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Chapter 518
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:17:29 +0000 UTCNight Raids.
Most people instinctively associate the term with brilliance and power—as if it were a secret weapon or an unbeatable strategy that could guarantee victory. Yet, in truth, this perception is largely shaped by survivor bias.
The idea is simple: we only hear the stories of those who succeeded, the ones who survived to tell the tale.
The results we see have already been filtered.
In fiction, authors often write about "night raids" to highlight the tactical genius and martial prowess of their characters. Under such circumstances, the plot nearly always ensures the attackers’ success. After all, spending time detailing a failed night raid rarely adds much excitement to a story.
Even in recorded history, people might argue that night raids often succeeded. But this is precisely where survivor bias rears its head. The accounts of successful raids are far more likely to be documented, while the many failures are forgotten or dismissed.
While darkness can provide attackers with a fleeting advantage, it also brings significant risks. Night raids inevitably occur on enemy territory—whether it’s a fortified castle or a well-prepared camp. These are natural countermeasures to such assaults. While darkness hampers defenders’ visibility and coordination, it also severely hinders attackers’ ability to execute precise maneuvers.
The success of a night raid depends on two key factors: the attackers’ military discipline and their ability to exploit the fleeting moments of chaos they create. However, in an era without modern communication tools and with armies largely composed of conscripts rather than professional soldiers, such discipline and coordination were exceedingly rare.
Only the most desperate generals would gamble on a night raid, and only the most seasoned, fearless soldiers could carry it out. And even then, only the successful raids were ever remembered or recorded.
This layer upon layer of selection creates the illusion that night raids are effective and straightforward.
In reality, the truth couldn’t be further from that.
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Aegor’s decision to launch a night raid on Winterfell was not born of confidence—it was a move of desperation. Neither his knowledge of the story’s original timeline nor his unique position as a servant of R’hllor made the task any easier.
The inherent challenges of commanding troops in darkness were mitigated by Aegor’s meticulous planning, a robust hierarchy of officers, and the Gift army’s extensive training and combat experience. The fortress-like defenses of Winterfell, with its dual layers of granite walls, were overcome by gunpowder—newly introduced to the battlefield. And as for navigating the maze-like castle interiors? What might have been a nightmare for any other attacker was trivial for Aegor. Not only was he intimately familiar with Winterfell from previous visits, but many of his trusted officers had spent time within its walls during their service with the Night’s Watch. They were equipped with detailed maps of the castle, allowing them to lead their squads with precision.
This turned what should have been a "hellish" challenge into something manageable for the Gift army.
Still, Aegor wasn’t one to risk his life unnecessarily. He remained at the rear, protected by a reserve force, calmly awaiting updates from the battlefield.
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From the keep, Myrcella, Arya, and Sansa could see the battle unfolding below. The torchlight of both armies clashed like serpents striking in the dark, with no mercy shown on either side. Though the darkness obscured the details, the flickering of the flames and the faint echoes of screams painted a vivid picture of the carnage.
The rebels held the advantage in both numbers and organization, but the defenders of Winterfell were hardy Northerners—each one a fighter of no small renown. In the tight, narrow spaces of the castle, their individual skill and courage shone brightly.
Arya had expected the first clash to last much longer. But to her surprise, within moments, there was a series of muffled explosions—smaller but eerily similar to the ones that had breached the gates. The rebels pressed forward with relentless momentum, using explosives to shatter any resistance.
Aegor had made it clear: if the attackers encountered any significant resistance, they were to use grenades to eliminate it immediately. These newly developed anti-personnel explosives were designed to incapacitate rather than kill, perfectly aligning with his strategy to minimize both friendly and enemy casualties.
Explosions echoed from both the eastern and northern sections of the castle, as the Gift forces pressed deeper toward their objectives. The once-proud defenders of Winterfell, no matter how determined, were swiftly overwhelmed.
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Robb Stark, still at the training yard, received the grim news from retreating soldiers. His hands grew cold as the weight of the situation sank in.
The two granite walls—his ancestors’ greatest defense against invaders—had fallen within moments, offering no more resistance than paper shields.
His natural military instincts told him the castle was lost. Yet, as the Warden of the North and the Young Wolf, his pride demanded that he fight to the bitter end.
"Send word to the western and southern walls," he ordered sharply. "Tell the guards to abandon their positions and fall back to the keep!"
He turned to another guard. "Find Maester Luwin. Have him release the ravens—tell the Northern lords that Winterfell is under attack and summon reinforcements at once!"
The walls were gone, but Winterfell was more than just its walls. Robb’s ancestors had ruled the North from this castle for thousands of years, long before its outer defenses had been built.
If the defenders could retreat to the keep and hold it for a day, the reinforcements gathering at Sevenfields might arrive in time for a counterattack. Victory might still be possible.
It was a sound plan. But as Robb tried to rally his men, he realized a bitter truth—his earlier orders, issued to protect against the fire, were now working against him. Most of his troops were scattered throughout the castle’s perimeter, too far away to regroup in time.
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Ser Clay Sevenfields stepped forward, sensing his liege’s hesitation. "My lord, the men I brought for the fire are enough. If we can reach the armory before the rebels take it, we can rearm and hold the keep."
Robb’s resolve hardened. "Good. Gather your men and follow me."
The soldiers abandoned their firefighting tools and followed Robb at a run. But as they approached the armory, the sound of battle grew louder. Flames danced in the distance, and the shouts of men filled the air.
The rebels were already there.
"We can still take them by surprise!" Ser Clay urged.
Robb drew his sword, his voice booming. "Weapons to the front! For the North!"
The ragtag force, many of whom carried no weapons at all, charged with all the fury of the North. For a moment, it seemed their counterattack might succeed. The rebels were divided—some inside the armory, others fighting outside.
Then, the enemy’s rear line turned and began hurling small, glowing orbs.
Grenades.
The battle for Winterfell was far from over, but the odds wer
