The Overbearing Bastard

The Mountain's iron hooves were like a heavy hook.

Panic, regret, fear—such emotions meant nothing beneath the crushing advance of heavily armored troops.

The task of the Northern Army's right flank, centered around the Karstark forces, had been to attack.

Because they had underestimated those savages, their plan had been to charge straight into the Westerlands army in one burst, then turn everything upside down.

The Mountain's enormous body and terrifying charge made everything else on the battlefield seem dim by comparison.

Boom—

Like floodwaters breaking through a dam, the hastily erected Northern defenses were blasted apart by the impact.

More Westerlands soldiers poured through the breach opened from the north and lunged directly at their rear.

The Mountain's lance pierced through a nobleman's body, and a crimson banner embroidered with a moose collapsed helplessly.

That was the banner of House Hollard.

Yet no one was paying attention anymore.

An army's collapse came with a chain reaction. Only a few exceptional commanders could halt such a decline.

When one banner fell, the others were left hanging by a thread.

At that moment, Lilan Hode, who had been assigned to a mixed unit of archers, saw it as well.

Their attack had been going smoothly until that heavily armored knight, built like a small Giant, launched his assault.

Only then did Lilan Hode finally recall Jon's words.

Exceptional martial skill, clever strategy, and precise judgment of the enemy.

He had thought his assessment of that boy had already been high enough, yet he had still underestimated him.

Of course, this was not the time for reflection.

Although the Mountain's offensive was incredibly fierce, without Roose Bolton's orders, they could only remain nailed in place.

"Draw—"

The officer commanding the archers seemed to be from House Blackwood, though that was unimportant.

The strings of more than a thousand bows creaked as they were drawn taut in unison, aimed in the direction of the armored army's charge.

"Loose—"

A dense rain of arrows poured forth, but striking those heavy suits of armor was no more threatening than mosquito bites.

Only a few arrows hit the horses, but even that had little effect.

After breaking through the defensive line, the Mountain charged from the rear toward the front, his target the white sun banner on a black field belonging to House Karstark.

Harrion, who had just been killing to his heart's content, recognized the Westerlands brute charging at him.

As a noble, heraldry was something one had to study.

That banner embroidered with three hounds belonged to House Clegane. Then that Giant-like man, like a small mountain, could only be the infamous and fearsome Mountain of legend!

At a single glance, he knew he was no match for this force of heavily armored cavalry.

But as the heir of House Karstark, he could not retreat no matter what.

Otherwise, once he returned, Rickard Karstark would personally cut off his head.

Harrion gripped his sword in both hands and shouted for the soldiers to change formation, preparing to meet the charge.

He casually adjusted his beard so it would not obstruct his vision.

He's coming for me. The thought exploded in Harrion's mind.

For some reason, although Harrion and the Mountain were still far apart, he could see the other man's eyes.

They were cruel, bloodthirsty eyes. Harrion felt that, in the Mountain's gaze, he was a particularly valuable piece of prey.

The man was already far taller than any normal person, and mounted on horseback, he was practically a human-shaped siege engine.

That oppressive presence felt like a hoof pressing down upon his chest, nearly robbing him of breath.

"For the North!!!"

Harrion shouted, trying to drive away the spreading fear.

He commanded the soldiers of Karhold to engage the Mountain's heavily armored cavalry.

The black and red battle lines quickly became tangled together.

But in the blink of an eye, the Mountain's armored troops crushed through them with the momentum of their charge.

Such a vast gap could not be bridged by willpower.

The soldiers before Harrion fell one after another like earthen walls destroyed by floodwaters.

The Mountain knocked Harrion from his feet with a thrust of his lance. Before he could react, a group of Westerlands soldiers had already pinned him down and bound him.

Though Harrion was still dazed and disoriented, instinct told him that he had been captured.

An intense sense of shame wrapped around him like spider silk.

He let out an unwilling roar like a wounded beast.

After crushing through the line where the Karstarks stood, the Mountain did not stop.

Just as had been said before, he was a left hook.

This force of heavily armored cavalry charged wildly through the battlefield, nearly punching into the heart of the Northern Army's formation.

Roose Bolton had placed nearly all his elite troops on the left flank. Since even the left flank could not stop the Mountain, the others had even less chance.

And the Westerlands army did not consist of the Mountain alone. A full three thousand cavalry on the right flank had already begun to thunder forward.

With chaos in the rear, the offensive at the front could no longer be sustained. Even a defensive line capable of holding for a moment was difficult to establish.

