Chapter 261: "Persuasion by Reason" (Part I)
A small squad of soldiers brought the well-fed Asha to the northernmost tip of the causeway. One stepped forward to strike off her shackles, while another handed back the weapons that originally belonged to her.
"Make it quick," the officer in charge said curtly, turning back toward the camp with his subordinates.
Asha didn't offer a reply. She slid her dirk into her jacket, tucked her short-handled axe into her shoulder strap, rubbed her wrists, and flexed her feet. She even hopped in place a few times, trying to reclaim the sensation of a body no longer restricted.
Then, she looked back with a complex gaze. The combined camp of two thousand Gift troops and several hundred White Harbor soldiers wasn't staggeringly large, but for the sparsely populated Iron Islands, it represented a formidable military force.
That army from the Gift, led by a man of the Night's Watch, was strange. Asha could be certain of one thing: most of those peasants had never received formal training. Their stamina came purely from the harsh conditions of their lives; some likely didn't even know the proper way to grip a sword.
And yet, as a whole, they displayed a high level of execution in tactics and command. Whether it was besieging Deepwood Motte while leaving a gap to the south, or beating her to the coast the following morning to cut off her retreat—even the swift yet orderly march over the past few days, and the professional manner in which they made camp, set watches, and patrolled... If one didn't engage them in true combat or look closely within their ranks, an outsider would mistake them for an elite host.
This contradiction to her experience left the Daughter of the Kraken—who, despite her heritage, lacked formal military schooling—utterly perplexed.
She pushed aside what she couldn't understand. At least she had her weapons back and a temporary taste of freedom. Given the choice, she would rather drive a dagger through that cursed crow's heart than talk surrender, but the man hadn't been foolish enough to escort her to the edge of the causeway himself. She had considered persuading the Ironborn in the Moat to break out northward and flee to the sea, but considering the consequences of her decision to abandon Deepwood Motte, and the numbers and performance of the Gift army behind her, she knew she stood no chance of success.
There was no other way. For the sake of those fifty-three brothers, she had to humiliate herself and do as the enemy commanded.
Finished with her warm-up, she set off with long strides toward the small fortress to the south. Before her lay a short stretch of the causeway leading to Moat Cailin. This fortress, which choked the Swamps of the Bottleneck, sat at the northernmost edge of the wetlands. To its south, the marshes were lethally treacherous, but to the north, the land gradually dried—transitioning from stagnant pools to wet mudflats within a few hundred meters, and finally becoming solid earth.
The air was humid and heavy. While the threat of the swamp diminished north of the Moat, the causeway had not been raised or maintained; without a careful eye, it was hard to distinguish the road from the surrounding mire. Asha picked her way carefully, treading on the logs and planks laid down by the Northern army months ago during their march south.
She soon neared the ruins. Where the high walls of ancient Moat Cailin once stood thousands of years ago, there were now only scattered blocks of black basalt. Each was so large it would take a hundred men to move; some were sunk so deep in the mire that only a corner showed, while others lay tumbled, cracked, and moss-grown like blocks abandoned by the gods.
Of the three remaining defensive towers, one tilted as if ready to collapse at any moment; another pierced the sky like a spear missing its point; the last was broad and sturdy, yet a twisted tree had forced its way through a fissure in the northern stone wall. The only thing flying over the ruins of this ancient castle was the golden kraken on a black field. It should have brought her comfort, but for some reason, it didn't.
For a warrior, the despair of a settled defeat is more agonizing than death itself.
There were corpses on the road. When the Ironborn first struck from the Fever River to take the Moat, the Earl of White Harbor had sent men to try and reclaim it. But at the time, Victarion Greyjoy had been stationed here with a large portion of the Iron Fleet's crew; the Manderly men had left dozens of lives behind before retreating in failure. There were both men and horses among the dead, rotting green and crawling with maggots. A bit further from the causeway, two bodies had sunk so deep into the silt that only faces and fingers remained visible. One could only imagine how many others had been swallowed entirely by the swamp. Over the millennia, the Neck had likely become the largest graveyard in Westeros, and one without headstones.
Having suffered no abuse or torture following her capture by the Night's Watch, Asha was quickly recognized by the sentries as she approached the towers.
"Halt!" someone shouted. "Is that camp to the north yours? Why are you consorting with Manderly's men?"
Asha put her hands on her hips impatiently, looking up and questioning the sentry with a sharp tongue. "Since you've recognized me, are you going to let me in, or shall we talk through the wall?"
