The Northern host advanced like a tidal wave of iron, sweeping southward. Their charge was not elegant, but it was relentless, the pounding of thousands of boots and hooves shaking the ground like thunder.On the left flank of the Westerlands army, Tyrion Lannister stood on a low rise, his short legs spread wide for balance, green eyes watching anxiously. Before him, the mountain clans he had gathered in desperation stared in disbelief at the dark sea of Northmen crashing toward them.They had called themselves fearless, men who had killed kings. Yet when faced with the endless banners and disciplined ranks of ten thousand hardened soldiers, their knees weakened, their bravado shriveling.Some still screamed defiance and rushed forward, crude axes raised high. But what greeted them was not sword or spear—it was death from above.Arrows.Howland Reed's archers, positioned on a slope, loosed volley after volley. Shafts darkened the sky, their whistling descent ending in the sick thud of flesh torn apart. The mountain clans, with little more than leather or scraps of iron, had no defense. They collapsed in heaps, pierced and broken, blood spraying into the mud."Winter Sun! Kill!"From the vanguard of the Northern charge thundered Haliang Karstark, Rickard's bearded heir. His greatsword swung in wide arcs, carving bloody channels through the wildlings. His deputy tried to call him back, but Haliang had no ears for caution.He reveled in the slaughter, roaring as his blade cleaved flesh and bone. To the clansmen, he seemed like a god of war descending upon them, a giant cloaked in steel, unstoppable and merciless. Their courage evaporated. Some dropped their weapons and fled, others wailed prayers to forgotten gods, but all met the same fate—death beneath the northern onslaught.Nearby, Lord Severn—ever eager to sneer at Jon—stood coolly loosing arrows. His marksmanship was impressive; each shaft sank into unarmored flesh."Five! Nine! Eleven! My lord, that one too!" his squire cried, fawning over him. Severn smiled like a hunter counting stags felled, forgetting this was not sport but war.On the flank, a corpulent noble of House Manderly commanded with surprising efficiency despite his bulk. Too heavy for horse, he waddled among his men, barking orders, his azure banners waving above him. His troops, well-fed and well-drilled, pressed the clans with brutal consistency.For a moment, it seemed the Northern advance would smash through entirely. Steel clashed with flesh, arrows rained, and the mountain clans broke, running back toward their own camp.Tyrion's sharp voice cracked like a whip: "Archers! Drive them back!"His orders were obeyed. Shafts hissed into the backs of fleeing clansmen, forcing them back toward the Northern spears. Tyrion's lips twisted. He was not cruel by nature, but fear forced his hand. If the left collapsed now, the entire line would fold.Damn them, he thought. They bragged of killing kings, yet they run from Starks like frightened dogs.But he also knew the truth: the Northern attack was too fierce. The scouts outside the camp had sent no warning. Had the Westerlands been given even an hour to ready themselves, things might have been different."Clegane! Where is Clegane?!" Tyrion shouted, voice breaking with urgency. "Is he ready?!"Bronn appeared at his side, calm as always, pointing with his sword. "There. He's forming now."Tyrion turned, heart lurching in relief. The Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, had assembled his eight hundred heavy cavalry. Steel glinted, crimson cloaks flapped, hooves pawed the earth. It was not perfect—they hadn't even armored all the horses—but it would have to do.The ground shook as the line formed. Tyrion's sweaty grip tightened on his sword hilt. "Good. Very good. Once they charge, the left will hold."But Jon Snow knew better.Far behind the lines, Jon sat among his small command, three hundred men at most, eyes closed. Through the warg bond, he sent his raven winging toward Old York's position at the makeshift dam.Yet what did he find?Old York snoring, sprawled in the grass, oblivious to the thunder of battle. Jon's jaw tightened. With a thought, he directed the raven to dive, flapping wings across the old man's face. York startled awake, flailing his sword. "What blasted feathered devil is this?!"A soldier laughed, recognizing Jon's bird. He unfastened the bronze tube at its leg, reading the message. Orders. The dam must be ready.Back on the battlefield, Tyrion's breath caught. The Mountain's host began to move. The charge rolled forward like a wall of iron, hooves pounding, lances gleaming. Even from a distance, the earth itself seemed to quake.The mountain clans roared again, morale reigniting at the sight of their towering champion. Painted Dogs howled, Fire Witches shrieked, and the barbarian tide turned to follow.Gregor Clegane ignored them. His eyes burned with bloodlust as he spurred his warhorse. One tribesman stumbled in his path. Gregor's steed crushed him beneath hooves, bones snapping, body left a mangled smear in the mud.Behind Gregor fluttered the yellow hound banner of House Clegane, its snarling jaws seeming to laugh at death.Northern shouts of triumph faltered. Haliang Karstark's greatsword dipped as his eyes widened."Heavy cavalry! Pikes! Raise pikes!"The corpulent Manderly bellowed, voice muffled by fat yet desperate. Spears bristled like a forest, but dread rippled through the ranks.They had been deceived. What they thought a weakness was a trap.Jon had warned them.Severn's heart clenched with sudden clarity. He reached for another arrow, but his squire fumbled with the quiver—empty.The sound of hooves grew thunderous. The Mountain was upon them.--
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