The Winter kingdom

Version 2.0

Dawn broke over the cold and pale North, the sun barely breaking through the thick, iron-gray clouds. Frost clung stubbornly to the barren ground, crunching underfoot as Brandon Stark's men prepared to move out. The sharp winter wind carried with it nothing but a deep burning cold that burned the nostrils, though it did help mask the tang of unwashed bodies and worn leather masking the camp.

Brandon stood at the head of his force, his breath misting in the icy air as he surveyed the camp. The soldiers moved quietly, their mouths jawing as their backs clicked into place. Lyanna and Edric barked orders, gathering the ranks into formation as the morning began in earnest.

The kings had gone their separate ways at first light, each force now a distinct shadow slipping through the snow-dusted wilderness whilst Brandon stayed back as the diversion camp. Brandon's men, now smaller in number, moved swiftly, their spirits lifting slightly without the burden of the larger, sluggish column.

/

The weight of dwindling supplies loomed over Brandon, his smiling danger. Rations were starting to stretch; having to feed his men and then feed some to Slate only for them to abandon them was a grating pain. They were not hungry, but every meal felt meager, like a snack rather than a meal.

Edric beside him, "How far ahead do you think we are?" he asked.

"Not far enough," Brandon replied, his tone sharper than he intended. He exhaled deeply. "But we've gained ground, for the first time in days."

/

The day passed with surprising success. The enemy skirmishers had massively reduced, their relentless harassment giving way to silence, even time for a midday break and snack of a hunted beast. For the first time, Brandon did not feel the enemy breathing down his neck.

The North opened before them in stark, barren beauty. Hills rose and fell in long, rolling waves, flowing from the silent hills. Snow thickened as they moved further from the Red King's lands, passing a frozen stream glimmered faintly in the waning light, its edges frosted with jagged shards of ice.

That night, they made camp in a shallow hollow of a hill. The fires burned brighter, and while the rations were as meager as ever, there was a faint air of relief among the men. Brandon allowed himself a brief moment to sit beside one of the fires, letting the heat seep into his stiff limbs.

/

The second day dawned as cold and gray as the first, yet it brought with it the same surprising quiet. Brandon's men moved with greater confidence, their pace quickening as the distance stretched between them and their pursuers. They marched with their heads high, even sharing the occasional jest.

In contrast, Edwyn's men were quieter, their eyes sunken and wary. Each morning, a few more had vanished into the night, their desertions another wound to the Slate King's pride. That morning, the absence of several more had left Edwyn fuming.

/

As the day wore on, Edwyn moved to the column's head and next to Brandon. The wind howled through the trees, muffling the murmurs of their men behind them.

"Your men," he said, his voice laced with frustration. "Not one of them has deserted. I don't it even crossed their minds. Mine, on the other hand..."

Brandon glanced at him, his breath visible in the icy air. "I've noticed," he smiled.

Edwyn turned his gaze on Brandon, his eyes sharp. "Why is that? Why do they stay with you?"

Brandon was quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the horizon. "I don't entirely know to be honest, maybe this is the Old God's way of rewarding me for my works. I just do what's right even when it is tough."

Edwyn snorted. "That sounds like something a bard would say. But men don't follow words, Stark. They follow food, silver, and family. We have none of those."

"It's more than words," Brandon replied, his tone sharpening. "My men know I won't ask of them that I wouldn't do myself. I've fought beside them, bled beside them. When they're cold, I'm cold. When they're hungry, I'm hungry. And they know I'll do whatever I can to make it better."

Edwyn's brow furrowed.

"Take the medical team," Brandon continued. "I started it years ago, after a campaign where we lost more men to sickness and untreated wounds than to battle. People were trained to set bones, sew flesh, and tend to the sick. Supplies to make sure they could do their work, and someone good to run it. I still help when I can. And so do my captains."

Edwyn tilted his head slightly.

