Five days later, at dusk, the massive caravan of Northmen refugees finally arrived at Moat Cailin.
Nearly a hundred thousand people, wrapped in thick winter clothing, pushed crude carts loaded with their meager possessions. They supported the elderly, cradled infants in their arms, and wore expressions etched with exhaustion and uncertainty from the long journey.
When they raised their heavy heads and caught sight of the ancient fortress, now renewed beyond recognition, many could hardly believe their eyes.
The broken towers of Moat Cailin were being steadily reinforced by soldiers, and the collapsed walls had been rebuilt. Cold steel glinted behind the battlements, while countless house banners snapped sharply in the biting wind.
But the most overwhelming sight of all was the six silhouettes circling in the dim, leaden sky above Moat Cailin.
Dragon roars pierced through the clouds.
Many in the North were already familiar with Blooddancer, the dragon that had once fought across their lands. But the other five were completely unknown, creatures they had never even heard of, let alone seen.
Three war dragons descended onto the towers, drawing cries of astonishment from the crowd.
Janice's Duskshadow was sheathed in deep violet scales that reflected a dark, muted sheen in the scarce daylight. In flight, it resembled a moving curtain of night.
Daenerys's Greysmoke was slightly smaller in build, but astonishingly fast, its gray-brown body flashing past like a fleeting shadow.
The most eye-catching of all was the young dragon Seaheart, curled against the peak of a spired tower.
Small in size, yet its scales shone like the purest sapphire, crystal clear. Its wing membranes were a dreamlike blend of pink and blue, breathtakingly beautiful, drawing waves of gasps from countless young maids of the North.
People pressed together, pointing toward the sky, their voices trembling with both excitement and fear as they spoke.
"Look! That red one—it's the King's mount!"
"And the purple one? It's like a dream in the night…"
"By the gods, that blue one… it's too beautiful. Which Queen does it belong to?"
"They say the King has several Queens, and each dragon belongs to one…"
"Gods above… are we truly meant to rely on these… these monsters for protection?"
Amid the clamor and awe, the captives Asha and her brother Theon stood silently at the edge of the crowd.
They stared up at the dragons overhead, their expressions tangled and heavy.
In Asha's eyes, shock and resentment intertwined.
Theon, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by fear. The sheer presence of the dragons seemed to crush the last remnants of his so-called "Ironborn" pride into dust.
They understood better than anyone that before such absolute power, any form of resistance was meaningless.
Before long, the siblings were escorted into the great hall of Moat Cailin's main keep.
Lo Quen sat upon a simple wooden throne, watching as they were brought before him, a calm, almost indifferent smile on his face.
"The Greyjoys…" he said lightly. "Your uncle, Euron Greyjoy, is already dead. I killed him myself."
The two of them jerked their heads up, disbelief flooding their eyes.
But almost immediately, their thoughts returned to the six dragons blotting out the sky beyond the walls, and suddenly everything made sense.
Before this man, even their uncle, that Kraken-like figure of terror and madness, no longer seemed invincible.
Asha drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to regain her composure.
She stepped forward, her posture more respectful than she had ever shown before, though a trace of stubbornness still clung to her bearing.
"Your Grace, may I ask one question? Regarding the fate of the Iron Islands…"
Lo Quen already knew what she intended to say and cut her off without hesitation.
"The Iron Islands will have no king, and no feudal overlords. Every island, every Lord, will swear loyalty directly to me."
His ambitions went far beyond that.
Once the Others were dealt with, the old nobility entrenched in the Iron Islands—those who worshipped the Drowned God and lived by raiding and plunder—would face a complete and merciless purge.
He would install loyal subordinates in their place, reshaping the Iron Islands from the ground up and breaking their culture at its root.
For those pirates, he would show not the slightest mercy.
Asha's face went pale at once. She stepped forward again, her voice urgent.
"Your Grace, House Greyjoy's rule over the Iron Islands is an ancient tradition."
"Tradition?"
Lo Quen let out a short, mocking laugh.
"Asha Greyjoy, history is written by the victors, and traditions exist to be broken. I will establish a new order and write a new history."
Asha clenched her teeth, her nails digging deep into her palms.
"Your Grace, if you do this, the Lords of the Iron Islands will never submit willingly. You will be planting the seeds of rebellion, and it will undermine your rule over the archipelago."
"Do you think I fear rebellion in the Iron Islands?"
Lo Quen sneered as he rose to his feet and walked toward her, step by step, looming over her.
