Although Deepwood Motte was made of wood, it wasn’t vulnerable to fire attacks. The timber walls were packed with cold, frozen soil, and the outer surfaces were covered in moss that had grown for who knew how many years. Even if set ablaze, the fire would have a hard time spreading.

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

Aegor had brought several jars of wildfire from Crown Town, but he had no intention of burning the entire fortress to the ground. Whether it was necessary given their ten-to-one troop advantage was one matter, but if he marched a hundred miles deep into the Wolfswood only to hand the Northmen a pile of charred ruins, it was hard to say whether he would be met with gratitude or resentment.

His purpose in ordering the watchtower set ablaze was twofold: first, to incite fear and chaos among the defenders and push them into panic; second, to bluff. From within the light of the flames, the defenders would be blinded to what lay beyond the walls. The “light under the lamp” effect would prevent them from gauging the number of attackers lurking in the darkness.

Though the wooden castle was far from sturdy, siege warfare always favored the defenders. And neither the Free Folk nor the Mountain Clans had any real siege capabilities. Without knowing the internal layout of Deepwood Motte, a reckless frontal assault could lead to heavy casualties.

Aegor hoped to force the enemy into the open, to draw them into a field battle where traps and terrain could decide the fight.

As the wooden tower erupted into an inferno with the help of a single jar of wildfire, blazing bright against the night, Aegor knew it was time.

“Begin.”

“Yes.”

The command was swiftly passed down the ranks to the lowest officers. Then, in the darkness of the Wolfswood beyond Deepwood Motte, thousands of lights suddenly appeared, and the blast of horns echoed through the night. Aegor had borrowed every horn and torch the Ambers could spare from Last Hearth—far more than he needed. He intended to make the defenders inside believe the main Northern army was attacking through illusion and deception.

—

When the deep, booming horns rang out alongside cries of “For Winterfell!” echoing like a crashing tide, the psychological effect on the Ironborn was immediate.

Asha stared at the countless flames beyond the walls and knew at once that this battle was unwinnable. “Raven, wake everyone and gather them in the outer yard!”

Not that anyone could sleep under such conditions. The courtyard of Deepwood Motte soon swarmed with people. The Ironborn loyal to Asha, armored and armed, assembled in the torchlight before their captain.

“Should we put out the fire first or prepare for battle?”

“Put out your mother’s fire!” Asha snapped at the man who asked such a foolish question. She climbed atop a wooden barrel so that all could see her. “The wolf cubs bare their fangs and charge at us, hunting Ironborn blood. Should we cast aside our armor and beg for mercy?”

“No!” cried the first man, drawing his sword.

“No!” echoed another.

“Never!” a third added.

Soon, the whole company roared with defiance.

Asha was satisfied by their spirit. She brandished her short axe. “Even if we must die, we’ll go down cursing them, blades and battleaxes in hand!”

“Aye!”

“To the walls!”

The Ironborn scrambled up the walls. But what they saw atop them chilled the fire in their veins. The enemy made no move to storm the walls. Instead, they advanced slowly through the trees with torches, shouting in a manner more chaotic than disciplined. It seemed they meant to surround the keep. Between the dense branches and shifting shadows, it was impossible to gauge their true numbers—but there were certainly thousands. Unless the Northern host had broken through Caitlin Bay, no single house could muster such strength.

At first ready to fight to the last, the Ironborn now hesitated. Their adrenaline cooled into unease.

“They’re going to surround Deepwood Motte!”

“There’s a battering ram at the north gate!”

“That wooden gate won’t hold. Once they’re in… we can’t fight so many.”

“We can use the terrain inside the keep to fight.”

“The terrain?” someone snapped. “You pig-brained fool, you think you know Deepwood Motte better than the Glovers? You think they won’t lead the charge?”

“We could retreat to the fortress atop the hill.”

“And be burned alive? If they can light the watchtower, they can light this whole wooden shit-pile!” another man turned to Asha. “Captain, the sea’s only five miles away. Why die here in this useless wood heap? If we must meet the Drowned God, let it be with wet feet!”

“Right! We’re Ironborn! If we die, it should be with the sea behind us!”

“Captain! There’s no enemy at the south gate! We can break out from there!”

…

No enemy at the south gate? Asha didn’t believe it. If Robb Stark had half the battlefield instincts the tales claimed, he would’ve stationed men to burn the longships, sweep the coast, and cut off all possible escape.

Still, she knew staying was death. Breaking out could be a trap, but even that offered better odds. And the words of her last man struck a chord—she wanted to live. But if she must die, let it be with wet feet.

“Well said. I’ve changed my mind. Let the wolf pups have their gloomy forest and this cursed wooden chamber pot. We’re not dying on the walls. Break out, and fall back to the ships!”

…

The trumpeter blew three short blasts, the signal to retreat to the sea. The Ironborn rushed from the walls to the courtyard, scrambling to regroup. No one found this sudden reversal strange—or if they did, they had no time to question it. For all their shouting of “Winterfell,” the attackers had yet to even scale the walls.

There weren’t enough horses, so some would have to flee on foot. Asha Greyjoy was not one of them. She mounted her chestnut mare and shouted, “Open the south gate!”

As the wooden gate swung open with a creak, a deafening thud rang from the north gate—the battering ram had struck.

Asha drew a throwing axe from her shoulder strap. Sitting tall on her horse, she roared, “Escape is no longer an option. Brothers, carve us a bloody path! We’re going home!”

“Going home!”

“Long live Asha!”

The road beyond the gate was empty, which only deepened her suspicion, but no matter what waited ahead, death was the worst that could happen. She spurred her horse forward. “Move!”

The mass of riders and footmen surged through the gate, across the field, and into the woods. By the time they reached the far side of the clearing, their lines were already in disarray. Under the moonlight, the crops they had trampled during the siege had turned to mud. Asha sent scouts forward and rear guards behind, urging stragglers to move faster and making sure no one was left behind.

Tall firs and ancient oaks loomed overhead. Deepwood Motte had earned its name. The trees grew thick and close, their twisted limbs swaying in the wind with groans like dying men. Their branches arched skyward like claws, scraping the moon itself.

The sooner they left this place, the better. Asha felt it in her bones. This was the North, and even the trees seemed to loathe the Ironborn. The forest was watching. She could feel it.

Soon, the scouts returned with news. There were signs of men on the road ahead—an ambush, most likely.

“Leave the road. Head west,” Asha ordered without hesitation.

This didn’t surprise her. She thought for a moment, then said, “They’ll expect us to go north toward the coast. That’s where they’ll be waiting. But if we avoid the urge to flee to the ships…”

One of her men caught on at once. “Don’t take the roads. Pick a direction at random. If even we don’t know where we’re going, the wolf pups sure as hell won’t be able to stop us!”

(To be continued.)

***

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