Night attack.
Ordinary people often instinctively associate that term with awe and power, as if it's the ultimate weapon to defeat an enemy, a guaranteed path to victory, a single move that secures the world. But in truth, that impression stems largely from a cognitive bias: survivor bias.
As the name suggests, this concept can be summed up in a single sentence—everyone you see afterward is a survivor.
What we witness as results are already filtered.
In literature, authors often craft stories centered on a "night attack" to showcase a brilliant general, skilled in warfare and tactics. Within that framework, the outcome is almost always the attackers' success. The reason is simple. A detailed account of a failed night raid adds little excitement to the narrative.
Some might argue that even in recorded history, night attacks appear to be mostly successful. What they don't realize is that this, too, is an example of survivor bias in action.
The cover of darkness can indeed grant attackers the initiative and an edge in the opening strike. But it also means the battle is taking place on the defenders' ground, be it a fortified castle or a well-organized camp—both natural counters to ambush tactics. Admittedly, night obscures visibility, limiting defenders' ability to assess the battlefield and respond, making it harder to coordinate. But the truth is, it hinders the attackers even more, who rely far more heavily on precision and coordination.
Whether a night attack succeeds depends entirely on one question: does the attacking side possess the military discipline and organizational ability to operate effectively in the dark, and can they capitalize on their brief window of stealth to neutralize the defenders' home-ground advantage?
It sounds straightforward. But unfortunately, in an age without real-time communication tools, and with armies mostly composed of levies instead of professional soldiers, those capable of executing such a maneuver are one in ten thousand.
If there is even a small chance of success through a conventional frontal assault, few would risk a night attack. Only bold and highly skilled commanders dare try. Only hardened veterans, unshaken by the dark, are capable of following orders with precision. And only if they succeed, achieving a crushing victory, will their efforts be remembered and written down.
After all this layer upon layer of filtering, like a set of nesting dolls, what remains in the public's mind is a false truth: that night attacks are always effective, always easy.
But the reality is just the opposite.
Aegor's night attack was also a desperate and unconventional measure. Neither the advantage of being a transmigrator familiar with the plot nor the unique status of an agent of R'hllor reduced the difficulties he faced in the slightest.
He only barely overcame the challenge of commanding in darkness with detailed pre-battle plans, a complete and functional officer system, and well-trained, battle-hardened Gift soldiers. Winterfell's home-ground advantage—its twin layers of solid "turtle shell" walls—was breached by black powder, a weapon now formally used in warfare between men for the first time. As for the stone maze that attackers would face after breaching the walls, this would have been a nightmare for any other army. But for Aegor, it was barely a problem. Not only was he personally familiar with Winterfell from multiple visits, but many of his most trusted officers, having traveled under the black cloaks of the Night's Watch, had spent nights in the castle. With these men as squad leaders and equipped with detailed maps of Winterfell, the nightmare scenario that had plagued every night attack in history was now 70 or 80 percent neutralized by the Gift Army.
Trusting his instincts, Aegor did not lead the assault himself. Instead, under the protection of several hundred reserves, he remained in the rear command post, quietly awaiting the outcome of the siege.
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Under the low murmurs of disbelief, the rebel soldiers who had breached the city and the defending soldiers who met them head-on collided in the streets, columns of torchlight clashing under the watchful eyes of those within the Keep. The darkness concealed the battle's details, but from the violent swaying of torches and the faint, drifting screams, the savagery of the fight could be clearly imagined. The rebels had a slight advantage in numbers and formation, but those who stood guard over Winterfell were all Northern warriors. In the tight alleyways and courtyards between castle buildings, the strength of individual combat ability mattered more, and in that, the defenders held the upper hand.
Arya had expected the first engagement to last some time. But in reality, amid the flickering light of torches, she soon heard familiar rumbling sounds, far weaker than the blasts that had breached the gates. The two torch-lit serpents of the attackers only slightly slowed, then rolled straight through the defenders.
"Stubborn defenders" were the final hurdle of this assault, and Aegor's solution was simple: when encountering organized resistance in numbers greater than ten, eliminate it with explosive rounds.
This was a decisive battle, where failure was not an option. Any savings that increased risk were unacceptable. The slightly modified anti-infantry explosive rounds were more than enough to shatter morale and crush organized resistance. Rarely lethal, but terrifying, they aligned perfectly with the command center's tactical priority—minimizing casualties on both sides.
Rumbling after rumbling rang out from the east and north sides of the castle, each a few seconds apart. The two assault squads of the Gift Army that had entered Winterfell advanced steadily toward their objectives. They used explosive rounds freely. The more tenacious the defenders were, the more quickly they were broken. Reports of the castle falling swiftly into enemy hands soon reached Robb Stark, still at the parade ground. He felt his limbs go cold, as if in a dream.
The two granite walls, painstakingly built over generations by his ancestors, the greatest shields of House Stark's survival, had not held back the attackers even for a moment. They were pierced as easily as wet parchment.
Robb's instincts told him the city was lost. It could no longer be reversed or salvaged. But as Warden of the North and the Young Wolf Lord, his pride refused to let him give up.
"Someone, quickly! Go to the western and southern walls. Tell the defenders to abandon their posts and fall back into the Keep!" The plan formed in his mind instantly. He turned to another retainer. "Go find Maester Luwin. Have him send the ravens. Inform the Northern Lords that Winterfell is under siege, and order them to bring their men at once!"
The city walls had fallen, but "Winterfell" was never just the outer defenses. Robb knew that long before the first ring of walls was ever built, his ancestors had ruled the North for thousands of years from the Keep—the predecessor of the main castle.
Even if every outer structure was lost, the Keep itself remained a defensible fortress.
If they could quickly rally the defenders and retreat into the Keep, hold out for a day, and await the reinforcements already assembled at Seven City, then with an attack from both inside and outside, they might still turn the tide.
It was a good plan. But when Robb tried to act on it, he was caught by his own earlier orders. Ironically, the cautious instructions he had given in response to the fire in the stables had now become the greatest obstacle. In an effort to prevent a sneak attack during the fire, he had sent many defenders to patrol the outer perimeter. It had been the right call at the time, but now, it made rallying the defenders nearly impossible.
Clay Cerwyn saw his liege lord's struggle and stepped forward immediately. "My Lord, I brought many men with me to fight the fire. If we get to the armory before the rebels capture it, reclaim our weapons, and retreat into the Keep, we'll have enough to hold!"
Robb snapped out of it, looked around, and nodded. "Good. Gather your men and follow me!"
The soldiers from Seven City threw down their buckets and rushed back toward the defenders' main camp, running beside the Lord of Winterfell. But before they had closed even ten meters, the flickering torches and rising cries of battle sent a chill through their hearts. The enemy's speed was unbelievable. In just over ten minutes, they had already reached the armory.
Clay Cerwyn squinted ahead and let out a breath of relief. "They haven't taken it yet. If we hit them from behind, we'll catch them off guard!"
He didn't need to say more. Robb had already come to the same conclusion. He drew his sword, inhaled deeply, and roared, "Those with weapons, to the front! Long live the North!"
With a great war cry, the former firefighting team charged with the Lord of the North at their head. Judging by their momentum, one would never guess that less than half of them were actually armed. Ahead, the Gift soldiers who had entered from the east gate were locked in combat with the defenders around the armory. Half had already broken inside, the rest still outside.
For a moment, it seemed the counterattack might succeed. Then the soldiers in the rear ranks of the rebel army, obeying their commander's orders, suddenly turned and threw sparking metal spheres to the ground at their feet.
(To be continued.)