The Westerlands cavalry slammed headfirst into the rest of the Northern army.
On the open plains, cavalry against infantry was nothing short of a massacre.
Especially since Roose Bolton had concentrated all his elite troops on the left flank, leaving the rest of the battle line dangerously thin.
Through his telescope, Tyrion watched the scene unfold with palpable excitement.
His strategy had worked.
Proving himself to Tywin was Tyrion's greatest goal and ambition.
"Bronn! Let's join the charge!"
"Huh? You?"
Bronn looked at Tyrion, whose legs were barely long enough to reach the stirrups, with an expression that made no attempt to hide his disdain.
He looked the dwarf up and down theatrically.
As a bodyguard, he wasn't paid to provide emotional support.
Especially not for impromptu overtime requests like this.
"Can't you see? Their rear guard is retreating. Now is the time to press the advantage! Help me onto my horse!"
Seeing Tyrion's insistence, Bronn had no choice.
Who else was paying him, after all?
With a grunt of employee resentment, Bronn roughly hoisted Tyrion onto his warhorse.
By this time, the Westerlands army had launched a full-scale counterattack.
In the center, Kevan Lannister—Tywin's younger brother and trusted right hand—led the charge.
On the right flank, House Marbrand, known for their cavalry, shattered the disorganized Northern formations.
Still, turning this battle from defeat to victory was largely thanks to Tyrion's suggestion.
He wasn't about to let everyone else take the credit.
The Northern army was now in full retreat. The soldiers, watching their battle standards drift further and further away, realized they had been abandoned.
Some had already figured out that the goal wasn't to outrun the enemy, but to outrun their comrades.
Weapons were dropped in the mud, abandoned along with their courage.
Soldiers fled in panic, scattering like startled rabbits.
But the infantry behind them came on fierce and relentless.
Shhhk—
The sound of steel piercing flesh rang out periodically, like the chanting of demons.
Against this backdrop, Jon, the "one going against the current," stuck out like a sore thumb.
His black banner with the white wolf was a solitary sail on a chaotic sea, inching steadily forward.
"Anyone who can still fight! Stand behind us!"
"Anyone who can still fight! Stand behind us!"
Following Jon's prior instructions, his soldiers shouted to the fleeing rout.
When the fleeing men saw this measly group of a few hundred daring to push against the tide, their eyes went wide, followed by muttered curses of disbelief.
They were all deserters in this mess.
But now, with everyone running, this one group deciding to counterattack made everyone else look bad.
Of course, there were those willing to join Jon's ranks.
Lyle Hode, for instance, had been the first to realize Roose Bolton was retreating.
Without hesitation, he had pulled his men back.
But when he saw Jon trying to salvage this catastrophic defeat with just a few hundred men, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"Old Gods and New."
Lyle sighed. He wasn't sure if Jon had dragon fire in his veins, but he certainly had the "Wolf's Blood."
He checked the remaining arrows in his quiver, then turned to his family's soldiers.
"Follow me!"
With a wave of his hand, he led them toward Jon.
Jon wasn't far from the main battlefield yet, and the soldiers around him hadn't thrown away their weapons in panic just yet.
By the time they officially entered the fray, Jon had gathered over five hundred men, combining his original Winterfell troops with the rallied stragglers.
With Lyle Hode's arrival, Jon's force grew significantly stronger.
And significantly more conspicuous.
By now, he could see the roaring Westerlands army crashing forward.
Scenes of seven or eight Westermen chasing down a group of Northerners were everywhere.
The retreating infantry had become prey for the cavalry.
On these open plains, it was a slaughterhouse. Or a playground, depending on which side you were on.
If Tywin won this battle, the morale of his army would be terrifyingly high.
The Riverlands forces had been helpless before them, and now even a surprise attack by the North had been turned into a rout.
In the original timeline, this was exactly what happened. Otherwise, Tywin wouldn't have been able to march back to save the Westerlands and then turn around to save King's Landing.
Soon, Jon led his Winterfell soldiers and the gathered stragglers to the designated small hill and planted his banner.
Without needing orders, Lyle Hode organized his formation, ready to provide fire support.
"Anyone who can still hold a weapon, join us!"
