The Mountain's iron hooves hit like a heavy right hook.
Panic, regret, fear—none of these emotions mattered under the crushing weight of the heavy cavalry.
The Northern right flank, centered around the Karstark forces, had been tasked with the offensive.
Dismissing the enemy as mere savages, their plan had been to charge straight through into the main Westerlands army and wreak havoc.
But The Mountain's massive frame and terrifying charge eclipsed everything else on the battlefield.
BOOM—
Like floodwaters bursting a dam, the hastily erected Northern defensive line was shattered by the impact.
More Westerlands soldiers poured through the breach, surging toward the rear.
The Mountain's lance skewered a noble through the chest, and a crimson banner embroidered with a moose fell頹然 (limply) to the ground.
It was the banner of House Hornwood.
But hardly anyone noticed.
An army's collapse is a chain reaction; only a few exceptional commanders can stem such a tide.
When one banner falls, others soon waver.
Lyle Hode, currently embedded with the archers, witnessed the scene.
Their attack had been going smoothly until that small giant of a knight launched his assault.
Now, Lyle finally recalled Jon's words.
Superior combat skills, clever strategy, and precise judgment of the enemy.
He thought he had already rated the boy highly, but it turned out he had still underestimated him.
Of course, now wasn't the time for admiration.
Although The Mountain's assault was devastating, without orders from Roose Bolton, they had to hold their ground.
"Draw—"
The officer commanding the archers seemed to be from House Blackwood, though it didn't really matter.
Thousands of bowstrings creaked as they were drawn to full tension, aimed at the charging iron-clad tide.
"Loose—"
A dense rain of arrows poured down, striking the heavy armor with no more threat than mosquito bites.
Only a few arrows hit the horses, but the effect was negligible.
After smashing through the defensive line, The Mountain wheeled around and charged from the rear, aiming straight for the Karstark sunburst banner.
Harrion Karstark, who had been enjoying his killing spree just moments ago, recognized the Westerlands brute charging toward him.
As a noble, heraldry was a required subject.
The three dogs on a yellow field belonged to House Clegane, which meant the giant resembling a small mountain could only be the infamous, fearsome Mountain himself!
At a glance, Harrion knew he was no match for this heavy cavalry.
But as the heir to House Karstark, he could not retreat.
If he did, his father, Rickard Karstark, would take his head himself.
Harrion gripped his sword with both hands, shouting for his soldiers to change formation and brace for impact.
He quickly smoothed his beard to keep it out of his eyes.
He's coming for me. The thought exploded in Harrion's mind.
Somehow, even across the distance, Harrion locked eyes with The Mountain.
It was a cruel, bloodthirsty gaze. Harrion felt like a prized prey in the giant's eyes.
Especially with the man's abnormal height—mounted on a horse, he was practically a human tank.
The oppressive pressure felt like a hoof stomping on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
"For the North!!!"
Harrion shouted, trying to drive away the creeping fear.
He commanded the soldiers of Karhold to engage The Mountain's heavy cavalry.
The black and red battle lines entangled rapidly.
But in the blink of an eye, The Mountain's heavy troops crushed them with sheer momentum.
The massive gap in power wasn't something willpower could bridge.
The soldiers before Harrion fell one after another like a mud wall crumbling in a flood.
Harrion himself was knocked from his horse by The Mountain's lance. Before he could react, he was pinned down and bound by a swarm of Westerlands soldiers.
Though still dazed, instinct told him he was a prisoner.
A violent sense of shame wrapped around him like spider silk.
He let out an unwilling roar like a trapped beast.
After crushing the Karstark line, The Mountain didn't stop.
Just as described, he was a left hook.
The heavy cavalry rampaged, practically charging into the belly of the Northern formation.
Roose Bolton had placed almost all his elites on the left flank. Since the left couldn't stop The Mountain, the others didn't stand a chance.
And The Mountain wasn't the only threat. On the Westerlands' right flank, three thousand cavalry were already thundering forward.
With chaos in the rear, the offensive at the front couldn't be sustained. They couldn't even establish a temporary defensive line.
