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Lynn's hand hovered above the murky swamp.
Everyone held their breath, waiting for the method Lynn had promised.
However, just as they thought Lynn was about to perform a miracle, he slowly lowered his hand.
"Huh?"
Greatjon Umber let out a confused grunt, his face full of expectation instantly falling.
"Lord Lynn, what...?"
Lynn glanced back at him as if looking at a fool.
Roose Bolton's bastard was still here. He couldn't very well freeze the swamp in front of him, could he?
"A swamp this big—did you think it was a puddle outside your front door?"
Lynn's words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the hope that had just ignited in everyone's hearts.
Indeed, this was the Neck.
A land of death stretching for hundreds of miles, swallowing countless lives.
To lead an entire army across by one man's strength was not something a mortal could do.
Even a god might have to weigh the odds.
"Then... what do we do?"
Robb Stark's voice held a trace of anxiety, but a glint of amusement flashed in his eyes.
"Do we really have to go around?"
"Around?" Lynn scoffed.
"If we go around, we won't reach the Twins until next spring."
Lynn walked to the map, the eyes of all the lords following him.
"Yesterday I was thinking that crossing the Neck would be a brilliant surprise attack."
"But now it seems this plan is completely unfeasible!"
"We stick to the original plan."
Lynn's finger tapped heavily on the Kingsroad winding south.
"The swamp is too dangerous, too many variables. We're not taking it."
"We will march straight down the Kingsroad, openly and honestly!"
His voice was decisive, leaving no room for argument.
"Let Lysa Arryn, let Walder Frey, let all of Westeros see that the fury of the North cannot be stopped by any schemes!"
These words were full of youthful arrogance and confidence.
The Greatjon's eyes darted around, then he slapped his thigh, startling the man next to him.
"Well said! That's how we should do it!"
"Since when do we Northmen play sneaky games!"
"Right! Let them see our strength!"
"Crush them!"
In the crowd, a young man wearing the flayed man armor of House Bolton lowered his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward imperceptibly.
Ramsay Snow, or rather, Ramsay Bolton.
His pale eyes, so like his father's, flashed with a sick ecstasy.
Fools.
A bunch of hot-headed fools.
My dogs are smarter than you!
Ramsay had worried Lynn might change plans at the last minute.
His father had already told Lysa that the Northern coalition would march straight for the Vale via the Kingsroad.
If Lynn did something unpredictable, their plan would be ruined!
Fortunately, Lynn didn't pull any tricks.
That Lynn... seemed to be nothing special after all.
A few words of flattery and he lost his head, abandoning the only chance for a surprise victory.
Instead, choosing the stupidest, most direct confrontation.
He could already imagine the magnificent sight of rivers of blood when this massive army squeezed onto the narrow Kingsroad and was surrounded by the Vale army from all sides.
He quietly signaled a knight from the Dreadfort beside him.
The knight understood, slipped out of the crowd unnoticed, and under the pretext of tending to the horses, quickly disappeared to the rear.
A raven would fly from the nearest castle, delivering this "latest" military intelligence to where it needed to go with all speed.
"Robb."
Lynn's voice interrupted Ramsay's fantasy.
Robb stepped forward immediately.
"You, as the supreme commander of the Northern coalition,"
"Will lead forty thousand men straight down the Kingsroad to Riverrun!"
"I have only one requirement."
Lynn looked into Robb's eyes.
"Speed!"
"I want everyone in the Twins to hear the thunder of our warhorses before they are even ready!"
"I understand!"
Robb nodded heavily, his young face full of determination.
He knew his performance was only just beginning.
"Good."
Lynn nodded with satisfaction, then turned to the others.
"I will lead my army as the rearguard, ready to support at any time."
No one objected.
Lynn's army was too unique; giants and mammoths couldn't deploy effectively on the narrow causeway.
Being the reserve force was indeed the best choice.
However, Ramsay felt something was off.
But he quickly dismissed it, attributing it to Lynn being cowardly and afraid of death.
Soon, the massive army began to move again.
