The Northern Army, like a fierce cold wave, swept towards Tyrion's left flank.
Those charges were disorganized; how could the mountain clans, who relied solely on their bloodlust, have ever witnessed a charge of tens of thousands of men?
When they saw the boundless enemy army rushing towards them, these self-proclaimed brave mountain clansmen even felt their legs go a little soft with fear.
But, fortunately, there were many of them, and quite a few still threw themselves at the front lines of the Northern Army.
However, what awaited them was an endless volley of arrows.
Howland Reed's army and archer units were mixed together, standing on a higher slope to provide fire support.
When they first arrived, the soldiers all complained, disliking the strong fishy smell.
But now, the smell of blood from the battlefield had already covered the fishy smell.
Before them was like a terrifying rain of death; cold arrowheads plunged into the flesh of the wildling warriors, splattering blood flowers.
They had no power to retaliate, as if entering a battlefield that did not belong to them at all.
"Winter Sun! Kill—!"
The noble leading the fiercest charge was named Harrion Karstark.
Harrion was Rickard's eldest son.
His distinguishing feature was a large beard that almost covered his entire chest.
Facing such weak, yet unwilling to retreat, enemies, Harrion was enjoying the slaughter immensely.
The tribal wildlings' equipment was extremely crude.
Most of them couldn't even afford leather armor with ordinary defense.
As the commander of his unit, Harrion should have been directing the formation, but seeing this'smooth battle', he felt an itch for action.
"My Lord! You…" Harrion's deputy wanted to dissuade him, but it was already too late.
Harrion, wielding his heavy greatsword, had already leaped into the densest concentration of enemies.
The heavy greatsword whistled through the air, each swing taking a chunk of flesh and blood.
Facing such a heavily armored swordsman, the mountain clan warriors seemed to have seen a god descended from heaven.
Their dwindling courage melted away like snow under the scorching sun.
"Mama!"
"Oh, God of the Moon!"
"No running! No retreating!"
Some wildling warriors with poor psychological fortitude had never seen such powerful warriors and solid formations.
The black army slowly pressing towards them was like a despair-inducing Wall of Sighs.
These wildlings, who at most played 'tribal conflicts', had never seen such a war.
Steel and blood, roars and flames.
On the other side, Lord Severn, who always liked to mock Jon, was no exception.
This fellow's archery was good; almost every arrow hit its mark.
Coupled with the fact that the wildlings' defensive armor was practically non-existent, he was shooting with great enjoyment.
"Five… nine! Eleven! My Lord! There are still many more over there!"
Severn's squire continuously counted and flattered him, which made him forget himself, as if this was merely his own hunting ground.
No, hunting in a hunting ground wasn't this easy.
At least the prey wouldn't run towards him on their own.
There was also a corpulent Northern noble in the ranks; judging by the azure banner, he must have come from the wealthiest Northern family, the Manderly family.
His enormous 'belly' was the best proof of his family's wealth.
This Ser Manderly, due to his physique, was unable to ride a horse.
However, he was still able to orderly command his soldiers, leading his family's troops in an effective advance.
At first glance, the momentum of the Northern Army's charge seemed unstoppable.
Especially the left flank, which Roose Bolton had designated as the main attacking force, had advanced rapidly, almost penetrating the camp of the Western Army.
The black and red armies intertwined.
Like steel and fire.
"Shoot arrows! Shoot arrows! Drive them back!"
"My Lord, I've run out of arrows!"
"Then block them for me!"
Tyrion, the Imp, watched from behind the army, and when he saw mountain clansmen running back, he ordered the archers to shoot arrows to drive them back.
The Northern Army's offensive was simply too fierce.
Yet, the patrol outside the main army had not sent any news.
If they had even a little more time to prepare, the Western Army wouldn't be in such a sorry state.
He looked at the other parts of the army and found that the center and right flanks were also under attack by the Northern Army.
And the Western Army, unprepared, suddenly fell into a disadvantage.
"Clegane! Where is Clegane?! Is he ready?!" Tyrion asked anxiously in his somewhat high-pitched voice.
The Northern Army's attack was too sudden; not only were the other parts of the army unprepared, but the Mountain's heavily armored troops were also caught off guard.
Although they were now in position, it was still a bit rushed.
If they delayed any longer, his left flank might collapse.
Currently, Tyrion was completely using the lives of those wildlings to buy time for the main Western Army.
"Ready!" Bronn, standing beside him, pointed in the Mountain's direction and spoke.
A group of heavily armored cavalry was already poised and ready to charge.
This made Tyrion feel invigorated, but upon closer inspection, most of them seemed to have not had time to armor their warhorses.