The guard went silent, hesitated, and then vanished from the battlements. A moment of silence fell over Moat Cailin before the gates suddenly groaned open. The voice called out again: "Get inside, quickly!"
Asha checked the position of her dirk and stepped through the gates.
The gates slammed shut behind her. Behind them was not a mass of Ironborn standing ready as she had imagined, but a single man. He was an ugly fellow; Asha recognized him vaguely but couldn't recall a name. He set the crossbar in place and turned to stare at the woman nervously, squinting and twisting his lips in suspicion. "Speak then. Why are you here? Did Victarion send you with reinforcements? Where are the others? What is that army to the north?"
"Those are Northmen. They defeated me at Deepwood Motte. I was taken prisoner."
"Prisoner?" The man's eyes went wide. He looked at the short axe tucked into Asha's strap and reached for his sword hilt. "Then what are you doing here?"
"Sent by the wolf pups to negotiate," Asha said. A strange, sickly stench permeated the air, invading her lungs the moment she spoke. The man's incessant questioning was grating on her nerves. "Are you the commander here?"
"Me?" Asha's calm demeanor made the man hesitate. Perhaps he recalled the legends of this woman, or perhaps he remembered her name was Greyjoy. He took his hand off his hilt and grew more respectful. "No, my lady. Commander Victarion appointed Ralf Kenning, but he... I'm just a gatekeeper."
Asha glanced at a rotting, untended corpse lying by the gate and stifled the urge to ask who it was. Looking at the gatekeeper and the general state of the Moat, the condition of the garrison was plain to see. It was grim; even if the Northmen didn't attack, they were likely on the verge of collapse. "Take me to the commander."
"Ralf Kenning died two days ago..."
Asha's brow furrowed. "How?"
"He took an arrow from a swamp devil on the battlements. Just a scratch, but... those devils dip their arrows in poison, rubbing them in their own dung and worse. We washed the wound with boiling wine, but it did no good."
So that was it. Swamp devils was merely the Ironborn name for the crannogmen. Asha shrugged. "Forget him then. Where is the second-in-command?"
"Usually on the walls or in the hall. Those who aren't sleeping are drinking. If my lady wishes, I will take you to him." Asha's authoritative tone caused the man to lower himself further. Thinking it over, he abandoned the gate he was supposed to be guarding alone and led her toward the Gatehouse Tower.
The hall was built of black stone with high ceilings. Despite being spacious and airy, it was choked with smoke. The stone walls were mottled with large patches of white lichen, and in the fireplace, blackened by years of soot, only a single block of peat glowed low. A carved stone table, centuries old, dominated the center of the room.
Twenty or thirty Ironborn were drinking at the table. Only a few watched them enter with dull, glazed eyes; no one even questioned why the gatekeeper had abandoned his post. Not until Asha stepped fully into the light did their eyes brighten.
"Asha Greyjoy!" the man at the head of the table stood up. "Where is your uncle? Where is the Iron Fleet? Have you come to take us home?"
"If you hadn't killed the maester and his ravens, you would have heard the news by now: my long-lost uncle, Euron Greyjoy, has returned to the Islands and won the Kingsmoot. Victarion has already sailed south under the new King's orders to strike the Reach and 'support' Stannis."
"What?" It seemed the garrison had truly been cut off. Asha's words sent a shockwave through the hall, sparking a cacophony of arguments.
"That bastard... he just left us here!?"
"I told you we shouldn't have killed the maester!"
"Where was the food to feed another mouth? You didn't drink any less raven soup than the rest of us!"
"Quiet, all of you!" a man wearing a cloak pinned with a silver codfish bellowed, standing up. "Victarion swore he would return wearing the Driftwood Crown at the head of a thousand warriors. He broke his word; we'll settle that debt later. Right now, we care about ourselves. Asha, how many men did you bring? Where are the ships? How did you get past those Manderly pigs to the north?"
"I didn't get past anyone. I am a prisoner of the Northmen. I was sent here to negotiate."
This answer caused an even greater stir. The Ironborn erupted.
"Surrender? The Northmen won't let us live!"
"The Greyjoy men led us into a dead end; today a Greyjoy woman comes to pay the debt!" An Ironman who had lusted after Asha back on the Islands barked, seizing the moment. He stood up and shoved his way toward her, slamming the Daughter of the Kraken back against the wall with a hard push.
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