Jon, not exactly a tall figure, was surrounded by a crowd of white-haired veterans.
Looking around, there were quite a few of them—at least six or seven hundred.
"My Lord, we're actually from the mountain clans, from the mountains north of Last Hearth."
"Just south of the Wall," another chimed in.
The veteran continued his story, while his "hype man" kept adding commentary.
Jon, maintaining the modern courtesy of respecting his elders, listened patiently.
"In those mountains, old-timers like us have to go out 'hunting' when winter comes."
"And then we never come back."
"But that's how our ancestors have always done it."
"And now it's our turn."
Hearing their story, Jon's expression turned somber.
When food was scarce, the elderly would sacrifice themselves to leave food for the younger generation.
In his original world, there were stories of "living tombs"—where the elderly, upon reaching a certain age, would be sealed in a tomb, with a brick added every time their children delivered a meal, until they were walled in completely.
Jon had always treated those as just stories. He never expected to see such a "story" standing alive in front of him.
"When autumn came, we old folks didn't have much to live for anyway. But then Lord Stark called the banners, and we thought maybe we could earn some military merit."
"And trade it for some grain."
Jon quickly understood what they meant.
Although these veterans were physically aging and weak, their minds were sharp.
They knew that following Jon might give them a chance to earn merit, or at least avoid being treated as cannon fodder.
After all, if they died, they died. But they had brought quite a bit of grain from home when they left—maybe thirty or forty pounds.
If they didn't earn that back, it would be a loss.
In other words, a few sacks of grain were enough to buy their lives.
"My Lord, please accept us!"
"Accept us, my Lord!"
"Take us in, take us in!"
Jon wasn't even sixteen yet, but he was surrounded by hundreds of men in their fifties and sixties, begging him.
He didn't have a heart of stone.
"Alright, I understand what you're saying. But Roose Bolton is the commander of this army. I need to ask for his opinion," Jon said, raising his hand. "If Lord Bolton agrees, you can follow me from now on."
Hearing this, the veterans grinned, revealing missing and yellowed teeth.
Most of their teeth were worn down.
After all, they hadn't eaten much soft, refined food even in their youth. It was normal.
Jon quickly left through the path they cleared for him.
Meanwhile, the nobles still standing nearby began to whisper.
"If not for Jon today, we'd either be prisoners or dead men. We absolutely cannot let Roose Bolton continue his blind command!" Medger Cerwyn declared.
"Exactly. That leech knows nothing. I think the leeches sucked his brains out. Jon's advice was sound! If we had listened to him earlier, we might have captured Tywin and been marching on King's Landing by now!" Harrion Karstark, being younger, was more intense in his criticism.
"When Bolton calls the council, let's nominate Jon as our new commander right there in the meeting!"
"Yes! A direct nomination! I saw it long ago—Jon is a man just like Lord Ned."
"Agreed!"
They chimed in one after another, making it sound like the title of Lord of Winterfell was about to land on Jon's head.
However, among them, one person remained relatively calm.
That was Howland Reed.
Although Jon was being pushed forward, the nomination was illegitimate.
These nobles were practically planning to openly defy their liege lord's orders.
He worried—what if Jon became their scapegoat?
From a bastard to an army commander.
He didn't think a young man like Jon could resist such a temptation.
Maybe he could keep a clear head against scattered support, but if it gained real momentum, it would be trouble.
So, the only man who knew Jon's true identity spoke up to dissuade them.
"My Lords, I understand how everyone feels. But Jon is young, and Lord Bolton is more experienced in battle. We should trust Lord Bolton and follow Robb's orders."
"Lord Reed, weren't you saved by Jon?" a noble from House Manderly asked, his tone cold and questioning.
It sounded as if he had a grudge against Howland Reed.
Wylis Manderly had just died on the battlefield.
"Roose Bolton is a son of a bitch. He abandoned us!" Harrion said emotionally.
Howland knew that today's events had completely alienated these men from Roose Bolton.
Bolton wouldn't trust them in the future, and they wouldn't execute his orders faithfully.
But that didn't mean they would do whatever Jon said, either.
