The Northern army swept toward Tyrion's left flank like a brutal cold snap.
The mountain clans, whose only tactic was charging with blind courage, had never seen a charge of ten thousand men.
As the endless tide of enemies rushed toward them, these self-proclaimed brave warriors felt their knees go weak.
But there were many of them, and quite a few still managed to clash with the Northern front lines.
They were met with a relentless storm of arrows.
Howland Reed's troops, mixed with other archer units, stood on a high ridge providing fire support.
When they first arrived, the soldiers had complained endlessly about the stench of fish.
But now, the smell of blood drifting from the battlefield had completely masked it.
It was a terrifying rain of death. Cold arrowheads plunged into the flesh of the wildlings, sending sprays of blood into the air.
They had no way to fight back, as if they had stumbled onto a battlefield where they didn't belong.
"The sun of winter! Kill—"
The noble leading the fiercest charge was Harrion Karstark.
Harrion was Rickard's eldest son.
The beard that covered almost his entire chest was his trademark.
Facing such weak enemies who refused to retreat, Harrion was having the time of his life.
The tribesmen's equipment was crude. Most didn't even have basic leather armor.
As a commander, Harrion should have been managing the formation, but seeing such an "easy win," his warrior instincts took over.
"My Lord! You..." his deputy tried to stop him, but it was too late.
Harrion, greatsword in hand, had already leaped into the thickest cluster of enemies.
His blade whistled through the air, carving through flesh and bone with every swing.
To the mountain clans, this heavily armored swordsman looked like a god of war descended to earth.
What little courage they had melted away like snow under the summer sun.
"Mama!"
"Moon God save us!"
"Don't run! No retreat!"
Some of the shakier wildlings broke immediately. They had never seen such powerful warriors or such disciplined formations.
The black army pressing slowly toward them felt like a wall of despair.
These savages, used to petty tribal skirmishes, had never seen real war.
Steel and blood, roars and fire.
On the other side, Lord Cerwyn—the one who loved mocking Jon—was no exception.
The guy was a good shot; almost every arrow found its mark.
And since the wildlings had practically zero armor, he was enjoying himself immensely.
"Five... nine! Eleven! My Lord! There are more over there!"
Cerwyn's squire kept count and heaped praise on him, making the lord forget himself, as if this were just a hunt on his own lands.
No, even hunting wasn't this easy. At least the prey didn't run toward you.
Among the ranks was a massively obese Northern noble. Judging by the merman sigil on the blue banner, he was from House Manderly, the wealthiest family in the North.
His enormous gut was the best proof of his family's riches.
Ser Wylis Manderly couldn't ride a horse due to his size.
But he commanded his troops effectively, leading his family's soldiers in a steady advance.
At a glance, the Northern charge seemed unstoppable.
Especially on the left flank, which Roose Bolton had designated as the main attack force. They had advanced rapidly, practically breaching the Westerlands camp.
Black and red armies clashed together.
Steel against fire.
"Loose! Loose! Drive them back!"
"My Lord, I'm out of arrows!"
"Then block them with your bodies if you have to!"
Tyrion, watching from behind the lines, saw clansmen fleeing and ordered his archers to fire on them to force them back.
The Northern assault was simply too ferocious.
And yet, the patrols on the perimeter had sent no warning.
If they'd had just a little more time to prepare, the Westerlands army wouldn't be in such a mess.
He looked at the rest of the army. The center and right flank were also under attack.
Caught unprepared, the Westerlands forces were quickly losing ground there too.
"Clegane! Where is Clegane?! Is he ready?" Tyrion demanded anxiously, his voice pitching high.
The attack was too sudden. Not only were the other units unprepared, but even The Mountain's heavy troops were caught off guard.
They were in position now, but it was rushed.
If this dragged on any longer, his left flank would collapse.
Right now, Tyrion was literally spending the lives of those wildlings to buy time for the main Westerlands force.
"Ready!" Bronn pointed toward The Mountain's position.
A mass of heavy cavalry was poised to strike.
Tyrion felt a surge of relief, but a closer look revealed that most of them hadn't had time to armor their horses.
But given the emergency, it would have to do.
They needed just a moment more, and then they could join the fray.
