The Winter kingdom

Version 2.0

The morning of the battle dawned cold and heavy with mist, the kind that clung to the skin and turned every breath into a ghostly plume, with skies hung low and gray carrying a thick blanket of clouds threatening snow. The ground was hard beneath Brandon's boots, the frost refusing to thaw.

Brandon stood at the edge of his camp, wrapped in his thick cloak, watching as his men formed into disciplined ranks. The banners of the Winter Kingdom fluttered faintly in the wind, their dire wolf sigil against the pale morning haze.

Ahead, Brandon could see Connell's and Royce's forces positioned on their hill, their banners rippling in the breeze. The early mist started to reveal more of the hill as the men marched closer, revealing a steep and uneven mess of hills.

Brandon's men halted at the edge of the plain below. And waited for the enemy.

"Sure, are taking their time," Theon muttered, eyes fixed on the hill.

Brandon nodded, his gaze unwavering. "They'll come."

Hours passed. The Winter King's army remained in formation at the base of the hill, waiting for Connell or Royce to make their move. Yet the enemy never did, their banners still, their line unbroken. It was a maddening silence that followed as each side waited for the other.

As the morning waned and the mist began to lift, frustration rippled through Brandon's ranks. Men began shifting on their feet, muttering to each other and glances up the hill. When the sun was at its peak, a few of the younger soldiers began shouting.

"Cowards!" one man yelled, his voice ragged.

"My wife has bigger balls than you and she gets railed by a Man every night!" cried another.

Laughter and jeers joined the chorus, the sound growing louder as Brandon's men vented their frustration. The enemy remained unmoved. They simply stood there in silence.

"Never took Connell for a Coward," Theon said, his jaw tight.

Brandon frowned but kept his voice calm. "Sleazy but not a coward. Feels like the working of Royce again."

Over the next few days, the pattern repeated itself. Brandon would march his men out, form their ranks, and wait for the enemy to descend. The men jeered, shouted, and even began banging their weapons against shields, trying to provoke a fight. Connell and Royce's forces, however, remained on their hill.

On the third day, Brandon, weary of the standoff, moved his forces slightly closer. It was a mistake. As soon as his men breached the invisible boundary, slingers hidden among the enemy ranks began to lose stones from the heights. The rocks whistled down, striking shields, helmets, and flesh. Brandon quickly ordered his men to pull back, as he watched the hilltop forces melt back into their tight formation, unharmed.

"They want to play to their defences," Theon growled.

"And we won't," Brandon replied firmly. "I won't march the men into that death trap."

Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Brandon would return his forces to camp. The men grumbled, their frustration building with each passing day. Morale dipped as day after day, the battle that was promised never came. The hill stood like in silent step.

/

As the days dragged on, Brandon began to see the enemy's plan taking shape in his mind. Connell and Royce weren't seeking a confrontation, they were starving him out. His army, positioned far from Winterfell and its supply hubs, was at a disadvantage. The enemy, perched on their hill, had the luxury of proximity to their resources, keeping them well-fed and well-supplied while Brandon's forces only had what they brought with them.

It came in a realization, as Brandon watched his men complain of the same food every day and watched them argue with one another saying 'they feel like they are starved for variety'. Connell and Royce intended to wait him out, to sap his strength, and wait until his army was too weak to fight, just like they did last war. When Brandon was forced to retreat, they would descend like wolves, ready to strike at the first sign of vulnerability.

However, they did not know of Brandon's new resource capabilities.

The winter crops that had flourished in Winterfell had given him an edge no one could have foreseen. His supply could last much longer, in the cold weather and so wouldn't go off as quickly and he had much more of them. He had enough food to last weeks, perhaps even a few months if rationed wisely, though Brandon hoped it would not come to that.

Still, he couldn't let Connell and Royce know this, he needed a plan. Each morning, his army would march out to the hill, forming ranks as if prepared for battle. The same taunts echoed; the same stones rained down when they drew too close. The enemy remained on the hill, believing time was on their side. But while Brandon sent small, detachments to harry the enemy's supply lines.

Halvar and his scouts led the efforts, their wargs giving them an advantage in tracking enemy caravans. Moving through the winding trails or rolling hills of the Slate King's lands, they targeted food wagons. Ambushes were quick and brutal, leaving the bodies, taking the goods, and leaving surrendered guards in their wake. Brandon's men seized what they could carry and burned what they couldn't, leaving the enemy with empty bellies and annoyed tempers.

The first few attacks caught Connell and Royce off guard. But they weren't idle for long. The enemy retaliated, sending more guards to the caravans and to hunt down Brandon's raiding parties. The hills and roads became battlegrounds, filled with the clash of bronze and the cries of battle.

For weeks, the cycle continued. Each day, Brandon's army marched out, still wanting to force an open battle. Whilst his men slipped out to strike at the enemy's supplies and take what they could.

Brandon's forces suffered losses, of course. The enemy guards were no pushovers, and as time went by more caravans slipped through their grasp. But their role of showing their desperation was done and now it was time for Royce and Connell to fill in the blanks in their mind.

/

The hills of the Slate King's lands were alive with conflict. Skirmishes broke as Connell and Royce, retaliation grew fiercer, as due to a lack of their wargs decided to fill the caravans with as many men as they could. But Connell and Royce were playing their part, and Brandon knew it was time for his plan.

One crisp morning, Brandon's army broke camp, their movements deliberately quiet, he knew that Royce would never allow him to escape without notice. They marched away from the hill where Connell and Royce had been entrenched, and away from the battlefield towards his lands.

Halvar's scouts, perched high in the trees or soaring above, kept a close eye on the enemy's movements. As expected, Connell and Royce were quick to follow, and so very eager for their juicy meat like starved they swarmed after them.

The moment came at midday, with the sun casting small shadows across the grasslands. Brandon gave the signal, and his army began to pivot, the vanguard rushing to form a line while the rear guard scrambled from up behind them.

But the manoeuvre did not go as smoothly as Brandon had hoped. His men were slow to react and not used to moving like this on hills and unknown terrain. The levies, inexperienced and nervous, struggled to find their places in the formation. The household guards and King's Guard did their best to steady the lines, but the disarray was evident.

They were so disorganised to allow Connell and Royce the opportunity, to form up their army in formation and attack Brandon and instead of the other way around.

The clash was brutal and immediate. The sound of bronze on bronze screeched out as the two armies collided. Brandon's men fought valiantly, but the chaotic start to the battle had cost them their initial advantage. The element of surprise was lost.

For hours, the battle raged. The sun climbed but a little higher, then began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. Brandon's forces, though initially disorganized, held their ground, their training and larger numbers keeping them from breaking under the enemy's relentless assaults.

Connell and Royce fought with equal ferocity, their combined forces pressing hard against Brandon's lines. The battlefield became a blur of motion—clashing swords, flying stones, and the roars of beats.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness began to creep over the field. Both sides, exhausted and bloodied, began to withdraw. The fighting slowed, then ceased entirely, as the armies retreated to their respective hills to regroup.

In the safety of his camp, Brandon sat by the fire, his brow furrowed in frustration. The battle had not gone as planned. His men had fought well, but the slow execution of his feigned retreat had cost him the decisive victory he had hoped for.

Edric approached. "Well, that went tits up." He sighed. "Royce won't allow us to get another opportunity like that again."

Brandon nodded, his jaw tightening. "I know," he replied. He took a big bit of his meal as he thought of something to help him.