"The men love them," Brandon went on. "They know that if they're injured, they won't be left to rot or bleed out in the snow. They'll be cared for, as best as anyone can. They also know I'll fight to protect that team, no matter what." He paused, his expression softening. "They're not just soldiers to me, Edwyn. They're my people and friends. And they know it."

Edwyn stared ahead in silence for a moment, his features unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet. "My men don't care anymore. Some lost family due to this winter, other friends and brothers to war." He sighed. "I envy you, Stark. The way your men look at you. Like they'd march through hell itself if you asked."

Brandon didn't reply immediately, but when he did, his voice was calm. "They don't follow me because I'm a king. They follow me because I lead. That's something any of us can do if we choose to."

Edwyn gave a short, bitter laugh. "If only it were that simple."

"Simple doesn't mean easy," Brandon said. "But it's what I believe in."

The two kings rode on in silence after that, the only sounds were the crunch of feet and the sigh of the wind. Behind them, Brandon's men marched with confidence, while Edwyn's soldiers trudged forward, glancing occasionally at the gaps in their ranks. Edwyn compared the men before he shook his head and dismissed the problem.

/

As they neared the border of the Red King's lands, a warg scout moved in from the rear.

"My King" the scout straight out. "Harmon's under attack. A large force of skirmishers has attacked, and they're pressing hard. And don't look to be retreating this time."

Brandon's jaw flexed as he processed the news.

Edwyn cursed. "It's a trap," he said sharply. "They're trying to pin one of us down. If we turn back, Royce and Connell's main force will catch us."

Brandon said nothing at first, his eyes narrowing as he stared southward. Finally, he turned to Edwyn. "We can't leave him."

Edwyn turned to face Brandon fully. "Of course we can! We're nearly out of their lands—one more day, and we're safe. You'd risk everything to go back for Harmond?"

"We said we would cover each other," Brandon said coldly.

"And what good will it do if we go back now, and all get slaughtered together?" Edwyn shot back. "You've got your men to think about. It's about survival."

Brandon's glare could have frozen fire. "We aren't animals. Harmond is my friend, and I won't abandon him."

Edwyn's lips thinned into a hard line. "You're a fool, Stark. If you go back, you won't make it out alive. And what then? Who'll lead your men? Who'll protect your lands?"

"I made this plan," Brandon said firmly, his voice rising slightly. "I convinced them to split up. I won't let him face this alone."

Edwyn leaned forward, his voice dropping into a near growl. "If we're caught now, there'll be no one left to defend the Slate Kingdom. I can't afford this, Brandon."

Brandon studied him for a long moment. "Then go. Take your men and cross the border. No one's forcing you to stay."

Edwyn hesitated, his jaw working as if he wanted to argue further. But after a moment, he sighed heavily, his breath a visible cloud in the cold air. "I can't stop you, but I won't join you. I'm sorry, Brandon. My people need me more than Harmond does."

With that, Edwyn wheeled around and barked orders to his captains. Within moments, his depleted force was moving on, retreating toward the safety of the Slate Kingdom. Brandon watched them go for a moment before turning to his men.

"We're going back," he said.

/

The journey back was gruelling, for the men, seeing freedom so close. After a quick march, they reached churned earth stained with blood, and the distant, haunting sound of bronze clashing and men shouting.

When they crested a hill overlooking Harmond's position, the scene below made Brandon's stomach knot. Harmond's forces were beleaguered, their defensive line faltering under the weight of wave after wave of skirmishers. The ground was littered with the dead and dying.

Beyond the chaos, Brandon spotted the vanguard of Royce and Connell's main force, their banners snapping in the cold wind as they advanced. The skirmishers had managed to slow Harmond down and give enough time for their vanguard to march day and night to catch up.

Brandon drew his sword, the blade gleaming cold and sharp in the pale light. "Attack before they see that we are here."

With that, Brandon's force surged forward, keeping quiet to give them as much time to close the distance.