"My Lord, let me charge one more time!""Yes, my Lord, just one more charge!""One more charge, one more charge!"The cries echoed one after another, a chorus of desperation and stubborn courage. Around Lord Roose Bolton, knights and bannermen pressed him with feverish determination, their armor still wet with blood and river water. Their voices carried the madness of men who could not accept retreat.For a long while, Bolton had maintained the icy calm for which he was infamous, his pale face as unreadable as a frozen lake. But even he, the man known for whispers and quiet cruelty, could no longer hold his composure. His lips curled into a snarl as he turned on the crowd."Charge?" he barked, his voice sharp and cutting. "How can we charge? Are you blind? The Westerosi army across the river has already regrouped! Can you not see the water level has dropped? Do you fools not understand?"He slammed a hand against his saddle, the sound cracking like a whip. "Someone! Call them back to me—now!"Even as his command rang out, Jon Snow's makeshift host had already begun its retreat.It was not cowardice that pulled them back, nor lack of will. Jon had seen enough to know that his soldiers—men who had fought until their blades were nicked and dull, who had marched with wounds bound in rags—were on the verge of collapse. Stamina, that invisible force that kept a warrior standing, had run nearly dry.This was no longer a disciplined host of Northern spears and shields. It was the battered remnant of a defeated army, men salvaged from chaos and despair. That they had managed to rally and fight this long was a miracle in itself.Jon himself carried the strange vantage of one who could see the field as if from above, the "God's-eye view" his strange gift provided. Yet even with such vision, he could not will blood back into veins or air into lungs. These men were no faceless units in a game with health bars—they were flesh and bone, men who bled, men who stumbled, men who would simply fall and never rise again if pushed further.He swept his gaze across the survivors. Counting quickly, he judged that close to three thousand still followed. More than he had expected. At the tail end, he could see captives being herded along, some stumbling, some clutching wounds.How strange, he thought grimly. Some of the men in his own ranks had been captives themselves only days before, and now they dragged others in their turn. War twisted the fates of men swiftly.Still, it was a small comfort. The host had once numbered eighteen thousand. Roose Bolton's arrogance had squandered seven or eight thousand lives. Now, thanks to Jon's intervention and the sheer will of men refusing to be abandoned, he had managed to salvage perhaps four thousand more than would otherwise have been lost. That was something.Behind him, soldiers staggered. Their upper bodies were splattered with dried blood—some theirs, some belonging to foes. Mud clung to their legs, sucking at their boots with every step. Faces were pale, lips cracked, breaths ragged.Jon knew the truth: if he allowed them to rest now, many would never rise again. Weariness could kill as surely as steel.So he pressed on, forcing himself to think not as one man but as the commander they needed. He chose a retreat route swiftly, steering them toward higher, safer ground.At last, after what felt both brief and endless, Jon led the battered column into a zone secure enough to halt. Only then did a cavalry unit, the banners of the flayed man snapping in the breeze, arrive belatedly to cover their withdrawal.Too late, Jon thought coldly. They always come too late.The soldiers, realizing the pursuit was over, collapsed where they stood. Some fell onto the mud, gasping. Others dropped shields and simply lay motionless, as if the earth itself had claimed them. They waited, hollow-eyed, for their lords to come and claim them like broken tools cast aside after use.Jon left them quietly. With his closest companions, he returned to his tent.But rest eluded him. His body ached, but his mind turned.Eddard Stark is still alive… perhaps.The thought circled him like a wolf in the dark. If Tywin Lannister could be met with proof of today's battle—if word were sent swiftly to King's Landing, urging vigilance—then perhaps his father, the "Old Wolf Lord," need not die as history had decreed.Yet was there precedent in Westeros for such dealings? Meeting the enemy commander in the midst of war? The thought was dangerous, even laughable. But Jon was no longer content to let fate play out unchallenged.As he brooded, the tent flap burst open. A soldier of Winterfell, his face flushed with excitement, stumbled inside."My Lord," he said breathlessly, "please… would you come and see?"Jon frowned. "What is it?""The soldiers," the man stammered. "They—they want to see you."Jon