Chapter 255

Though constructed of wood, Deepwood Motte was not easily threatened by fire. Its walls were packed with frozen earth, and its outer surface was covered in thick, ancient moss. Even if flames were sparked, the fire would struggle to spread.

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

Aegor had brought a few jars of wildfire from Crown's Rest but he had no intention of relying entirely on fire to destroy the enemy. With a force ten times the size of the defenders, there was little need to resort to such extremes. Besides, if he marched into the Wolfswood only to return the North a pile of smoldering ruins, it was unclear whether he would receive gratitude or resentment.

The burning of the watchtower had a different purpose altogether: to spread fear and confusion among the enemy and to create the illusion of a much larger force. By drawing the defenders’ attention to the bright, flaming tower, Aegor knew their vision would be blinded by the contrast of light and shadow, making it impossible to discern how many men were advancing on them.

The castle was old and made of wood, inherently fragile compared to the stone fortresses of the South. Yet, as in all siege warfare, the defenders had the upper hand. Moreover, neither the wildlings nor the mountain clansmen were skilled—or even remotely experienced—in siegecraft. A reckless assault without knowledge of the castle's layout would only lead to heavy casualties.

Aegor hoped to force the enemy out into the open, where he could end the battle using the terrain and carefully laid traps.

Watching as the watchtower burst into a brilliant blaze, a beacon in the dark night, Aegor gave the order.

“Begin.”

“Yes, sir.”

The command rippled down the chain of command, reaching even the lowest officers. Suddenly, thousands of pinpricks of light appeared in the darkness of the Wolfswood. Horns blared, echoing through the trees, while cries of "Winterfell forever!" roared from every direction. Aegor had borrowed every horn and torch the Umbers could muster from Last Hearth, far exceeding what was truly necessary, to create the illusion that the North's main host had arrived.

The psychological warfare worked better than expected.

As the deep, mournful horns and the overwhelming cries of "Winterfell forever!" surged around her, Asha Greyjoy looked out at the countless torchlights dotting the darkness. She knew the battle was hopeless.

“Black Lorren,” she ordered, “wake everyone up. Gather them in the outer yard.”

No one could sleep through such noise, and soon the courtyard was packed with the frightened remnants of Asha’s force. Her ironborn warriors, clad in armor and weapons, rallied before their queen.

“Do we put out the fire or prepare for battle?” one asked.

“Put out your mother’s fire!” Asha spat, climbing onto a barrel to be seen by all. “The wolves bare their teeth, coming for our blood. Do we throw down our arms and beg for mercy?”

“No!” one warrior shouted, drawing his sword.

“No!” others echoed, their voices growing louder.

“Never!” The cry spread, growing into a roar of defiance.

Asha grinned, satisfied by their spirit, and raised her short axe high. “Even if we die today, we’ll die cursing them, with axes and swords in hand!”

“Aye!”

“To the walls!”

The remaining ironborn rushed to the walls, only to discover the enemy hadn’t yet attacked. Instead, they were advancing slowly with torches, forming what looked like a siege ring. The thick trees made it impossible to see their numbers clearly, but the lights seemed endless.

“It has to be thousands…” someone muttered. “The Northern main host must’ve broken through Moat Cailin.”

Excited whispers turned grim as they realized the attackers weren’t rushing the walls.

“They’ve brought a battering ram to the north gate!”

“The wooden gate won’t hold long. If they break through, we’ll never stop them!”

“We can fight them in the inner courtyard.”

“Idiot!” another snapped. “If the Glovers are leading them, they know this castle’s layout better than we do!”

“Then we’ll hole up in the main hall on the hill.”

“And be burned alive? If they can set the watchtower ablaze, they can burn this whole wooden castle!”

One of them turned to Asha. “My queen, the sea is only five leagues away. Why are we clinging to this useless wooden fortress? If we die with dry feet, we won’t even reach the Drowned God’s watery halls!”

Another added, “Aye, we’re ironborn. If we die, we should die with salt on our skin and waves at our backs!”

A scout returned, shouting, “The southern gate is still clear! We can break out that way!”

Asha frowned, distrustful of the news. If Robb Stark was even half the strategist he was reputed to be, he’d have men waiting to ambush any retreat. But the scout’s words struck a chord. She wanted to live, and if she had to die, she would not do so dry and cold in some godsforsaken wooden fort.

“Well said,” she declared. “I’ve changed my mind. Let the wolves keep their cursed wooden pisspot. We’re not holding these walls. Prepare to break out! Back to the ships!”

Three short blasts of the horn signaled the retreat. The ironborn abandoned the walls and scrambled to the courtyard in chaos, readying themselves for the breakout. None of them questioned the strange absence of an attack, perhaps noticing it but too distracted to dwell on it. The cries of "Winterfell forever!" still echoed beyond the walls, yet no Northerners appeared to take the empty battlements.

With too few horses for everyone, Asha mounted her chestnut mare and shouted, “Open the south gate!”

As the south gate swung open, the north gate shuddered under the pounding of a battering ram. Asha drew her handaxe and roared, “There’s no running now, brothers! Cut a bloody path home!”

“To the ships!”

“For Asha!”

They charged into the open, racing across the fields toward the treeline. Mud squelched underfoot as they stumbled through the trampled, untended fields, now a mire. The dense trees loomed ahead, tall and twisted, their gnarled branches reaching skyward like claws.

The forest felt alive, hostile. Asha couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as if the ancient trees themselves resented their presence.

Scouts soon reported signs of men ahead, likely an ambush.

“Off the road. Head west,” Asha ordered. She had anticipated this.

“The wolves will expect us to head for the nearest shore. Every northern route will be blocked. But if we resist the temptation to return to the ships…”

Someone understood her meaning. “If even we don’t know where we’re going, they’ll never be able to stop us!”

And so, they plunged deeper into the shadowed Wolfswood, leaving the road behind.