Two days later, a detachment of about two hundred soldiers returned to the Northern camp.
When the Northern soldiers learned that these were the men who had breached the dam and released the flood, Old York and his crew were immediately given a hero's welcome.
"Well done, old Ser!"
"Thanks to you! And thanks to Lord Jon!"
"You guys are incredible."
So the bastard's plan actually worked? Accepting the praise, Old York couldn't suppress the grin on his face.
Amidst his joy, he asked around about the details of the battle.
But the more he learned, the more shocked he became!
What did they mean Jon went onto the battlefield after the defeat?
What did they mean Jon led the routed soldiers in a counterattack?!
And what was this about nominating him as the commander-in-chief of the entire army?!
Huh?! And he refused?!
Learning that Jon was currently at the prisoner camp, Old York hurried over.
At that moment, Jon had indeed found a real prize in the prisoner camp—Amory Lorch.
Amory was a bannerman of the Westerlands. When he followed Tywin into King's Landing and sacked the Red Keep, he committed an act that outraged gods and men alike.
To curry favor with Tywin, he brutally murdered Princess Rhaenys, Rhaegar's daughter, who was not yet six years old.
The princess's body was so bloody that Tywin had to wrap her in a red cloak before presenting her to Robert.
And Rhaenys's mother was the Dornish princess Elia Martell, the Red Viper's sister and Prince Doran's sister.
Her fate was equally tragic—raped and murdered by The Mountain.
The Martells of Dorne dreamed of nothing more than The Mountain's head.
And Amory Lorch was definitely in their "shopping cart" of heads as well.
Technically speaking, Jon and Princess Rhaenys were half-siblings.
Catching Amory was a completely unexpected bonus.
With Amory in hand, Jon could trade for some serious favors from Dorne in the future.
Looking at Amory, Jon had to admit the guy was repulsive.
Bloated cheeks, a thick, short neck, and piggy eyes that were instantly detestable.
His skin was pale and pasty, making him look even more disgusting.
Amory felt that the way Jon looked at him was… off.
But Jon's performance on the battlefield earlier that day had scared the wits out of him. Plus, being a prisoner, he didn't dare say much.
He forced a sliver of a smile and said:
"My Lord, I am from House Lorch. My family will soon offer at least a thousand gold dragons to ransom me. But your heroic figure today is deeply etched in my mind... I am willing to offer three... no, two thousand gold dragons."
Jon, however, smiled and shook his head.
"No, Lord Lorch. You are worth at least ten thousand gold dragons."
"Ten thousand... this..." Amory heard Jon's exorbitant demand, and the blood drained from his face.
He wasn't some great lord; where would he get ten thousand gold dragons?
Just as he was about to protest, Jon turned to his guards.
"Someone, cut this man's right hamstring. Guard him well."
"Yes, my Lord!"
Hearing Jon order his hamstring cut, Amory began to struggle frantically.
A cut hamstring was no different from losing a leg.
He screamed, his voice cracking:
"My Lord! My Lord! I'll pay! Ten thousand gold dragons, I'll pay it!"
Amory twisted his fat body, crying and shouting. The soldier about to do the deed looked back at Jon.
"Cut it!!"
Jon ordered sharply. Although the soldiers didn't know why Jon hated this guy so much, they obeyed.
With a scream of agony, Amory was crippled for life.
His fate silenced the other Westerlands prisoners like cicadas in winter.
Jon ordered the hamstring cut partly to collect some interest for little Rhaenys, but mostly to prevent this guy from escaping.
Although escape was unlikely, he had to be careful.
This made him think: if Amory was worth ten thousand gold from Dorne, what about The Mountain?
The Red Viper might even be willing to warm his bed for that.
Just then, Old York arrived, drawn by the noise.
Seeing Amory's bloody heel, he couldn't help but interject:
"My Lord, Amory is a noble. Doing this will make the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms look down on you. How about this? Since I'm nearly sixty anyway, just say I did it!"
Jon looked at Old York, whose attitude had shifted drastically, and knew exactly why.
"No need. I'm just getting some justice for the innocent Princess Rhaenys. It has nothing to do with sides; I simply loathe this scum."
Learning that Amory was the one who killed Princess Rhaenys, Old York said no more.
Instead, he began praising Jon's strategy, his magnanimity, and his fierce hatred of evil.
Amidst the flattery, Jon walked to the area where the mountain clan prisoners were held.
Unlike Amory, whom Jon sought out personally, the mountain clan prisoners had requested to see him.
Arriving at their holding area, Jon saw a group of people deliberately standing in a circle.
They used their bodies to create a separate, private space for someone behind them.
This wasn't strange.
That person likely had high status—a priest, a chief, or something similar.
"The man you wanted to see is here," the soldier guiding Jon announced loudly.
Soon, a robust woman dressed in sewn animal skins emerged from behind the human wall.
She came before Jon and dropped to her knees with a thud.
For wildlings, who disdained the rules of Westeros, to kneel like this meant they were desperate for something important.
"My Lord, one of our own is injured. We hope you can save her."
The human wall parted slightly, revealing a white-haired woman.
Her face was pale; she was clearly badly hurt.
"Bring her over, let me see," Jon said.
"No, she can't be moved right now," the kneeling woman refused.
Jon approached the enclosure. His guards quickly warned, "My Lord, be careful!"
Jon waved his hand to dismiss their concern, but the soldiers behind him kept their hands on their sword hilts.
Jon drew closer and was surprised.
He had assumed this would be some "old priestess," but the injured woman looked very young.
And she seemed to have naturally white hair!
If she were better nourished, it might even be silver.
Although the Targaryens weren't the only ones in Westeros with silver hair, they were the first ones people thought of.
But Jon couldn't recall any records of a Targaryen being abducted by mountain clans.
Maybe some kind of disease?
Without overthinking it, Jon stepped forward to examine the woman. He found a terrible sword wound on her back.
Although it hadn't damaged her internal organs, the wound was difficult to stitch and carried a high risk of infection.
Combined with the massive blood loss, he wasn't sure she could survive.
Just as Jon was about to refuse, the kneeling woman suddenly spoke:
"If you can save her, my Lord, we will serve you."
Jon shook his head. "It's not that I won't save her, it's that I'm not sure I can." He turned to leave.
But the woman suddenly placed her hand near Jon's foot. Jon paused, and she hurriedly touched the tip of his boot.
"As long as you are willing to try, my Lord, whether she lives or dies, we are willing to offer you a great gift! Something the whole world has lost..."
But surprisingly, before the woman could finish, the dying white-haired woman coughed weakly and desperately widened her eyes, signaling her to stop.
This action undoubtedly caught Jon's attention.
He ordered soldiers to bring a stretcher and carry the woman away.
Soon, a camp maester skilled in trauma was summoned to treat her.
What good stuff could a mountain clan tribe possibly have?
Jon wondered, but figured there was no harm in trying.