CHAPTER 120
The next day, the north wind howled and the weather was gloomy. Just as dawn broke, Garon, who had only slept for three hours, pushed open the flap of his tent and ordered food to be prepared for the soldiers. While the men ate, he patrolled the camp. Last night, although Garon had made preparations against a possible raid by Euron, they ultimately proved unnecessary.
As he patrolled, Garon noticed the weariness on the soldiers' faces and frowned.
"After two days of continuous forced marches, the soldiers are physically exhausted. Although they rested overnight, they haven't fully recovered yet. A major battle is imminent. I need to find a way to motivate them."
He stood before his tent, looking at the dispirited soldiers as he pondered.
"If morale is low, even if we barely defeat the Ironborn, we will suffer heavy losses. These are all my men. I can't let them be wasted like this."
Garon's mind raced, and he soon had an idea.
After the soldiers had finished eating, Garon ordered the entire army to assemble for the final mobilization before the coming battle. Dressed in leather armor with a longsword hanging at his waist, Garon stepped onto the makeshift platform erected the previous night. The assembled vassals followed him, climbing onto the platform as well.
Standing in the center, Garon swept his gaze across the faces below. Some were excited, some determined, and some nervous.
"Gentlemen!"
He spoke calmly. His voice was not particularly loud, yet it cut through the cold air and clearly reached every ear below.
"At present, Lord Eddard Stark has been murdered in King's Landing, and King Robb Stark has led the armies of the North and the Trident south to seek justice and vengeance. Meanwhile, the Ironborn have taken advantage of our weakened homeland to slaughter our people and seize our lands and castles."
"They have reduced Torrhen's Square and Cerwyn to ruins, believing that fear alone can force the men of the North to submit!"
Garon's voice grew increasingly impassioned.
"They are wrong. Terribly wrong!"
"Who are we? We are children of the Old Gods and descendants of the First Men!"
"The blood of defiance and unyielding resolve flows through our veins!"
The soldiers below began to breathe heavily, and their grips on their weapons tightened unconsciously.
"Today, we will use their blood to tell those vile sea monsters that the North shall never fall!"
"Anyone who dares invade our homeland will pay a bloody price!"
Garon suddenly drew the longsword from his waist and pointed it directly at the sky.
"I will fight beside you until we drive these damned Ironborn from our lands!"
"For the North!"
He practically roared the final words, his voice shaking the surroundings.
After a brief silence, a thunderous roar erupted from the ranks of the Northern host.
"For the North!!"
"For House Stark!!"
"For Lord Garon!!"
"Kill the Ironborn!!!"
The earth-shattering cries drowned out the distant wind. The weariness in the soldiers' eyes was replaced by anger and determination, and morale instantly soared to its peak.
Garon nodded with satisfaction before sheathing his sword and striding down from the platform.
"All troops, move out!"
Before long, apart from a handful of farmers left behind to transport provisions, the entire army departed the camp. The thousand men of House Bolton marched at the front, while Garon led the remaining troops behind them. As for Jon, he had already quietly led his men into the forests of West Horn Mountain, constantly safeguarding Garon's flank and rear.
More than two thousand men marched along the Kingsroad, heading directly toward the southern entrance of Ox Horn Mountain.
Two hours later, the army crossed the narrowest section of the entire Kingsroad.
Ramsay, mounted on horseback, followed behind his family's forces. He looked at the increasingly open road ahead before turning his attention to West Horn Mountain on his right. Although the slope here was steep and seemingly unsuitable for an ambush, the ever-suspicious Bastard of Bolton gazed toward the shadowy forest with growing unease.
They advanced for another ten minutes.
Then, in the distance, a dull tremor spread through the ground.
Ramsay's pupils contracted.
"All troops, prepare..."
But before he could finish shouting, countless Ironborn brandishing weapons surged from ahead along the Kingsroad. At the same time, he saw a group of agile Ironborn silently pouring out from the dense forest to the west.
"Kill!"
"Charge!"
"Slaughter the North completely!"
There was no warning, no challenge, and no complicated strategy.
