The next day.
The north wind howled beneath a dark, overcast sky.
At dawn, after barely three hours of sleep, Galon pushed open the flap of his tent and ordered food prepared for the soldiers.
While the men ate, he walked through the camp, inspecting the army.
Although Galon had made preparations the night before in case Euron launched a night raid, nothing had happened.
As he moved through the camp, Galon noticed the exhaustion on the soldiers' faces and frowned slightly.
'We forced them through two days of rapid marching. They rested last night, but they still haven't fully recovered.'
'With a major battle approaching, I need to raise their spirits.'
Standing before the command tent, he watched the weary soldiers and thought carefully.
'If their morale stays low, even if we defeat the Ironborn, the losses will be terrible.'
'These are my soldiers. I can't let them be wasted like that.'
After a moment of thought, Galon came up with a plan.
Once the soldiers finished eating, he ordered the entire army to assemble for a final address before the battle.
Wearing leather armor with a sword at his waist, Galon stepped onto the wooden platform built the night before.
The assembled bannermen followed him up onto the platform.
Standing in the center, Galon looked out over the crowd below him. Faces stared back at him filled with excitement, determination, and tension.
"My friends."
His voice was calm and not especially loud, yet it carried clearly through the cold morning air to every soldier present.
"Lord Stark is now imprisoned in King's Landing. Lord Robb has marched south to rescue him."
"Meanwhile the Ironborn have taken advantage of our absence to slaughter our people and seize our lands and castles."
"They turned Torrhen's Square and Cerwyn into fields of death. They believe terror will make the North submit."
Galon's voice gradually rose with intensity.
"They are wrong. Completely wrong."
"Who are we?"
"We are the children of the old gods. The descendants of the First Men."
"Our blood carries defiance and unyielding strength."
The soldiers below began breathing more heavily. Hands tightened around weapons.
"Today we will answer them with blood. We will show those wretched sea squids that the North will never fall."
"Anyone who dares invade our homeland will pay the price in blood."
Galon suddenly drew his sword and raised it toward the sky. "I will fight beside you until these Ironborn are driven from our land."
"For the North!"
The final words burst from him like thunder.
For a brief moment there was silence.
Then the entire Northern army erupted with a roar that shook the valley.
"For the North!"
"For Lord Glover!"
"Kill the Ironborn!"
The thunderous cries drowned out even the howling wind.
The exhaustion in the soldiers' eyes vanished, replaced by anger and fierce determination. Their morale surged instantly.
Satisfied, Galon nodded and sheathed his sword before stepping down from the platform.
"Army, advance."
Within moments the camp came alive with movement.
Only a few farmers remained behind to guard the supply wagons.
The rest of the army marched out.
The thousand soldiers of House Bolton formed the vanguard, while Galon led the rest of the army behind them.
Jon had already slipped quietly into the forests of West Horn Hill with his men, guarding Galon's flank and rear.
More than two thousand soldiers advanced along the Kingsroad toward the southern entrance of Bullhorn Mountain.
Two hours later, the army passed through the narrowest section of the road.
Ramsay rode behind the Bolton troops.
As the road widened ahead, he focused his attention on the slopes of West Horn Hill to the right.
Although the slope here was steep and unsuitable for ambush, Ramsay's suspicious nature made him uneasy as he stared at the dark forest.
A sense of dread crept into his mind.
Another ten minutes passed.
Suddenly a deep tremor rolled across the ground in the distance.
Ramsay's eyes widened.
"Form up—"
He had barely begun to shout when countless Ironborn burst from the far side of the Kingsroad.
At the same moment, Ramsay saw a group of swift-moving Ironborn pouring silently from the forest on the right.
"Kill!"
"Charge!"
"Slaughter every Northerner!"
There were no warnings. No challenges. No elaborate strategy.
Only the brutal truth that when enemies meet on a narrow road, only the stronger survives.
The moment Victarion appeared on the battlefield, his Ironborn warriors erupted in savage roars and surged forward like a tide toward Ramsay's troops.
"Loose arrows!"
Behind Ramsay's right flank, Mihawk immediately raised his hand and signaled the archers before the Ironborn reached the Bolton line.
Arrows flew like a swarm of locusts toward the charging Ironborn.
In an instant dozens of Ironborn fell.
But far more surged forward, trampling over the bodies of their fallen comrades like a black tide.
"Form the shield wall!"
Despite his cruelty, Ramsay still possessed some battlefield sense.
He quickly ordered his men to form a shield wall across the Kingsroad.
A deafening crash followed.
Shields splintered.
Steel clashed.
The battle skipped all preliminaries and plunged instantly into savage close combat.
Axes split chainmail.
Spears pierced chests.
Curved blades severed arms.
Screams, war cries, and dying groans filled the valley, turning it into a slaughterhouse.
"Kill!"
Victarion charged at the front like a living battering ram.
Every swing of his massive axe sent blood spraying through the air along with shattered limbs.
Almost single-handedly he tore open the Bolton formation, and the Ironborn warriors behind him flooded through the breach.
Under Victarion's terrifying assault, the Ironborn attack was unstoppable.
Bolton soldiers began dying at an alarming rate. Their line wavered.
Taking advantage of the chaos, several Ironborn captains led their crews past the fighting and rushed straight toward the archers.
Suddenly Mihawk and his men were forced to abandon their bows and fight hand to hand.
The battle dissolved into brutal chaos.
"Hold the line!"
"Do not retreat!"
Ramsay screamed desperately, urging his soldiers to withstand Victarion's assault.
"My lord, we can't hold them!"
"If we don't retreat now, we'll all die here!"
A blood-covered Bolton noble rushed toward Ramsay, his helmet gone and despair written across his face.
Ramsay looked at the battlefield ahead, where the lines churned like a grinding mill of flesh.
He saw Victarion carving through his men like a demon. For a moment survival instinct nearly overwhelmed him.
But then he remembered Galon's promise...The promise that he could become Ramsay Bolton.
Greed for power crushed his fear and twisted into a frenzy.
"No retreat!"
"Hold them here. Once they push into the narrow pass behind us, we win!"
"For the North!"
Ramsay's voice shrieked like a night bird. He drew his sword and charged toward the Ironborn.
Of course he cleverly avoided Victarion himself.
Even so, Ramsay's show of bravery allowed the Bolton troops to hold for another quarter hour.
But they paid dearly.
They filled the battlefield with their own bodies as they slowly retreated step by step.
At last they drew Victarion's army into the narrower section between the northern and southern entrances of the pass.
By then nearly a third of their numbers were gone.
Behind them on the narrow Kingsroad, Galon watched from horseback like a statue. He calmly studied every shift in the battle.
He saw the Bolton army collapsing.
He saw Ramsay's desperate madness.
He also saw Victarion's army pushing deeper into the narrow passage, their formations becoming crowded.
Their momentum slowed.
"The time has come."
His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of thousands of lives.
"Ron, with me."
The Northern war horn sounded across the mountains. Its long, mournful cry echoed through the narrow valley.
Galon dismounted, drew his greatsword, and led the rest of the army forward.
Like a dam finally bursting, his soldiers surged into the battlefield.
Their ranks were disciplined and steady.
Their morale was high.
Like a cold steel tide they advanced, replacing the shattered remnants of the Bolton line and crashing directly into Victarion's main force.
The scale of the battle instantly escalated.
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