The Bite of Winter

Asha

Four days after the red wedding

The bridge shifted under her weight as she crossed it. It is held together by weathered rope and rotting boards. Sometimes Asha wondered how it had not killed someone yet. 

Balon had summoned her. Whatever it was, it was important. He had already ordered that the iron fleet began to supply for a voyage or an attack. 

A storm brewed a few miles out to sea, causing a cold breeze to pull the mist of the waves onto her face and hair. The smell of salt filled her lungs. Sometimes she felt the drowned god called her, begged her to return to the water. She could never refuse his call. 

As she entered the throne room, Balon sat on his mighty salt throne, Victarion at his side. His face was grave, a letter crumpled in his fist. "Theon is dead." He said. His voice lacked the grief of a mourning parent. Anger laced every word. "He died defending the young wolf. He turned more dog than Kraken."

In truth, Asha didn't feel much at the news. Her baby brother had been taken long ago, any love they shared died when he was taken. If anything, there was a small twinge of relief at the news. She was now the sole heir of the salt throne. Missing him had already worn thin. "What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger." She murmured, a hand over her heart.

"Tywin Lannister is sending us his remains. As a sign of respect." Balon spat. "Fuck his respect. The young wolf died with Theon. We will send ships to take the North. Asha, I want you to command. Take Deepwood Motte for us, then the whole damn North."

"Reports say that the North is in chaos. The Boltons and Stark loyalists are scrambling for land. Now is the perfect time to strike." Victarion spoke up. His black eyes reminding Asha of a shark. 

"It would be my honor to take the North for you, your grace." Her eyes fixed on Balon, a smirk appearing on his lips. He loved to be reminded of his sovereign.

"The ships will be prepared to set sail on the morrow." Balon dismissed. She gave her father and uncle a stiff bow before leaving. 

She noticed that the storm was moving closer as she crossed the bridge, its winds growing stronger as it approached them. Thunder cracking in the distance and the sky lit up with lightning. Asha couldn't help but stop and watch the storm. Something was calming about it. Storms made many mainlander's nervous, but to her, they would turn a ship into a cradle and help lull her to sleep. Storms could be deadly, but the Ironborn were the best sailors Westeros would ever see. Rough seas would not be their downfall.

She continued her path to her chamber. The prospect of the impending battles already had her pulse racing. She knew she would not sleep tonight. 

The last time the Iron Islands had ever attempted an invasion of this sort was during the Greyjoy rebellion, where two of her brothers were killed and one was taken, leaving her on Pyke with just her parents and uncles. As she entered her chamber, she picked up her ax. Her hands fondly caressed the handle.

As she sat at her desk with a whetstone in hand, she thought of the first time she ever picked up an ax. It had been when she was seven. Her uncle Victarion was sharpening his great battle-ax, and she had walked through the armory to find herself one. She had always admired her uncle's ferocity in battle.

Her mind thought through the next few week, planning and calculation the battles to come. The mainlanders thought that Robert Baratheon had crushed the Greyjoys, but they would rise again, harder and stronger than before.