp up close, an outsider might easily mistake them for an elite force.
The contradiction and strangeness of it all left Asha Greyjoy—who lacked formal military training—thoroughly confused.
Things she couldn't understand, she didn't dwell on. For now, she had her weapons back and a brief taste of freedom. If given the chance, she'd rather use her dagger to stab that damned Night's Watchman straight through the heart than act as his mouthpiece. Unfortunately, he hadn't personally escorted her to the end of the causeway. She'd also considered persuading the Ironborn inside Caitlin Bay to break out and flee north to the sea, but given the consequences of her decision to abandon Deepwood Motte—and the numbers and performance of the Gift Army behind her—she knew there was no hope of success.
There was no other way. For the sake of her fifty-three crewn's safety, she had no choice but to submit to humiliation and carry out the enemy's orders.
After warming up, she took long strides toward the small fortress to the south. In front of Asha stretched a short section of the causeway leading to Caitlin Bay. This fortress, which blocked the bottleneck of the Neck, stood at the northernmost edge of the wetlands. The swamp to its south was treacherous, while the land to the north gradually dried out—transforming from pools to muddy flats within a few hundred yards, and eventually firming into solid ground.
The air was humid and heavy. Though the threat of the swamp lessened north of Caitlin Bay, no one had maintained the causeway, and without careful inspection, it was impossible to distinguish it from the surrounding mud. Asha picked her way forward carefully, stepping on the logs and planks laid down by the Northern army months ago as she approached the three towers.
Soon, she neared the remnants of the ancient walls of Caitlin Bay. Once towering and formidable, they had long since crumbled. Enormous blocks of black basalt, so requiring a hundred n to move, were now either half-buried in the swamp or lying shattered like building blocks abandoned by gods. Moss crept over every surface.
Of the three remaining towers, one leaned precariously, looking as if it could collapse at any mont. Another stood tall like a spear, its tip missing. The last was broad and upright, but a twisted tree had sprouted from a crack in its northern wall. The only flag flying over the ruin was the black-and-gold kraken of House Greyjoy. It should have comforted her, but for so reason, it didn't.
For a warrior, the despair of certain defeat was harder to bear than death.
There were corpses along the road. When the Ironborn had first landed from the Hotah River and seized Caitlin Bay in a surprise attack, the Earl of White Harbor had led an attempt to retake it. At that ti, Victarion Greyjoy had held the fortress with a large force from the Iron Fleet. House Manderly's troops had failed and retreated, leaving behind dozens of dead.
The bodies of n and horses now lay rotting, green with decay and covered in maggots. A little further from the causeway, two corpses were already half-subrged in the mud, with only faces and fingertips visible. One could easily imagine that others had been completely swallowed by the swamp. Thousands of years had passed, and the Neck remained the largest unmarked grave in all Westeros.
Since her capture by the Night's Watch, Asha had not been abused or tortured. As she approached the towers, she was quickly recognized by the sentries.
"Stop!" soone shouted. "Did you bring the army camped out there? Why are you with House Manderly's n?"
Asha placed her hands on her hips, clearly irritated, and looked up at the man questioning her from the wall. "Since you've recognized , are you going to let in, or are we going to have this conversation over the wall?"
The guard fell silent, hesitated for a mont, then disappeared from view. Inside Caitlin Bay, there was a mont of quiet before the gate suddenly creaked open.
"Co in quickly!" the voice called again.
Asha checked her dagger, then walked inside.
The gate slamd shut behind her. Yet behind it, there was not the gathering of Ironborn warriors she had imagined, ready and waiting. Only the gatekeeper stood alone.
He was an ugly man. Asha vaguely recognized him but couldn't recall his na. He set the bar in place, then turned to stare nervously at her. He squinted as he studied her and curled his lips in suspicion.
"Now you can tell —how are you here? Did Victarion send you to relieve us? Where are the others? What's going on with the army to the north?"
