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The thunder of hooves drowned the battlefield. The Westerlands cavalry surged into the remnants of the Northern host like a red tide, merciless and unrelenting.On open plains, infantry rarely stood a chance against mounted knights. Today was no exception.Worse still, Roose Bolton had concentrated nearly all his elite men on the left flank, leaving the rest of his line dangerously exposed. When the counterattack came, the weaker wings collapsed almost instantly.Through the polished lens of his spyglass, Tyrion Lannister's green eyes glittered with excitement. His stubby fingers tightened around the bronze casing.My plan worked.For once, the Imp's counsel had borne fruit, and in this success he saw the chance to earn his father's recognition. All his life he had been mocked, belittled, treated as less than a true son of House Lannister. Today, on the Green Fork, he would prove otherwise."Bronn!" Tyrion cried. "Come, let's join the charge!"Bronn stared at him as if the dwarf had grown another head. "You?" His tone was flat, scornful, his lean face twisting into a smirk.Tyrion's legs barely reached the stirrups on his warhorse, and yet he burned with eagerness. The sellsword's incredulity only deepened when Tyrion gestured impatiently."Don't you see? The Northerners are in retreat. This is the moment to press the advantage! Help me mount!"Bronn grumbled, muttering about overtime pay, but nonetheless bent down and hauled the Lannister onto his horse with all the grace of a stablehand heaving a sack of turnips.The Westerlands army roared forward in a full-scale counterattack.Kevan Lannister, Tywin's taciturn younger brother and most trusted lieutenant, drove the center. House Marbrand's cavalry hammered the right flank, breaking Northern infantry like driftwood. Across the field, banners of red and gold streamed in the wind as the Lannisters reclaimed momentum.And the Northern host⊠broke.Panic swept through the ranks. Soldiers dropped shields and spears, sprinting for their lives. The fallen trampled underfoot. The rout was contagious; one man's fear spread to ten, then to a hundred.Some men realized too late that survival was not about outrunning the enemy, but outrunning their comrades.The ground became littered with abandoned weapons, footprints stamped in blood and mud. The air rang with the sound of steel meeting flesh, cries of despair, and the guttural laughter of knights hunting scattered prey.---And in the midst of this flood, a single banner advanced against the current.Black-and-white, a direwolf stitched upon it.Jon Snow."Those who can still fight, rally to me!" His voice carried, raw and fierce, over the chaos.At first, the routed soldiers gawked at the sight. A hundred menâperhaps lessâwere moving forward while the rest of the army streamed back. Some scoffed, muttering curses at the bastard's arrogance. Others sneered, ashamed that his defiance made their own flight seem cowardly.But not all turned away.Lelan Horode, the seasoned Crannogman sworn once to Eddard Stark, reined in his men. He had sensed Roose Bolton's retreat the moment it began. He could have fled safely, yet when he saw Jon's banner rising stubbornly amidst the rout, his heart jolted."Old Gods and newâŠ" Lelan whispered. "If the boy has no dragon's blood, then surely he has wolf's."He lifted his bow, then shouted to his followers. "With me! To the wolf banner!"They obeyed.---By the time Jon reached the rise of a small hillâa fisherfolk's slope once used to dry their catchânearly five hundred men had gathered around him. Winterfell soldiers stood at his back, bolstered by scattered stragglers who found courage in his defiance. With Lelan's reinforcement, the number swelled further, enough to form a bulwark.The banner of the White Wolf snapped defiantly above them.Jon wasted no time. "Form ranks! Archers to the rear! Shields in front!"Lelan barked his own orders, shaping the men into a serviceable array. The hill would serve as their anchor. They would not move again."Those who can still wield steel, stand with us!" the cry went up.Some deserters slowed, staring. For a heartbeat they thought reinforcements had arrivedâthat perhaps Roose Bolton had committed reserves after all."No," Jon called back. His voice was hard, unyielding. "It's only us. If you want to live, join us. If notârun."Many ran. But some, faces pale and desperate, clutched their swords tighter and turned uphill.Among them stumbled Lord Maegor Severn, bloodied and pale, an arrow lodged in his back. His attendants half-carried him into the line. Behind him thundered three hundred Westerlands knights, their banners flying a field of blue peacocksâthe sigil of House Shallot.When Maegor's eyes lifted and saw the young man on horseback, commanding with a soldier's certainty, shame scalded him. This was the same bastard he had mocked. Now, he fled to him for salvation.Jon's tone was merciless. "Guard the flank, Lord Severn. If you still have men, hold the line. Now."Maegor flushed but obeyed. Pride meant little in the face of annihilation.---The Shallot knights wheeled into formation, lances angled. Their laughter carried across the fieldâmocking, eager. They saw the wolf banner. They saw Jon in the front rank, plainly a noble by his bearing, exposed for the taking.Three hundred armored riders prepared to smash through one thousand weary footmen."Lower your stance! Spears up!" Jon roared, voice cracking with urgency.He placed the poorly armed men in the first rank, elites behind them, and himself a step ahead of all. To stand at the point of the spear was madness, but it was the only way to bind the line with his own resolve.Fear quivered in the ranks. Faces drained of color. Some hands shook on spear shafts. Yet when Jon set his feet before them, they steadied."Archersâdraw!" Lelan barked. The bowstrings thrummed, arrows nocked and ready.The knights began their charge.The ground shook as hooves pounded closer, closer, a rolling storm of steel. The Shallot banners snapped in the wind. The knights' helms gleamed beneath the fading sun, eyes fixed on the young commander who dared face them.Jon's heart hammered. His sharpened perception caught every detailâthe angle of the lances, the grimaces of men who thought him already dead. Five knights had marked him for the kill.Let them come.The first wave of lances thrust forward. Jon twisted aside, seized a shaft with iron grip, and used the momentum of horse and rider to wrench a man from the saddle. The knight crashed to the earth in a tumble of steel."Hold!" Jon shouted. "Stand your ground!"The moment stretchedâclash inevitable, blood certain. The fate of their line, perhaps of the entire Northern army, balanced on the edge of steel.And above it all, the black-and-white direwolf banner whipped against the sky, a lone sail in a sea of red.---
ĂdvÄñçé çhĂ ptĂȘr Ă vĂ ilĂ ble óñ pĂ treĂžn (Gk31)