The North's Lords Were Inhuman

"My lord, let me charge one more time!"

"Yes, my lord, let us charge once more!"

"Charge again! Charge again!"

One after another, the people around him began pressuring Roose Bolton.

This time, he could no longer maintain that lake-like coldness. He turned on the surrounding noble knights in fury.

"Charge? How are we supposed to charge? Haven't you seen the Westerlands army gathering across the river? Haven't you seen the water level dropping?

"Men! Go bring them back!"

The moment Roose Bolton finished speaking, Jon's army began retreating at speed.

It was not that Jon did not want to fight. He had already noticed that the soldiers' stamina was nearing its limit.

This had been a defeated remnant force to begin with. Being able to achieve this much was already impressive.

Although he himself had a god's-eye view, the soldiers were not game units with nothing but health bars.

They could be wounded. They could bleed. Prolonged battle exhausted them.

Jon swiftly swept his gaze over the army and found that their numbers had already approached three thousand.

They were even dragging along quite a few prisoners at the rear.

Some of the men in his own ranks had been prisoners themselves only moments ago!

Still, this was already good enough. Of the original army of more than eighteen thousand, Roose Bolton had been about to squander seven or eight thousand.

Now, counting those Jon had rescued and those who had escaped because of his interception, there should be more than four thousand in total.

Their losses had been greatly reduced.

At this moment, the soldiers behind Jon were covered in blood from the waist up and mud from the waist down.

Many of them had gone pale from overexertion.

But Jon could not stop. Once he let them rest, these men might never get back up.

He quickly planned out a retreat route for the army.

At last, after another brief yet agonizing march, Jon finally led them back to safety.

Only then did a cavalry unit bearing the Flayed Man banner arrive late to cover their retreat.

Once they realized they had left the battlefield, the men could no longer hold on and collapsed one after another.

Together with the routed and wounded soldiers who had withdrawn, they waited for their own lords to come collect them.

Jon, meanwhile, silently led his own men away from the group.

Even after returning to his tent, Jon did not rest. He was thinking about something.

Eddard was probably still alive.

If he used today's achievements to meet Tywin and urged him to send a letter to King's Landing, telling them to keep a close watch over Eddard, could that "old wolf lord" avoid death?

But had there ever been a precedent in Westeros for meeting the enemy commander in the middle of a war?

As he pondered these matters, a Winterfell soldier rushed into the tent and said,

"My lord, y-you should go take a look."

"What is it?"

"Those soldiers... they... those soldiers want to see you."

Jon saw an indescribable excitement on the soldier's face.

He reckoned the man would not have been this thrilled even if he had just gotten married.

Jon knew that the soldiers he meant were likely the ones who had fought alongside him just now.

But the soldiers wanted to see him?

Even if he was a bastard, he was still Eddard's bastard.

Could they really see him whenever they wanted?

It was not that Jon looked down on them. This situation simply did not fit Westerosi common sense.

To guard against any surprises, Jon first opened his view and looked outside, finding no murderous intent there.

Then he walked out of the tent.

Led by that soldier, Jon came upon the remnant troops still waiting where they were.

"Lord Jon has arrived!"

"It is Lord Jon!"

When they saw Jon arrive, they all rose to their feet. In an instant, it was as if a strange human wave had formed.

Jon had not had time to change clothes, and naturally neither had they.

Their trouser legs looked as though they had been plastered with mud, while their upper bodies remained trapped inside their armor.

They reeked of sweat and blood, and everyone looked more or less bedraggled.

But that did not matter. They knew who had saved them today.

"Jon."

At that moment, a familiar-looking nobleman with a face smeared in blood came before Jon.

"You are... Lord Harrion?"

Jon recognized him and suddenly remembered that he had lashed him with a riding whip on the battlefield.

"It is me, my lord! Thanks to you, if not for you, I would have become a prisoner. If I became a prisoner, my father would beat me to death."

"Uh..."

As Harrion spoke, his body unconsciously trembled.

Especially when he said Rickard might beat him to death, even his voice quivered.

It was as though Rickard Karstark might appear beside him at any moment and whip him.

Jon looked at the burly man whose beard could cover his whole face when flipped upward, and for a moment, he did not know what to say.

But Harrion's next declaration stunned him.

"Lord Jon, from today onward, the soldiers of House Karstark will be under your command!

"Whatever you tell us to do, we will do!"

"So will I!" A familiar voice rang out. It was Meiqi Saiwen.

This Earl Severn, who had always enjoyed mocking Jon, approached him somewhat awkwardly.

The maester accompanying the army had just bandaged his arrow wound.

"Jon..." Meiqi Saiwen was much older even than Eddard. He would never call Jon "my lord," but the respect and admiration in his tone were no less than Harrion's.

There was even an unmistakable guilt within it.

"Jon, I always... always looked down on you. If not for you today..."

"Enough, Earl Severn. Let us not speak of this. You should still command your own soldiers. We all have to obey Robb's orders."

Jon quickly turned away. This was not the time to start a mutiny.

If he dared gather soldiers privately to oppose Roose Bolton, then he would be the one violating military discipline.

He had only just left The Wall. He had no desire to return there at all.

"Wait! Jon!"

Severn hurried forward to block him, and the soldiers around Jon were unwilling to let him leave as well.

Clearly, there were still battles ahead.

Following Jon was obviously far safer than following Roose Bolton.

At the very least, Jon would not abandon them.

But Jon seemed completely unmoved. He drew his sword and pointed it at the people blocking his path.

"Whoever stops me, I will report to Robb for defying their liege lord's orders!" Jon's tone was icy, and he refused to give an inch.

Seeing this, the soldiers and nobles could only move aside resentfully.

But just as Jon had walked halfway through, a group of gray-haired old soldiers blocked his path.

Every one of these veterans looked to be at least fifty years old!

Their equipment was difficult to judge. It could not be called excellent; it was merely better than nothing.

At the sight of them, anger suddenly rose in Jon's heart. Which inhuman lord had dragged men this old out to fight, and had not even given them proper equipment?

Was that bastard even human?

Just as Jon was about to ask something, the old veteran leading them suddenly spoke.

"My lord, we heard that you are Eddard's son. Gods, you truly look like Eddard."

"Yes, you really do." Another old soldier beside him echoed.

Both wore filthy felt caps, their faces thin and gaunt, like mushroom stalks beneath mushroom caps.

"Although we only saw Lord Eddard once from afar, the moment we saw you, we knew you were his son."

"That's right! You look even more like him than Robb!"

Seeing these two old men trade lines back and forth and drag the conversation completely off track as though they were putting on a comic routine, Jon hurriedly cut them off.

"All right, all right. What do you want to say? Let me make this clear first: if you want the same thing as they do, leave now. I will not take you in just because you are old!"

Seeing Jon's impatience, the leading veteran said,

"But, my lord, our lord has already died in battle. Are you still unwilling?"

Died in battle? A lord like that deserved it!

Jon was glad he had not saved him.