The sea wind had long turned to mist and the sharp scent of firs as Asha Greyjoy continued holding reins. The Deepwood stretched from Bay of Ice covered with endless trees in them and the air heavy with the smell of rain and wet moss. The forest track was scarcely larger more than a deer path, but the two horses behind her still managed to stumble into themselves and their riders loud enough to wake the dead, or at least the sleeping guards of Deepwood Motte.
"Seven hells," she snaps at last though the curse was soft for the wind to carry, before glancing over her shoulder.
Tristifer Botley and Qarl the Maid were at it again, one half-drunk on his heritage and whatever ill-tasting ale he had drunk while other prideful of his own beauty.
"I'll have her in the end," Tristifer was saying, his curly hair wild beneath the rim of his steel helm. "Asha deserves a man for herself, not a peach fruit like yourself, Qarl."
Qarl's jaw flexed, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. "You mistake her for one of your sister's chambermaids, Botley. Asha's no prize to be won by puffed words, and she knows well enough what goes inside the mind of noble brats like yours."
Asha groaned aloud, dragging her hood up over her salted and tangled braids. "Be quiet, you cu*ts," she hissed, turning in the saddle to give them a withering look. "If you don't want the whole of Deepwood Motte hearing your declarations of love, best you swallow your cocks and keep your tongues still."
The men riding behind her laughed, in low voice, a laughter only Ironborn men could make, full of mockery and disdain both.
Tristifer sneered, utterly undaunted. "The Starks wouldn't know what hit them till it's too late. By then we'd have their wives and children hostage. Easy enough to hold the North with that."
Asha's eyes narrowed, fixed on a spot between the pines. Always so eager to please me with his words, she thinks pleasantly. Out loud she only continued, "Only if we strike swift and hard. If we falter, we'll have wolves snapping at our heels before the next tide pulls out."
Qarl, who had been silent through the swagger of Tristifer, finally speaks up. "What of the rest of our men, Asha? What word does your brother intend to do?"
Asha's mouth twitched at the corner, a rare, thin smile cutting through her face. "My brother's plan seems to be taking place. It looks like the green lands haven't softened him as I feared." Her voice turned thoughtful, serious once more. "Theon leads a small, swift force to Winterfell itself while Dagmer takes the largest force of Greyjoy's toward Barrowton, he's heard words of Lady Barbrey Dustin's hansome beauty from Theon, and now he fancies her as his salt wife."
That earned a bark of lecherous laughter from her riders. "Aye," someone calls out. "That'd make his sixth, wouldn't it?"
Asha ignored them, continuing her summary of the great, greedy gamble that they have taken. "Victarion moves to Moat Cailin with the rest as we speak. If we take Deepwood Motte quick, with Dagmer attacking Barrowton while Moat Cailin under Vicyarion will cut off whatever aid might crawl up from Robb Stark in the South. The Winterfell meanwhile will be split in making decisions for which of the three side to free, leaving us ripe for taking."
Qarl nods slowly. "Theon planned well, dividing our attacking areas, so that the wolves don't gather men at one place."
The forest thinned abruptly as they rode, until they reached the plains with a lone mountain in between a town. Above it, the raw, timber walls of castle of Deepwood Motte rose dark in colour against the sky.
Far south, at Barrowton, the men clashed under the hill of Great Barrow. Dagmer Cleftjaw stood before the gates, his face contorted in a wide grin showing his broken jaw, yellow teeth and split lips. "I suggest you yield yourself to me Lady Dustin!" he bellowed, in guttural voice, carrying over the desperate screams of the Northmen. "Tell your men to lay down arms, and my men will spare their wives and children. Defy me, and we take every women and girl as our slaves!"
Lady Barbrey Dustin's face appeared high above the tall, spiked wooden gate, a handsome, proud face, lined by wrinkles due to years of sorrow and loss in the harsh northern winds. She did not raise her voice, but her answer was sharp enough to slice through Dagmer's confidence. "An ironborn shouting threats in Northern lands, the world's gone mad indeed. Leave my lands, squid, or you and yours will face nothing but death here."
Inside the rushed confines of Barrowton, the Maester walked by her side his hands clutching his rings circling them with nervous hands. "My lady, I've sent ravens to Riverrun, White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, and Winterfell, as you commanded. Help will come, you must believe."
"Help rarely comes on time" Barbrey said softly, the words filled with old bitterness. "Go, Maester, attend to the wounded. I'll see to my hall."
It was not long after the ringing of steel began to fill the sound of sword attacking iron gates of the town, that she was armed, not in a mail, but with dark gown full of sharp knives hidden into the folds, preparing for the worst and covering her gown with a cloak. Ser Beron, master-at-arms of Barrowton, burst in, breathless and sweat-soaked. "My lady, you must flee! Take horse to House Ryswell lands, we can't hold them far long. They are too many."
