The knight Jon had dragged from the saddle barely had time to blink before his visor was yanked up. A dagger flashed, plunging straight into his skull. He twitched once, then stilled.The brutality shocked even the charging Westerlands cavalry. They had expected a broken mob, not a commander who fought like a wolf possessed.But numbers mattered. For every knight Jon felled, another hundred bore down behind them. The first line of Northern soldiers buckled under the thunder of hooves.Yet at the second rank, something strange happened.The routed men—ashamed, desperate, clinging to Jon's example—found strength. Their spears braced, their shields locked, and for the first time that day, they did not run.When the Shallot cavalry struck the second line, the slope robbed them of momentum. Horses flailed, knights toppled, and for every Northern soldier who died, a rider fell beside him.The charge broke.Curses and screams filled the air as the Shallot knights pulled back, leaving dozens of corpses and riderless horses behind.A ragged cheer burst from the hilltop."Long live Jon! Long live the White Wolf!"The cry rippled outward. Soldiers who had been fleeing stopped, turned, and stared. Could it be true? Had a handful of men actually stopped a cavalry charge?Howland Reed of the Neck, sharp-eyed even at a distance, squinted across the chaos. He had long dismissed the wild tales of Jon Snow's prowess as bard's exaggerations. But after seeing him stand against knights and survive, even Reed was forced to admit: the stories did not do him justice.Still, victory was far from secure.---Jon's voice grew hoarse as he barked orders. "Hold formation! Tighten ranks! Shields up!"His hilltop bastion swelled. What began as a few hundred had grown to nearly fifteen hundred, deserters rallying to the White Wolf banner like iron filings to a lodestone.But more men meant more problems. Many were wounded, limping, or clutching torn arms. Their courage was brittle, their discipline thin. Every moment Jon fought to shape them into a line instead of a mob.And across the plain, a shadow moved.Gregor Clegane—the Mountain that Rides.From his towering height he saw the hilltop banner. The sight of men refusing to break filled him not with caution but with delight. His lips curled into a grin more terrible than a snarl. To him, it was like spotting a lone maiden in a burning village—a prize to crush, a defiance to punish.---Not only the Mountain noticed.Far off, Tyrion Lannister reined in his horse, spyglass raised. His pulse quickened as he spied the black banner with its white wolf."Stark's colors?" he muttered. "But not Robb's… whose is it?"Bronn squinted beside him. "The bastard, maybe. Stark's whelp from the Wall.""Nonsense," Tyrion snapped. "The boy is chained to the Night's Watch. His father would never—" He stopped. Something about the defiance of that banner gnawed at him.Before he could puzzle further, Bronn jabbed a finger. "Forget the banner. Look—the Mountain's moving."Indeed, Gregor had wheeled his heavy cavalry. Hundreds of steel-clad riders gathered around him, forming into a blunt spear aimed directly at Jon's slope.A hush rippled over the battlefield as both Northern and Westerlands soldiers realized what was coming."Tear them apart!" came the Western shout.To most, Jon's line was already doomed.Even Tyrion felt his earlier unease wilt as he watched the Mountain lower his lance. Nothing could stand before that.And yet—A different sensation tickled Tyrion's nose. He froze, frowning. The thick metallic tang of blood in the air had lessened. Something else replaced it: dampness, raw and heavy.Water.---The rumble began faint, like distant thunder. Then it swelled into a roar. Soldiers turned their heads just in time to see it—A wall of water, frothing yellow with mud, surged across the plain. Higher than a man's head, the flood rolled forward with terrifying inevitability.It spared no one. Northerner or Westerlander, knight or peasant, the flood struck all the same. Men screamed as they were swept from their feet, horses thrashed as waves engulfed their legs. Spears, banners, corpses—all tumbled in the torrent."The dam—!" Tyrion's face drained of color. "The dam broke. At this moment?"Panic erupted. Pursuers turned to flee, prey ran faster still. The ordered lines of knights dissolved into chaos.Bronn swore, tugging at Tyrion's reins. "Time to go, little lion!"But Tyrion hardly heard. His wide green eyes were fixed on the hill where the White Wolf banner snapped defiantly. His heart pounded with an impossible premonition—that line will not break. Not today.---The flood surged onward, racing toward Gregor Clegane.The Mountain barely flinched. Rage boiled in his chest at the thought of nature daring to hinder his slaughter. He yanked his helm tighter, raised his lance higher. The flood would not stop him; it would only make the kill sweeter.His knights wavered, shouting in panic as the water reached their horses' chests. But Gregor bellowed, a monstrous sound that froze them to obedience."Forward!"The Mountain would not retreat. Not before a bastard's banner.---On the hilltop, fear rippled through the makeshift line."The Mountain's coming!" Maegor Severn gasped, his voice breaking. His legs trembled so violently he nearly collapsed. The men around him paled at the name. They had already felt the giant's wrath once that day; to face him again in their shattered state seemed hopeless.Howland Reed heard their mutters with open disdain. Cowards. They had already been beaten into despair. But then—his sharp ears caught something new.A low roar. Louder. Closer.He turned west. His eyes widened."The flood…" he whispered. "It's here. Gods help us—it's here."Moments later, the wave crashed across the plain, sweeping both armies alike. Soldiers who had despaired cried out in sudden ecstasy."The flood! Jon's flood! We're saved!"Indeed, though the waters struck friend and foe indiscriminately, they changed everything. What had been firm ground for charging cavalry became a mire of mud. Horses stumbled, knights floundered, their advantage vanishing beneath waist-deep water.The choice was clear: either slog through a messy fight in the mud or retreat and abandon their triumph.Most would have chosen to withdraw.But Gregor Clegane was not most men.His fury unquenched, he roared above the din, urging his heavy cavalry through the rising flood, aiming straight for Jon's hill.---And atop that hill, Jon gripped Longclaw tighter, rain-slicked water dripping from his hair into his eyes. His voice, hoarse but unyielding, cut through the chaos:"Stand firm! This is our ground. No one passes the wolf banner!"The men roared back, fear transmuted into something fiercer.As the flood spread, swallowing the battlefield whole, the White Wolf banner snapped in the wind—no longer the loneliest sail, but the beacon of defiance in a drowned land.The god of the flood had answered.Now came the test: would even a river's fury be enough to halt the Mountain?--.
50% offer going on patreon only 3 days left soon grab the offer