Bronn's whip cracked like thunder. His warhorse snorted in pain, hooves striking through the waist-deep flood, sending muddy water spraying in every direction. But even at full gallop, Bronn cursed under his breath.Not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough.He wished the beast could sprout wings and soar, for every heartbeat wasted meant disaster."Ser Clegane! Retreat! Ser Clegane, pull back!" he bellowed, voice raw from shouting.But his cries were swallowed by the din of battle.Gregor Clegane—the Mountain—heard nothing, or if he did, he ignored it. He pressed forward, massive frame looming above the flood like a siege tower on horseback. His knights, clad in steel, splashed through the swirling waters beside him, driving against the current with stubborn fury.Yet even monsters must yield to nature.The flood turned ground into treacherous mire. Warhorses slipped. Armored riders toppled like boulders, tumbling head over heels into the mud. Cries of panic mingled with the clash of steel. The once-unstoppable tide of heavy cavalry was reduced to a stumbling trickle.Only a fraction of the Mountain's force managed to stagger within reach of Fisheater's Hill. There, the ground bristled with traps—iron caltrops and sharpened stakes Jon had ordered planted in haste. Warhorses shrieked as hooves split open on the hidden blades.From the slope, Howland Reed's archers loosed with chilling precision. Every arrow found a gap, every shaft drove into a throat or eye-slit.The Mountain's charge faltered, momentum bleeding away. Jon's line swayed, shields trembling, but it did not break.Gregor himself drove his lance twice into the Northern ranks, each thrust scattering men like dry twigs. Yet even he, peerless brute though he was, could not carve through alone.At last, Bronn's frantic shouts reached him. Reluctantly, teeth clenched with rage, the Mountain wheeled his bloodied warhorse and pulled back.The cheers that followed shook the sky."Long live Jon! Long live the White Wolf!"The chant rolled from throat to throat, swelling into a roar that carried across the battlefield. For the first time, Northern soldiers tasted hope.---Far away, Tyrion Lannister froze, his spyglass slipping from numb fingers and splashing into the muddy floodwater at his feet."Jon?" he whispered, disbelief etched on his face. "They're cheering for Jon?"Bronn arched a brow. "Aye. They said it plain enough—'Long live Jon, Long live the White Wolf.' You going deaf, dwarf?"But Tyrion barely heard him.In his mind's eye, he saw the brooding boy from the Wall—the insecure, bitter bastard who flinched from every glance. How had that same Jon become the steel-hearted commander holding an army together with sheer will?Impossible, Tyrion thought, panic worming its way through his gut. If Jon commands here… then where is Robb Stark?His gaze darted west, heart thudding with dread. If Robb was unaccounted for, this battle might only be the prelude to something worse.And yet—another worry pressed in.The floodwaters were already receding, leaving only sucking mud and stranded fish flopping on the churned ground. Cavalry advantage was gone. Armor weighed like stone. The Westerlands' offensive faltered."This can't be coincidence," Tyrion murmured. "If that flood was no accident…" His voice trailed into silence. The thought chilled him: if Jon truly commanded nature to aid him, the boy was more terrifying than Tywin could ever admit.---On the hilltop, Jon's eyes burned with cold fire. Mud clung to his armor, blood streaked his face, but his grip on his twin blades never wavered.Retreat? He spat at the thought."Who said anything about retreat?" His voice rang out, sharp as steel. "Everyone, hear me—counterattack!"A stunned hush fell over the battered survivors. Counterattack? Against the Mountain's cavalry? Against Tywin's legions? Madness.Yet they looked at Jon, saw the defiance in his stance, the wolf banner snapping above his head, and something inside them stirred.---Far to the rear, Roose Bolton had withdrawn to safety, his pale eyes watching through a spyglass.Because Jon's stand had bought precious time, thousands more Northern men had escaped the slaughter. Two thousand, perhaps more, lived who would otherwise have been trampled into the mud. Soldiers whispered thanks to Jon with every desperate step back.But to Bolton, those whispers were poison.He gripped his spyglass until his knuckles turned white. From the moment Jon had ridden into the fray, carving a bloody path through chaos, Bolton had thought him doomed. No commander survived such folly. And yet Jon had endured—more than endured, he had triumphed.Prestige clung to him like armor. If word spread that Ned Stark's bastard had saved the Northmen at the Green Fork, his influence would soar.Worse still—combine Robb's keen strategy with Jon's unshakable will, and the North would be bound to House Stark tighter than ever before. A liege lord as unyielding as Tywin Lannister himself, but in the frozen North.Bolton's stomach churned."My lord," rumbled a voice beside him. It was an Umber noble, eyes alight. "Shouldn't we ride to support Lord Jon?"Bolton turned, face like stone. "We have withdrawn. The battle is lost. Jon only salvaged a fragment. Do not mistake survival for victory."His voice was low, but venomous enough to silence the giant vassal.Still, doubt crept across the line of Northern nobles. Their eyes returned again and again to the distant wolf banner still advancing through the mud.---On the slope, Jon felt the moment teeter. Men wavered between despair and fervor, watching him for a decision. He raised his blades, pointed them toward the enemy."Forward!"The White Wolf banner dipped, then surged down the hill.The survivors followed like a flood of their own, spurred by faith as much as fear.Westerlands soldiers, stunned by the audacity, scrambled to meet them. Five, six enemy hosts turned their banners and converged.But Jon was no longer fighting blind. Every ridge, every soft patch of earth, every hidden path was etched into his mind through his sharpened perception. He led his men like a loach through water, slipping past encirclements, striking where they were weakest, retreating before the hammer blow could fall.---Tyrion's jaw slackened as he watched through muddy lashes. "That… that's him? Charging at the front?"The small figure at the head of the column moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned knight, twin blades flashing, banners whipping behind him.Bronn smirked. "Seems your bastard's got bigger balls than most lords."Tyrion said nothing. For the first time in his life, he wished he could be that man—a leader who stood where death was thickest, carving hope from despair.---The clash was brutal, swift. Jon's swords sang as he cut down a barbarian chieftain with trophies of ears dangling from his neck. He spun, piercing a Westerlands knight clean through the chest. His wolf-bannered soldiers followed with wild cries, their formation tightening around him like a pack.Tormien, the dim-witted but fierce soldier, barreled forward with brute strength, smashing through foes with reckless abandon.In minutes, an entire mountain clan force shattered before them.Amid the rout, Karstark men dragged their captured heir, Haliang, back into friendly lines. Shamed but furious, Haliang seized a sword and hacked at enemies as though vengeance alone fueled him.But when Jon signaled a withdrawal, Haliang ignored it, drunk on bloodlust.The snap of a whip cracked through the din. Pain lanced across his back."I said retreat! Did you not hear me?!" Jon's glare burned colder than steel.Haliang faltered, jaw clenched, but he obeyed.For the first time, the Northern lords began to realize this bastard commanded like a Stark born.---One raid became two. Two became four. Everywhere Jon struck, Westerlands forces buckled. His ragged band, once mere survivors, now fought like wolves in a pack, striking fast and vanishing into the mire.Confusion spread among Tywin's legions. Some companies hesitated, others retreated entirely. Even the Mountain, snarling with rage, could not force his exhausted warhorse back into the fray.For the first time that day, the Westerlands army knew fear.On the far bank, Roose Bolton's noble advisor turned to him once more."My lord… look at them. Shall we not ride one more charge?"---
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