Soon, another cavalry unit of about two thousand men organized itself, led by Kevan Lannister, known as Tywin's "shadow" and "right arm."
The Westerlands had begun their counterattack.
Meanwhile, in the rear, Roose Bolton's face darkened.
The battle was unfolding exactly as Jon had predicted.
This would be a massive blow to his prestige.
But to turn the tide, he would have to commit his own reserve forces.
Doing so when they were already sliding toward disadvantage—or outright defeat—seemed extremely unwise.
After only a moment's hesitation, Roose Bolton ordered a full retreat.
"My Lord, are we going to abandon them?"
A noble pointed toward the distant battlefield.
It wasn't a total loss yet. Retreating would save their strength, but their side would suffer massive casualties.
Those were Northern soldiers out there!
"I said! Full retreat!"
Roose snapped angrily. His Bolton bannermen glared at the noble who tried to intervene.
Just then, Jon entered the tent.
Sensing the atmosphere, he realized Roose had already decided to pull back.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't the wrong decision. In this situation, retreating was the only way to cut losses.
But Jon estimated that within fifteen minutes at most, the waters of the Green Fork would reach the battlefield. That would stall the Westerlands' advance.
They could save a lot of people.
So he spoke up.
"My Lord, I've ordered the dam on the Green Fork breached. The floodwaters will be here soon. If we hold on just a little longer, we can minimize our losses!"
The non-Bolton commanders, hearing Jon speak up for the soldiers still fighting, looked at the Lord of the Dreadfort with hopeful eyes.
"Jon! I am the commander of this army. Did I not tell you that if you dared to obstruct my orders, I would deal with you by martial law?!"
Jon knew he couldn't back down now.
Especially since he planned to take control of this army in the future. He sneered cold-bloodedly.
"Hmph. Is threatening people with martial law all the Lord of the Dreadfort knows how to do? So many will die because of your reckless advance. I'd like to see how you explain that to the other lords! If you won't save them, fine! I will!"
With that, Jon turned to leave, but stopped to spit viciously on the ground.
In Northern culture, this was a sign of intense contempt.
Jon couldn't stop him, but he could certainly insult him.
Watching Jon leave, Roose Bolton's pale face turned a sickly shade of green.
The others, seeing Jon actually leading men toward the crumbling front lines, felt a surge of emotion.
They had mocked and looked down on this bastard from the moment the army marched.
Regardless of whether he succeeded, that fearless spirit made them want to trust him with their lives.
Suddenly, Roose spoke again, looking at the others with cold eyes.
"Jon's men are not under my command. But if any of you dare disobey orders, I'll take your heads right now!"
Finally, under Roose's tyranny, the remaining army began to retreat.
Jon returned to his soldiers and shouted.
"Everyone with me! We're going to support them!"
Huh? Now?
Some of the more experienced Winterfell soldiers looked incredulous.
They could see not only Westerlands soldiers charging toward them but also their own routed troops crashing into the formation.
Common sense said this situation was unsalvageable.
Going in now would just be handing the enemy free kills.
Jon, already mounted, sensed their hesitation and looked down at them.
"Old York has breached the dam on the Green Fork. The river will block the enemy for us. If you don't listen to my orders now, don't bother coming back to Winterfell."
Hearing this, they had no choice but to brace themselves and follow.
But Jon knew that after the stick, he needed to offer a carrot. He added:
"I'm not asking you to defeat the Westerlands army with me. I just want to save as many people as possible. Killing enemies is glory, but saving lives is glory too."
After a brief rally, Jon led a force primarily made up of Winterfell soldiers toward the battlefield.
Of course, these were only the men Robb had assigned to him; most of the Winterfell soldiers were still under Roose Bolton's control.
He cranked his [God's Eye View] to max power, scanning the battlefield for a defensible position.
Found it!
Jon spotted a hill to the southwest. It was defensible and would provide high ground when the floodwaters hit.
It seemed to be where the archers had been stationed earlier. "Dried Fish Hill," they called it.
Fishermen used to dry their catch there, hence the name.
"Raise my banner!"
Jon commanded. The black banner with the white wolf rose, like a sail moving against the current, advancing steadfastly toward their destination.