The Imp at the Critical Moment

The Northern Army swept toward Tyrion's left flank like a ferocious cold tide.

Those Mountain Clans charging headlong on nothing but hot-blooded courage had never seen a charge involving ten thousand men.

When they saw the boundless enemy army rushing toward them, these Mountain Clansmen who prided themselves on bravery were so frightened their legs nearly gave way.

Still, there were enough of them that quite a few managed to reach the Northern Army's formation.

But what greeted them was an unending rain of arrows.

Howland Reed's troops were mixed in with the archers, positioned atop a higher slope to provide fire support.

When they had first arrived, the soldiers had all complained about the overpowering stench of fish.

But now, the bloody smell drifting over from the battlefield had covered the fish stink entirely.

It was like a horrifying rain of death before their eyes. Cold arrowheads plunged into the flesh of the Wildling warriors, splashing blood into the air.

They had no power to fight back, as though they had entered a battlefield that did not belong to them at all.

"Winter Sun! Kill—"

The noble leading the most ferocious charge was Harrion Karstark.

Harrion was Rickard's eldest son.

The huge beard that nearly covered his entire chest was his trademark.

Faced with such weak enemies who refused to retreat, Harrion was killing to his heart's content.

The tribal Wildlings were terribly ill-equipped.

Most of them could not even afford leather armor with ordinary defensive power.

As commander of his own unit, Harrion should have been directing the formation. But seeing such a one-sided battle, his hands began to itch.

"My lord! You..." Harrion's deputy tried to stop him, but it was already too late.

Wielding the Formation-Breaking Greatsword, Harrion had already leaped into the densest cluster of enemies.

The greatsword howled through the air, and every swing tore up a spray of blood and flesh.

Before such a heavily armored swordsman, the Mountain Clans warriors felt as if they were seeing a god descend to earth.

What little courage they had quickly melted away like snow beneath the blazing sun.

"Mother!"

"Moon God!"

"Don't run! Don't retreat!"

How could Wildling warriors with weaker nerves possibly have seen fighters this powerful or formations this solid?

The black army steadily pressing toward them was like a wall of despairing sighs.

These Wildlings, who had at most fought in Clash of Clans, had never seen a war like this.

Steel and blood, roars and fire.

On the other side, Count Severn, who always enjoyed mocking Jon, was no exception.

The man was a fine archer, and nearly every arrow found its mark.

With the Wildlings' armor being almost nonexistent, he shot with great pleasure.

"Five... nine! Eleven! My lord, there are plenty more over there!"

Severn's squire kept counting and flattering him, making him lose himself in the moment. It felt as though this were merely his own hunting ground.

No, hunting was never this easy.

At least prey did not run toward the hunter on its own.

There was also a fat Northern noble among the ranks. Judging by the azure banners, he should have come from House Manderly, the wealthiest family in the North.

His massive belly was the finest proof of his family's wealth.

This Manderly lord could not ride because of his build.

Still, he was able to organize his soldiers and lead the family's troops forward effectively.

At a glance, the Northern Army's charge seemed unstoppable.

In particular, the left flank Roose Bolton had designated as the main attacking force was advancing rapidly, nearly pushing into the Westerlands army's camp.

The black and red armies tangled together.

Like steel and flame.

"Loose arrows! Loose arrows! Drive them back!"

"My lord, I'm out of arrows!"

"Then hold them back!"

The Imp Tyrion watched from behind the army. When he saw Mountain Clansmen fleeing backward, he ordered the archers to shoot them and force them back into the fight.

The Northern Army's offensive was simply too fierce.

Yet the patrols outside the main army had not sent back a single warning.

If they had only had a little more time to prepare, the Westerlands army would not have been caught in such a sorry state.

He looked toward the rest of the army and saw that the center and right flank were also under attack from the Northern Army.

And because the Westerlands forces had been unprepared, they had suddenly fallen into a disadvantage as well.

"Clegane! Where is Clegane?! Is he ready yet?" Tyrion demanded anxiously in his somewhat shrill voice.

The Northern Army's attack had come too suddenly. Not only had the other sections of the army been unprepared, but The Mountain's heavy armored force had been caught off guard as well.

Though they were now in position, the preparations had been rushed.

If they delayed any longer, his left flank could collapse.

Tyrion was now using the Wildlings' lives to buy time for the main Westerlands force.

"Ready!" Bronn said, pointing toward The Mountain.

A group of heavily armored cavalry stood poised to strike.

The sight lifted Tyrion's spirits, but upon closer inspection, most of them seemed not to have had time to armor their horses.

But with the situation so urgent, this seemed to be their only option.