---
Meanwhile, Jon was also waiting for his moment.
He knew his three to five hundred men would barely make a splash in a battle of thousands.
Sitting behind his soldiers, he Warged into his raven to send a message to Old York.
But Old York was far away, and apparently, the roar of ten thousand men hadn't been enough to wake him.
The old bastard was asleep again.
Seeing Old York snoozing by the dirt mound, Jon decided the man needed a wake-up call.
The raven dive-bombed Old York, slapping him in the face with its wings.
Old York jolted awake. Unbelievably, the guy was grumpy about it.
He drew his sword, swinging wildly. "Where did this feathered beast come from?!"
Jon perched the raven on a branch. Fortunately, a Winterfell soldier recognized it as Jon's and spotted the small bronze tube tied to its leg.
Back on the battlefield.
After an agonizing wait for Tyrion, The Mountain's heavy cavalry was finally assembled.
The unit of about eight hundred heavy horsemen looked like solid blocks of iron.
Just looking at them made Tyrion feel a weight lift off his shoulders.
A cold breeze swept across his sweaty forehead. He shivered, but felt energized, his grip tightening on his dagger.
Soon, the heavy cavalry began their charge.
When they galloped, the earth trembled.
Tyrion received more good news: the rest of the Westerlands army was moving.
Using the time Tyrion had bought, Tywin had re-established command over the other units.
The cavalry on the right and the main force in the center had mounted a defense.
At the very least, the Northern army wouldn't be able to scatter them now.
Tyrion noticed something else: the Northern attacks on the other fronts weren't very intense.
It seemed they, too, believed his left flank was the weak point and had concentrated their main force and elites right here.
"Once Clegane's troops hit them, everything will be fine."
The fire of victory burned in Tyrion's mismatched eyes.
"These Northerners charge hard," Bronn remarked, standing beside him.
Bronn was only hired to protect Tyrion, not to fight the army, so he had time for commentary.
"Yes," Tyrion nodded. "A pity their strategy is flawed."
Tyrion soon realized something strange: the number of Northern cavalry was surprisingly low.
This meant his side was even less likely to lose. At worst, they'd take some casualties and retreat.
Suddenly, a thought struck Tyrion. He looked around nervously.
But limited by his "altitude," he couldn't see very far.
"What are you looking for?" Bronn asked.
Tyrion ignored him and turned to shout at a blond squire nearby.
"Go tell Father to watch out for the Northern cavalry!"
"Yes, my Lord!"
Watching the blond figure run off, Tyrion thought of Jaime, his brother.
Although his own branch of the family wasn't large, the Lannister blond hair was as ubiquitous on the Sunset Sea coast as the Freys were at the Twins.
Soon, The Mountain led his charge out of the camp.
Seeing the massive hulk thunder forward, the crumbling morale of the mountain clans surged back.
"Attack! Kill them!"
The female chief of the Painted Dogs, who had tried to provoke The Mountain earlier, led her people in a renewed charge.
But The Mountain blew past them effortlessly.
One tribal warrior didn't dodge in time and was slammed by The Mountain's massive warhorse.
He was like a piece of rotten meat sucked into the thundering hooves; in the blink of an eye, he was unrecognizable.
Behind The Mountain flew the banner of the three dogs on yellow—the sigil of House Clegane.
It was said his grandfather, the kennelmaster, had saved Tywin's father, Tytos, from a lioness during a hunt.
Thus, they rose from servants to nobility.
And the hounds became the symbol of House Clegane.
Soon, the Northern nobles, who had been enjoying their slaughter, sensed something was wrong.
"Heavy cavalry! It's heavy cavalry! Form up! Form up!"
Harrion saw the red-armored riders filling his vision and snapped out of his blood-drunk trance.
He scrambled back to his lines to organize a defense.
"Spears! Spears! Get the spears up!" the obese noble shouted, his voice squeezed by layers of fat.
They had never expected such an elite force to be hiding in such a ragtag army.
They were just baiting us.
A terrible pressure crushed Lord Cerwyn's chest. Suddenly, he remembered Jon's words.
He instinctively reached for an arrow from his squire, but the boy reached into the quiver and found it empty.