Her head struck the wall with a dull thud. The man's face was nearly pressed against Asha's, his foul breath assaulting her nostrils. She could even see the grime between his yellowed teeth. But the moment he'd approached, the girl had silently drawn her dagger. As he shoved her against the wall, she pressed the blade against his most vital spot below the waist.
The brute was just about to rip at his prey's clothing when he felt something sharp pressing against his crotch. Glancing down, he saw a glinting dagger pointed directly at his lifeblood.
"Touch me, and you'll never use your prick again in this life."
…
The Ironborn all knew how deadly Asha was with short blades. And not everyone was ready to openly provoke the Greyjoys, the long-standing ruling house. The lunatic who had tried to sample the Kraken's Daughter got no backing from those around him. More than half of them remained seated at the table and didn't even rise. Asha pushed the dagger forward, and the attacker immediately backed away, defeated.
Facing these listless Ironborn, Asha regained the familiar feeling of being the Kraken's Daughter.
"Thinking about cunts even when staring death in the face." The next Ironborn to speak sneered at the coward who had just backed down, then turned to Asha and spoke seriously, "Before you came, your brother Theon—Eddard Stark's ward—was here too. He was the one who told us about the Kingsmoot. We just thought it was a wolf cub's trick at the time, so we cursed him out and sent him crawling back to his master… But weren't you in Deepwood Motte with a thousand men? Robb Stark is still blocked by us out here. Who could've captured you?"
"I was at the Kingsmoot too. After the assembly, I feared that Crow's Eye would see me as a threat to his rule, so I fled the Iron Islands and returned to Deepwood Motte. I haven't had a thousand men under me for a long time," Asha replied truthfully, explaining how she had been forced out of Deepwood Motte and later surrounded on the shore, unable to break through. Of course, she left out the fact that the attack had been led by a Night's Watchman and a bunch of farmers. "Now, the Northerners have sent me to bring you a proposal—lay down your arms and surrender before nightfall, and you'll have the chance to take the black."
She threw the document written by Aegor onto the table in front of the Ironborn who were still drinking.
…
No one touched the letter. The last literate man in Caitlin Bay had died a few days ago.
"What use is paper? We want cheese and meat."
"And weapons too," a grey-bearded old man chimed in. His left arm had been amputated, leaving only a stump. "Swords and axes. And bows. A hundred fresh bows. And reinforcements!"
"This is proof signed by the Night's Watch Chief Logistics Officer. He's currently stationed just a few miles north of here. I know what you're thinking—surrender now, and before the ten thousand Northerners to the south, whom you've been holding off for weeks and who are itching for blood, charge in, you can exit through the north gate and surrender to the Night's Watch. As long as you take the black, even Robb Stark won't quarrel with the Night's Watch over you."
The room fell into silence. No one knew who the Night's Watch Chief Logistics Officer was, but the title alone sounded authoritative. In truth, when Theon Greyjoy came to persuade them a week ago, many had been tempted. But they looked down on Balon's son raised by the Starks, and doubted the Northerners would honor any promise… More importantly, they still held out hope that the Iron Fleet would come to their aid, so they ultimately rejected the offer.
Although Asha Greyjoy had downplayed her own importance in front of Aegor, claiming her uncle's men wouldn't bother with her, there was no denying that—even as a captured woman, with her former image of the "Iron Islands Valkyrie" shattered—in the eyes of the Ironborn, she still held more weight than Theon Greyjoy, who had grown up in Winterfell.
…
"Ironborn don't surrender," a voice suddenly said.
"Ironborn don't surrender? Well said. Go tell that to my father." Asha gestured dismissively at the paper. "You don't have much time left. Our enemies to the south and north have coordinated their forces and will launch a full assault before nightfall."
"A threat?" a man stood up. He was a large man with bulging eyes, a wide mouth, and skin pale as a corpse. "Dagmer Corde doesn't surrender to anyone."
"I'm not your commander. I don't have the authority to force you to surrender. But I have to return before the wolf cubs launch their final attack. Those willing to come with me, take the black, and live—come. Those planning to fight to the death against the thousands of Northerners attacking from both the north and the south—stay." Asha said coldly, "But forgive my bluntness, how many fighting men do you really have left? And have you even guessed what tactics the enemy might use?"
