Chapter 258

Asha knew exactly why she was still alive.

After losing to her uncle Euron at the kingsmoot, abandoning Deepwood Motte in a panic due to a Night's Watch officer and his rabble of farmers, and finally being defeated and captured on the shore—she was no longer the proud Kraken’s daughter. Now, she was nothing more than a trophy, a prisoner for some black-clad man to parade before the North as evidence of the Night’s Watch’s supposed victory over the Ironborn.

She had thought that her father’s and her own plans for invading the North had been audacious enough. But the idea that the Night’s Watch would march south to intervene in Northern affairs? That was beyond anything they had ever imagined. It was so absurd that even the most thorough strategy meetings had never accounted for it. It wasn’t until she was bound hand and foot and dragged before the so-called Chief Logistics Officer that she was forced to accept this unexpected reality.

She was thoroughly outplayed. Yet, Asha was confident the Night’s Watch officer wasn’t as clever as he believed. Capturing her wouldn’t earn him respect from the North. Nor would she be worth anything as a hostage—her uncle Euron would likely be thrilled if the Northerners killed her. The crippled husband Euron had planned for her might care, but that old man lacked the wealth to ransom her.

Her greatest utility, she suspected, was as leverage to exchange for the two Glover children she had sent to the Iron Islands.

...

But the Night’s Watch officer once again made a move Asha couldn’t predict. Instead of locking her in Deepwood Motte’s dungeon to await a hostage exchange, he quickly set off again with his 2,000 farmers and her in tow after resting for only a day.

At first, she assumed he was taking her to Winterfell to present her to the Starks. But she was wrong—again. The convoy bypassed every castle and settlement, marching south with alarming speed. From dawn until dusk, they marched relentlessly, a grueling pace that sapped the strength of the troops and left them vulnerable to ambush.

Unfortunately, Asha knew better than anyone that no Ironborn raiding parties remained in the North to take advantage of the opportunity.

As the wagon carrying her cage jolted and swayed over the uneven road, the heavy iron chains rattled, biting into her wrists and ankles and grinding down her pride. This was the most humiliating experience of her life. Yet, after days of relentless marching, she found herself begrudgingly grateful to be one of the few allowed to ride in a cart.

...

The forced march finally ended after several days. Once the makeshift camp was set up, Asha Greyjoy was brought before Aegor once more, her chains clinking with every step.

The so-called "army" of the New Gift was unimpressive, to say the least. But the mountain clansmen and New Gift settlers, accustomed to surviving off hunting and foraging in harsh terrains, had unmatched stamina. After days of relentless travel, Aegor and his troops arrived north of Moat Cailin with their first noble prisoner.

When Aegor had initially left Crown's Rest, his goal was simply to clear the Ironborn raiders from the Kingsroad and restore the North’s supply line to the Wall. But after learning of the situation from the Umbers at Last Hearth, he had shifted his focus to reclaiming Deepwood Motte. With minimal casualties and even a captured noblewoman as a prize, he realized something profound: joining a war at the right time could yield far greater rewards than expected. He had stumbled upon such an opportunity.

And if he didn’t seize it, he would never forgive himself.

So he made a bold decision: instead of waiting for Robb Stark to retake Moat Cailin and acknowledge his contribution, Aegor decided to act first—marching swiftly to free the trapped Northern army himself.

...

“Get on your knees!” barked the guard who brought Asha forward, shoving her toward Aegor and trying to force her into a kneeling position.

“No need,” Aegor said, waving him off. As a transmigrator, he wasn’t used to people kneeling before him. Besides, half his forces were wildlings, and he’d already abolished kneeling as a practice in the New Gift to avoid offending them. “Bring her a chair. We’ll talk sitting down.”

The guard hesitated awkwardly but obeyed.

“Miss Greyjoy,” Aegor greeted her with a smile, nodding in acknowledgment. He vividly remembered her defiance during the skirmish on the beach. This slender woman, with the lean build of a model, had fought ferociously with her axe, felling two mountain clansmen before being overwhelmed during her fight with the third. Even when shackled and dragged before him, she had spat in his face. Though her wild spirit seemed subdued after days in chains, Aegor still recognized the fire in her eyes.