Only the brutal collision of two armies where the brave would prevail.
The moment Victarion Greyjoy appeared on the battlefield, his Ironborn unleashed savage, bloodthirsty roars and surged toward Ramsay's army like a tidal wave.
"Loose arrows!"
Mihawk, positioned on Ramsay's right rear, seized the moment before the Ironborn fully engaged the Boltons and immediately waved his hand.
Whoosh!
Arrows flew like a swarm of locusts toward the advancing Ironborn.
In an instant, dozens of Ironborn fell. Yet more trampled over the bodies of their comrades and charged forward fearlessly like a black tide.
"Form ranks!"
Ramsay still possessed some battlefield experience. He quickly ordered his men to form a shield wall, blocking the center of the Kingsroad.
Bang!
Terrifying impacts and the splintering of shields echoed continuously. The battle skipped every prelude and immediately entered the most brutal stage of close combat.
Battleaxes split mail.
Spears pierced chests.
Curved blades severed arms.
Screams, roars, and the cries of the dying instantly transformed the valley into a slaughterhouse.
"Kill!"
Victarion charged at the forefront like a living battering ram. Every swing of his great axe unleashed sprays of blood and shattered limbs.
He alone nearly tore open the Bolton defenses, and the Ironborn seized the opportunity to flood into the shield wall.
Led by Victarion, who resembled a demon of war, the Ironborn assault was unstoppable, crashing forward like a relentless storm.
Bolton casualties rose at an alarming rate, and their battle line began to waver.
Seizing the opportunity, several Ironborn captains led their crews past the Boltons locked in desperate combat and charged directly toward the archers.
For a time, Mihawk and his men were overwhelmed and forced to abandon their bows and engage in brutal hand-to-hand fighting.
Both sides became locked in a savage struggle.
"Hold!"
"Hold the line!"
"No retreat!"
Ramsay roared hoarsely, continuously urging the Bolton soldiers to withstand Victarion's assault.
"My lord, we can't hold!"
"If we don't retreat now, we'll all die here!"
A Bolton officer, his face covered in blood and his helmet long gone, rushed to Ramsay with despair in his eyes.
Ramsay looked toward the battlefield ahead, a grinding meat grinder of death. He saw Victarion's unstoppable figure, and survival instinct nearly overwhelmed him.
But then he remembered Garon's promise.
"Ramsay Bolton."
The inheritance of the Dreadfort.
The legitimacy he had desired his entire life.
His greed for power ultimately overcame his fear and twisted into frantic determination.
"No retreat!"
"Hold on! We only need to lure them into the narrow section behind us, and we'll win!"
"For the North!"
Ramsay's voice was as shrill as a night bird's cry.
He suddenly drew his sword and charged toward the Ironborn.
Of course, the cunning Bastard of Bolton carefully avoided Victarion himself.
Yet Ramsay's display of bravery miraculously allowed the Bolton army to hold for another fifteen minutes.
But they paid for every step with blood.
Every yard of retreat was paved with the bodies of their own men.
Slowly and painfully, they lured Victarion's forces into the narrower section between the southern and northern passes while their own numbers dwindled by nearly a third.
Behind the narrow Kingsroad, Garon stood like a stone statue, calmly observing every change on the battlefield. He saw the terrible losses suffered by the Boltons and Ramsay's desperation. He also saw Victarion's army gradually crowding into the confined passage as they advanced in triumph.
The Ironborn formation became increasingly dense, losing much of its initial momentum.
"The time has come."
His voice remained calm and unwavering, yet it carried the weight of deciding the fate of thousands.
"Ron, follow me forward!"
A mournful and resolute blast of the Northern war horn echoed repeatedly through the narrow valley.
Garon dismounted, drew his greatsword, and led the remaining army forward.
Like a long-contained flood finally released, the Northern host surged from the rear.
Their formation was orderly.
Their morale was soaring.
Like a cold torrent of steel, they swiftly and systematically replaced the nearly shattered remnants of the Bolton army and crashed head-on into Victarion's main force.
The scale of the battle instantly escalated.
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