"Not many," another seated Corde answered. It seemed even among the same kin, there was no consensus. "No one knows the exact number, but the losses have been heavy. Surrender... Seven hells, screw 'Ironborn don't surrender.' I'm willing to give up. But I want to go home, not take the black and spend the rest of my life fighting wildlings on that frozen Wall. Can't we negotiate?"
(The wildlings are already outside. If you don't surrender, they'll come to kill you.)
Asha thought to herself, but what she said aloud was different: "If you wanted better treatment as prisoners, you should've surrendered the first day Robb Stark arrived at your gates. You kept him outside this long, and now you want to negotiate terms?"
"Think about it another way," the one-armed old man said suddenly. "I heard the Night's Watch numbers only a few hundred men, and most of them are old, weak, or maimed. Even if dozens or hundreds of us Ironborn are sent to the Wall, we can agree on a time to escape together—head west, hijack a ship along the Ice Bay coast, and sail back to the Iron Islands. Who'd be able to chase us?"
"That actually makes sense."
"Yeah, why didn't I think of that?"
…
Old ginger is spicier. The one-armed old man's reasoning sounded quite logical and quickly won over many of those present. The situation was starting to turn in Asha's favor. She let out a quiet breath… It seemed her words had taken some effect. Though she knew full well the situation in the Gift wasn't as simplistic as the old man believed, she had no intention of correcting him.
This wasn't a lie—just a well-meaning omission.
"Prisoners first, deserters later? What kind of horseshit plan is that?" Dagmer Corde roared, drawing his longsword. "Ralf Kenning is dead, so I'm the commander of Caitlin Bay now! I forbid anyone to surrender! And you, little daughter of Balon—how many times have the Northerners fucked you since you were captured? Or rather, how many men have fucked you? No, don't answer. I don't care. But don't think you'll leave. Either fight beside us—or lie down and spread your legs!"
She had hoped to avoid this. But in the end, it always came back to one thing—"fucking."
Asha was thoroughly fed up, her temper erupting like it had countless times before. Just because she didn't have a cock, she could never handle matters or speak like a man. No matter what she thought or said, these stink-ridden men, with nothing but seed in their heads, could always twist the conversation back to that.
She was trying to save these Ironborn, and the crew already captured by the Night's Watch, yet they refused to appreciate it.
Fine, if they wouldn't surrender, so be it. At worst, she'd go back and report to the Night's Watchman that her mission had failed. She could also tell him honestly that there were no more than two hundred defenders left in Caitlin Bay—let that be her penance for failing.
The trouble was this bastard in front of her. Whether drunk or deranged, he clearly didn't intend to let her leave.
Asha didn't fear death, but she wasn't about to die with these fools.
Her eyes swept left and right. She noticed that few people seemed inclined to obey this so-called "commander." She tightened her grip on the dagger, confirmed that her hand axe was still in its usual spot on the shoulder strap, and began calculating her chances if she launched a surprise attack.
As an envoy sent by the enemy to negotiate a surrender, turning into an assassin would normally be a death sentence. But Asha's case was different… She was true Ironborn, born and raised on the Iron Islands, trained to fight, and bore the Greyjoy name. Her standing among the Ironborn was high. This Dagmer Corde, on the other hand, came from a minor house and had no great reputation.
If she could take him down instantly and then intimidate the rest of the Cordes into submission… she could still persuade the others to leave the city with her.
The killing intent surged. She quickly finalized her plan. Asha silently tensed every muscle in her body, ready to strike and end his life in one move.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash outside, followed by the sharp sound of a jar shattering. A lookout on the tower cried out, "Fire! Fire!"
"Wildfire. Burns under any conditions." Asha was already on edge, and the noise startled her. But then she recalled the Night's Watchman's earlier warning and shrugged. "You'd best take a look. If it hit a tower and you do nothing, it might take down the whole thing."
Several men stood up, uncertain whether to put out the fire or just observe. Dagmer Corde's attention also turned to the window. Asha realized this was the perfect moment to strike. She raised her dagger and sprang forward like a viper, aiming to end the new commander of Caitlin Bay.
But she was a step too late.
The noise outside hadn't even faded when a muffled squelch rang out. The tip of a sword burst through Dagmer Corde's chest. The one-armed old man, who had spoken earlier, had taken advantage of the distraction to stab the commander through the heart from behind.
(To be continued.)
***
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