Soon, another cavalry force of around two thousand men was assembled, led by Kevan Lannister, known as Tywin's "shadow" and "arm."

The Westerlands began their counterattack.

Meanwhile, Roose Bolton, still in the rear, gradually wore an uglier expression.

The battle was unfolding exactly as Jon had predicted.

This would be a tremendous blow to his prestige.

But if he wanted to reverse the decline, he would have to commit his own personal troops to the battlefield.

That would be extremely unwise when his side was already rapidly sliding toward disadvantage—or rather, defeat.

After hesitating for only a moment, Roose Bolton ordered the entire army to retreat.

"My lord, are we going to abandon them?"

A noble pointed toward the distant battlefield.

They had not yet been completely defeated. Retreating would preserve their strength, but their side would inevitably suffer heavy losses.

Those were soldiers of the North!

"I said it! The entire army retreats!"

Roose Bolton snapped. The retainers from House Bolton around him also fixed hostile gazes on the noble attempting to persuade him otherwise.

At that moment, Jon arrived at his tent.

Feeling the atmosphere inside the command tent, he realized that Roose Bolton had already decided to fall back.

In truth, the decision was not wrong. In this situation, they should retreat. Only then could they cut their losses in time.

But Jon estimated that the waters of the Green Fork would reach the battlefield in no more than a quarter of an hour. When that happened, they could impede the Westerlands army's advance.

They could save quite a few people.

So he spoke.

"My lord, I have ordered men to break the Green Fork's dike. The floodwaters will soon sweep over here. If we hold on a little longer, we can reduce our losses to a minimum!"

The commanders who were not from House Bolton saw Jon speak for the soldiers still fighting desperately and turned hopeful eyes toward the lord of the Dreadfort.

"Jon! I am the army's commander. Did I not say that if you dared interfere with my orders, I would punish you under military law!?"

Jon knew that he could not back down now.

Especially since he still planned to take control of this army in the future, he sneered.

"Hmph. Is threatening others with military law all the lord of the Dreadfort knows how to do? So many people have died because of your reckless advance. Let's see how you explain that to the other nobles!

If you won't save them, fine! I will!"

With that, Jon turned to leave, but then seemed to remember something and spat viciously onto the ground.

In Northern culture, that represented intense contempt.

Jon could not stop him, but he could curse him.

Watching Jon's departing figure, Roose Bolton's bloodless face turned pale and livid.

When the others saw that Jon had truly led men toward the already ruined defensive line, they felt a surge of emotion.

Ever since the army had set out, they had mocked and looked down on this bastard.

Whether he succeeded or not, such righteous spirit alone made them unable to resist entrusting their backs to him.

Then Roose Bolton suddenly spoke again, looking coldly at the others.

"Jon's men are not under my command, but if any of you dare defy my orders, I will cut off his head right now!"

In the end, under Roose Bolton's tyranny, the remaining army began to retreat.

Jon arrived among his soldiers and shouted.

"Everyone, follow me! We're going to reinforce them!"

"Ah? Now?"

Some Winterfell soldiers with a certain level of military knowledge found it hard to believe.

Not only were Westerlands soldiers charging toward them, but even their own routed troops had begun crashing into their formation.

By all common sense, this situation could not be saved.

Going over now would only add to the enemy's merits.

Jon, who had already mounted his horse, understood their thoughts and spoke down to them.

"Old York has dug open the Green Fork's dike. The river will block the enemy army for us.

If you refuse to obey orders now, then don't bother returning to Winterfell."

Seeing Jon say this, they could only steel themselves and follow.

But Jon knew that after frightening them, he also had to offer a reward. So he added.

"I am not asking you to defeat the Westerlands army with me. We only need to save as many people as possible.

Killing enemies earns merit. Saving people does too."

After a simple round of mobilization, Jon gathered an army mainly composed of Winterfell soldiers and rushed toward the battlefield.

Of course, these soldiers were only the portion Robb had entrusted to him. Most Winterfell soldiers remained under Roose Bolton's control.

He turned the power of his [Gods' Eye] to its maximum, trying to find a reliable position on the battlefield.

"Found it!"

Jon spotted an earthen slope to the southwest. It could serve both as a defensive position and as refuge from the floodwaters when they arrived.

It seemed to be where the archers had formed up not long ago, a place apparently called Fish-Drying Slope.

Fishermen would lay their catches there to dry in the sun, and that was how Fish-Drying Slope had gotten its name.

"Raise my banner!"

Jon gave the order. The White Wolf Banner on its black field rose, like a sail traveling against the current, advancing steadily toward its destination.