Chapter 358

The jars of wildfire hurled into the crowd were thrown by the sailors of the Direwolf, using nothing but brute strength.

It was obvious that wildfire grenades were wholly unsuited for close combat, especially during boarding actions between ships. The green flames licking at the enemies' bodies or igniting the enemy ship’s deck could easily spread onto their own ship and men, resulting in a catastrophic “mutual destruction” scenario.

Yet now, with the Direwolf surrounded on all sides—one ship already grappling and the two longships approaching from range to scale the sides—there was no time to hesitate. In this life-and-death moment, focusing on the potential risks of wildfire would only ensure that no one aboard would live long enough to deal with the consequences.

Amid the shattering of glass, the grenades hit their marks, splattering the Ironborn raiders with viscous green liquid that coated their heads, shoulders, and the deck beneath their feet. The unlucky few struck directly staggered, bloodied and dazed, still unaware of what had just been unleashed upon them. Then the wildfire ignited.

In an instant, green flames bloomed like macabre flowers among the raiders. Their body heat and the dry, woolen fabric of their warm clothing fed the flames, which spread even faster than they would on the cold, wet deck. Over a dozen Ironborn were swallowed by the inferno in moments, their agonized screams replacing the war cries that had rung out just moments before. The smell of charred flesh filled the air as the green fire cooked the raiders alive.

The Ironborn, who already harbored a deep cultural fear of fire, were utterly shattered by the sight of the blazing green inferno. Those near the flames panicked, scattering in every direction like rats doused in boiling oil. A handful of men engulfed in fire hurled themselves overboard, desperate to extinguish the searing pain in the icy waters below.

Despite the chaos on their ship, some Ironborn were determined to fight to the end. They leaped across the narrow gap between the Direwolf and their own vessel, weapons in hand, landing on the deck of the Northern ship.
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Maege Mormont calmly wiped a stray spark of wildfire off her breastplate with her gloved hand. Then she raised her spiked mace and slammed it against the ship’s railing with a resounding clang.

“Boys of the North!” she roared, her voice cutting through the din. “This is the day you prove your courage!”

“For the North!” came the answering cry from her crew.

Across the deck, the Ironborn were regrouping for a final charge. Two longships had now joined the fray, their crews scrambling to board the Direwolf from different directions. From all sides came cries of “For the Iron Islands!” and “Kill them all!”

The battle resumed with ferocious intensity.

The first Ironborn to land on the deck was a burly raider who slashed at the nearest Northern soldier, forcing him back. As he turned to mock the defenders, he found himself face-to-face with Maege Mormont. The short, gray-haired woman wasted no time on words. She swung her mace with a speed and force that left him no chance to react. The weapon smashed into his chest, and the impact sent him tumbling backward into the sea.
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Boarding actions were nothing like pitched battles on land. The confined space of a ship’s deck left no room for retreat, forcing both sides into chaotic, brutal melee combat. The Ironborn, seasoned by centuries of raiding, relied on tight formations and overwhelming numbers to storm enemy ships. They would crowd together, using shields and bodies to protect their vanguard as they surged onto the deck.

But this time, the wildfire grenades had thrown their strategy into disarray. The carefully coordinated boarding party had been torn apart by flames, forcing even the unscathed raiders to break ranks as they frantically tried to extinguish the fire on their armor and clothing.

In their disorganized state, they were no match for the Northern defenders. With a roar, the Northern crew surged forward like a wall of steel and fury. Blades flashed, blood sprayed, and the sickening stench of charred flesh mixed with the metallic tang of fresh blood. The Ironborn who made it onto the Direwolf were either hacked apart where they stood or driven back into the sea.
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Maege Mormont didn’t waste time reveling in the moment. “Don’t let up! One team, put out the fires! Another team, grab the oars and push their ships away! The uninjured, follow me—we’re fighting on the other side!”

Her orders were clear and direct, leaving no room for hesitation. But before they could regroup, the longships seized their moment. With a pair of jolting impacts, they rammed into the Direwolf, grappling hooks and ropes flying onto the Northern ship’s deck. The Ironborn on the longships, though outnumbered and outgunned, relied on their experience and timing, waiting for the Northern defenders to be distracted before pressing the attack.

The longships were smaller and lower than the Direwolf, giving the attackers a disadvantage in elevation. But with the larger Ironborn warship already engaging the Direwolf, the longships had the perfect opportunity to strike.

What they hadn’t accounted for, however, was Maege Mormont’s utter ruthlessness.

As soon as the longships came alongside, another volley of wildfire grenades was hurled onto their decks. On such small vessels, the resulting fires spread even faster. The tight space left the raiders nowhere to run, and their cries of panic and agony echoed as green flames consumed them. Many hurled themselves overboard, preferring death by drowning to the excruciating pain of wildfire.

Within moments, the two longships were burning wrecks, their crews reduced to desperate swimmers in the icy waters of the Bay of Seals.
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The surviving Ironborn warship, which had been holding back to provide covering fire, hesitated as its captain watched the carnage unfold. Three ships lost to the Northern defenders—and now the Direwolf turned its attention to him.

Unnerved by the sight of the green flames and aware of his dwindling ammunition, the captain ordered his ship to withdraw. The Ironborn warship turned and fled, its superior speed quickly carrying it out of range.

The Direwolf, battered and nearly out of wildfire grenades, didn’t pursue. The crew let out a collective sigh of relief as the final enemy disappeared over the horizon.
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Thus ended the First Battle of the Bay of Seals. It had erupted suddenly and ended just as quickly. The Direwolf had suffered one fatality and over twenty injuries, half of which were burns sustained during the frantic effort to extinguish the fires. The deck was scorched and littered with debris, and the mainmast, damaged by enemy fire, was no longer usable.

Relying on oars and sheer determination, the crew managed to limp the damaged ship back to Icecanyon Port. Along the way, they recovered a handful of Ironborn prisoners—minor nobles who might prove useful as hostages. The rest of the Ironborn, ordinary raiders, were left to the icy sea.
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The news of the battle reached Aegor the next day at Crown's Rest. While the skirmish had involved the Night’s Watch tangentially, it was ultimately part of the larger conflict between the North and the Iron Islands. Nevertheless, Aegor acted swiftly. In addition to reinforcing Icecanyon Port with troops from the Gift, he ordered the most battle-hardened unit under his command—the “Crown's Rest Rangers,” led by Jaime Lannister—to bolster the port’s defenses.

At the same time, reports arrived from Colin Halfhand, who had led a scouting party beyond the Bridge of Skulls. What they found shocked everyone.

The rangers had been prepared for a dangerous journey into the unknown, but they hadn’t expected to discover their target so easily—or so overwhelmingly. Beyond the bridge lay a vast sea of the undead, numbering in the thousands. Rusted weapons in hand and decayed bodies shambling forward, the wights were systematically destroying the weirwood forest, hacking and burning the ancient trees with relentless determination.

The war was no longer a distant threat. It was at their doorstep.