Chapter 357

The blaring of warhorns didn’t signify that the two longships intended to recklessly assault the Direwolf, a vessel five times their size. Rather, it was a signal, summoning hidden reinforcements lying in wait to spring their trap. The longships, reversing direction with startling speed, shifted seamlessly from “retreat” to “pursuit.” Even as the Direwolf struggled to complete its turn, the two smaller ships skillfully positioned themselves on either side of its return path, staying just at the edge of range while launching sporadic volleys of arrows. Though none of the shots pierced flesh, the thuds of arrows against the hull disrupted the sailors’ efforts and sapped their focus.

Farther out, the signal was heard. Two larger ships, already prepared and lurking just a few miles away, lowered their oars and began advancing with alarming speed. Within minutes, they emerged from the fog, their shapes solidifying into the sight of two sail-equipped warships, roughly the same size as the Direwolf. Unlike the Northern vessel, however, these Ironborn ships carried extra sails fore and aft, as well as an abundance of oarsmen. Harnessing both manpower and the wind, they surged forward at twice the Direwolf’s top speed.

Meanwhile, the Direwolf, still struggling to turn, had only just begun to accelerate.
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While the Ironborn fleet boasted sheer numbers, nine out of ten of their vessels were longships meant for raiding rather than battle. Euron’s main fleet was far to the south, hundreds of miles away. The two sail-equipped warships here today were among the few Ironborn ships capable of engaging in proper naval combat north of Cape Kraken. Their purpose was clear: to deliver a decisive blow to the North before the fledgling navy at Icecanyon Port could mature into a real threat.

In an instant, the skirmish transformed from “one sailboat against two longships” to “one sailboat against two warships and two longships.” Encircled and outnumbered, the Direwolf had sailed directly into a trap. Though Maege Mormont’s crew had noticed the danger just in time to avoid complete entrapment, there was no escaping the Ironborn’s net.

“Lady Mormont, their ships are much faster than ours!” a sailor exclaimed, panic etched on his face.

“I can see that!” Maege snapped, glaring at him. “Tell me plainly—can we make it back to the safety of Icecanyon Port before they catch us?”

“I… I don’t think so,” he stammered.

“If there’s any doubt, then it’s a no. That’s enough. Lower the sails, draw in the oars. Leave a few men below deck to steer, and have everyone else ready for combat!”

“What? But… yes, my lady!”

If retreat was impossible, then there would be no retreat. Maege Mormont, the head of House Mormont, stood on the deck with unflinching resolve. Despite her small stature, she exuded an aura of authority that outshone every man aboard. Under her command, the Direwolf began to slow, aligning its broadside to face the oncoming warships. The torsion catapults were adjusted, their arms now aimed at the Ironborn vessels closing in rapidly.

“Wait until they’re close before firing—those wildfire grenades are too precious to waste!” Maege barked, gripping her spiked mace in one hand as she issued orders. “You lot—watch the longships on the left. The rest of you—focus on the right! Archers, loose your arrows! I don’t want to see any of you holding a half-full quiver when they’re at our sides! And you, in black—keep your hands on the wildfire and catapults. I don’t care what it takes; make sure you hit their warships. Not a single damned raider sets foot on this deck!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

The crew, consisting of both seasoned sailors and fresh recruits, quickly shook off their nerves under Maege’s commanding presence. Armed and prepared, they lined the deck, awaiting the battle to come.
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One of the Ironborn warships slowed as it reached within a hundred meters, positioning itself to provide covering fire. The other ship, however, continued its aggressive approach, the battering ram beneath its prow slicing through the water. The oarsmen on either side rowed in unison, driving the vessel closer to the Direwolf. Behind them, the two longships, smaller but highly maneuverable, shadowed the warships, ready to board the Northern vessel as soon as the opportunity arose.

The Ironborn executed their strategy with the precision born of centuries of piracy. One warship provided suppressing fire, while the other advanced, leading the two longships into position for a boarding action.

The first strike came from the covering warship. A streak of orange flame arced through the air—a flaming projectile launched from its single catapult. Wrapped in oil-soaked straw and pitch, the missile burned brightly as it flew, leaving a trail of smoke before plunging into the sea just short of the Direwolf. The water sizzled and hissed as the flames extinguished.

“Return fire!” Maege commanded.

The Northern sailors and Night’s Watchmen manning the Direwolf’s two catapults wasted no time. Their target was not the distant warship but the one charging straight at them. With a loud thunk, the catapults released, sending two unassuming black spheres into the air. Wildfire bombs.

Neither shot found its mark. One fell short, plunging into the icy waters of the Bay of Seals. The other overshot, soaring over the enemy ship and splashing harmlessly into the sea beyond. The cold waters extinguished the dreaded flames before they could take hold.

“Adjust the aim! Prepare the next volley!” Maege barked.
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By now, the enemy warship was close enough that the Ironborn sailors were clearly visible, their faces twisted in anticipation. Weapons gleamed in their hands, and grappling hooks and ropes lay ready on their decks. They were preparing for a boarding action, eager to capture the Direwolf intact—a rare prize among the Ironborn, who lacked large sail-equipped warships of their own.

The second volley came too late. Though one bomb fell short again, the other found its mark—not the hull, but the aft sail. The green flames of wildfire ignited instantly, spreading across the canvas like a living beast. The Ironborn sailors recoiled in panic, the unnatural fire consuming the sail and sending smoke billowing into the sky.

Yet even as the flames began to consume their ship, the Ironborn pressed on. Their battering ram struck the Direwolf with a deafening crash, the impact throwing men off their feet. Grappling hooks flew through the air, latching onto the Northern ship’s rails. In moments, the two vessels were locked together.

The Ironborn raiders shouted war cries as they prepared to board. Yet as they gathered at the edge of their deck, they were met not by a wall of Northern soldiers, but by the sight of several large jars being hoisted over the Direwolf’s railing.

The raiders hesitated, their battle cries faltering.

And then, the jars fell.