"Advance! Advance! Advance!"
The war song thundered across the war-torn Riverlands, echoing through the ravaged plains and forests. Its steady rhythm seemed to push back the lingering despair that clung to the land.
Beasts foraging for food fled into the distance, while a dark flock of crows trailed the army, drawn by the scent of death that still hung in the air.
The Mountain's body had been preserved with lime; his organs removed, his blood drained. As the weather grew colder, this gruesome preservation would keep him intact for quite some time.
Martin had built a massive cross and nailed the giant's corpse upon it.
That towering body—once an instrument of terror—now stood as the army's greatest trophy. Even from afar, commoners who gathered to watch recognized the infamous form instantly. No heralds were needed to tell them who it was.
Jon's army marched and sang proudly as they returned toward the Northern camp. Their voices carried on the wind, reaching even the distant command tent of Roose Bolton.
Hearing the song, Bolton's face turned colder than ever—pale as frost, rigid as stone.
As commander, he now faced the humiliation of congratulating the man whose fame had eclipsed his own. It felt, to him, like being forced to smile while swallowing poison.
Meanwhile, a group of nobles from the Northern host had already ridden out to greet Jon's returning army.
Among them, Ser Medger Cerwyn and Harrion Karstark were the most eager. They galloped wildly ahead, their attendants struggling to keep up.
When Harrion saw the enormous corpse nailed to the cross, recognition struck instantly.
That figure—the same mountain of a man who had shattered his line at the Green Fork—still haunted his nightmares.
Now, even though the Mountain's flesh had wasted and shriveled after his organs were removed, his skeleton alone was still massive enough to terrify.
"It really is the Mountain," Harrion murmured, stepping closer. Then his eyes caught the deep gash across the corpse's neck—one clean, fatal blow.
He turned to a nearby soldier who looked Northern. "Oi—you! Who killed the Mountain?"
"My lord," the soldier replied proudly, "Lord Jon killed the Mountain with his own hands."
"Jon?" Harrion repeated, stunned—but as the thought settled, he found it perfectly believable. If not Jon, who in the North could have slain such a beast?
Medger Cerwyn arrived just then, dismounting quickly, his eyes wide with amazement. "By the gods… it really is him."
His attention then drifted to the two banners flying at the head of the procession—Jon's black banner with the white wolf, and behind it, the farmer's banner of House Darry.
But notably, the Darry banner followed one position behind the white wolf.
"It seems House Darry has already pledged its soldiers to Jon," Medger remarked to Harrion.
Back when Jon had first set out, both Cerwyn and Harrion had offered to accompany him. Jon had refused, saying he didn't wish to draw suspicion or envy from Roose Bolton.
At the time, neither believed House Darry would face any true danger in reclaiming its lands—certainly not the Mountain himself.
"If you find yourself in danger on the battlefield," came a calm voice beside them, "the gods may not come to save you—but Jon will."
Both men turned.
The speaker was a bald, heavyset noble in blue armor—Ser Wendel Manderly, brother of the late Wylis Manderly.
The two brothers had shared both size and skill with the bow, though Wendel was far more solemn than his cheerful sibling.
"Look!" Wendel pointed toward the ranks of marching soldiers. "The heavy armored troops!"
Harrion and Cerwyn followed his gaze—and froze.
Hundreds of men in gleaming, snow-white plate marched beneath the twin banners, four to five hundred in total. Their armor caught the light, dazzling like rows of blades.
It was the very same kind of armor that had crushed Harrion's lines at the Green Fork.
Jon actually annihilated them? he thought in disbelief.
Beside him, Cerwyn was shouting in astonishment. "Heavy armored soldiers! He actually took them all! My gods!"
Everyone present understood what this meant.
Jon's victory hadn't just destroyed the most formidable enemy unit of the Westerlands—it had also crowned him the true power within the Northern host.
His prestige and might now equaled, if not surpassed, Roose Bolton's.
"Lord Bolton has arrived," a herald called.
"The Duke of Dreadfort, Lord Roose Bolton!"
The nobles turned as Bolton approached, surrounded by his retinue of knights.
Yet none of them moved aside.
"The Commander-in-Chief has arrived—show some respect!" barked Polin, the same knight Bolton had sent earlier to assist Martin at Darry.
But his order was met with open scorn.
"Commander-in-Chief?" Wendel sneered. "You mean the one who fled the field when things went bad?"
Polin's face twisted. "What did you say?!"
"Nothing," Wendel replied smoothly, "just that some of us aren't comfortable putting our backs to men who run."
A ripple of mocking laughter spread through the group.
Polin's hand went straight to his sword, but before tempers could explode, Bolton raised his hand.
He knew that if a brawl broke out here, it would only expose how little authority he still had.
He gave Polin a cold glance. "Later, go to Jon's camp and tell him I wish to speak with him."
"My lord, should we…" Polin made a subtle gesture across his throat.
Bolton's look of disdain shut him down instantly.
"Fool," Bolton muttered. If I killed Jon now, would Robb Stark spare me?
He had no intention of murder—at least not yet. For now, he would discuss strategy.
After all, Riverrun had already issued an order: it was time to advance on Harrenhal.
---
By the time Jon entered camp, cheers greeted him from all sides. Nobles and soldiers alike rushed forward to offer congratulations.
"Tywin must be fuming right now!" Harrion laughed.
"Absolutely!" Cerwyn joined in. "Jon's victory is like a hunter cutting off the lion's claws—Tywin Lannister will never rise again!"
Even Wendel Manderly spoke, his words more measured but sincere. "Lord Jon, your courage and honor have brought hope back to the North. My house still has two thousand soldiers. I'd see them placed under your command—only you can lead us to victory."
"Yes, Jon!" Cerwyn added eagerly. "If His Majesty Robb had let you lead from the start, Tywin would already be hanging beside the Mountain's corpse!"
Jon smiled faintly but said nothing. He knew that if Robb had indeed given him command, these very men would be bound to his orders as well.
"Sirs," Jon said finally, his tone calm. "I was simply fortunate. And Lord Bolton's command was not without merit—his choices were sound."
"But we need an excellent commander-in-chief!" someone shouted.
"Right!"
Voices rose around him, echoing the sentiment—just as they had once crowned Robb in Riverrun.
"Everyone, listen to me!" Harrion suddenly stepped forward, his voice booming across the camp.
"Roose Bolton? Bah!"
He spat heavily on the ground, and the crowd roared with laughter and cheers.
"In my heart," Harrion declared, "there is only one man whose orders I will follow willingly—Jon Snow, Lord Eddard's son!"
"Exactly!" Cerwyn shouted beside him. "Only those with Stark blood can lead us to victory—facts have proven it!"
"Right!" "Aye!" "For the White Wolf!"
The shouts grew louder, rolling through the camp like thunder.
Jon stood still among them, the din echoing in his ears.
For a moment, he felt as though he were standing in Riverrun again—when another crowd had raised their voices and crowned another Stark.
---
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