Bronn whipped his horse so fast his hand was a blur. The horse, stung by the lash, kicked up mud and water with every frantic step.
But it still wasn't fast enough for Bronn, who wished he could sprout wings and fly.
"Ser Clegane! Retreat! Ser Clegane! Pull back!"
Bronn was still a distance away from The Mountain's unit when he started shouting, but it was too late.
The Mountain forced his advance against the surging floodwaters.
But such reckless action had consequences.
Horses slipped in the mud, sending riders tumbling into the water.
Only a portion of the heavy cavalry made it to the base of Dried Fish Hill.
There, the caltrops scattered earlier and the hastily planted spears did their work.
Combined with Howland Reed's precise archery, The Mountain's cavalry—many of whom hadn't had time to armor their mounts—suffered rapid casualties. Their momentum was shattered.
Jon's formation only wavered slightly.
Unwilling to admit defeat, The Mountain thrust his lance furiously at Jon's line a couple of times before finally, amidst Bronn's shouting, choosing to retreat!
Repeated charges had exhausted his elite heavy cavalry.
They were Tywin's prized asset, and they had already accomplished their mission brilliantly. It was time to pull back.
"I hope that dam breaking was an accident. If not, this opponent is terrifying," Tyrion muttered, watching the retreating cavalry.
Meanwhile, realizing they had successfully repelled the terrifying Mountain, cheers erupted from Jon's position once more—louder and fiercer than before.
"Long live Jon! Long live the White Wolf!"
"Long live Jon! Long live the White Wolf!"
Through his bronze telescope, Tyrion could see them cheering, though he couldn't quite make out the words.
When Bronn returned, Tyrion immediately asked him.
"Something about 'Long live Jon, Long live the White Wolf'..."
Splash!
Tyrion's telescope slipped from his hand and fell into the water.
"Jon? Are you sure it's Jon?!"
Bronn looked at Tyrion with disdain, baffled by his reaction.
Flashbacks of his time with Jon played in Tyrion's mind.
Back then, Jon was just a sensitive, insecure bastard boy.
Now he was a commander turning the tide of battle?
Did Robb put him in charge?
But why would the other Northern lords accept that?
No! Robb! A chill ran down Tyrion's spine. If Robb wasn't here, where was he?
Tyrion looked around anxiously, then gazed worriedly to the west. He decided he needed to tell Tywin his concerns immediately.
He noticed the floodwaters had receded significantly.
However, the ground beneath them was a muddy quagmire; he could even see fish flopping around.
The Westerlands' offensive could no longer be sustained. It was time to retreat.
He assumed the Northerners, having minimized their losses thanks to the flood, would also quit while they were ahead.
---
On the other side, at Jon's position.
"Retreat? Who said I was retreating?! Everyone listen to my command! Counterattack!!!"
Jon watched The Mountain leaving the battlefield and spoke with firm resolve.
The flood had passed; the ground was mud.
The combat effectiveness of cavalry and heavy infantry was severely crippled. With his "radar" on full blast, this was the perfect time to slaughter the enemy.
Further back, among the retreated Northern forces, Roose Bolton watched from a distance as a solid defensive line held firm on a hill.
"My Lord, our troops have retreated to safety."
Thanks to Jon's resistance, Roose Bolton had ample time to withdraw his forces.
More Northern soldiers had escaped than expected—at least two thousand more than in the original Battle of the Green Fork.
Many of them knew exactly why they had escaped and turned their attention to Jon, still fighting in the chaotic distance.
When a cavalry unit targeted Jon's makeshift line, everyone's heart pounded like a frightened rabbit.
When Jon's line repelled the Serrett cavalry, they cheered.
Then came The Mountain's attack and the flood.
Everyone genuinely believed the gods were protecting him.
But some remembered Jon's proposal before the battle.
They had thought the bastard was just spouting nonsense, but it turned out he was right.
Roose Bolton saw all of this, of course.
His knuckles were white as he gripped his bronze telescope, his already pale face turning even more ghastly.
From the initial march to the defense, and now the counterattack, he had watched it all.
But the problem was, none of it made sense!
His military education taught that when an army routed, you had to "cut off the limb to save the body."
Preserving strength was the only way to win future battles.
Throwing all your forces into a losing battle was rookie behavior.
He had thought Jon jumping into that chaotic battlefield was like a suicidal man jumping into a raging river.
But the boy had actually carved out a path of blood and survival!
Now, with the flood stopping the Westerlands from gaining more ground, Jon's reputation was skyrocketing for saving so many lives!
He might even use this momentum to challenge Roose for command of the army.
Worse, Roose foresaw a terrifying consequence.
Robb had shown strategic cunning at Winterfell. Jon was showing martial prowess and command ability now.