Led by Robb Stark, the "forty thousand strong" Northern army marched onto the Kingsroad with banners waving.
The thunderous sound of hooves and rolling wheels seemed to crush the earth.
Lynn led his wildling legion and the silent Frost Giant, following far behind, as if truly just waiting for an opportunity.
Only when Robb's army had completely disappeared over the horizon did Lynn signal the wildlings to stop.
Night fell.
Campfires dotted the edge of the Neck.
Unlike the noisy scene during the day, the camp was now eerily quiet.
Lynn stood by the swamp, with Arya, Jon, and Benjen behind him.
"Lynn, are you really going to..."
Benjen looked at the swamp, even more sinister under the moonlight, still uneasy.
"Hush."
Lynn raised a finger.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the unique air of the swamp, mixed with rot and moisture.
The next second, he opened his eyes.
In his black pupils, deep blue ice seemed to condense.
He raised his hand again.
This time, holding nothing back!
Hummm—
A visible, almost solid stream of deep blue cold poured from his palm!
It wasn't mist, nor vapor.
It was pure, absolute cold!
Where the cold stream passed, the air seemed to be sucked dry, making a tooth-aching cracking sound.
The murky surface of the swamp froze instantly upon contact!
It wasn't ordinary freezing.
In an instant, from the surface to the deepest silt at the bottom, everything was frozen into indestructible black ice!
The ice layer spread madly into the depths of the swamp at a visible speed!
An ice road, a hundred meters wide, appeared out of nowhere in this land of death!
During the freezing process, countless poisonous insects, leeches, and even some lizard-lions lurking underwater were solidified in the black ice, preserved in their last moments of life.
Arya and Jon gaped, staring in shock at this miraculous scene.
Benjen Stark, the First Ranger who had traveled every inch of the North, was utterly speechless.
He felt his lifetime of experience overturned tonight.
Is this... Lynn's true power?
Lynn's face was pale, beads of sweat on his forehead.
Creating such an ice road through the Neck was no easy feat for him.
Lynn increased the output of his ice magic.
Instantly, the speed of the ice road's expansion more than doubled!
In just over ten minutes, a black ice road stretching to who knew where completely pierced through the seemingly endless swamp.
"Let's go."
Lynn lowered his hand, exhaling a long breath of white mist.
"Our road is paved."
Scattered horn blasts sounded in the quiet night.
Lynn's army began to move.
The wildlings stepped silently onto the ice road.
Then came the giants and mammoths.
These massive creatures walked carefully on the ice, their heavy steps making the solid ice groan slightly.
Finally, the ten members of the Winterguard Legion in black cloaks.
Like ghosts, they glided silently across the ice, emitting a dead silence even more palpitating than the swamp itself.
Holding Arya's hand, escorted by Winter, Lynn walked at the very front.
The goal of this force was not the Riverlands, not Riverrun.
But to bypass everyone's sight and strike straight at the heart of the Vale—the Bloody Gate!
---
Meanwhile, on the Kingsroad, south of Moat Cailin.
This was the end of the Neck, the true dividing line between the North and the South.
The narrow causeway was flanked by swamps and dense forests that seemed calm but hid murderous intent.
Robb Stark rode his horse, brows furrowed.
The army had been force-marching for two days, the air filled with an unsettling tension.
He knew he was the bait.
He also knew the enemy could appear at any moment.
"Report—!"
A scout galloped from the front, panic on his face.
"Lord Stark! Large army spotted ahead!"
"The banners are... the Vale's!"
Here it comes!
Robb's heart sank.
"All forces alert! Prepare for battle!"
His order was conveyed as fast as possible.
The Northern soldiers immediately formed defensive formations.
Thwip—Thwip—Thwip—
A dense sound of whistling arrows!
A rain of arrows, like dark clouds, poured down from the high ground on both sides of the road!
The scouts along the flanks had been silently taken out by the enemy at some point.
In an instant, Robb was in a passive situation.
Screams rang out immediately.
