Chapter 415: Defeat at the Front

The cavalry of the Seven Kingdoms and the Dothraki together had turned their backs on the army of the dead.

On the front lines of the Green Fork, people could see nothing but the sudden flames rising in the distance. Even the soldiers on the watchtowers could only see the white snowstorm.

In such conditions, coordinating a unified command was nearly impossible, relying entirely on the commander's ability to adapt on the spot.

"Seven hells! What the hell is happening over there? Doesn't anyone know?!"

Robert, mounted on his horse and clutching his hammer, his black beard fluttering in the wind, cursed and fumed, his heart anxious, a sudden sense of unease welling up within him.

But Robert didn't know where this unease came from. It seemed to come from all directions, and the only thing that could do that was the snowflakes swirling in the sky. Perhaps it was this ignorance, being enveloped and blinded by the snowstorm, that had transformed into inner panic and helplessness.

The main force of the allied army was also affected by their commander, becoming somewhat restless. People whispered among themselves, but no one knew what was happening.

On the banks of the Green Fork, the vanguard led by Randyll Tarly, who had been the first to confront the wights, finally couldn't hold on any longer, showing signs of collapse.

"Help!"

"Save me!"

"Save me!"

"Ah—"

In the darkness, the fire flickered, and more and more defeated soldiers began to appear on both sides of the main force.

Clatter...

Clatter...

In the darkness, the sound of armor rubbing was everywhere, footsteps were frantic, and screams were heard. Soldiers from various houses of the allied army threw away their helmets and armor and fled back from the front line in disgrace.

"Run!"

"Run quickly!"

The main army, however, was silent as a rock, preparing to meet the enemy with sharp swords and spears.

"Everyone, move to the sides!"

"Those who break ranks, die!"

Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort, mounted on his horse, holding his whip, loudly scolded the fleeing soldiers.

As more and more soldiers from the front line broke ranks, the soldiers of the allied army in the middle became increasingly nervous, gripping their weapons tightly, their palms sweating.

"They... are coming."

The wights' howls became clearer in the ears of the allied soldiers.

Although they couldn't see what was ahead, obscured by the white snowstorm, the sound was getting closer. This invisible fear was gradually intensifying, and many people swallowed hard.

Gulp—

The soldiers looked at each other, each seeing the fear in the other's eyes.

Thud...

And Roose Bolton's horse beneath him also became somewhat restless, constantly pawing at the ground. The cold wind was biting, and white mist sprayed from the horse's large nostrils.

The cold and cunning Lord of the Dreadfort, sitting on his saddle in the icy wind, listening to the sounds of battle all around, suddenly felt somewhat uneasy, involuntarily turning his head from side to side.

Then his brow furrowed slightly.

He always felt like someone was watching him, seemingly with ill intent, but with so many people on the chaotic battlefield, he couldn't find that person.

"Is it an illusion?"

Roose Bolton slightly pulled on the reins, making his horse a bit calmer, his eyes calm and undisturbed, scanning the surroundings.

In fact, no matter how terrifying the battlefield, or how horrifying the wights, he was not in much danger. Because these high-ranking nobles in the allied army would always be the first to leave if they found the situation on the battlefield unfavorable.

This was why, up to now in the war, the highest-ranking noble to die was the old Walder Frey, Lord of the Twins, who had been scared into jumping into the river.

There were very few records of high-ranking nobles dying. There was one in the Westerlands, and Jon Umber, and another one... Roose Bolton had forgotten.

So he wasn't particularly afraid.

If all of Westeros was destroyed, he could just flee to the other side of the Narrow Sea. He had invested in a good son with Viserys, his bastard Ramsay Snow.

In recent communications, he had learned that Ramsay had been put to good use by Viserys, receiving a position overseeing internal affairs, something called the 'Department of Internal Affairs'.

Perhaps it was about purging... corruption? Supervising officials?

The Seven Kingdoms did not have such a specific independent position. Matters of intelligence, both internal and external, seemed to be managed by the Master of Whisperers. But the new dynasty had split this power to prevent the Master of Whisperers from monopolizing power.

So Roose Bolton wasn't clear about the exact situation of his bastard Ramsay with Viserys.

But what was certain was that Roose Bolton had never taken Ramsay seriously. He was just his bastard, a pawn in his game of hedging bets.

The heir to the Dreadfort was a young man far superior to Ramsay, Domeric Bolton. Unlike his father and brother, he was very quiet and talented, proficient in history, skilled in playing the harp and riding, as if he was born in the saddle. Roose Bolton was very satisfied with this son.

And what Roose Bolton didn't notice was that in the allied army shrouded in night, not far from his position, there were two soldiers in royal armor.

They were looking at the back of the Lord of the Dreadfort, mounted on his horse, whispering quietly to each other, their eyes flashing with ruthless light.

And on the front line.

After the Night King extinguished the wildfire, the wights once again surged across the Green Fork. The soldiers at the front line could no longer hold on and finally collapsed completely.

Lord Tommen Smallwood of Acorn Hall died on the spot. Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall, who had proposed defending the river at the pre-war meeting, was torn to pieces by the wights. Reynard, the eldest son of Lord Gawen Westerling of the Crag, fell into the water and his fate was unknown...

It seemed there was a bad omen. The nobles, who had suffered few casualties in the previous battles, saw a sudden increase in deaths and injuries in this war. This might also be related to the intensification of the war.

And Randyll Tarly, the commander of the front line, was once again helped onto his horse by his guards and fled to the rear.

Randyll Tarly was covered in blood, his armor tattered. He sat on his horse, panting heavily, unwillingly turning his head to look back, watching more and more wights surge onto the banks of the Green Fork.

Why say again?

This was not the first time he had fled. He had been defeated in previous battles with the wights. He had experienced this scene of being helped onto his horse and fleeing several times. A once victorious general had been beaten into a constant loser.

But there was no way around it. Even if he alone could not turn the tide of the allied army's defeat.

"Go!"

Then Randyll Tarly spurred his horse and lay down on its back. His tattered armor made a sound.

He fled to the rear along with the defeated army.