If these two brothers united, the North would see the rise of a powerful liege lord.
A liege lord who would suffocate everyone under his rule.
Just like Tywin did in the West.
"My Lord, should we support Lord Jon?" a noble who looked like an Umber asked.
Seeing a Stark loyalist, Roose felt a surge of irrational anger.
"We just retreated. Jon only saved a few people; he hasn't turned the tide. I am responsible for the entire Green Fork campaign!" Roose replied in a low voice.
But his foul mood made his tone exceptionally cold.
The Umber noble looked back at the distant battlefield and conceded that Roose had a point.
The water was likely Jon's doing.
But water didn't distinguish friend from foe.
The mud slowed everyone down.
Retreat was still the best option.
Regardless, Jon saving so many people was already a miracle!
Just then, a Bolton knight suddenly shouted:
"Gods! The bastard! The bastard is attacking!"
Roose whipped his head around and raised his telescope.
He watched helplessly as Jon, carrying his White Wolf banner, charged down the hill, marching toward the Westerlands army!
He's insane!
That was the only thought in everyone's mind.
But how could they know that Jon had imprinted every detail of the battlefield into his mind?
And it was dynamic, real-time intel.
Jon, dual-wielding swords on horseback, controlled this army of stragglers through relaying orders via cavalry riders.
The moment the White Wolf banner moved, it caught the attention of the surrounding Westerlands soldiers.
Howland Reed, who had originally thought he might look after Jon on the battlefield, had stopped thinking entirely.
In this rapidly changing chaos, their only choice was to trust the man leading them to survival.
Experience and judgment were useless here.
When the Westerlands army realized this remnant force wasn't fleeing but counterattacking, they felt the anger of being humiliated.
Jon's army became a magnet for the Westerlands forces.
At least five or six units under different banners pounced toward the Northern remnants.
The Northern soldiers who had already retreated watched with expressions of pity.
But soon, they noticed something was wrong.
Everyone was trudging through the mud, but Jon's men were moving faster than the Westerlands troops!
Like a slippery loach, they slid out of the encirclement from an impossible angle.
Jon knew exactly where the ground was solid and where it was a muddy trap.
"He escaped?"
Roose Bolton felt like his brain was lagging, as if Jon had just performed a magic trick in front of him.
Soon, everyone realized the "loach" wasn't satisfied with just escaping; it wanted to bite back!
Jon spotted a unit of mountain clansmen and shouted his order:
"On my command! Charge!!!"
Dual swords in hand, Jon led the remnants—whose morale had begun to solidify after two successful defenses—into an active offensive.
By now, Jon's orders were treated like divine decrees.
They had only one thought in their minds:
Follow him! Follow him!
The one following closest was Tommen.
The guy wasn't smart, but he executed battlefield orders instantly.
Jon smashed into the savage army first, and Tommen was right behind him.
As the vanguard, Jon decapitated a clan chief wearing a necklace of bloody ears with one strike.
Then he thrust his sword into the chest of a Westerlands soldier mixed in with them.
His swordplay was a dazzling blur.
Tommen wasn't bad either; where he lacked IQ, he made up for in brute force.
His "Savage Charge" was surprisingly effective here.
Soon, the soldiers behind Jon caught up. In just a few minutes, they shattered the clansmen's formation.
Harrion Karstark, who had been taken prisoner earlier, happened to have been dumped with these wildlings by The Mountain.
A Karstark soldier recognized him and quickly freed him.
Harrion grabbed a sword from the soldier and began fighting with the fury of a man venting his humiliation.
Not long after, Jon ordered them to move out, but Harrion turned a deaf ear.
Suddenly, the sharp crack of a whip rang out, and Harrion felt a stinging pain on his back.
"I said retreat! Did you not hear me?!"
Turning around, he saw the boy on horseback looking at him with cold eyes.
Harrion didn't dare complain and rejoined the formation.
Jon continued his counterattack, quickly dividing the soldiers into groups.
The soldiers watched the signal flags, ears pricked for Jon's every command.
Seeing this slippery army actually biting back, Tyrion was stunned.
Is... is that really Jon?
Though he couldn't see clearly, that boy charging at the very front was living the life Tyrion had always dreamed of.
After several successful strikes, Jon's remnant army seemed to develop a repulsive force.
The armies trying to capture them stopped in their tracks; some even began to pull back.
The Mountain wanted to return to the fray, but his horses were spent.
The previously unstoppable Westerlands army was actually showing signs of a minor rout.
Jon led his men out of the mountain clans, then crushed three or four more Westerlands units in succession.
If this kept up, he might actually turn defeat into victory.
At this moment, a noble beside Roose Bolton spoke up again:
"My Lord, let us charge again!"