The morning sun after the battle was blindingly bright—an orange-red disk rising over the blood-soaked plains. Flowers bent in the wind, and the heavy stench of iron and death slowly faded from the air.
Swordsmanship: Red
Archery: Purple
Horsemanship: Blue
God's Perspective: Purple
Warging: Green
Unburnt: White
Great Strength: White
Remaining Upgrades: 1
As the soldiers cleaned the battlefield and gathered the fallen, Jon felt a subtle change in his Golden Finger.
The death of the Mountain had brought him a new entry—Great Strength.
The surge of raw power was undeniable; his muscles felt denser, his movements lighter. His personal combat ability had grown once again.
Yet Jon knew that his future was no longer that of a lone warrior—it was as a commander. In that role, strategy, discipline, and command mattered far more than personal might.
What mattered most now were the captured armors.
Those heavy suits of Westerlands steel would become the foundation of his dominance in battles to come.
Jon was pulled from his thoughts when he noticed Martin approaching, accompanied by Old York.
Martin's steps were cautious, his eyes lowered. Old York's, however, gleamed with the light of excitement.
"My lord, you must see these treasures!" Old York said eagerly. "The heavy armors brought by the Mountain—each set is worth more than my old bones!"
Jon gave a faint nod. "Let's go. Show me."
He glanced once at Martin, then strode off beside Old York toward the roadside where the spoils were being collected.
Gray steel armor, some polished, some stained with dried blood, lay neatly stacked in towering piles. Jon estimated there were at least three hundred sets already, and carts kept arriving with more.
Nearby, Harken and several tribal warriors stood staring wide-eyed, barely able to contain themselves.
Harken clutched a full suit of armor as if afraid someone might snatch it away. "If everyone wore this," he muttered, "each man would be worth ten."
"My lord, look at this breastplate," Old York said, tapping it with his sword. The metal rang out with a sharp, resonant tone. "At least three times thicker than ordinary plate!"
His trained ear told him what his eyes already knew. Ordinary armor gave a dull thud. This—this was craftsmanship worthy of nobles and kings.
The Westerlands were rich in mines; their smelting and forging were unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon nodded approvingly. "Good. Collect all of them. I'll issue them uniformly later."
"Yes, my lord," Old York replied without hesitation.
As Jon turned to leave, planning how to structure this new heavy cavalry corps, Martin finally found the courage to speak.
"Jon—Lord Jon."
His voice was low, heavy with guilt. He wanted to express gratitude and loyalty but dared not step too close.
Jon's expression remained unreadable. "Follow me," he said simply.
Martin obeyed. Together they walked to a row of bodies laid out on the field—old warriors from the Mountain Clans who had died luring the Mountain into the trap. Among them were countless civilians, their remains recovered near the walls of Darry City.
Jon's gaze hardened. "Do you remember what I told you before you insisted on retaking Darry City?"
Martin's mouth opened, but no words came.
Jon picked up a riding crop and struck his chest plate once for every word:
"They. All. Died. Because. Of. You."
The whip didn't hurt through the armor, but Martin flinched all the same. Shame burned hotter than pain.
Before so many watching soldiers, he could only lower his head, his face red with humiliation.
"I want you to collect their bodies," Jon said coldly, "and bury them properly."
"Yes, my lord," Martin replied hoarsely, bowing deeply.
That evening, news reached Darry City. Upon learning that Jon had saved them, young Lin Man immediately ordered the great hall decorated for a feast.
As the sun sank, Jon oversaw a cremation for the fallen soldiers and murdered civilians, ensuring their ashes were collected with dignity.
The corpses of the Westerlands troops—save for the Mountain's, which Jon planned to send back as proof of victory—were burned together in a mass pit, their bones reduced to ash and buried beneath the soil.
In the great hall, Jon sat to Lin Man's left while Old York read aloud the battle's results.
"My lord, we captured a total of three hundred and twenty prisoners. Four hundred and seventy were slain. Our own losses: one hundred seventy dead, several seriously wounded…"
It was a decisive victory—the annihilation of the Westerlands' elite heavy cavalry at minimal cost. Still, no one dared to cheer loudly. Jon's earlier rebuke of Martin had cast a sober tone across the hall.
Old York continued, his voice rising slightly: "We also captured four hundred and sixty-eight full suits of heavy armor, with several dozen more fit for repair. With this, we can field a heavy armored unit of our own!"
His words drew quiet pride from every corner of the room.
Jon nodded, then turned to Lin Man. "Ser Lin Man, would you consider joining us? Your Darry soldiers are well-trained. If they come under my banner, I'll appoint them to officer positions."
Lin Man almost blurted out a "no problem," but hesitated and glanced instinctively at Martin.
Martin, still weighed down by remorse, spoke first. "Lord Jon—no problem. It would be Darry City's honor." He bowed, his voice rough but sincere.
Jon inclined his head. "Good. With these heavy armors, I plan to form an elite unit—our reserve and strike force. Do you have any suggestions?"
Flustered but eager, Martin straightened his back. "My lord, we should select only the most loyal and physically strong soldiers. That way, the armor's full potential can be realized."
Jon's lips curved slightly. "Very well. Since House Darry's men are now part of my army, you will oversee this task. You will command this heavy-armored unit as its captain. How does that sound?"
"It is my honor, my lord—" Martin froze mid-sentence, his eyes wide with disbelief.
He had expected scolding or even demotion—not promotion.
To be made captain of the most elite unit in Jon's army was beyond anything he'd dared to imagine.
If not for the setting, he might have dropped to one knee then and there.
"My lord, rest assured—I will train them well for you!" he said, voice trembling.
Old York stroked his beard, smiling faintly at the exchange.
He had once thought following this bastard son would lead to ruin. Yet every step since had brought success—digging riverbanks, recruiting mountain clans, defeating the Mountain's army.
These victories alone could elevate a knight to baron, even double his lands.
He chuckled softly to himself. Even Tomien won't do worse than me now.
Without Jon, he would likely have died long ago—either at the Green Fork or in some Westerlands prison camp.
He looked toward Lin Man and saw the young lord's eyes shining with admiration for Jon—devotion deeper than Greatjon Umber's for Robb Stark.
And Jon, with just a few words, had gained not only loyalty but a personal guard captain.
Old York thought privately, After this war, Jon becoming an earl won't just be possible—it's inevitable.
Like the Karstarks, descended from the Starks, perhaps Jon would one day found a new house of his own—the White Starks.
With ample food stores in Darry City and Tywin licking his wounds from this defeat, Jon's army would stay to rest and reorganize.
That night, a simple
but spirited feast was held in celebration.
The banners of the white wolf fluttered proudly in the wind, gleaming under the moonlight.
Yearly access offer 50 percent and monthly offer 25 percent
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)