"Are you trying to teach me how to rule? Or do you believe the flesh and blood of the Ironborn can withstand dragonfire?"
His gaze turned cold.
"Asha Greyjoy, I'm afraid you either don't know, or refuse to believe, what your uncle Euron and his Ironborn fleet did at Oldtown."
"They slaughtered the entire city. Men, women, children. Not a single civilian was spared."
"The name Greyjoy will be nailed to the pillar of shame of the Seven Kingdoms, alongside the Lannisters. For that reason alone, I will never leave Pyke or its ownership to a Greyjoy."
"What?!"
Asha shook violently, as if struck by lightning.
Only now did she learn of Euron's monstrous crimes at Oldtown. Yet what truly ignited her fury was not the massacre itself. The Ironborn had always worshipped strength and lived by plunder. What enraged her was that Lo Quen intended to deny House Greyjoy even Pyke itself.
In that instant, rage and despair overwhelmed her reason. She nearly lunged at Lo Quen without thinking.
The moment she moved, the two silent Dragon Soul Guards beside her acted at once, gripping her arms firmly.
Asha struggled fiercely, teeth clenched, fire nearly bursting from her eyes, but she could not move an inch.
She was about to scream her protest when she saw Theon beside her, looking at her with unbearable bitterness and pleading, his head shaking slightly.
Theon's brutal experiences had long since worn away all his sharp edges. He understood the cost of resistance far better than his sister.
Seeing the near-desperate look in her brother's eyes, a wave of helplessness washed over Asha.
At last, she lowered her head in defeat. Her mouth closed, and in that moment, all will to resist collapsed completely.
The siblings were taken away.
The great hall had barely returned to calm when Ser Waymar Royce and Davos Seaworth hurried in, their expressions grave.
After saluting, Waymar spoke at once.
"Your Grace, the wildling army has arrived. They're outside the walls, and they… they demand that we open the passage and let them go south."
Lo Quen paused, then a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
"Demand? What right do they have to demand anything?"
He snorted coldly and strode outside, climbing up onto the newly reinforced curtain wall.
Ahead, the narrow causeway leading to Moat Cailin and the frozen ground around it were packed solid with wildlings.
They wore all manner of animal hides and carried crude weapons. Men, women, and children stood together, their faces marked by the exhaustion of long travel and, more deeply, by fear.
Lo Quen's gaze turned icy as he spoke to the messenger at his side.
"Archers. Fifty paces in front of them. Fire a warning volley."
Longbows rose instantly along the walls. Bowstrings thrummed, and a dense rain of arrows screamed through the air, slamming into the open ground at the front of the wildling ranks, forming a bristling barrier.
The wildlings erupted into panic, retreating in disorder, not daring to cross the line.
At that moment, a furious roar burst out from their ranks.
Several giants, each more than twelve feet tall, forced their way forward.
Their skin was like gray stone, their hair long and coarse. In their hands were massive clubs crudely carved from entire tree trunks, which they brandished as they roared at the walls of Moat Cailin.
As if answering the giants' provocation, the dragons circling above the towers unleashed thunderous roars.
Blooddancer, Silverfall, Ashshadow, Duskshadow, Greysmoke…
They dove from the sky, massive wings churning the air, and landed atop the highest tower, their eyes burning with fury as they stared down at the giants and the wildling host below.
The overlapping dragon roars crushed all other sounds, completely drowning out the wildlings' clamor.
Even the giants, moments ago raging with fury, instinctively showed fear before the dragons. They took half a step back, their massive clubs no longer swinging so recklessly.
Dragons.
Creatures that had existed only in legend had truly appeared.
Fearful murmurs and chaos rippled through the wildling ranks.
Soon, the giants seemed to receive some sort of order and turned back grudgingly, retreating into the crowd.
Then a wildling man built like a bear, thick-bearded and broad-shouldered, strode forward boldly. He raised both hands high to show he was unarmed, swaggered past the line of arrows, and stopped beneath the walls.
Tilting his head back, he shouted up in a booming voice.
"Hey, King of the South! Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, wants to speak with you!"
It was Tormund.
Lo Quen remained calm and gave Waymar a small nod.
Waymar stepped forward and called down loudly.
"Wildling, mind your words. No one 'demands' anything of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. If your King-Beyond-the-Wall truly wishes to negotiate, let him enter the city alone. That is the only condition."
Below, Tormund glared and snorted angrily, but in the end, he turned and jogged back into the wildling ranks.
...