The candlelight inside the command tent flickered, shadows dancing wildly on canvas walls as the wind hissed outside. The air was thick with the musk of steel, sweat, and blood, a silence heavy enough to crush.Haliang Karstark raised his sword high, the steel glinting orange in the wavering flame. His eyes, bloodshot yet resolute, locked on Jon Snow."Jon," he declared, his voice carrying like thunder, "the men of House Karstark are yours!"Gasps swept the tent, but before the echo faded, Lord Severn—Meiqisaiwen—stepped forward. His face was pale from wounds, but his voice rang steady."The soldiers of House Severn stand with you as well!"He drew his sword with a hiss, lifting it skyward in mirrored pledge."The Manderly men too!" another voice shouted.Steel rasped from sheaths one after another, the sound rolling like the opening notes of a fierce and fateful song. Within moments, a forest of swords glittered above heads, their bearers swearing allegiance with silent, unshakable resolve.At a glance, Jon saw that two-thirds of the assembled nobles had joined this act of open defiance.For a heartbeat, he felt the surreal weight of it: a treatment not far from the ancient cry of "King in the North."Yet no knees bent. They did not kneel before him, but the distance from his bastard's stigma to this thunderous recognition felt wider than the Wall itself.Across from him, Lord Roose Bolton sat in stillness. His expression, cold by nature, had darkened into a shade near night itself. The shadows cast by the candlelight made his pale face look monstrous, a mask of seething restraint.So, Bolton thought bitterly, the bastard thinks himself lord already.In his mind, no child of dishonor could resist such intoxicating temptation. Power tasted sweeter than wine, more blinding than gold. He waited for Jon to falter, to reach greedily for command. Once he did, Bolton would have his opening—a reason to crush him, to whisper poison into Robb Stark's ear, to turn the Young Wolf against his half-brother.Not far from the table, Howland Reed sat stiff as stone. His breath slowed, his eyes never leaving Jon. Inwardly he prayed: Jon, do not yield. Do not take the bait. If you do, they will make you their scapegoat.Bolton's thoughts turned darkly practical. Perhaps I should write to Robb now… or hand him this power myself, then strike from the shadows later. I cannot leave here with the Bolton host alone. The Stark brothers will settle their score, and when they do, the Dreadfort may find itself erased from the North.He was about to speak when Jon rose.The motion was quiet, but it drew every eye.Bolton's pupils contracted, a flicker of real fear in his chest. His heartbeat quickened—like the time he had bled nearly to death, heart hammering madly in his ears. His fingers curled, ready for the violence to erupt.Jon drew his sword.The steel slid from its scabbard with deliberate calm. Bolton tensed, his guards inching closer.Then Jon spoke, his voice low but carrying:"My lords, I know you are angered with Lord Bolton because of this battle. But let us be honest: in such a situation, abandoning a field already lost was the wise course."A murmur of confusion rippled through the tent. Bolton blinked, stunned.Jon continued, his voice firming. "Robb entrusted the command of our host to Lord Bolton. That was no mistake. For all that has passed, that choice was wise."Bolton's breath caught. Had he misheard? Was the bastard—was Jon Snow, of all men—defending him?Jon turned slowly, showing them his youthful face. "Look at me. My beard is hardly grown. This is my first true battlefield. If you were in Lord Bolton's place, would you have taken the counsel of one so young, so green?"Bolton's heart trembled. He saw it now—Jon truly was shielding him, or at least appearing to. And the words, coming from Jon's mouth, carried a weight no excuse of his own could muster.The nobles, many of whom had been ready to crown Jon in all but name, faltered. Their fervor dimmed, replaced by hesitation.Howland Reed's eyes shone with unexpected pride. Jon had resisted the sweetest temptation: power handed to him freely.Jon stepped forward, sword still in hand, and placed himself between Bolton and the gathered lords."You say I have proven myself," one of the Manderly men began."But there was too much luck!" Jon cut him off. His tone snapped like frost. "What if the flood had come later, or not at all?"He swept his sword down, cleaving the chair before him in two. The crash of splintering wood echoed like thunder. Men near the front flinched back, eyes wide."The most important thing in war," Jon said coldly, "is obedience. Robb commands us all. Bolton is his chosen general. If anyone here dares disobey, his fate will be no different than this chair."For a moment, silence reigned. Then one by one, nobles lowered their blades, faces grim. They sat, chastened yet strangely awed.Jon sheathed his sword with deliberate calm. "Forgive my harshness, my lords. But we cannot do anything to gladden our enemies."Murmurs followed."Jon is right.""We were too hasty.""Aye, he speaks true."Bolton, still seated stiffly, forced a smile. He motioned for a new chair to be brought, hiding his unease. For Jon's rejection of power had not weakened him—it had strengthened him immeasurably.For in shielding Bolton, Jon had bound him as well. Every command Bolton gave henceforth would be measured by Jon's agreement. The lords no longer looked to the flayed man for leadership—they looked to Eddard's son.Bolton choked on the bitter taste of dirt. He was commander in name, but in practice? He was becoming Jon's mouthpiece.And Jon knew it.When Bolton finally spoke, it was with a rare note of explanation: "Gentlemen, our objective of drawing the Westerlands' attention has been achieved. Now we must withdraw, for we lack cavalry. I propose we fall back to the riverbanks near Luanhe City."The words hung in the air. Not a single lord responded. Instead, every eye slid back to Jon.Jon did not hesitate. "Lord Bolton's judgment is sound," he said loudly.The others echoed in quick succession:"Aye, it is wise.""We must withdraw.""Indeed—we have too many wounded."Bolton inclined his head, but inwardly his teeth ground together. He had won nothing.Howland Reed, watching quietly, smiled inwardly. He had not misjudged Ned Stark's son—or his nephew, depending on which truth one held.Then Jon spoke again, his tone shifting: "Lord Bolton, we fought well today. Perhaps we can turn that to our advantage—send envoys to Lord Tywin, press him to safeguard my father in exchange."The tent stirred with agreement at once."Yes, a wise thought!""They've felt our bite already.""We must protect Lord Eddard."Bolton could not refuse, not with the voices of every lord behind Jon's suggestion. He nodded, slow and bitter. "Very well. Envoys will be sent."Jon seized the moment to press another matter: the mountain clansmen, the gray-haired veterans who had asked to serve him. Bolton, still eager to appear accommodating, gave permission without hesitation.When the meeting ended, Jon left the tent surrounded by nobles. His stature had grown in ways that no title could confer. No man now dared spit the word "bastard" in his presence. If any did, Haliang or Severn would cut them down without pause.Outside, Severn clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Since you will not claim command, at least take the captives and battle spoils. That much is yours by right.""Aye, Jon," Haliang said. "Take them. Our men owe you their lives, and we will not leave until you accept."The chorus rose, insistent.Jon, cornered by their goodwill, finally nodded. "Very well. I accept. But now go and rest, my lords. I will see to the captives."As they dispersed, Jon's thoughts turned to those prisoners. The Westerlander armor and weapons gleamed brighter than the rusty spears of his mountain veterans.Perhaps the answer was simple: strip the captives of steel and leather, and arm the old men. Give them food, give them strength. Even gray-haired, they would fight as fiercely as any youth—because they had no fear of death left to lose.And in war, such men were the most dangerous of all.--
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