A frontal assault wasn't impossible. It could be done. But as the ancestors wisely said:
The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.
The highest form of warfare is to foil the enemy's strategy; next best is to disrupt their alliances; next is to attack their army; and the worst policy is to besiege walled cities.
A siege is a last resort—a method used only when there are no other options.
If a commander can't control his temper and orders his men to swarm the walls, losing a third of his forces while the city still stands, that is the calamity of siege warfare.
Lynn could be ruthless toward his enemies, but to his own people, every single loss was a heavy blow.
This wasn't a video game like the ones Lynn played before he crossed over.
Every person here was flesh and blood. They followed him into battle for various reasons, and he owed them a duty of care. He couldn't just throw their lives away.
So, if he could make the enemy submit without a fight, or surrender their city without a siege, that was the best way.
To destroy the Eyrie, he didn't need a long, drawn-out campaign. He needed a strategy for total victory—one that preserved his strength while securing all the benefits.
That is the method of strategic attack.
But this was Westeros, a land where "strategy" often meant charging headfirst and treating human lives like grass.
Here, lords started wars without thinking of the consequences. Fighting a battle was as casual as telling a joke.
Faced with active enemy aggression, Lynn had to respond.
So, right now, Lynn's main play was diversion.
Whether it was Robb or Mance Rayder, their primary role was to be bait—to pin the enemy down and avoid a desperate fight to the death if at all possible.
The rest? Lynn would handle it himself.
Robb's crushing victory was an anomaly, a special case.
If Lynn truly didn't care about the consequences, with his dragon, wights, giants, and Unsullied... he could probably conquer ten King's Landings.
Hell, just his ability to raise the dead would be enough to take the Iron Throne without breaking a sweat.
But what would be the cost?
Any smart person could figure it out.
Look at the Mongol Empire. They were powerful. They would butcher entire cities, spreading terror, plant their flag, and move on.
But what happened after they left?
The people feared them, yes, but the moment the army was gone, the flags would be torn down.
His reach wasn't infinite. He couldn't micromanage every corner of the world in real-time. Ruling the globe through sheer slaughter was the stupidest way to do it.
Sure, it would grant a ton of experience points, but Lynn didn't want to become the second Mad King.
Now, Lynn was going to personally "decapitate" the Vale leadership by targeting its heir, Robert Arryn.
This would preserve his troops and force the enemy to surrender without a fight. Achieving the same goal with zero casualties? That was killing two birds with one stone.
"Attacking the Bloody Gate is also bait?"
"What the hell?"
Tormund Giantsbane was the first to jump up. His big red face turned even redder with excitement and confusion.
"Bait again?"
He stared with eyes as wide as copper pennies, pointing a thick finger at the map where the impregnable gateway to the Vale stood.
"We dragged our asses through that cursed swamp just to play make-believe? I thought we were here to do something big!"
"And now you're telling me we're still just bait?"
It wasn't just Tormund. Even Mance Rayder, usually as calm as a frozen lake, showed a flicker of confusion.
For Wildlings living in the cruel lands beyond the Wall, the rule of survival was simple and direct:
Fight or die.
Schemes? Diversions?
These concepts were too distant, too complicated. They trusted only the weapons in their hands and the brothers at their side.
"Lynn, my King," Tormund leaned in, spittle flying. "I know you've got a big brain, but this ain't how you fight a war!"
"We've got giants! We've got mammoths!"
"And... and we've got my future wife!" He pointed toward the silent Ice Giant in the distance, a look of obsession on his face.
"We should just charge in there, smash that shitty gate to pieces, and stomp every Valeman into paste! Wouldn't that be simpler?"
"Yeah! Smash 'em!"
"Kill the Southerners!"
The other Wildling chiefs started jeering, punching the air, their battle lust high. To them, having such power but choosing to shrink back as "bait" felt like an insult to a warrior's honor.
"Shut your mouths, all of you!"
A crisp, sharp voice cut through the noise.
Ygritte stood with her hand on her bow, glaring coldly at the group of muscle-brained men.
"What do you know? Listen to Lynn!"
She had a near-blind faith in Lynn. In her eyes, every decision he made was the right one.
Lynn smiled.
He knew that making these Wildlings—who were used to solving problems with an axe—understand "grand strategy" was harder than wrestling a dragon.
He didn't argue directly. Instead, he looked at Tormund and asked a question.
"Tormund, let me ask you: Do you want your people to survive?"
"Of course!" Tormund answered without thinking. "Why else would we follow you South? For the scenery?"
"Good," Lynn nodded.
"If I told you that we could definitely take the Bloody Gate, but the price would be the death of your best friend... would you still attack?"
Tormund's expression froze.
He looked at the clansmen around him—people who had walked out of the Land of Always Winter with him. The fervor on their faces slowly cooled.
They didn't fear death.
But they weren't willing to trade the lives of the people they loved most for a gate.
"But... why does anyone have to die?" Tormund still didn't get it. "We're stronger than them!"
Lynn's voice turned serious.
"You follow me, and you trust me with your lives. I treat every one of you as a brother."
"You can't choose who lives and dies. And me? I don't want a single one of you to die."
"Victory doesn't always require storming a castle."
Lynn looked at the blank faces of the Wildlings and realized explaining the theory was like playing a harp to a cow.
He switched to language they could understand.