blinked. The man's eyes shone with a strange exhilaration, as if he had just won a bride or a fortune.The soldiers wanted to see him? Jon Snow, the bastard? Even if he was Eddard Stark's blood, could men truly request his presence so brazenly? This was not the way of Westeros, where bastards bore the weight of suspicion and scorn.Still wary, Jon extended his senses outward, sweeping for hidden threats. Finding no murderous intent lurking, he rose and followed the man.Outside, he saw them: the remnant soldiers, gathered like weary shadows. When his figure appeared, a cry rippled through them."Lord Jon is here!""It's Lord Jon!"The sound spread like fire, men clambering to their feet, forming an uneven but powerful wave of respect.Jon had not even changed from battle. His trousers were caked with mud, his armor smeared with blood, his hair tangled and sweat-soaked. Yet none of that mattered. To them, this was the man who had led them through hell and brought them out alive.A hulking figure pushed forward, face streaked with blood. Jon recognized him instantly."Lord Haliang?" Jon asked, recalling the man he had once struck with a horsewhip in the chaos of battle."It's me, my Lord!" the man said, voice quivering. "If not for you, I'd have been captured—and if I were captured, my father would surely kill me."At the mention of Rickard Karstark, Haliang's body shook. His voice cracked as though Rickard's hand might descend upon him even now.Jon stared at the big man, beard thick enough to cover his face if turned upward. For once, words failed him.Then came the declaration that silenced even Jon's doubts."Lord Jon," Haliang said, voice steady now, "from this day forth, the soldiers of House Karstark will be under your command. Whatever you order, I shall obey."Jon froze. Before he could answer, another voice rang out."Me as well!"It was Lord Severn, once Jon's loudest critic, the man who had mocked his bastard's birth more than once. He approached awkwardly, his arm freshly bandaged by a maester. His face was older, lined with years, but in his eyes there was only earnestness now."Jon…" Severn said, unable to bring himself to utter the title of Lord, yet speaking with a respect that surpassed it. His tone carried guilt like a heavy cloak. "I used to look down on you. Always. But if it weren't for you today…"Jon raised a hand sharply. "Enough, Lord Severn. Do not speak of the past. Your men are yours to command still. We all serve Robb. Do not forget that."His words were clipped, his back stiff as he turned away. This was no time for whispers of mutiny. If he gathered men to his banner now, he would be the one branded traitor, guilty of breaking faith with his liege lord. He had only just escaped the Wall—he would not be sent back in chains."Wait! Jon!" Severn called, and the soldiers too shifted uneasily, unwilling to see him leave.They wanted him. They trusted him. Unlike Roose Bolton, Jon would not abandon them. They saw it, felt it in their bones.But Jon's answer was steel. He drew his sword, the blade gleaming, and leveled it coldly at the men barring his path."If any man blocks me," he said, voice like ice, "I will report him to Robb Stark under the charge of betraying his liege lord's command."The silence that followed was heavy. Reluctantly, they stepped aside.Jon walked on, but another group moved to intercept him—this time, not lords or proud knights, but gray-haired veterans.They looked weathered as old oaks, their armor rusted, their spears worn smooth with years. None younger than fifty, perhaps older. Their gear was pitiful, little better than scrap, yet their eyes held something fierce.Anger flared in Jon. Which heartless lord had dragged these men from their homes, forced them to fight in their twilight years, without even giving them proper equipment? It was monstrous.Before he could lash out, one of them stepped forward."My Lord," the man said, voice rough, "we heard you are Eddard's son. Gods, you look so much like him.""Aye, he does," another chimed in, grinning through broken teeth. "More than Robb does, if truth be told."They wore dirty felt caps, their thin faces sticking out like stalks beneath."Though we saw Lord Eddard only once, from afar," the first continued, "the moment we saw you, we knew. His son, without doubt."Jon sighed, irritation prickling. "Enough chatter. What do you want from me? If it's to swear yourselves as others have, then save your breath. I won't take you in just because you're old."The veterans exchanged glances, then the leader spoke quietly."But our lord has already fallen in battle. We have no lord left. Will you still turn us away?"Jon's jaw tightened. Inwardly, he thought bitterly: A lord like that deserved to die. And I'm glad I wasn't there to save him..-
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