However, the situation was urgent, and it seemed this was the only way.
They still needed a little preparation, and would soon be able to join the battle.
Meanwhile, Jon was also waiting for the right moment to act.
He knew that his three to five hundred men thrown into a battle of tens of thousands wouldn't even make a ripple.
He was sitting behind the soldiers, using his Warging ability to control a raven to send a message to Old York.
But Old York was a bit far, and the shouts of tens of thousands of people surprisingly hadn't startled him.
This old fellow had fallen asleep again.
Seeing Old York lying asleep by the side of the dirt mound, Jon resolved to give him some punishment.
The raven swooped at Old York, directly flapping its wings in his face.
Old York suddenly woke up, but unexpectedly, this guy actually had a temper when waking up.
Wielding his sword, he angrily shouted:
"What flat-feathered beast is this?!"
Jon controlled the raven to perch on a branch; fortunately, a Winterfell soldier recognized it as Jon's raven and saw the small bronze message tube tied to its leg.
Returning to the battlefield.
As Tyrion anxiously waited, the Mountain's heavily armored troops finally assembled.
This heavily armored force of about eight hundred men was like solid iron ingots.
Tyrion felt a sense of relief just by looking at them.
A cool breeze brushed across his sweaty forehead; although he shivered, he felt invigorated and unconsciously tightened his grip on his short sword.
Soon, this heavily armored cavalry began their charge.
When they thundered forward, the ground itself trembled.
Tyrion also received good news: the other parts of the Western Army had also begun to move.
Tywin, using the time he had bought, quickly established command relations with the other armies.
The cavalry on the right flank and the main army in the center had also established their resistance.
At least the Northern Army wouldn't be able to scatter them.
Additionally, Tyrion noticed something: the Northern Army's attacks in other directions were not as fierce.
It seemed they also believed his left flank was a weakness, and had concentrated their main attacking force and elites in his direction.
"As long as Clegane's troops attack, everything will be fine."
The flames of victory burned in Tyrion's green eyes.
"These Northerners charge really fiercely," Bronn, standing beside Tyrion, remarked.
Bronn was only hired by Tyrion to protect him, not to fight, so he still had time to comment.
"Hmm," Tyrion nodded, "but their strategy has some issues."
Soon, Tyrion also discovered that the number of Northern Army cavalry seemed surprisingly small.
This meant that his side was even less likely to be defeated; at most, they would inflict some casualties and then retreat.
Tyrion suddenly realized something and abruptly looked around anxiously.
But limited by his insufficient 'altitude', his vision was difficult to extend into the distance.
"What are you looking for?" Bronn asked from the side.
Tyrion ignored him, turned to a blond squire beside him, and shouted:
"Go tell Father to be wary of the Northern cavalry!"
"Yes, my Lord!"
Watching the blond figure depart, Tyrion thought of Jaime, his brother.
Although his immediate branch was not populous, as a whole family, Lannister's blond hair was practically spread across the Sunset Sea.
In a way, it was comparable to the Freys of Luanhe City.
Soon, the Mountain led his army out of the camp.
Upon seeing this giant, who made everyone eager for battle, charge, the mountain clans' morale, which was on the verge of collapse, was reignited.
"Continue the attack! Kill them!"
The female leader of the Painted Dog tribe, who had attempted to provoke the Mountain not long ago, led her tribesmen in a renewed charge.
But the Mountain easily bypassed them.
One tribal warrior, unable to dodge in time, was directly struck by the Mountain's tall warhorse.
He was like a piece of rotten meat caught in the dense, thundering hooves, and in the blink of an eye, he was no longer recognizable as human.
Behind the Mountain fluttered the yellow banner with a hound, the sigil of House Clegane.
It was said that his father had once saved Tywin's father, Tytos, during a hunt.
Thus, from being retainers, they rose to the ranks of nobility.
And the hound became the symbol of House Clegane.
Soon, the Northern nobles, who were enjoying the slaughter, felt something was wrong.
"Heavy cavalry! It's heavy cavalry! Form ranks! Form ranks!"
Harrion, seeing the red armored cavalry gradually filling his vision, snapped out of the excitement brought by the bloodshed.
He quickly retreated to the army formation and began to organize a defense.
"Pikes! Pikes! Raise all the pikes!" the corpulent noble shouted, his voice muffled by fat pressing on his vocal cords.
But they had never expected such an elite force to be hidden within an army with such crude equipment.
'They might just be trying to mislead us.'
A terrible pressure and dread weighed on Lord Severn's heart; he suddenly remembered Jon's words.
He instinctively reached out to his squire for arrows, but the squire reached into his quiver and found it empty.