"Are you sure you didn't let a single one escape?"
That was the first question Roose Bolton asked when Jon returned to the marching army, tossing the heads of the Westerlands soldiers onto the ground.
When the others learned that Jon, a mere scout, had chosen to engage and kill the enemy, they immediately criticized the move as unwise.
Jon glanced at them out of the corner of his eye and spoke firmly. "If this surprise attack fails because of my poor scouting, then by all means, take my head."
"Take your head? You'd be lucky to just get hanged," a voice sneered.
Jon didn't need to turn around to know it was Lord Cerwyn.
Although Jon was a noble's bastard, he wasn't a noble himself. He held no title, so naturally, he wouldn't "enjoy" the privilege of beheading.
These highborn lords loved reminding everyone of their status at every opportunity. Jon was used to it.
After all, Theon used to be just as much of a prick.
Just then, Lyle Hode spoke up. "My Lords, I can vouch for Jon. We didn't let a single Westerman run. The decision to wipe them out was mutual."
Seeing his firmness, and knowing that Lyle Hode was a man who had once fought alongside Ned Stark to defeat Arthur Dayne, the others relaxed slightly.
Roose Bolton, true to form, positioned his own troops in the safety of the rear guard.
He placed House Umber and House Karstark—the Starks' staunchest bannermen—as the main vanguard. House Blackwood and House Cerwyn were ordered to rush to the designated battlefield to prepare for the assault.
As the commander, Roose knew that a true ambush wasn't necessarily catching the enemy in their sleep.
The cavalry squad Jon wiped out simply prevented the main army from being spotted too early.
But inside the Westerlands camp, Tywin would certainly have watchtowers or sentries. They would still be spotted when they got within a mile or two.
Successful scouting just meant reducing the Western army's prep time.
They would definitely spot the Northern soldiers before the fighting started, but by then, they might not have time to get into formation or strap on their armor.
However, they wouldn't lose their basic combat effectiveness. Especially since Tywin's army was better equipped and had more cavalry.
So, before the real fighting began, Roose sent men to scope out the enemy's formation.
When he learned that the Westerlands' left flank was composed of poorly equipped mountain clans—savages, essentially—he decided to make that his breakthrough point.
But Jon knew better. He knew Tywin had hidden Gregor Clegane—The Mountain—and his heavy elite troops right there.
The so-called weak point was bait.
In fact, the left flank was positioned aggressively forward.
Before Roose could order the attack, Jon tried to dissuade him one more time.
"Lord Bolton, the enemy's left flank might look like a bunch of ragtag savages, but there's a reason they're sticking their necks out. Why would they show us such an obvious weakness? It's very likely they've hidden their elites among those clansmen. I suggest we play defense against that flank and focus our main offensive on their right—our left!"
In the original timeline's Battle of the Green Fork, the Westerlands army had used this exact simple trick—hiding elites among the fodder—to deal heavy damage to the North.
An army of 18,000 had been whittled down to just over 10,000.
Even though Jon didn't get along with these people, he couldn't just watch Roose Bolton throw their lives away. Especially since doing so would only increase Bolton's relative power within the Northern forces.
But Roose scoffed at Jon's advice.
"Jon, let me ask you two things. First, have you ever been in a war before? Second, who is the commander of this army?"
Roose had been annoyed with Jon ever since the debate over command rights. He continued coldly, "If you continue to obstruct military operations, I will deal with you according to martial law!"
Before Jon could reply, Lord Cerwyn's familiar voice chimed in again. "Aye, we can't be afraid of the enemy just because they're wearing fancy boots, can we?"
Jon looked at the faces around him. He saw only mockery, ridicule, and disgust.
You can't save a man hell-bent on dying.
Although Jon had his "System" cheats, the command wasn't in his hands.
He would have to wait until the battle went south to make his move.
In the chaos of war, soldiers mostly fought on momentum. Jon was confident that with his map hack and the coming flood, he could turn the tide!
At the very least, he could mitigate the losses.
Seeing Jon's proposal rejected, Lyle Hode remained silent. To him, this was a common ailment of young men who had never seen war: they either overthought things or didn't think at all.
Jon was clearly the former.
What they didn't know was that Jon's mind was no longer on the immediate battle.
He retreated to a corner and Warged, sending his raven to check on Old York's "construction progress."
