Chapter 254

The dream of ruling might well be an obsession, deeply etched into the bloodline of House Greyjoy. Madness and ambition seemed to spare none of its members. Yet, unlike her father’s blind arrogance and recklessness, Asha Greyjoy prided herself on being far more pragmatic and clear-headed.

Her uncle had been right about one thing: the Old Way worked for the Iron Islands in a time when they were but one of many fractured kingdoms, evenly matched and protected by the natural barrier of the seas. Back then, the reavers of the Iron Islands could plunder without fear of annihilation. But Aegon’s Conquest had ended that era, just as surely as it had ended Harren the Black and his sons.

The Iron Islands now had no hope of challenging the might of the Seven Kingdoms.

So when her father, Balon Greyjoy, insisted on rebellion, Asha couldn’t stop him. But she did manage to dissuade him from pursuing the impossible dream of conquering all of the North. Instead, she convinced him to adopt a more measured strategy: she would lead a strike to seize Deepwood Motte, the heart of the North’s western defenses, while her uncle Victarion and the Iron Fleet would take Moat Cailin.

If both objectives were secured, the Ironborn could control the western coastline and the Wolfswood, cutting off Northern armies from returning home while harassing their forces in small, relentless raids. Over time, this would wear down the North’s ability to mount any coordinated resistance or aid Robb Stark in breaking through the southern bottleneck. By stalling for time, they could solidify their hold on the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point. Through migration, hostages, and negotiation, they could force the North to cede the western coastline near the Iron Islands—sparsely populated but vast, and ten times larger than all the Iron Islands combined.

With the rebellion in the south distracting the Iron Throne, the plan, though ambitious, had a better chance of success than Balon’s last uprising. At worst, the Ironborn could retreat back to their islands. Without a king like Robert Baratheon to unite the realm, no one had the power to invade the Iron Islands and defeat the Iron Fleet.

Even if the rebellion failed, they could always pledge themselves to the rebels. Should Aegon Targaryen defeat Stannis Baratheon and take the Iron Throne, his rewards would still grant the Ironborn leverage.

Whether the boy beneath the dragon banner was a true Targaryen or not? Asha didn’t care, nor did she think anyone else on the islands did.

The plan began well enough. Although their attacks on Torrhen’s Square and Barrowton failed, their strategy of unrestricted raiding plunged the North into chaos. West of the Kingsroad, resistance crumbled entirely, while houses like the Umbers, Boltons, and Karstarks to the east shut themselves behind their castle walls. Winterfell’s garrison was the only force still mobilizing, rushing to defend scattered villages and keeps across the North. Even their efforts faltered as losses mounted and their strength was spread too thin.

But just as everything seemed to be going according to plan, disaster struck.

A sudden storm and a snapped rope bridge had taken Balon Greyjoy’s life—or so they said. If the Drowned God truly existed, then he was both blind and cruel. The news of her father’s death was followed by the "coincidental" return of her long-absent uncle, Euron Greyjoy. Armed with a magical horn and a clear agenda, he swept aside Asha and the tongue-tied Victarion at the kingsmoot, crowning himself with the driftwood crown.

To avoid being killed or married off to some puppet of Euron’s choosing, Asha fled the Iron Islands with her loyal followers, retreating to Deepwood Motte. What had once been a position of strength was now a refuge, and she found herself little more than a stray dog with no place else to go.

The moonlight bathed the distant mountains, their snowy peaks glinting like icy crowns. Asha had no time to appreciate the view. Her heart was filled with bitterness and frustration. If she hadn’t been a woman, she would have won the kingsmoot easily, inheriting her father’s power and legacy. But because of one missing piece of flesh between her legs, even her once-loyal uncle Victarion had turned against her, challenging her claim. Had he supported her, Euron’s tricks would never have worked.

Worse still, after Euron won the driftwood crown, Victarion—fully aware that Euron had likely murdered their brother—had bent the knee without hesitation. Obedience had overridden vengeance.

Balon had ordered Victarion to hold Moat Cailin, the key to blocking Robb Stark’s return. Even with thousands of men, the Young Wolf would have struggled to break through the Ironborn stronghold. But her dear uncle, under Euron’s new command, abandoned his post without a second thought, taking most of the Iron Fleet to raid the Shield Islands in the south.

With Victarion guarding Moat Cailin, Asha’s position in the North had been secure. Now, the fortress was defended by only a few hundred men, and it wouldn’t hold for long. When Robb Stark returned, it wouldn’t be the Northerners who were trapped—it would be the Ironborn.

Balon had given her thirty longships and a thousand men to capture Deepwood Motte. Now, she had only four ships and fewer than two hundred men left. She had reached an agreement with the Glovers, awaiting final terms with the North’s new rulers. But peace required leverage: the Iron Fleet to hold back Stark’s army and enough troops to secure her current holdings. Without both, her dream of expanding the Ironborn’s territory was already dead.

Deepwood Motte itself might not last much longer.

Asha hadn’t heard from Moat Cailin in two weeks. The silence gnawed at her, and she knew what it likely meant. Robb Stark’s forces could appear at any moment to reclaim Deepwood Motte, dragging her from her bed to the gallows.

The castle was ancient and notable, but it was also made entirely of wood—walls, towers, and all. Against a trained force with siege ladders, it wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Wolfswood stretched endlessly around her, a sea of trees instead of saltwater. She knew retreating was an option, but to where? Returning to the Iron Islands meant submitting to Euron or his chosen husband for her. Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore were exposed, defenseless. And with only four ships, even piracy seemed a pathetic, degrading option for Balon Greyjoy’s daughter.

As she brooded, Asha walked along the wooden ramparts. Two sentries passed her, offering subdued greetings.

“Keep your eyes open. Report anything, even a rabbit.”

“Yes, captain,” one replied, though his voice lacked enthusiasm.

As they passed, Asha noticed the leering gaze one of them cast her way. She knew what it meant. Half her men saw her as a sister or daughter; the other half wanted her on her back. If despair grew, she feared the latter half might lose control.

No, they wouldn’t. They loved her, she reassured herself. And she wasn’t some fragile maiden needing protection.

Shaking off the thought, she tried to focus on her plans. But before she could think further, an alarm rang out.

“Fire! The southern watchtower is on fire!”

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