Northern soldiers were hit, falling to the ground wailing.
When the first arrow fell from the high ground, Robb Stark knew they had stepped into a trap.
An Umber soldier in the front row didn't even have time to cry out before a black-fletched arrow pierced his throat.
Blood spurted.
Clutching his neck, he fell in disbelief, twitching twice in the mud before going still.
This was just the beginning.
Thousands of arrows rained down from the slopes and woods on both sides, enveloping the entire vanguard of the Northern coalition.
"Enemy attack—!"
"Shields up!"
Shrill screams and angry roars mixed instantly.
Soldiers instinctively raised their shields, but the narrow road made the formation incredibly crowded.
Many had no room to protect themselves.
Arrows pierced leather armor, sinking into flesh, bringing up mists of blood.
Horses panicked, whinnying in pain, throwing their riders, then being pinned to the mud by more arrows.
Chaos exploded in an instant.
"Hold! Hold your damn ground!"
Greatjon Umber's thunderous voice overpowered the noise of the battlefield.
He wielded a massive tower shield, knocking away arrows aimed at him, sparks flying.
However, amidst this baptism of arrows, Commander Robb Stark was unusually calm.
He didn't dodge, letting arrows whistle past his head.
His eyes quickly scanned the entire battlefield.
The Vale army, at least twenty thousand.
Waiting in ambush, and occupying absolute terrain advantage.
The main force was heavy knights, supported by a large number of longbowmen.
Their commander was smart, choosing to launch the ambush at this narrowest section where it was hardest to deploy formations.
It was a perfect slaughterhouse.
Any other commander facing such a desperate situation might have lost their head.
But not Robb.
His gaze passed over the chaotic vanguard, through the dense rain of arrows, finally landing on the direwolf banner fluttering behind him.
He was a hungry, young wolf king eager to prove himself with blood!
"My orders!"
Robb's voice was firm.
"Vanguard becomes rearguard, rearguard becomes vanguard! All forces retreat three hundred paces, reform!"
"Spearmen to the front, form a three-layered phalanx!"
"Shields on the flanks!"
"Archers fire at will, suppress the high ground!"
Orders were relayed with maximum speed.
The initially chaotic Northern army, hearing these clear and decisive commands, seemed to find their backbone.
They were no longer headless flies but began executing orders methodically.
The rear troops quickly became the vanguard, braving the arrow rain, using shields and bodies to buy precious breathing room for their retreating comrades.
Three hundred paces was enough to temporarily get out of the optimal range of the enemy archers.
On the high ground, the Vale coalition commander, Ser Nestor Royce, frowned as he watched the Northern army reforming below.
Though not as famous as his cousin Bronze Yohn Royce, he occupied a crucial and unique position in the Vale's political and military landscape.
His seat, the Gates of the Moon, sat at the base of the Giant's Lance.
It was the last large castle on the road to the Eyrie and the guardian of the Vale proper.
All travelers and armies passing through the mountains had to pass beneath the Gates of the Moon, making it an absolute economic and military choke point.
Because of the Gates' importance, Nestor Royce, as its High Steward (and effectively Lord), held power and influence among the top tier of Vale nobility.
Controlling the Gates of the Moon meant controlling the Vale's land access to the outside world.
Unlike Bronze Yohn, Nestor Royce was a typical "pragmatist" and "loyalist" noble.
He was a staunch Arryn supporter.
During Lysa Arryn and her son Robert's rule, Ser Nestor was one of the Eyrie's firmest backers.
He upheld House Arryn's authority, hoping for stability and unity in the Vale, obeying Little Robert and Lysa completely—he was the one who executed the lockdown of information to the Vale.
Although related to Yohn, there was fierce rivalry and disdain between them.
Nestor considered himself the "true" Royce because his position was earned through service.
He thought the Royces of Runestone relied merely on ancient blood and a Valyrian steel sword.
This infighting prevented them from forming a unified front.
Even when Bronze Yohn's son died, he thought it was deserved.