Old York lived up to his reputation as a man from the White Knife region; he knew rivers. He had chosen a valley as a reservoir.
The original dam had been breached, and he was currently reinforcing a temporary one in the valley.
He had rigged ropes to key structural points. One good pull, and the whole dam would collapse.
They had agreed to use the raven for signals, so Old York didn't need to return to camp; he just had to guard the valley.
---
Meanwhile, in the Westerlands Army.
Since Tywin had led them out of the West and into the Riverlands, this army had been practically unstoppable. No Riverlands army or castle had been able to slow them down.
Inevitably, the army had grown lax.
Meat stew had congealed into grease in the pots. Armor was discarded everywhere like shed snakeskin. Some men wore their chainmail with the casual looseness of silk pajamas.
An ugly dwarf noticed a group of poorly equipped but fierce-looking men eyeing something in the distance.
They had braided hair, wiry bodies, and savage eyes. Their armor was a mismatch—some wore boiled leather, others nothing at all.
Following their gaze, the dwarf saw a man built like a mountain.
Standing over eight feet tall, the warrior sat drinking with his men. It wasn't just his body; his head was a size larger than a normal man's. His eyes glared with the cruelty of a wild beast. Even a twitch of his mouth was enough to instill fear.
This was Tywin Lannister's most capable enforcer—Gregor Clegane, The Mountain.
Enraged by Catelyn Stark's seizure of Tyrion, Tywin had unleashed The Mountain to raid the Riverlands. He had single-handedly made the River lords scream for mercy. And as for the commoners... well, that greatsword of his, as tall as a man, still reeked of blood.
The dwarf was, of course, Tyrion. The wild-looking warriors around him were the Mountain Clans he had recruited.
He had traded weapons and food for their service. Their combat skills were uneven, but they were cheap and durable. If they died, they died.
Besides, the real killer move was The Mountain hiding amongst them.
Tyrion addressed the clansmen. "Alright, if you want to pick a fight with him, you'd best be prepared to lose your lives. And the Northern army will likely be here soon, so keep your wits about you."
"Hah! We fear no Northern army," a woman with a dog painted on her forehead spat. "We have killed kings!"
She was from the Painted Dogs tribe. The "king" she referred to was likely some Andal petty king from before Aegon's Conquest.
This tribe also worshipped a "Fire Witch" and seemed adept with fire.
Tyrion smiled but said nothing. Forget the Vale kings of old; anyone could meet a bad end. Look at Ned Stark.
He had heard about the Northern army mobilizing over a month ago. Tyrion estimated Robb would be leading his forces south any day now.
Due to a series of coincidences, he had recruited these savages for his own protection. In his view, the North and West would likely end up in a standoff in the Riverlands.
Then, he could try to reason with Ned.
Ned was a prisoner, true, but they couldn't actually execute him. The key was to cut a deal.
Sansa still has to marry Joffrey... as for Ned's younger daughter...
Just as Tyrion was lost in thought, a horn blast sounded nearby.
Enemy attack!!!
Tyrion tossed his wine cup onto the table and jumped off his chair. Unfortunately, at his height, all he could see were asses.
"What is happening?!" Tyrion shouted, panic creeping into his voice as he looked around.
A mercenary-looking follower rushed to his side. "Enemy attack! It's a bloody attack! The Northerners are here!"
"What?!!"
The man yelling at him was the sellsword, Bronn. His stubble was messy, like a harvested wheat field, but his eyes were fierce. Thanks to this man, Tyrion had made it out of the Vale alive.
Tyrion scrambled to a higher vantage point and pulled out a bronze telescope.
The Northern army had already finished forming up. The banners of Karstark, Cerwyn, and Glover were moving slowly forward.
"Frey!"
Tyrion's pupils contracted. He realized House Frey had allied with the North.
He looked back at his own army, which was in a chaotic scramble to prepare. Even The Mountain was frantically trying to get his armor on.
Tyrion gritted his teeth, turned to the clansmen, and shouted.
"Listen to me! You say you don't fear death? You say you've killed kings! Follow me! The whole army moves forward one mile!"
Tyrion intended to use the clansmen to draw the Northern attack.
This was the strategy he had planned with Tywin beforehand.
There was no time to ask for permission now.
Tyrion knew his father didn't like him. But in critical moments, Tywin was willing to trust his competence.