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The air was bitterly cold, whiplashing against his face. Snow blanketed the plains, and the wind howled across the barren landscape. Brandon stood atop the walls of his southern holdfast, his breath misting in the frigid air as he surveyed the horizon. The Ironborn warband was now moving this way.
Brandon had expected the raiders to turn their sights on his lands eventually, but the speed of their advance took him by surprise. He knew he had to act swiftly to defend his people, for they had already pillaged villages and slaughtered innocents, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.
He called the men together and marched south to meet up with Jarl Amber. As his men prepared for battle, Brandon sent out ravens to the Umber and Frost Kings. The Ironborn threat was too great to face alone, and Brandon hoped that his allies would send any spare men they could muster.
Eventually, Brandon marched out from the holdfast with his bannermen, accompanied by Jarl Amber and his forces. Their combined army numbered around 2,700 men—hardened warriors accustomed to the biting cold and the harsh winters of the North. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they made their way across the frozen plains, their breath rising in clouds of mist. The march was gruelling, and the cold was unrelenting.
The land stretched out in an endless expanse of white, interrupted only by the occasional corpse of bare, twisted trees or the silhouette of distant hills. The cold wind whipped at their cloaks, carrying with it the scent of snow and the sounds of ghouls that had become more common, as they started to always follow armies on the march waiting for the inevitable battle.
After a few weeks of marching, they reached the outskirts of the Barrowlands, where Halvar and his scouts had reported the location of the Ironborn warband. The raiders numbered around 3,100 men after their brutal conquest of the Barrowlands. They had plundered the villages, slain many of the Barrow King's warriors, and now moved north with their bloodlust still unsated.
On an early morning day from a rise in the land, Brandon saw them—a mass of warriors, scattered across a plain. The Ironborn had made camp, their bronze weapons glinting faintly in the pale winter sun. Smoke from their fires drifted lazily into the sky, as the sounds of laughter and squeals called out from the camp.
"Alex," Brandon said. "Are you sure this is the best place?"
Alex nodded, as he looked over the plains below the hill. "Aye, this is the only major hill around. We can place slingers on the hill and whilst the men hold the line we can pelt them as we wish."
Brandon sent out his orders, and his men began to prepare for the coming battle. Shields were checked, weapons sharpened, and bellies were filled. The Ironborn had the advantage in numbers, but Brandon and his men knew the North.
As they readied themselves for battle, a raven flew in from the Frost King's lands. The Frost King had managed to send a small band of warriors south, along with the Umber King, who had sent a contingent. Brandon and Jarl Amber could not wait then and needed to deal with this battle quickly.
Brandon looked out over his men, many were relaxed as they stood straight and in formation. They had fought in countless battles before; this was just like any other. Brandon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
/
The morning of the battle dawned cold and grey, the sun hidden behind thick, rolling clouds that blanketed the sky. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, already starting to coat the frozen ground. Brandon Stark stood at the head of his army, his breath forming clouds of mist in the chill air.
The Ironborn was a grim sight. Their men, clad in worn sea leathers and rough spun armour, wielded bronze weapons that glinted in the dull light. They were wild-looking, their long hair and beards caked with dirt, their eyes gleaming with the promise of violence. Brandon could hear the low, guttural chanting of the Ironborn carried on the breeze.
Brandon's men, hardened from countless battles, stood ready behind their shields. The banner of the dire wolf of Winterfell fluttered above them, as did the sigil of Jarl Amber, whose forces stood alongside them. Their breath came in ragged bursts, their eyes locked on the enemy. Swords, axes, and spears gleamed, frost forming on the edges of metal. They knew that this battle would not be a quick one. The Ironborn were relentless and fought with a savagery that could wear down disciplined soldiers with their undisciplined lines.
Brandon himself wore a ghoul skin cloak; the pelt of a massive ghoul draped across his shoulders. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, and his jaw was set. He glanced at Jarl Amber, whose weathered face was grim, his axe hanging at his side like a vengeful promise.
Brandon nodded to Alex and smiled. "Ready?"
"Time to prove our worth." He said, his face blank.
The army crept closer to the hill before chagrining over it towards the Ironborn camp. The Ironborn had been waiting and expecting battle from the kings of these lands and finally, it had come for them. The Ironborn charged before being pelted by the slingers on top of the hill. They did not care. With their undisciplined lines and many carrying shields, many rocks either missed or pelted against shields allowing the Ironborn to close in.
As the two armies met, the clash of bronze smacked out like thunder across the plain. The Ironborn charged, their war cries echoing through the cold air, and Brandon's men braced for the impact. Shields slammed together, the screech of metal on metal filled the battlefield, and the ground quickly became stained with blood.
Brandon was in the thick of it, his sword cutting through the fray, his breath ragged as he parried and struck with precision honed over years of warfare. His men fought fiercely, but the Ironborn gave no ground. They swung their bronze axes and swords with brutal force, unafraid of death. Men screamed as they fell, and the snow beneath their feet turned crimson.
The battle raged for hours, neither side gaining a clear advantage. The Ironborn were relentless, like a tide crashing again and again against a wall, but the Northern forces held. Brandon fought with cold precision, felling what men he could, but even he could see the wear beginning to show on his soldiers. Still, they pressed on, refusing to give an inch.
As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, the battle finally slowed. Both sides were bloodied and exhausted, neither willing to concede defeat, but the dark closed in and so both retreated.
Brandon rested his wary body for the night ready for battle the next day. Only to be greeted by an empty enemy camp. He ordered his Halvar to find them, and after a quick survey, they found the warband marching northward and heading into further winter lands.
Without hesitation, he rallied his men and moved after them. The march was brutal as they played catch up, the cold biting into their bones, but they caught the raiders as they descended upon the village.
The second day of battle was as fierce as the first. The Ironborn, cared little for being found and fought on. The village itself became a battleground, its homes and fields turned to ruin as both armies clashed once more. Brandon's forces drove the raiders back, but it was a gruelling, bloody affair. The Ironborn loved the battle taking glee in taking any goods they could, constantly quoting some iron price.
By the end of the second day, both sides were once again too exhausted to claim full victory. Both sides retreated once more, but this time, Brandon's scouts kept constant watch, learning that the Ironborn cared not for fair and honest battle.
That night, Brandon sat by the fire, his men huddled around him. Jarl Amber leaned against a tree, sharpening his axe.
"We can't keep fighting like this," Amber muttered. "These Ironborn... they don't fight like honest men; they care little for one another and are only interested in this iron price. They don't retreat, they don't fear death."
"I know," Brandon said quietly. "But what choice do we have." As they sat in the dark a raven called out from the night. It flew down before perching on Halvar's shoulder before it cawed and whispered into Halvar's ear.
Halvar turned to Brandon. "The Blackwood King has marched out of the forest with a force of 2,000 and is heading into winter lands."