He believed Lysa's one-sided story and remained indifferent to Bronze Yohn's imprisonment in the sky cells.
"A tough bone, this one," Ser Andar Royce snorted beside him.
"Just a final struggle."
"Signal," Nestor ignored him, his voice steady.
"Blow the horns, knights charge."
"Smash them before they find their footing!"
Woooo—
Desolate horns echoed through the valley.
Like floodgates opening, thousands of heavily armored Vale knights launched an overwhelming charge from the gentle slopes on both sides!
The sound of hooves shook the heavens and earth!
They were the finest knights in Westeros, the pride of the Vale.
In their eyes, these Northern infantrymen without decent cavalry were just lambs waiting for slaughter.
However, when they rushed down the slopes onto the blood-soaked causeway, what awaited them was not panicked rout.
But a forest made of death and steel!
"Spears! Up!"
"First rank! Brace!"
"Second rank! Ready!"
"Third rank! Steady!"
Robb's commands hammered on every Northern soldier's heart.
Over three thousand spearmen formed an impenetrable phalanx.
Knowing his opponent was the Vale, famous for its cavalry, Robb was prepared.
Their specially made spears were over four meters long, tips gleaming coldly in the sun, incredibly tough.
The first rank knelt, grounding the butts of their spears, tips angled up at the chests of the charging horses.
The second and third ranks rested their spears on the shoulders of the men in front, forming three layers.
Many family retainers didn't armor their horses—that was for knights—let alone this hastily assembled cavalry.
Lysa had focused craftsmen on dragon-hunting scorpions; having horses was good enough, let alone barding.
For unarmored horses, the horses themselves were the weak point.
CRASH—!
The lead Vale cavalry had nowhere to retreat, pushed by those behind, slamming headfirst into the steel forest!
The screams of horses and knights instantly wove a symphony of death.
Sharp spears easily pierced horse chests; the massive impact launched knights into the air, only to be impaled by the spears behind.
Like skewered meat, pinned in mid-air!
The momentum of the charge was halted in the first second!
Following knights couldn't dodge, crashing into the bodies of comrades and horses in front, a chaotic pile-up.
Those further back were helpless against the wall of bodies, unable to utilize their cavalry strength!
The entire knight charge turned into a mess.
"Beautifully done!"
The Greatjon roared excitedly.
However, there was no joy on Robb's face.
He knew this was just the beginning.
"Archers! Target, enemy rear!"
"Greatjon!"
"Here!"
"I give you three thousand men, charge from the left flank!"
"Lord Karstark!"
"Here!"
"Take three thousand, flank from the right! Drive them off the causeway!"
"The rest! Follow me to face them frontally!"
Robb drew his longsword, pointing at the chaotic Vale knights.
"For the North!"
"KILL—!"
On the battlefield, Ramsay Bolton and his three thousand Dreadfort soldiers were stunned by the sudden turn of events.
They expected a one-sided slaughter.
But now, the situation was being reversed in an incredible way!
The "Young Wolf" they considered a green boy had not only steadied the line in such a desperate situation but launched a textbook counterattack!
Spear phalanx to counter cavalry, flanking to divide the battlefield, main force to crush morale!
Is this... is this a tactic a teenager came up with?
Cold sweat broke out on Ramsay's back.
But what terrified him wasn't Robb's monstrous command ability.
It was... the numbers.
He had been observing.
Though the Northern banners were many, looking imposing.
After the chaos and reforming, he roughly estimated their actual strength.
Only twenty thousand!
Twenty thousand!!
At most just over twenty thousand!
Where was the promised fifty thousand army?
Where were the other thirty thousand?
And that Lynn!
And his dragon!
And those monster giants, mammoths, and that... that Frost Giant!
Where did they go?!
Shouldn't they be in the rear?
The fighting had started.
Where were they???
A chilling thought drilled into his mind.
Bait.
They were bait!
Robb Stark's Northern army was a pawn thrown out to attract fire from the start!
Lynn, the truly terrifying one, took the elite, most horrific forces of the North on another path!
A path no one expected!
