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Direct combat wasn't off the table. But as the old saying went:
The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. Next is to disrupt their alliances through diplomacy. Next is to defeat their army in the field. And the worst policy of all is to attack walled cities.
Attacking cities is a last resort. A method you use when you have no other choice.
If you let emotion take over and order your men to storm the walls by force, you might lose a third of them , and still not take the city. That was the disaster of siege warfare.
Lynn could be ruthless to his enemies. But every loss on his own side was a loss that mattered. This wasn't a game he'd played before his transmigration. Every person here was real. They'd followed him to war for their own reasons, their own purposes, and he owed them more than to spend their lives carelessly.
So the best outcome was simple: make the enemy submit without fighting. Make their city fall without attacking it.
To destroy the Eyrie, he didn't need a prolonged campaign. He needed a strategy of total victory , one that left his forces intact and still delivered everything he wanted.
That was the art of strategic attack.
But this was Westeros. A place where everyone seemed to operate without a brain, where human lives were treated like weeds. People here started wars without thinking about the consequences. They fought whenever they felt like it, as casually as making a joke.
And when the enemy came at you, you had to respond.
So for now, Lynn's approach was containment.
Both Robb and Mance had the same orders: use bait, pin the enemy down, avoid a bloody fight wherever possible. The rest, Lynn would handle himself.
Robb's victory earlier had been a special case.
If Lynn truly stopped caring about consequences, with the forces he had , his dragon, his Wights, his giants, his Unsullied , he could probably take ten King's Landings. Forget all that. Just the ability to raise the dead alone would be enough to take King's Landing without breaking a sweat.
But what would happen after?
Any intelligent person could work it out.
The Yuan Dynasty had been one of the most powerful empires in history. They'd conquer a city, massacre everyone in it, plant their flag, and move on. And what happened after they left? The people feared them, yes. But they still tore the flags down. You can't be everywhere at once. No one can control a continent in real time.
Ruling through slaughter was the most foolish strategy imaginable.
He'd gain a lot of experience, sure. But Lynn had no interest in becoming a second Mad King.
What he was going to do instead was cut the head off the snake. The Vale's apparent heir, Robert Arryn. One clean strike. Preserve his forces, subdue the enemy without a battle, and still achieve his ultimate goal.
Two birds, one stone.
"Attacking the Bloody Gate — also as bait?"
"What the hell?"
Tormund Giantsbane was the first one on his feet.
His big red face flushed even redder, caught somewhere between excitement and bewilderment.
"Bait again?"
He glared with eyes the size of copper bells, jabbing a finger at the fortress on the map , the great stronghold that guarded the only entrance to the Vale.
"We crawled through that gods-forsaken swamp for this? I thought we were finally going to hit them for real!"
"And now you're telling me we're still just bait?"
It wasn't only Tormund. Even the usually composed Mance Rayder had a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
Beyond the Wall, survival had always been simple and direct. You fought, or you died. Schemes and feints, misdirection and strategy , those were concepts too distant and too complicated for the free folk. They trusted the weapons in their hands and the brothers at their sides. Nothing else.
"Lynn, my king."
Tormund crowded closer, spittle flying.
"I know you've got a good head on you. But this isn't how you fight a war!"
"We have giants! We have mammoths!"
"And — and my future wife!"
He jabbed a finger toward the distant, silent frost giant, a look of pure infatuation spreading across his face.
"We charge straight at them, smash that gate to splinters, trample every last Valeman into paste! What's complicated about that?"
"Yeah! Smash them!"
"Kill all the southerners!"
The other wildling chiefs roared their agreement, fists raised, battle-hunger blazing in their eyes. To them, having this much raw power and choosing to skulk around as bait was an insult to every warrior who'd ever picked up a blade.
"All of you — shut up!"
The shout cut through the noise like a whip crack. Every voice died at once.
Ygritte stood with one hand resting on her bow, sweeping a cold gaze across the lot of them.
"What do any of you know? Listen to Lynn."
She trusted him with a completeness that bordered on absolute. Every decision he made, in her eyes, was the right one.
Lynn smiled.
He knew exactly how hard this was going to be. Getting these wildlings , people who'd lived their whole lives on instinct and directness , to understand the concept of strategy was harder than getting them to wrestle a dragon.
He didn't argue. He just looked at Tormund and asked a question.
"Tormund. Do you want your people to live?"
"Obviously!" Tormund shot back without hesitation. "Why else are we marching south with you? Sightseeing?"
"Good." Lynn nodded. "Then let me ask you this. If I told you that attacking the Bloody Gate head-on would win us the battle — but it would cost you one of your closest brothers — would you still do it?"
Tormund's expression went still.
He looked at the men around him, the ones who'd walked out of the Land of Always Winter at his side. The fire in their faces cooled, one by one.
Death didn't frighten them. But losing someone they actually cared about , that was different.
"But... why would anyone have to die?" Tormund's brow furrowed. "We're stronger than them."
Lynn's voice dropped, quieter and more serious.
"You're under my command. You're following me into something that could get us all killed. I treat every one of you like a brother." He paused. "You don't get to choose which brother it is. Neither do I. And I don't want any of you to die."
"Victory doesn't require storming walls."
Lynn looked out at the sea of confused faces and accepted the reality: explaining Sun Tzu to wildlings was like playing music to livestock. He needed a different approach.
"Just remember what I'm about to tell you."
"When the enemy advances, we retreat. When the enemy halts, we harass. When the enemy tires, we strike. When the enemy retreats, we pursue."