"Just remember this. Here is what you are going to do."
"When the enemy advances, we retreat."
"When the enemy camps, we harass."
"When the enemy is tired, we attack."
"When the enemy retreats, we pursue."
Lynn enunciated the sixteen-word doctrine clearly, word by word.
The Wildlings looked at each other, more confused than before.
"What... what does that mean?" Tormund scratched his messy red beard. "If they come, we run? Isn't that cowardly?"
"It's not cowardice. It's wisdom," Mance Rayder finally spoke up.
He looked at Lynn thoughtfully.
"Lord Lynn means we don't fight them head-on."
"When they come out of the castle looking for a fight, we don't give it to them. We hide in the woods."
"When they try to rest, we pretend to attack the gate. We scream, we shoot fire arrows, we make sure they don't sleep."
"When they're exhausted and breaking down, that's when we jump out and hit them hard."
"And when they try to run back inside, we chase them and pick them off."
Mance was the King-Beyond-the-Wall for a reason. He grasped the core of Lynn's guerrilla tactics instantly.
"Exactly," Lynn nodded approvingly.
"Your mission is not to take the castle. It is to harass."
"I want you to be like a pack of wolves that can never be caught, circling the Bloody Gate."
"During the day, sleep in the mountains."
"At night, send men to fire flaming arrows, shout insults, bang drums—do whatever it takes to be disgusting!"
"I want every soldier in the Bloody Gate to lose their mind from lack of sleep!"
"Torment them day and night until they crumble."
"If they get so mad they charge out to fight you to the death... you run!"
"Don't let them even touch your shadow!"
"When they give up and go back, you start harassing them again!"
"One rule: Do not engage in a frontal battle."
"My goal isn't for you to kill them. It's to pin them down."
"Keep the entire main force of the Vale stuck at that gate, staring into the dark, terrified of you."
After Lynn's explanation, the Wildlings still only half-understood the theory, but they got the gist.
Don't fight fair. Just be annoying pests.
This... actually sounded kind of fun.
"This... I know how to do this!" Tormund slapped his thigh, suddenly excited.
"We used to do this to the Crows on the Wall all the time!"
"Steal their clothes, piss off the edge, howl like ghosts in the middle of the night!"
"Hahahaha! I like this plan!"
Lynn looked at Tormund's lecherous grin and was speechless.
The man's shamelessness was bone-deep.
"Mance," Lynn turned to the former King.
"You are in command of this force."
"Tormund and Ygritte are your lieutenants."
"I have only one requirement: At all costs, keep the Vale's main army pinned at the Bloody Gate. And minimize our own casualties."
"Understood," Mance nodded solemnly.
He knew this was a sign of Lynn's trust—and a test of his ability. As a former man of the Night's Watch, he was far better suited to tactical command than pure brawlers like Tormund.
"As for me..."
Lynn's gaze shifted to the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, rising like the spine of a dragon.
"In a few days, the Vale will open the Bloody Gate wide and welcome you inside."
...
Night had fallen like ink.
Lynn brought Arya, Jon, and Benjen to where Winter was resting.
The ten black-robed White Walkers were already waiting there.
"Prepare to depart," Lynn ordered the Walkers.
Winter's massive central head slowly lowered, and his maw—large enough to swallow an ox whole—opened before them.
There was no stench of rot, only the smell of sulfur and intense heat.
Then, under the bulging eyes of Jon and Benjen...
A White Walker walked with steady steps... straight into Winter's mouth.
He found a "spacious" corner near the dragon's back molars and stood there quietly, as if he had just walked into a room.
Then the second one, the third one...
Winter had three heads. Each mouth "loaded" three White Walkers.
They stood silently inside the dragon's maws, motionless.
"You... you made them crawl into the dragon's mouth?" Jon was bewildered.
"It's safer in there than you think," Lynn said, climbing onto Winter's broad back.
The tenth White Walker silently took a seat behind Lynn.
"Arya, you and Jon stay with Mance," Lynn said, looking down at Arya's worried face. "Stay in the back. No heroics."
"I... I know," Arya bit her lip and nodded hard.
Lynn said no more. He had placed a protective spell on Arya a few nights ago. Unless a meteor fell on her head, she should be safe.
Lynn patted Winter's neck.
WHOOSH!
The massive dragon wings snapped open, whipping up a violent gale.
Winter's colossal body launched into the sky. Under the awestruck gazes of Arya and Jon, the dragon became a black speck and vanished into the deep night.
The wind roared in Lynn's ears.
He looked down at the dark land below.
Mountains, rivers, castles... everything rushed backward in a blur.
The impregnable defense line of the Bloody Gate was just a small dirt wall beneath their feet. The natural barriers of the Mountains of the Moon were mere cracks in the ground.
This was the power of a dragon.
Absolute air superiority, overriding all rules of conventional warfare.
They flew for an unknown amount of time.
As they crossed the highest peak of the mountains, a castle floating above a sea of clouds came into view.
The Eyrie.
Like the dwelling of a god in myth, it stood lonely and proud at the top of the world.
Below it lay thousands of feet of empty air.
Any enemy attempting to attack from the ground would only find death on the rocks below.
Lynn patted Winter gently.
The dragon understood. Three heads let out a low, simultaneous growl.
In the next second, Winter tucked his wings and, like a falling star, began a silent dive toward the Castle in the Sky.