"I'll not leave my husband's hall to reavers and thralls," Barbrey answered, her voice cold and hard. "Let them come, I'll gut that squid myself before he lays a hand on me." She met his eye, her own burning with resolve. "Fight with full force, Ser Beron. House Dustin will not sully Northern land with the presence of Ironborn in their halls."
Beron bows stiffly, helpless against her iron will, and runs back to the collapsing fight. The gates breaking apart slowly in piece of barks and splinters. Dagmer's axe cutting through timber and flesh alike that came his way, his laughter sounding amidst the screams. "Break them!" he howled. "Break the damn gate. I want to taste that wom-"
Then, during a brief, brutal lull in his attack, everything comes to a stop. He looks around, seeing his men and the remaining Dustin men looking at each other, their faces aghast as if they had heard some foul sound and before they could continue their battle again, a roar turned their attention skyward. Something vast and winged tore through the clouds, its roar was something that made every heart shudder making their weapon hand go numb. A beast, spoken of only in the stories of incestuous kings and madmen, came alive.
Meleys, descended like Goddess of fire. Her scales like blood on ice and the fire that she roared from her throat, washing over the reavers burning their bodies from within and soon their iron armor glowing white-hot before they melted like wax.
Soon after that through the smoke, came a boy. His cloak was torn and his armor made of simple leather but his eyes were already fixed on the Cleftjaw, someone who had brought more devastation to his army than the Dustins had shown in the last hour of battle. Dagmer seeing his men burning, mad with shock and fury came running at the boy trying to stop him before all was lost.
Aemon turned to look at a man coming running at him. He glanced sideways to stop his AuntShiera by a shake of his head, who looked ready to deal with coming fool herself. Aemon although loved her protectiveness, but he would rather cut his enemies himself, especially those who thought they were dealing with a mere boy.
He ducked the wild, powerful slash of the Ironborn's axe, his movements were savage and driven purely by anger and brute strength, lacking the sense of a trained soldier. Aemon came in close after ducking under his attack, and struck the man's face with the elbow of his off-sword hand reeling him back with a shock. It was a jarring blow to the jaw, meant to stun and not to kill.
Dagmer stumbled back, shaking his head and lunged again, with the axe in a savage and desperate attack. His strength was considerable, Aemon noticed blocking his attack, but it did not even come close to the might of the Mountain he had faced in the Riverlands.
Aemon parried the axe twisting his sword aside and taking a quick step away from the Ironborn's guard, his movement fluid and unexpected. Dagmer's wide stance left him momentarily vulnerable and Aemon's own sword, Blackfyre, completed a clean arc striking it right at the unprotected neck. Dagmer's head hit the ground with a thud, rolling to the feet of his dying men his empty eyes fixed on the sky.
The remaining Ironborn, seeing their most fearsome commander headless, immediately broke their broke ranks and made a ragged run toward the woods that led to the Saltspear, while the Dustin men stood at their positions shocked staring at Aemon, a massive white direwolf, a terrifying red dragon, and a woman with red mask and silver hair.
Aemon finally snapped their attention back to the matters in hand. He sheathes his sword and finally speaks, his voice carrying over the corpses of the battlefield. "Who leads here?"
A man with grey-hair and nearing his uncle Benjen's age, steps forward hesitantly, still looking at the dragon with wide eyes. "My Lord," he said, kneeling and bowing awkwardly, "my name is Beron, the master-at-arms of Barrowtown."
Aemon nods, acknowledging his station. "The Ironborn who ran away may cause problems to nearby villages and may regroup. Form a party and rush them to deal with the problem at the root. I want no Ironborn left here to trouble these lands."
Beron looks hesitant to follow orders of lord not his own, but before he could question, Lady Dustin's voice echoes in the battlefield. "Do as the King says, Ser Beron! I do not wish to see any Ironborns on these Northmen lands!"
Beron head snaps into a resolute nod. "As you command, Lady Dustin, Your Grace." He gathers his men with mounted horses, and rushes them in the direction the Ironborns have fled.
Aemon walked to the base of the wooden walls, his eyes settling on Lady Barbrey. His expression was sympathetic, with a look who understands the profound loss of a partner. "We shall talk on a later date Lady Dustin, but know this, House Targaryen remembers sacrifice."
He paused, letting the emotion settle in his voice. "Lord Willam Dustin sacrificed his life for myself and my mother and I will honour any request you have of me."
With that, he turned his back making way toward Meleys. But before he could mount the red dragon, a voice from behind made him turn back.
"Where do my men march after this, Your Grace?" Lady Barbrey asked, her face set in a mask as if she understood her parentage just from their last conversation.
Aemon smiles slightly. "Tell them to march for Winterfell, my lady. The North remembers and so do I."