"That's the Northerners. I was defeated by them at Deepwood Motte and captured."
"Captured?" The man's eyes widened. He looked at the broken axe clipped to her shoulder strap and reached for his sword hilt. "Then what are you doing here?"
"I've co on behalf of the wolf cubs to negotiate." The air reeked of decay, and every breath seed to carry the stench deeper into her lungs. The man's nonstop questions made Asha grow impatient. "Are you the commander here?"
"?" Her calm deanor gave him pause. Perhaps he was recalling her reputation, or simply the na Greyjoy. Either way, he removed his hand from his sword hilt and grew more respectful. "No, my lady. Commander Victarion appointed Ralf Kenning to lead us. I'm just a gatekeeper."
Asha glanced at a nearby corpse beginning to rot, clearly untouched. She resisted the urge to ask who it had been. Judging by the state of the gatekeeper and the general condition of the fortress, the garrison was in dire straits. She feared that even if the Northerners never attacked, these n were close to breaking on their own.
"Take to the commander."
"Ralf Kenning died two days ago…"
Asha frowned. "How did he die?"
"He was hit by an arrow from a swamp devil while on the battlents. Just a graze. But… those devils poison their arrows. They sar them with filth and worse. We cleaned the wound with boiling wine, but it didn't help."
So that was it. "Swamp devils" weren't real demons, of course, just what the Ironborn called the crannogn. Asha shrugged. "Then forget him. Who's second-in-command?"
"Usually up on the walls or in the great hall. If they're not asleep, they're drinking. If my lady wishes, I can take you to find him." Her authoritative air had clearly subdued the man. After hesitating a mont, he abandoned the gate and led Asha toward the gatehouse tower.
The great hall was built of black stone, with a high ceiling. Though spacious and airy, it was choked with smoke. The stone walls were blotched with patches of white moss. In the long-blackened hearth, a lone chunk of peat smoldered. At the center of the room sat a large carved stone table, ancient and weathered.
Twenty or thirty Ironborn were gathered around it, drinking. Only a few looked up as the gatekeeper entered. Their eyes were indifferent and dull. No one questioned why he had left his post.
Then Asha stepped into view, and their eyes lit up.
"Asha Greyjoy!" The man in the lead stood up. "Where is your uncle? Where is the Iron Fleet? Have you co to take us ho?"
"If you hadn't killed the Maester and his ravens, you'd have heard long ago: my long-lost uncle, Euron Greyjoy, returned to the Iron Islands and won the kingsmoot. Victarion now follows the orders of the new King of the Iron Islands. He's sailed south to the Riverlands coast to strike at House Tyrell—to 'support' Stannis."
"What?" It seed the remaining Ironborn hadn't heard the news. Asha's words sparked uproar in the hall. The n erupted in argunt and outrage.
"That bastard! He just left us to rot?!"
"I said we shouldn't have killed the Maester!"
"Where would we get food for another mouth? You weren't exactly shy when we boiled the raven for soup!"
"Shut your mouths, all of you!" A man whose cloak was fastened with a silver cod-shaped clasp roared and stood up. "Victarion swore he'd return as king, wearing a driftwood crown and leading a thousand warriors. He broke that oath. We'll settle that later. Right now, we need to worry about ourselves. Asha, how many n did you bring? Where are the ships? How did you get to Caitlin Bay without the fat pigs from House Manderly spotting you?"
"I didn't avoid anyone's eyes. I'm a prisoner of the Northerners, sent here to negotiate with you."
Her answer caused an even greater uproar. The Ironborn exploded with disbelief.
"To surrender? The Northerners won't spare us!"
"The n of House Greyjoy led us to ruin. Today, let the woman of House Greyjoy pay the price!" An Ironborn who had long harbored lust for Asha on the Iron Islands slamd his hand on the table and stood. Seizing the mont, he strode forward and shoved her back several steps, pinning her against the wall.
(To be continued.)
***
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