He said it slowly, one phrase at a time, making sure each word landed.
The wildlings exchanged glances. They looked more confused than before.
"What... what does that mean?" Tormund scratched at his wild red beard. "Enemy comes and we run? Sounds like cowardice to me."
"It's not cowardice. It's wisdom."
Mance Rayder finally spoke. He was watching Lynn with a thoughtful expression, something working behind his eyes.
"Lord Lynn means we don't meet them head-on," he said slowly. "When they march out looking for a fight, we don't give them one. We melt into the mountains. When they stop to rest, we make runs at the Bloody Gate , noise, fire arrows, harassment. We don't let them sleep. We don't let them rest. We grind them down until they're so exhausted they can barely stand. Then we hit them hard." He paused. "And when they break and run, we chase them down and we don't stop."
Mance had been King-Beyond-the-Wall for a reason. He'd grasped the entire shape of it in seconds.
"Exactly." Lynn gave him an approving nod. "Your job isn't to take the castle. It's to be a thorn they can't pull out. I want you moving around the Bloody Gate like wolves they can never catch."
"Daytime, you rest in the hills. Nighttime, you send men in to loose fire arrows, shout insults, make noise , whatever is most maddening. I want every Vale soldier inside that fortress too exhausted to sleep. I want them jumping at shadows. I want their nerves shredded."
"And when they finally can't take it anymore and come charging out for a real fight , we vanish. Don't give them anything to hit. Let them exhaust themselves chasing ghosts. Then, when they drag themselves back inside, we start again."
"One rule. One. We do not engage them in open battle."
"I don't care how many of them you kill. I care that you pin them. I want every fighting man the Vale has tied down at that gate and going nowhere."
The wildlings listened. They didn't fully understand it, but they understood enough.
Don't fight. Just make their lives miserable.
That... actually sounded a little underhanded, didn't it?
"This , I know how to do this!" Tormund slapped his thigh, suddenly grinning. "We used to do exactly this to the Night's Watch, back beyond the Wall! Steal their clothes and piss on them! Howl like spirits in the middle of the night to scare them half to death!"
"Ha! Now this I like!"
Lynn stared at him and had absolutely nothing to say.
Some things really were carved into a man's bones.
"Mance." Lynn turned to the former King-Beyond-the-Wall. "You're in command of this force. Tormund and Ygritte are your lieutenants."
"One requirement: pin the Vale's main strength at the Bloody Gate. Do it at whatever cost is necessary, and keep our own casualties as low as you can."
"Understood." Mance nodded, and there was nothing casual about it. He knew what this meant , Lynn's trust, and the hardest test his ability had ever faced. He'd been a man of the Night's Watch once. When it came to actual warfare, he was a different creature from pure wildlings like Tormund.
"As for me..."
Lynn's gaze drifted toward the Mountains of the Moon, their peaks rolling and jagged against the sky, like the spine of some buried dragon.
"Give it a few days. The Vale will open the Bloody Gate wide and welcome you in."
...
The night was black as ink.
Lynn brought Arya, Jon, and Benjen to where Winter was resting. The ten White Walkers in their black robes were already waiting.
"Prepare to move out."
Winter's massive central head dipped slowly. That enormous maw, wide enough to swallow a whole cow, opened before them.
No rot, no stench. Just sulfur and heat.
Then, under Jon and Benjen's wide, unblinking stares, one of the White Walkers walked forward at a measured pace and stepped straight into Winter's mouth.
He found a relatively open corner near the base of one of the dragon's teeth and stood quietly, as if he'd just walked into an ordinary room.
Then the second. Then the third.
Each of Winter's three heads took three White Walkers into its mouth. They stood motionless in the dark, silent as statues.
"You... you had them crawl inside the dragon's mouth?"
Jon looked completely lost.
"Winter's mouth is safer than you'd think."
Lynn settled onto Winter's broad back. The tenth White Walker moved silently into position behind him.
"Arya." He looked down at her. Her face was tight with worry. "You and Jon follow Mance. Stay in the rear. No impulsiveness."
"I... okay." She bit her lip and nodded hard.
Lynn left it at that. He'd already placed a protective ward on her a few nights ago. Short of a falling star landing on her head, she'd be fine.
He gave Winter's neck a gentle pat.
The great wings snapped open. The gust hit like a wall.
Winter's enormous body surged upward, and in the space of a breath, it shrank to a black speck against the sky and disappeared into the dark.
Wind roared past his ears.
Lynn looked down at the land below, swallowed in shadow. Mountains, rivers, castles , everything streaking away beneath him. The Bloody Gate's legendary defenses were just a thin line of dirt from up here. The Mountains of the Moon, those brutal peaks that had stopped armies cold for centuries, were nothing but shallow creases in the earth.
This was what a dragon was.
Absolute dominion over the sky. A power that sat above every rule men had ever made.
He didn't know how long they flew.
But when Winter crested the highest peak of the Mountains of the Moon, something appeared through the clouds ahead.
The Eyrie.
It floated above a sea of white, alone and untouchable, perched at the very top of the world like the seat of some forgotten god. Below it, the mountain fell away into an abyss thousands of feet deep. Any army that tried to take it from the ground would be shattered on the rocks long before they reached the walls.
Lynn patted Winter once more.
The dragon understood. All three heads let out a low, rolling growl in unison.
Then Winter folded its wings and dropped, silent as a falling star, diving straight toward that castle in the clouds.
➤ Next: This Is What You Call a Dragon!