“Let me introduce Sir Wylis Manderly, son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor,” Aegor added, gesturing to the portly man sitting beside him.

Asha snorted in disdain, her bruised pride making her reluctant to acknowledge anyone. Her father had taught her well: “Bend the knee and live to fight another day. Stubborn pride leads only to an early grave.” Balon Greyjoy’s failed rebellion had proven this truth. He had knelt to the stag and the wolf, only to rise again after Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark’s deaths.

As long as she lived, there was hope.

But that didn’t mean she had to make things easy for Aegor. When the guard brought over a chair and set it behind her, Asha refused to sit, standing defiantly instead.

...

Wylis Manderly, like his famously wealthy and corpulent father, was a man of generous proportions. Despite his initial intent to glare disdainfully at Asha, his expression shifted when he saw her. Her long legs, accentuated by her salt-stained leather boots and fitted green woolen breeches, left an impression. Even in chains, after days of being carted around like cargo, Asha carried herself with a raw, untamed allure that stirred the imagination.

Aware of this effect, Aegor had stationed fifteen guards to prevent any "mishaps." Five New Gift settlers and five mountain clansmen were tasked with ensuring she didn’t escape, while the remaining five, his most trusted soldiers, were there to keep the others in line.

“Let me summarize the situation,” Aegor began, breaking the silence. “Lord Robb Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, is currently camped south of us with twenty thousand men. Between us lies Moat Cailin, still held by several hundred Ironborn. They’ve held off the North’s main host for weeks. Impressive, truly.”

“But hopeless,” Wylis interrupted, snapping out of his trance. “Lord Stark has ordered my family’s forces to sail from White Harbor and attack Moat Cailin from the south. Meanwhile, the Reeds of Greywater Watch are moving through the swamps to cut off any escape.”

“And?” Asha asked, feigning indifference.

“Even without the New Gift army, Moat Cailin will fall within days,” Aegor said. He kept his expression neutral but inwardly celebrated his timing. If he’d arrived any later, Robb Stark’s forces would already be advancing north along the Kingsroad, and Aegor’s opportunity to claim credit would have slipped away.

“However,” he continued, “I’d prefer a peaceful resolution with minimal bloodshed.”

Asha scoffed, her dark eyes flashing. “Peace? You brought me here to use me as a puppet to convince the Ironborn at Moat Cailin to surrender, didn’t you?”

“Correct.” Aegor’s tone remained calm.

Asha laughed bitterly, standing taller. “You clearly don’t understand the Ironborn. They follow captains and leaders, not lords and ladies. Even if they were my crew—which they aren’t—they’d never listen to me, especially not if it came from the orders of a Night’s Watch dog.”

Before Aegor could respond, Wylis chuckled. “Looks like your leniency was wasted, Aegor. Leave her to me, and I’ll make her see reason.”

Aegor dismissed the suggestion immediately. This was his prisoner, his leverage.

“Miss Greyjoy,” Aegor said, leaning forward. “There are about two hundred Ironborn at Moat Cailin. If you convince them to surrender, you could save their lives—along with four hundred Northerners who’d otherwise die in the assault. That’s six hundred people you could save.”

“And why should I care?” Asha sneered. “What’s in it for me? Those two hundred Ironborn won’t thank me—they’ll just call me a traitorous whore. And the four hundred Northerners? They won’t even know I helped. In the end, I’ll still be in chains, tossed back into that cage like a dog.”

Aegor shrugged. “You’re not wrong. Lady Glover has demanded you be exchanged for her children, so I can’t offer you freedom. All I can promise is to do my best to spare those Ironborn.”

“And I can promise you I won’t help,” Asha shot back. “Take me back to my cage.”

Aegor sighed, feeling the exhaustion of the past days’ march weighing on him. He was too tired to argue, but then a thought struck him.

“Wait. I misspoke. You wouldn’t just be saving two hundred Ironborn,” he said slowly. “You’d also be saving fifty-three.”

Asha froze mid-step, her back to him. She recognized that number. It matched the exact number of Ironborn captured after the beach battle.

“You’re threatening me?” She turned, fists clenched.

“Call it what you like,” Aegor replied. “But I know someone as loyal as you wouldn’t abandon the men who followed you into battle.”

...