The Mountain's iron-clad hooves struck the battlefield like thunder. His cavalry moved not as men but as an avalanche of steel, crushing all in their path.Panic. Regret. Fear. None of it mattered beneath the weight of that charge.The Northern Army's right flank, anchored by House Karstark, had been tasked with the assault. Their intent was to sweep away the poorly armed clansmen before them and carve a bloody path into the Westerlands host. Arrogance had blinded them. They thought they faced savages with crude axes. Instead, they met the Mountain.Gregor Clegane's titanic form rode at the head of his knights, a giant clad in red steel, a lance in his hand as long as a sapling. His presence alone cast a shadow across the field.Then came the impact.The Northern spear wall shattered like a clay pot dashed upon stone. One moment the Karstark line stood defiant, shields locked; the next, they were tumbling aside, broken by the sheer momentum of horse and rider.The Mountain's lance skewered a nobleman clean through. The man's banner—a crimson field bearing a moose—toppled into the mud. House Holland had fallen, but in the chaos no one marked the loss.The collapse of a line is like rot spreading through wood. Once one banner falls, others soon follow.---Among the archers stood Lelan Horode, watching grimly. Their volleys had darkened the sky a moment ago, but arrows clattered uselessly against the heavy armor. A few shafts struck horses, but it was not enough.The giant in red steel barreled forward, spear dripping blood, hounds stitched into his banner snapping at the wind.Lelan thought back to Jon's warnings. He had underestimated that bastard boy—clever mind, sharp instincts, a warrior's sense for danger. He had believed him overly cautious. But now, with the Mountain's knights cleaving through the Karstarks as though they were straw dummies, he realized Jon had been right.Too late.---Haliang Karstark, Rickard's bearded heir, had reveled in the slaughter earlier, hacking down tribesmen with his greatsword. But when he glimpsed the Clegane banner, his blood ran cold.He knew the name. Every noble child was drilled in heraldry. Three hounds on a yellow field meant only one man: Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides.One look was enough. Haliang knew he could not prevail. Gregor loomed like a human siege engine, a wall of flesh and iron mounted on a destrier that itself seemed forged for war.But he was the heir of Karhold. Retreat was unthinkable. His father would sooner kill him than forgive cowardice.He adjusted the braid of his thick beard to clear his vision, hefted his greatsword, and bellowed, "For the North!"The Karstark men shifted, reforming desperately around him. Spears lowered. Shields lifted.Gregor's eyes found him across the chaos. They were the eyes of a predator, cold and pitiless. Haliang felt the gaze like a hand squeezing his chest. He struggled to breathe. He was prey, and the Mountain had chosen him.The charge hit.Steel crashed into flesh. Horses trampled men flat. The Karstark line crumpled in an instant. Willpower meant nothing against armored destriers and riders weighing near half a ton.Haliang swung wildly, defiant. Then Gregor's lance struck him like a falling tree. The world spun. The heir of Karhold landed in the mud, dazed, arms wrenched behind his back by Westerlands soldiers.Shame burned hotter than pain. He roared like a trapped beast, but his cries were drowned beneath the thunder of hooves.---The Mountain did not stop. He carved deeper into the Northern host, his knights flooding through the gap.Elsewhere, Westerlands cavalry wheeled. Three thousand horsemen on the right flank, another two thousand under Kevan Lannister, surged forward. It was a counterattack, swift and devastating.The Northern offensive faltered. Rear ranks buckled. Panic rippled outward.---In the rear, Roose Bolton watched, pale eyes narrowing.The battle was unfolding exactly as Jon had predicted. Bolton's prestige would suffer greatly. Yet what choice did he have? To throw his own reserves into the collapsing flank was to feed more lives into the maw."Full retreat," he said coldly."My lord, abandon them?" a nobleman protested. "It's not yet a rout—""I said full retreat!" Roose's voice cut like a lash. His retainers turned cold eyes on the dissenter. None dared speak again.At that moment, Jon entered the tent. He read the room instantly—the decision had been made. Bolton would flee.Tactically, it was sound. Strategically, it was ruinous. But Jon knew something Bolton did not: the Green Fork."My lord," Jon said firmly, "I ordered men to breach the river's embankment. In minutes, the waters will flood the field. If we hold, even briefly, we can save thousands."The other lords glanced at Bolton, hope flickering. Perhaps the bastard had a plan worth trying.Bolton's face darkened. "Jon. Who commands this army?""You do, my lord.""Then hear me well: if you obstruct my orders again, I will have you executed under military law."Jon's jaw tightened. Retreat might be logical, but abandoning the men was unforgivable. He sneered, voice dripping scorn:"Hmph. Does the Lord of the Dreadfort only know how to threaten his allies? You've wasted lives through arrogance, and when the truth spreads, let us see how you explain yourself to the North."He turned on his heel. Before leaving, he spat onto the floorboards. In Northern custom, it was the highest contempt.The tent went silent.Jon strode away, rallying his own men. Whatever Bolton commanded, he would act.---"Everyone, with me!" Jon shouted, mounting his horse.His Winterfell soldiers hesitated. Ahead was slaughter—Westerlands knights thundering forward, their own comrades fleeing in disarray. To charge into such chaos seemed madness.Jon's voice rose above the tumult. "Old York has broken the embankment! The river will rise and cut off the enemy! Hold a little longer, and we live. Falter now, and you shame Winterfell!"Still, doubt lingered. So Jon gave them hope as well as fear. "I don't ask you to defeat the Lannisters—only to save our brothers. To kill is a merit, but to save lives is a greater one. Will you ride with me?"Something stirred. Shame, pride, and the will of the North. Slowly, they nodded."Raise my banner!" Jon cried.The black-and-white direwolf standard unfurled, snapping in the wind. Soldiers rallied to it, hearts hardening.Jon's gaze swept the battlefield through his sharpened perception. He found a hill to the southwest—a defensible rise, known locally as Fisheater's Hill. Once, fishermen had dried their catch there. Today, it would be a bulwark."There!" Jon pointed. "Hold that hill. Make it our shield."The wolf banner moved forward, cutting against the tide, and behind it the battered sons of Winterfell steadied themselves for one last stand.---
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