Fleeing soldiers and nobles looked on in disbelief. Their first thought was that Roose Bolton had sent reinforcements.
"Is it Lord Bolton's support?"
"No! It's just us! If you want to live, get over here!"
Hearing there were no reinforcements, the hesitant soldiers scattered again.
At that moment, Lord Cerwyn was fleeing in disarray, surrounded by his squires.
An arrow was stuck in his back—not fatal, but his pale face suggested he wasn't having a good time.
A unit of Westerlands cavalry was hot on his heels.
When he saw Jon's banner, he didn't even register which house it belonged to. Like a ship fleeing a storm seeking any harbor, he dove desperately into Jon's formation.
Only when he saw the young commander on horseback did a wave of indescribable shame wash over him.
"Quit running around! Take your men and guard the flank! Now!"
Jon wasn't a masochist like the Greatjon; he had no patience for the lord who loved to run his mouth.
But Lord Cerwyn knew he was in no position to criticize Jon's tone.
Establishing a defensive line in the middle of a total rout was an incredible feat in itself.
"Where are our other reinforcements?"
Medger Cerwyn asked a Winterfell soldier as he joined the line.
"It's just us, my Lord. We're the only ones who can save ourselves!"
Hearing this, Medger Cerwyn's heart went cold.
The Westerlands cavalry in front of them was already hard enough to stop, not to mention The Mountain's heavy cavalry prowling nearby.
For a moment, he wanted to run again.
But the pursuers were already upon them. They had to push them back first.
Jon noticed the pursuing cavalry bore a banner of blue peacocks.
House Serrett of the Westerlands.
But the house didn't matter. They were less than a mile away.
Dried Fish Hill had maybe five minutes.
Jon could feel their high morale and their excitement at finding an enemy daring enough to resist.
This Serrett cavalry unit numbered around three hundred, enough to potentially shatter Jon's line.
They realized this too, and after a brief reorganization, prepared to charge.
In this situation, there was no time for fortifications. They had to block the iron hooves with flesh and blood.
Jon placed the poorly equipped soldiers in the front row and the elites on the flanks of the second row.
He positioned himself right in the center of the first row.
The logic was simple: if the enemy broke the first line, as long as Jon survived, he could lead the elites in the second row to bog them down.
And by placing himself in the most dangerous spot, he kept morale from collapsing.
It was a tactic a mediocre commander wouldn't dare dream of.
Originally, the poorly equipped soldiers grumbled about being used as cannon fodder.
But seeing Jon standing among them silenced all complaints.
Especially since Jon stood a full body length ahead of them. All they could think to do now was grip their weapons tighter.
Seeing Jon's reckless tactic, Lyle Hode ordered his archers to aim carefully.
He checked his own bowstring repeatedly and counted his remaining arrows.
Seconds after the formation was set, the Serrett cavalry charged.
"Lower your center of gravity! Spears up!"
Jon shouted as loud as he could, ensuring his order reached every ear.
The routed soldiers watched the approaching killers with fear in their hearts.
Especially Medger Cerwyn, whose mouth was bone dry.
He tried to swallow, but there was no saliva left.
As the charge grew closer, everyone knew the only way to survive was to hold the line.
Jon's position now held nearly a thousand men, a force large enough to attract the attention of other fleeing soldiers.
Both Westerlands pursuers and Northern deserters slowed to watch the impending clash.
The blue-clad cavalry closed in on Jon's banner.
Jon stared intently at the knights lowering their lances toward him.
They were well-trained and could easily distinguish Jon from the common soldiers.
They hadn't expected a noble to be foolish enough to stand in the front row.
Three! No! Five of them... at least five want me dead!
Realizing this, Jon's nerves pulled taut.
As the Serrett cavalry closed the distance, Jon could see the excitement on their faces.
His prominent position and constant shouting of orders marked him clearly as a noble commander.
They didn't know why this "noble" dared to stand so far forward, but a lance through the chest would solve that mystery later.
Facing the iron lances thrusting toward him, Jon dodged with agility. He grabbed one of the lances, using his immense grip strength and the inertia of the passing horse to drag the rider out of the saddle.
Whether Jon's plan succeeded—whether this line would hold—depended entirely on the outcome of this clash.