"My Lord, let us charge again!"
"Yes, my Lord, just one more charge!"
"Charge again! Charge again!"
One by one, the people around Roose Bolton began to pressure him.
This time, he couldn't maintain his usual glacial composure. He snapped at the surrounding nobles and knights:
"Charge? How? Can't you see the Westerlands army regrouping across the field? Can't you see the water level dropping? Guards! Go call them back!"
As soon as Roose gave the order, Jon's forces began a rapid retreat.
It wasn't that Jon didn't want to fight, but he sensed his soldiers were on the brink of exhaustion.
This was a ragtag army of defeated men to begin with; achieving what they had was already impressive.
Jon might have had a "God's Eye View," but his soldiers weren't game units with simple HP bars. They bled, they hurt, and prolonged combat drained them.
Jon quickly scanned his army and found the headcount was nearing three thousand.
Trailing at the "tail end" were quite a few prisoners.
And to think, some of his own men had been prisoners themselves not long ago!
But this was already excellent. Originally, Roose Bolton was set to squander seven or eight thousand men of this eighteen-thousand-strong army.
Now, between those he saved directly and those who escaped thanks to his rearguard action, over four thousand had been spared.
The losses were significantly reduced.
Currently, the soldiers behind Jon were covered in blood from the waist up and mud from the waist down.
Many were pale from overexertion.
But Jon couldn't stop. If he let them rest now, they might never get up again.
He quickly mapped out a retreat route.
Finally, after a short but arduous trek, Jon led them back to safety.
Only then did a cavalry unit bearing the Flayed Man banner arrive—fashionably late—to cover their rear.
Realizing they were finally off the battlefield, the men could hold on no longer and collapsed one by one.
They waited there, alongside the other wounded and routed soldiers, for their respective lords to come claim them.
Jon took his own men and quietly slipped away from the main group.
Back in his tent, Jon didn't rest. He was thinking.
Ned Stark was likely still alive.
If he used today's victory as leverage to meet Tywin Lannister and convince him to send an urgent letter to King's Landing—telling them to keep Ned safe—could the Old Wolf be saved?
But was there any precedent in Westeros for meeting the enemy commander halfway through a war?
As he pondered this, a Winterfell soldier burst in.
"My Lord, you... you should go look."
"What is it?"
"The soldiers. They... those soldiers want to see you."
Jon noticed the soldier's face was glowing with indescribable excitement.
The guy probably hadn't looked this happy on his wedding day.
Jon figured the "soldiers" he mentioned were the ones who had just fought alongside him.
But they wanted to see him?
Bastard or not, he was still Ned Stark's son.
Could they just demand an audience whenever they wanted?
It wasn't that Jon looked down on them, but it went against the usual norms of Westeros.
Just to be safe, Jon opened his "God's Eye View" and checked outside. Detecting no murderous intent, he stepped out of the tent.
Led by the soldier, Jon found the group of remnants waiting where they had collapsed.
"Lord Jon is here!"
"It's Lord Jon."
Seeing Jon arrive, they all struggled to their feet, creating a ripple of movement through the crowd.
Jon hadn't had time to change, and neither had they.
Their trouser legs looked like they were plastered in mud, and their upper bodies were still encased in armor. They reeked of sweat and blood, and everyone looked a bit worse for wear.
But none of that mattered. They knew who had saved them today.
"Jon."
A large, familiar-looking noble, face covered in blood and grime, approached Jon.
"You are... Lord Harrion?"
Jon recognized him and suddenly remembered he had whipped the man on the battlefield.
"It is me, my Lord! Thanks to you... if not for you, I would be a prisoner. And if I were a prisoner, my father would kill me."
"Uh..."
As Harrion spoke, he shivered involuntarily.
Especially when he mentioned Rickard potentially killing him, his voice trembled.
It was as if Rickard Karstark might appear next to him any second to whip him.
Jon looked at the burly man, whose beard could practically flip up to cover his face, and was momentarily speechless.
But Harrion's next declaration shocked him.
"Lord Jon, from this day forth, the soldiers of House Karstark are under your command! Whatever you ask me to do, I will do!"
"Me too!" A familiar voice chimed in. It was Medger Cerwyn.
The Lord Cerwyn, who had loved to mock Jon, approached sheepishly.
A camp maester had just bandaged his arrow wound.
"Jon..." Medger Cerwyn was much older than Ned, so he wouldn't call Jon "my Lord," but the respect and admiration in his tone were no less than Harrion's.
There was also a barely concealed guilt.
"Jon, I used to... I used to look down on you. But today, if not for you..."
"Alright, Lord Cerwyn, let's not talk about that. Your soldiers should still be commanded by you. We all follow Robb's orders."
Jon turned to leave. Now was not the time to start a mutiny.
If he dared to rally soldiers privately against Roose Bolton, he would be the one violating military law.
He had just managed to leave the Wall; he had no desire to be sent back—or worse.
"Wait! Jon!"
Cerwyn hurried forward to block him, and the soldiers around Jon were unwilling to let him leave either.
Clearly, there were more battles to come.
Following Jon was obviously much safer than following Roose Bolton.
At the very least, Jon wouldn't abandon them.
But Jon seemed unappreciative. He drew his sword and pointed it at those blocking his path.
"Anyone who tries to stop me, I'll report to Robb for defying the orders of your liege lord!" Jon's tone was icy, yielding no ground.
Seeing this, the soldiers and nobles resentfully made way.
But halfway out, a group of gray-haired veterans blocked him again.
These old soldiers looked at least fifty years old on average!
Their equipment was hard to describe—calling it "sparse" would be generous; "better than nothing" was more accurate.
Seeing this group, Jon felt a sudden surge of anger. Which heartless lord dragged men of this age into war and didn't even give them proper gear?!
Are they even human?!
Just as Jon was about to demand answers, the leader of the veterans spoke up.
"My Lord, we heard you are Ned's son. Gods, you really look like him."
"Aye, just like him," another veteran beside him chimed in.
Both wore dirty felt hats, their faces gaunt like mushroom stems under a cap.
"We only saw Lord Ned once from afar, but the moment we saw you, we knew you were his son."
"Right! Even more than Robb!"
Seeing these two old timers bantering back and forth like a comedy duo, dragging the conversation off-topic, Jon cut them off.
"Alright, alright, what do you want to say! I'm telling you now, if you're thinking the same as them, leave early. I won't accept you just because of your age!"
Seeing Jon's impatience, the leader spoke again.
"But my Lord, our lord has already died in battle. Will you still not accept us?"
Died in battle? A lord like that deserves to die!
Jon was glad he hadn't saved him.