The knight dragged from his horse was still dazed when his visor was ripped open and a dagger was driven into his skull.
He had never heard of such a fierce fighter in the North.
The first wave of charging cavalry and knights was startled by this savage man who seemed to have popped out of nowhere.
But they were cavalry, after all, with over a hundred men charging behind them, so they still smashed through Jon's first line of defense.
But at the second line, things went wrong.
Inspired by Jon, the Northern soldiers behind him fought with renewed ferocity.
Coupled with the cavalry's underestimation of their enemy and the uphill slope sapping their momentum, the charge faltered.
After suffering dozens of casualties, the Westerlands cavalry retreated in panic.
"Long live Jon! Long live the White Wolf!"
Cheers erupted from the small defensive position.
Seeing that they had actually stopped a cavalry charge, fleeing Northern soldiers nearby began to flock to the hill.
"He actually stopped them!"
The scene challenged Howland Reed's understanding of reality.
He was a crannogman, his lands at the southernmost tip of the North, and he had been the last to join Robb's army.
He had heard rumors of Jon's combat prowess but dismissed them as exaggerations. Today, seeing it firsthand, he realized the rumors hadn't done the boy justice.
But given the current state of the battle, could Jon really turn defeat into victory?
Right! His flood!
Howland suddenly remembered Jon's earlier suggestion, the one that had been mocked and debated.
But looking around, there was no sign of any flood.
Using his keen eyesight, Howland looked into the distance. He saw The Mountain, still slaughtering Northern routs with abandon.
He was, at most, seven or eight minutes away from Dried Fish Hill.
Maybe the heavy cavalry would move a bit slower, but considering even the North's elite vanguard hadn't been able to stop them, Jon's hastily assembled defense... well, the outcome wasn't hard to guess.
"Hold formation! Hold formation!"
Jon, of course, knew this too. He was constantly adjusting and reinforcing the line based on the condition of the soldiers.
New soldiers meant a thicker defense, but also a bigger, juicier target.
The number of soldiers behind Jon quickly grew from a thousand to over fifteen hundred.
And the number was still climbing.
Looking out, the surrounding Northern routs were practically gravitating toward him.
Jon's position had become a giant magnet.
But more people wasn't necessarily better for holding a position. Jon had to assign them to different spots based on their condition.
Shouting orders repeatedly had left his voice hoarse.
The headache was that many of the soldiers seeking shelter were already wounded!
The commotion on Jon's hill soon caught The Mountain's attention.
Standing tall, he could see farther than most.
When he saw a defensive line made up of stragglers who refused to accept defeat, he got as excited as a bandit spotting a virgin.
Not just The Mountain—Tyrion, who was excitedly chasing down a knight to capture, also noticed the commotion.
"A white wolf on black?" Tyrion's large head spun rapidly, trying to recall which house bore that sigil.
First, a wolf naturally corresponded to Stark.
But he knew the Stark banner.
"Stark's bastard?" Bronn suggested from beside him.
"The bastard?" Tyrion immediately thought of Jon, but quickly shook his head. He had personally seen Jon stay at the Wall.
The Starks took that sort of thing very seriously. If he had really left the Wall without permission, he'd be beheaded the moment he got back.
Bronn shrugged, indifferent to Tyrion's reasoning.
But pondering the identity of the resistance was pointless now. Defeat him, capture him, and they'd know everything.
"Look! The Mountain is moving!" Bronn pointed.
Although repeated charges had thinned their numbers, the heavy cavalry was still a force that could trample anything on the battlefield.
Their movement drew the attention of countless eyes.
When the soldiers of both the West and the North saw where they were headed, a brief silence fell over the vast battlefield.
"Tear them apart!!!"
In the eyes of the Westerlands army, Jon's defensive line was nothing.
Just a dying struggle.
Tyrion stared intently at the new banner.
For some reason, he had an absurd premonition that The Mountain wouldn't break that formation.
But soon, The Mountain began his charge, and that terrifying momentum quickly shattered the absurd premonition.
Just then, however, Tyrion noticed the smell of blood in the air fading.
It was replaced by the heavy scent of water.
Accompanied by a thunderous roar, Tyrion witnessed an unforgettable sight.
A wave of yellow, muddy water, over a man's height, swept across the battlefield.
It didn't distinguish between friend or foe. Westerlands army, Northern soldiers—anyone in its path was knocked off their feet.
The dam broke?! Now?!
The sudden intrusion of the flood took the chaos of the battlefield to a new level.
On the edges, pursuers stopped chasing and started running the other way. Those already fleeing ran even faster.
The Mountain, en route to his charge, also saw the incoming water.
The churning waters of the Green Fork didn't extinguish his battle lust; instead, they made him furious.
Mounted on horses, the water wouldn't drown them, but it would drastically reduce the impact of their charge.
Seeing the water already swamping the horses' hooves, he had to decide: attack or retreat?
"Quick! Tell Clegane to pull back!" Tyrion, reacting fast, shouted to Bronn. Bronn looked reluctant, so Tyrion immediately added, "I'll double your pay!"
Tyrion was frantic because he knew that if The Mountain's unstoppable charge was halted, it would be a huge morale boost for the North.
A battle that was already in the bag would suddenly become unpredictable.
Hearing "double pay," Bronn donned his helmet and galloped toward The Mountain's unit.
On Jon's hill, everyone was bracing for The Mountain's terrifying charge.
When Medger Cerwyn saw The Mountain's heavy unit heading their way, his legs nearly gave out.
He muttered under his breath.
"It's over. We're finished. The Mountain is coming."
The routs, learning The Mountain was coming for them, looked equally grim.
They had already been defeated by him once. Now, scattered and hastily reassembled, how could they possibly stop him?
Howland Reed saw their fear and couldn't hide his disgust.
Suddenly, his ears twitched.
Archers relied on their ears as much as their eyes.
He turned to look west. Rolling waters were sweeping toward them.
The flood. His flood actually came!
Witnessing this miraculous scene, Howland was dumbstruck, forgetting even to warn the others.
"Flood! It's a flood! We're saved!"
When the hastily organized soldiers saw the floodwaters rushing closer, they erupted in wild joy.
The roaring flood swept across almost the entire battlefield.
Westerlands army, Northern army.
Karstark, Umber, Mormont, Frey. Marbrand, Lannister, Serrett.
The power of the flood belonged to no side; it vented its fury indiscriminately.
However, the flood wasn't fatal. As it spread, the water level only reached about waist-height on an adult man.
Aside from a few unlucky souls, most would survive.
But the land the flood passed over quickly turned into a quagmire.
While the initial surge was an indiscriminate sweep, for the Westerlands army, this undoubtedly broke their offensive momentum.
And since the Westerlands relied heavily on cavalry and heavy infantry, the flood leveled the playing field instantly.
Now they had two choices.
Fight a messy battle in the mud, or give up the credit within their grasp and retreat immediately.
If it were Tyrion, he would choose the former.
But The Mountain, a battle-crazed maniac, clearly preferred the latter.
Before the floodwaters could reach him, he led his troops in a charge straight for Jon's Dried Fish Hill.