Chapter 262

The back of her head hit the wall with a dull thud as the man’s face drew so close to hers that Asha could smell his foul breath. She could see the yellowed patterns on his teeth clearly, but she remained calm. Even as he shoved her against the wall, her hand had silently slipped to the hilt of her dagger.

As the man leaned in, ready to rip at his "prey’s" clothing, he suddenly froze. He felt something cold press against his groin. Looking down, he saw a gleaming dagger aimed directly at his manhood.

“Touch me again, and you’ll never have a chance to use that thing for the rest of your life.”

…

The Ironborn all knew of Asha’s skill with short blades. Not everyone present was ready to risk crossing the Greyjoys, the ruling family of the Iron Islands. The would-be predator, hoping to taste what it was like to bed a Greyjoy woman, found no support from those around him. Most of the men remained seated around the table, drinking, not even bothering to rise. Asha pushed her dagger forward slightly, and the man reluctantly backed away.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Asha felt the faint spark of pride that came from being the daughter of the Kraken.

“Thinking about women even on the brink of death,” one of the Ironborn sneered at the retreating man. Then, turning to Asha, he added seriously, “Your brother, Theon—the one raised by Eddard Stark—came here before you. We already heard about the King’s Moot from him. At the time, we thought it was some trick of the wolves and sent him back to his master with curses. But you? You had a thousand men at Deepwood Motte. We’ve got Robb Stark bottled up here. Who had the forces to capture you?”

“I went to the King’s Moot myself. After it ended, I feared what Euron might do to me, seeing me as a threat to his rule. So, I fled back to Deepwood Motte, but I no longer had a thousand men. Eventually, I was forced out, and on the beach, we were ambushed and failed to break through their blockade.” Asha gave a truthful account of her circumstances but left out one crucial detail: that the attackers at Deepwood Motte were led by a Night’s Watchman commanding farmers. “Now the Northmen have sent me here with a proposal: lay down your arms and surrender before nightfall, and you’ll be allowed to take the black.”

She tossed the letter Aegor had written onto the table where the feeble remnants of the Ironborn sat drinking.

…

No one touched the letter. The last man in the Dreadfort garrison who could read had died days ago.

“What good’s a piece of paper? We need cheese and meat,” one man grumbled.

“And weapons,” added an elderly man with a grey beard and a missing left arm, leaving only a stump. “Swords and axes. A hundred fresh bows. And men!”

“This is a letter from the Chief Logistics Officer of the Night’s Watch. He’s camped just a few leagues north of here. I know what you’re thinking—surrender before the ten thousand Northmen who’ve been trapped south of here for weeks storm the gates in fury. Leave through the north gate, surrender to the Night’s Watch, and take the black. Even Robb Stark wouldn’t dare turn on the Watch to slaughter you afterward.”

The room fell silent. None of them had heard of a Chief Logistics Officer of the Night’s Watch, but the title sounded impressive, carrying enough authority to give them pause. In truth, when Theon Greyjoy had tried to persuade them to surrender a week ago, many had been tempted. But their disdain for the “wolf’s pup raised by Starks,” their distrust of the Northmen’s promises, and their hope that the Iron Fleet might still come to their aid had ultimately kept them from yielding.

Even though Asha had downplayed her influence in front of Aegor, insisting that her uncle’s crews wouldn’t listen to her, she knew that among the Ironborn, her status was still leagues above Theon’s. Even as a defeated and captured woman, her upbringing as Balon Greyjoy’s heir lent her far more weight than her brother, the “ward” of Winterfell.

…

“Ironborn don’t surrender,” a voice suddenly cut through the silence.

“Ironborn don’t surrender?” Asha scoffed, nodding toward the paper. “Go tell that to my father. Time’s running out. The Northmen and the Watch have coordinated their attack. If you don’t surrender before nightfall, they’ll storm this place from both sides.”

“Is that a threat?” a man growled as he stood. He was a hulking brute with bulging eyes and pale, corpse-like skin. “Dagon Codd doesn’t surrender to anyone.”