The Neck!
No wonder Lynn made that weird gesture before!
Lynn actually had a way to cross that swamp?
Ramsay's body trembled uncontrollably.
He felt like he had fallen into an ice cave.
His father's plan, Lysa Arryn's conspiracy, seemed like child's play before Lynn's deeper, more vicious calculation!
It's over.
Everything is over.
He probably anticipated the Boltons would inform the enemy and deliberately released false information!
No, he had to tell Lysa this critical news!
"My Lord! Do we attack?"
A Dreadfort knight whispered beside him.
"Attack?"
Ramsay snapped back.
Looking at the battlefield now in a white-hot frenzy, a sick, hideous smile appeared on his face.
He had to fulfill his agreement with Lysa; how could he risk his life here?
"Attack my ass!"
He snatched the flayed man banner from the knight and raised it high.
"Warriors of the Dreadfort! Follow me... Retreat!"
"What?!"
All the Dreadfort soldiers were stunned.
"Didn't you hear my order?!"
Ramsay's voice became shrill and crazy.
"The Stark whelp wants us to die! Why should we bleed for him?!"
"Preserve our strength! Retreat to the Dreadfort!"
With that, he was the first to turn his horse, fleeing unhesitatingly in the opposite direction of the battle.
The remaining Dreadfort soldiers looked at each other, finally choosing to follow their young lord.
Desertion in the face of battle!
This shameless betrayal instantly made the battle, which had begun to tilt, precarious again.
"Bolton! You coward! Bastard!"
The Greatjon saw this, his eyes splitting with rage.
But Robb just glanced coldly at the direction Ramsay fled.
There was no anger in his eyes, only cold killing intent.
This, too, was within Lynn's expectations.
How could a viper like Roose Bolton truly commit everything for House Stark?
Ramsay and his three thousand were never counted in Lynn's calculations from the start.
"All forces listen!"
Robb's voice rang out again, drowning out the noise.
"House Bolton has betrayed us! We are attacked from front and rear!"
"Pull back! Everyone pull back!"
His voice carried a "perfectly timed" panic and despair.
"Break out to the south! To Riverrun!"
"Survive!"
This desperate shout was like a spark in oil.
The Northern soldiers, fighting bravely moments ago, hearing "betrayal" and "attacked from front and rear," saw their morale instantly "hit rock bottom."
They began to "give up resistance," surging desperately towards the southern gap, trying to escape this death trap.
The army collapsed like a landslide!
On the high ground, Nestor smiled victoriously at the collapsing Northern army below.
"Even if a coward bares his teeth and bites, he remains a coward."
He said contemptuously.
"Order the pursuit. Chase down the rout, then clean up the battlefield."
In his view, the Bolton betrayal and flight was a massive blow to morale.
This war was over.
However, he didn't see.
In the eyes of those "panicked" Northern soldiers, there was no fear or despair.
Only the excitement of a hunter seeing prey step into a trap!
They seemed to be routing, but their formation was chaotic yet unbroken.
They seemed to be running for their lives.
In reality, they were leading the pursuing Vale knights, bit by bit, into a larger, deadlier encirclement!
When the last Vale knight rushed down the causeway onto the open plain.
BOOM!
A dull thud came from behind them.
The fleeing Northern army stopped.
They turned, raising their spears and shields once more.
The routed mob instantly transformed back into elite warriors!
And on their flanks, the troops led by Greatjon and Karstark closed in like giant pincers, cutting off the Vale army's retreat!
Encircled on three sides!
A perfect pocket formation!
Some eager knights, greedy for rewards, had charged too fast, breaking their formation, with endless infantry pouring in behind them.
The smile on Nestor's face froze completely.
He realized... he had been tricked!
That young Wolf King had been acting from start to finish!
With a fake ambush, a fake rout, he had dragged the Vale's finest knights into the mud!
"ROAAAR!"
Robb Stark let out a roar, leading the charge.
He plunged directly into the chaotic, terrified Vale ranks.
The slaughter had begun!