Jon's status was too low, and he had no reliable core force to back him up.
Maybe the Northern lords would listen to him at first out of gratitude, but the war could drag on, and who knew what would happen later?
Most importantly, what would Robb think? Even if Robb tolerated it, what about Catelyn?
But Howland couldn't say any of this publicly.
He could only pin his hopes on Jon.
He hoped the boy wouldn't let this "support" go to his head.
Medger Cerwyn and Harrion Karstark began rallying the lesser nobles, planning to jointly nominate Jon as the new commander.
What they didn't know was that Roose Bolton had eyes and ears everywhere in the camp. A group this conspicuous was hard to miss.
"The bastard refused?"
"Yes," Roose Bolton's squire confirmed.
Roose scoffed quickly.
"That boy... of course he wouldn't. He knows how much trouble he's caused me today. He wants the fire to burn even hotter."
Regardless, Jon's stance had no loopholes.
Now, Roose had to figure out how to handle the upcoming meeting.
After a battle, a summary meeting was mandatory.
Although Westerosi didn't have the modern concept of an "After Action Review," the practice was essentially the same.
At the very least, they had to discuss who fought well, who fought poorly, and hand out rewards and punishments.
Undoubtedly, the one who fought best today was Jon.
If not for his flood and that god-like counterattack, the Northern army would have lost at least half its men.
Such merit, even for a bastard, was enough to elevate a commoner to nobility.
After this battle, Jon would at least earn a decent fiefdom.
Ned might even legitimize him. Even if he couldn't be a Stark, starting a cadet branch like "White-Stark" (similar to the Karstarks) wasn't impossible.
After all, the Starks once had a branch called the "Greystarks," though they were extinct now.
Pushing these trivial thoughts aside, Roose ordered his men to call the post-battle council.
Soon, the eligible nobles arrived at the command tent.
Compared to before the battle, the tent felt much roomier.
For instance, Ser Wylis Manderly was gone.
His most memorable trait had been his obesity.
Now that he was dead, he had freed up enough space for three people.
Soon, Roose Bolton, the commander, arrived.
As soon as he entered, he felt the hostile gazes of the others.
Disdain, coldness, even hatred.
Although they were all Northerners, this was just a temporarily assembled army.
Even with their own liege lords, disagreements could lead to walkouts, let alone with Roose Bolton, a man with little popularity or prestige.
But Roose ignored it all and took the main seat.
He scanned the room and noticed Jon was missing.
Just as he was about to speak, Jon walked in.
More than half the seated nobles stood up in unison.
Even the Bolton bannermen almost instinctively lifted their rears off their chairs before remembering themselves and sitting back down.
"Please, sit. Why is everyone looking at me?" Jon said, feigning surprise. "My knight, Tommen, was injured, along with other soldiers. I was bandaging them, which took some time."
Gods! Jon even knows how to bandage wounds and cares for the injured!
To the crowd, the image of Ned's bastard grew even taller.
Roose said nothing, merely gesturing for him to sit.
Jon was about to head to his usual corner when Harrion suddenly stood up.
"Jon, take my seat."
"Jon, you can sit here too!" Medger Cerwyn chimed in quickly.
Jon thanked them but sat in his original spot.
Although it was just a remote corner, everyone felt like that was the center of the room.
Seeing this, Roose Bolton snorted coldly.
He thought Jon was just putting on a show.
But he quickly composed himself to summarize the day's battle.
In his summary, he acknowledged Jon's contribution but downplayed his own mistakes.
He spoke for over ten minutes, receiving zero acknowledgment from anyone except his own bannermen.
Of course, Jon responded too.
But to Roose, Jon's responses sounded jarring, almost mocking.
Suddenly, the crisp sound of a sword being drawn rang through the tent. Roose flinched, thinking a mutiny was starting.
His guards stepped forward instantly to shield him.
But it was Harrion Karstark who had stood up.
He raised his sword and declared to Jon:
"Jon, from this day forth, the armies of House Karstark are yours to command. I am willing to serve as one of your generals!"
As Harrion's words fell, the tent went silent enough to hear a pin drop.