“I’m not your commander. I have no right to force anyone to surrender. But before the final assault begins, I’m heading back. Those who want to live, take the black, and surrender—follow me. Those who’d rather fight to the death against hundreds of Northmen can stay here.” Asha’s voice turned cold. “But tell me, how many able-bodied fighters do you have left? And do you even know what kind of attack they’ll unleash on you?”

“Not many,” muttered another Codd seated nearby. Even within the same family, it seemed, they couldn’t agree. “No one’s taken a proper count, but we’ve suffered heavy losses. Damn it, I’d surrender—curse the ‘Ironborn never surrender’ nonsense! But if we give up our weapons, why can’t we go home instead of freezing on the Wall fighting wildlings for the rest of our lives? Can’t we negotiate?”

The wildlings are right outside, and if you don’t surrender, they’ll be the ones killing you. Asha thought to herself but kept her expression neutral. “If you wanted leniency, you should’ve surrendered the day Robb Stark’s army arrived. You’ve kept him out here long enough, and now you want to talk terms?”

“Think about it another way,” the one-armed elder suddenly said. “I heard the Night’s Watch only has a few hundred men, most of them old or sickly. There’s dozens—maybe hundreds—of us Ironborn. Even if we’re sent to the Wall, we can agree to escape together. Head west, steal a ship along the shores of the Bay of Ice, and sail back to the Iron Islands. They’ll never be able to chase us down.”

“That makes sense!”

“Aye, why didn’t I think of that?”

…

The old man’s reasoning won swift support from many in the room, and the atmosphere shifted. Asha let out a quiet breath of relief. Things were turning in her favor. While she knew the reality at the Wall was no longer as simple as the elder assumed, she wasn’t about to correct him.

It wasn’t deception—merely a strategic omission.

“Become prisoners and then deserters? What kind of idiotic plan is that?” Dagon Codd bellowed, drawing his sword in fury. “Ralf Kenning is dead, so I’m the commander of the Dreadfort now. I forbid anyone to surrender! And you, Balon’s little girl—after you were captured, how many Northmen have had you? Or should I ask how many took turns? I don’t care to know, but you’re not going back. Either you fight with us or lie with us.”

…

Asha sighed internally. She had almost forgotten that everything, sooner or later, always came back to this.

It was exhausting—this endless fixation on her being a woman. No matter what she thought, said, or did, it always came back to what was—or wasn’t—between her legs. She was here to save these Ironborn and the captured sailors, but some of them didn’t even want her help.

Fine. If they didn’t want to surrender, she’d return and tell the Night’s Watch she had failed. She’d tell Aegor the Dreadfort garrison barely numbered two hundred, and that would settle her debt.

The real problem was this drunken fool in front of her. He wasn’t planning to let her leave.

Asha wasn’t afraid of dying, but she had no intention of dying for this bunch of idiots.

Her gaze swept the room. Most of the Ironborn seemed disinclined to follow Dagon’s orders. Her hand tightened around her dagger, fingers brushing the familiar weight of the small axe strapped to her shoulder. If she acted quickly enough, she might have a chance to turn this around.

Killing their "commander" and intimidating the rest into submission wasn’t entirely out of the question. She was a Greyjoy, trained in combat, and her name carried weight. Dagon, on the other hand, was from a minor family—no one important.

Her mind made up, Asha tensed, preparing to strike.

Then the crash came.

A loud explosion echoed from outside, followed by the sharp shattering of pottery and the startled cry of the sentries: “Fire!”

“Wildfire,” Asha muttered, momentarily startled but quickly recalling Aegor’s warning about it. She shrugged. “You’d better check it out. If it’s hit one of the towers, the whole thing might burn down.”

Several men stood, whether to put out the fire or merely investigate. Dagon glanced out the window, his attention drawn away. Asha realized this was her moment. She raised her dagger and lunged like a viper toward Dagon.

…

But she was too late.

Before she could strike, another muffled sound rang out inside the room.

A blade pierced through Dagon’s chest, its tip emerging from the front.

It was the one-armed elder, striking from behind. Taking advantage of the distraction, he had driven his sword through the would-be commander’s heart.