"Are you sure no one escaped?"That was Roose Bolton's first question when Jon returned to the army camp. Jon dropped the sack of Westerlands heads onto the ground, the grim proof of his work.The Northern host had already begun its march south, and lords crowded near Bolton's tent to hear the report. Murmurs rippled through them when they learned Jon, as a mere scout, had chosen annihilation rather than avoidance."Reckless.""Unwise.""Folly, not prudence."Jon heard it all, their skepticism and scorn. He did not flinch. Instead, he glanced at them from the corner of his eye, voice firm:"If this attack fails because of my poor reconnaissance, then I beg you—cut off my head."The camp quieted at the sharpness of his words.A nasal voice broke the silence. "Cut off your head? Don't flatter yourself. A bastard without lands or titles isn't worth the sword stroke. You'd hang."Jon didn't need to look. He knew that sneering tone—it was Lord Severn again, forever quick to remind him of his place.Nobles loved to trumpet their status, especially when they had little else to boast of. Jon had grown used to it. Theon had been the same in Winterfell—arrogant, needling, always flaunting his name.Before the contempt could spread further, Lelan Horode's gravelly voice cut across them."My lords, I vouch for Jon. We scouted together. Not one Westerlander slipped through. The choice to strike was not his alone—it was ours."Heads turned toward the Crannog knight. His name carried weight. Eddard Stark himself had once said that without Lelan Horode, he would have died to Arthur Dayne. With that kind of authority behind Jon, even the most skeptical lords swallowed their mockery.Bolton, unreadable as ever, shifted to his maps. He placed his own host safely at the center, guarded on all sides. Karstark and Umber, two houses fiercely loyal to the Starks, were assigned the vanguard. Blackwood, Glover, and Severn would take the flanks.The trap was being baited.Bolton knew that no surprise attack could be perfect. The cavalry Jon slew were only a screen. The Westerlands camp would still have scouts and watchtowers. A true "ambush" meant denying the enemy time to don armor or marshal ranks. Delay their readiness, strike while confusion reigned—that was the essence of Bolton's plan.But Jon saw something more.Through his gift, he had already tasted the shape of the battlefield. He knew the enemy's left flank was not as weak as it seemed. Poorly armored mountain clansmen were there, yes, but hidden among them were elites—Tywin's hidden blade, the Mountain and his heavy foot.Jon stepped forward. "Lord Bolton, may I speak?"Bolton's pale eyes flicked toward him, and the tent quieted."The left flank is no flaw, but bait. Why would the Westerlands show such an obvious weakness? I believe their strongest are hidden there. Better we strike at their right, where the ground favors us."A murmur rippled. Some lords frowned; others leaned forward.Bolton's expression sharpened into disdain. "Jon, answer me two things. First—have you ever commanded on a battlefield?"Jon held his tongue."Second—who commands this army?"Bolton's voice dropped to a threat. "If you continue to obstruct, I will deal with you by military law."Severn's mocking tone chimed in once more. "What's next? Shall we fear every man in boots? Shall we tiptoe around like frightened children?"The other lords smirked, sneered, shook their heads. To them, Jon was still a bastard overstepping his station.Jon met their gazes one by one. He saw only arrogance, pride, and the blindness of men too certain in their own wisdom.Hard to save a doomed soul.He stepped back. Bolton would not listen. Not now.But Jon was not helpless. His eyes wandered to the raven perched near his tent post. Through Warging, he sent the bird winging northward, back to Old York's worksite.The dam.York had chosen well, carving a reservoir into a narrow valley of the Green Fork. With ropes tied to its key supports, one tug would unleash a flood strong enough to drown men and horses alike.Jon's plan remained. If Bolton blundered into the Mountain's trap, Jon would answer with water and steel.---Meanwhile, in the Westerlands camp, order was unraveling.Since Tywin had led his army out of the West, they had crushed every foe in their path. Riverlands lords fell like dominoes; villages burned; castles opened their gates in terror.And now, fat with victory, the Westerlands soldiers grew careless.Grease congealed in pots. Armor lay discarded like old skins. Men lounged half-dressed, drinking and laughing.Among them, Tyrion Lannister perched on a stool, his sharp eyes flicking between the crude mountain clansmen he had recruited. Wild hair, painted faces, leather armor patched with scraps—yet their ferocity was real.They stared, all of them, at one man.Gregor Clegane. The Mountain.Over eight feet tall, his head itself larger than most men's helmets, he sat swilling wine, eyes burning like an animal's. His mere presence cowed the wildlings into silence. The greatsword at his side, taller than a boy, still stank of Riverlands blood.It was he who had ravaged these lands, burning villages and slaughtering innocents at Tywin's order.Tyrion, with a sardonic smile, raised his cup. "If you fools wish to challenge him, be ready for your deaths. And best prepare yourselves—the Northmen march even now."One of the Painted Dogs, a scarred woman with ash smeared across her brow, spat at the ground. "We fear no Northmen. We have killed kings before."Her words drew savage cheers. Tyrion only sipped his wine, hiding his thoughts. Yes, and soon you'll die like dogs in turn.His true purpose was clear. These clansmen were fodder, a screen to bleed the enemy while Tywin's real soldiers struck.And behind them, the Mountain waited.---As the camp drowned in drink and arrogance, a horn sounded.The note cut sharp through the night air—enemy attack."Enemy attack!" Bronn, Tyrion's sellsword, came sprinting, rough beard bristling.Tyrion nearly toppled from his chair. "What?!""Northmen! The banners of Karstark, Severn, Glover—they're upon us!"Cursing, Tyrion scrambled up a wagon, spyglass shaking in his hands. In the distance, dark banners advanced, steel flashing in torchlight.His heart clenched when he spotted the crossing sigil of House Frey flying among them."The Freys," he breathed. "Traitors."Around him, chaos erupted. Men scrambled for chainmail, knights fumbled with straps, and the Mountain growled as he forced his bulk into armor.There was no time to seek Tywin. No time to ask permission. Tyrion gritted his teeth and turned to the mountain clans."You wanted glory? You claim to fear no kings? Then prove it. Advance! Draw their fury!"The clans howled, eager for blood.Tyrion's mind, however, churned coldly. He knew his father's opinion of him—scorn, always scorn. But tonight, if the trap worked, if the North shattered itself against the Mountain, then perhaps even Tywin Lannister would nod in approval.--
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