They still needed a little more preparation, but they would soon enter the battlefield.

Meanwhile, Jon was also waiting for the right time to act.

He knew that the three to five hundred men at his side would not even make a ripple in a battle involving more than ten thousand soldiers.

Sitting behind the soldiers, he used Skinchanging to control Raven and send a message to Old York.

But Old York was too far away. Even the shouts and battle cries of tens of thousands had failed to wake him.

That old bastard had actually fallen asleep again.

Seeing Old York sleeping beside the earthen slope, Jon decided that he had to teach him a lesson.

Raven dove at Old York and slapped him in the face with its wings.

Old York jolted awake, but who would have thought the old man actually had a damn case of waking rage?

Drawing his sword and waving it around, he snarled:

"Where did this feathered beast come from?!"

Jon controlled Raven as it perched on a branch. Fortunately, a Winterfell soldier recognized it as Jon's raven and noticed the small bronze message tube tied to its leg.

The view returned to the battlefield.

As Tyrion waited anxiously, The Mountain's heavily armored force finally finished assembling.

This force of roughly eight hundred heavily armored troops looked like solid ingots of iron.

Tyrion felt a wave of relief wash over him after just one glance.

A cool breeze swept across his sweat-soaked forehead. Though it made him shiver, it also filled him with vigor, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the shortsword in his hand.

Soon, the heavy cavalry began their charge.

When they thundered forward, the earth itself trembled.

Tyrion also received good news: the other parts of the Westerlands army had begun moving as well.

Using the time Tyrion had bought, Tywin quickly established command links with the other forces.

The cavalry on the right flank and the main army in the center had also formed their resistance.

At the very least, the Northern Army could no longer scatter them with its charge.

Tyrion also noticed something else: the Northern Army's attacks in the other directions were not particularly fierce.

It seemed they too believed his left flank was the weak point, and had concentrated their main force and elites against him.

"As long as Clegane's force attacks, everything will be fine."

The fire of victory burned in Tyrion's green eyes.

"These Northerners really are charging hard," Bronn said beside Tyrion.

Bronn had only been hired by Tyrion for protection, not to fight, so he still had time to marvel at the battle.

"Yes." Tyrion nodded. "A pity their strategy has some problems."

Before long, Tyrion noticed that the Northern Army seemed to have an unusually small number of cavalry.

That meant his side could not possibly be defeated. At worst, they would suffer some casualties before the Northerners withdrew.

Tyrion suddenly realized something. He looked around nervously.

But his "elevation" was simply too lacking, making it difficult for his vision to reach far into the distance.

"What are you looking for?" Bronn asked from beside him.

Tyrion ignored him and turned to the blond attendant nearby, shouting:

"Go tell Father to watch out for the Northerners' cavalry!"

"At once!"

Watching the blond figure depart, Tyrion thought of Jaime, his elder brother.

Though his own branch of the family had few members, Lannister blond hair was spread all across the Sunset Sea coast.

In some ways, they were no less numerous than House Frey at The Twins.

Soon, The Mountain led his troops charging out of the camp.

When they saw that massive man everyone had been eager to test themselves against charging forward, the Mountain Clans' nearly shattered morale rose again.

"Keep attacking! Kill them!"

The female chief of the Painted Dog Tribe, who had tried to provoke The Mountain not long ago, led her tribesmen into another charge.

But The Mountain passed them with ease.

One tribal warrior failed to dodge in time and was struck directly by The Mountain's huge warhorse.

Like a lump of rotten meat, he was swept beneath the dense thunder of hooves. In the blink of an eye, he no longer looked human.

Behind The Mountain fluttered a yellow banner bearing a hound, the sigil of House Clegane.

It was said that his father had once saved Tywin's father, Tytos, during a hunt.

That was how they had risen from servants into the ranks of the nobility.

And so the hound became the symbol of House Clegane.

Before long, the Northern nobles who had been killing with such delight sensed that something was wrong.

"Heavy cavalry! Heavy cavalry! Form ranks! Form ranks!"

Harris saw the red-armored cavalry gradually filling his view and snapped out of the blood-fueled excitement.

He hurried back into the formation and began organizing a defense.

"Spears! Spears! Raise all the spears!" the fat noble shouted in a voice squeezed by the flesh around his throat.

But they had never expected such an elite force to be hidden within an army equipped so poorly.

"They may have only been trying to lure us in."

Terrible pressure and dread weighed upon Count Severn's heart, and Jon's words suddenly came back to him.

He instinctively reached for an arrow from his squire, but when the squire reached into the quiver, he found it empty.