Version 2.0
After scattering the Ironborn warband, Brandon wasted no time. Gathering his still-healthy men whilst sending the rest to the holdfast to rest and recuperate, Brandon continued north. His men marched in joy, after freeing all the prisoners from the Ironborn and having taken all of the food the Ironborn stole they had the first hearty dinner they had had in months and so were riding high on joy. Even winter ice and snow falling in thick flakes couldn't break their joy. The cold was relentless, but so too was Brandon.
Word had already reached him that the Umbar King and the Frost King had sent their men to help him. Though their numbers were small—only around 150 men each—Brandon welcomed the reinforcements. Every sword mattered. When the two kings' banners finally came into view, fluttering in the wind, Brandon's heart swelled with gratitude.
The two forces met not far from Winterfell where the Blackwood king was marching towards after raiding much of north of it. The snow crunched underfoot as the combined Northern host—around 2,700 fighting men strong—assembled. Brandon greeted the Umbar and Frost kings' commanders, both hardy, battle-worn men. They clasped arms in greeting.
"Brandon," the massive commander of the Umbar men said, his voice rough, "The Blackwood King marches with 2,500 men. He's been raiding, living off your land as he does so, and hoarding the rest that he takes."
Brandon nodded, before setting his eyes on the horizon. A few days later he could see the distant flicker of the Blackwood King's banners in the fading daylight, their red and black sigils standing out against the snow-covered landscape. The enemy had arrived. The Blackwood King's forces were moving into formation, their numbers not far behind Brandon's.
His men formed up quickly and effectively. Shields were locked, spears bristled at the ready, and slingers lined up in front of them. Brandon's banner fluttered high in the chill air, next to the Umbar and Frost banners.
Across the field, the Blackwood King's men assembled with a strange, eerie calm. They had been raiding and plundering the outer villages, but now they stood completely quiet and calm. The Blackwood King himself walked at the head of his army, standing tall his black crown upon his head. His armour was black and red, and he carried a great spear in his hand, its tip gleaming in the low light.
The two forces stared each other down across the field. For a moment, all was still before the storm of battle. Brandon gripped his sword, his breath steady despite the frost that clung to his beard.
However, the Blackwood King and his army made no immediate move to charge. Instead, they stood in eerie stillness, waiting. Brandon frowned, confusion knitting his brow. Then, from within the Blackwood ranks, movement. Several figures were dragged forward, their hands bound in chains, their faces pale with fear before being thrown into the cold snow.
"What's this?" Brandon muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on his sword.
The slaves quickly begged and cried out for help but Artos's voice, deep and thunderous, cut through them before being carried across the field as he addressed his men. In a booming voice, the Blackwood King invoked his Celtic gods, calling for their blessings in the battle to come. His speech echoed fanaticism, praising the gods of his ancestors and asking them to take the lives of the non-believers and to bestow their divine favour upon the Blackwood warriors. And with a gesture the Blackwood King's soldiers cut open the slaves and then left them to stain the snow.
Brandon's face twisted in fury and disgust as his men murmured and whispered among each other, shifting on their feet and pointing. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with anger. Then in front of the Blackwood army, the winds spiked before kicking up a light wave of snow allowing it to fall on the bleeding-out slaves.
Artos took this as a good sign and so did his men. They cheered and chanted for their Gods before they marched forward.
"This ends now," Brandon said to Theon.
Without hesitation, Brandon began to march, his feet crunching over the snow and quickly followed by his king's guard who made no complaint. Then slowly the levies followed suit, whispering to one another and with unsure footing.
The slingers, at the font, let fly their volleys of stones pelting into the shield wall of the enemy. Stones punched through shields felling men or pinged off of hard black shields as the enemy pressed forward chanting 'Néit'.
The winds howled, and then, with a sharp cry from the Blackwood lines, the lines clashed, and the battle began. Shields slammed into shields, swords clanged, and the ground quickly became slick with blood.
The armies clashed violently in the centre of the field, shields smashing into shields, swords, and spears flashing in the cold morning light. The Blackwood soldiers fought with holy fervour, their belief in their gods completing their movements. They mourned for their lost friends by striking down the enemy as they pressed forward.
Brandon's men struggled against the sheer intensity of the assault. The Blackwood soldiers fought with discipline and with a fanatical edge of men in believed they had their gods watching them. They did not flinch, did not retreat, and their eyes burned with religious zeal. Brandon felt his forces being slowly pushed back, first the levies and then his king's guard.
The Blackwood warriors pressed forward with relentless force, using their high morale to overwhelm Brandon's lines. His men were beginning to falter, their shield walls buckling under the weight of the attack. Brandon's commanders shouted orders, trying to steady the defence, but the Blackwood forces kept coming, undeterred by death or injury. The cold air was filled with the clang of bronze, the shouts of dying men, and the cries of the wounded as they were dragged behind their lines.
The battle stretched on, the morning light giving way to the pale gray of the overcast sky. Blood soaked the ground, mixing with the snow, and bodies littered the field. The Blackwood soldiers continued their relentless assault, driving deeper into Brandon's lines. It was clear they would not stop until every last one of them was dead or victorious.
Brandon fought with all the strength he had, but doubt began to creep into his mind. He could see the desperation in his men's faces, the strain in their movements as they fought to hold the line. The Blackwood King's sacrifice had ignited a fire in his warriors and extinguished the fire in his men.
"We're being pressed too hard!" Theon shouted over the din of battle. "The levies are shaking my King."
Brandon gritted his teeth. But despite his best efforts, despite the courage of his king's guard, the Blackwood King's forces continued to push them back.
With his army faltering and the Blackwood forces pressing ever closer, Brandon felt he was running out of time. Something had to give.
The battle raged on, growing more desperate with each passing moment. Brandon's men, though seasoned and hardened from war, were shaken as the fanatical Blackwood soldiers continued their relentless push, Brandon could see his lines starting to crumble. Shields buckled, formations broke, and his men started to retreat.
The Blackwood forces, emboldened by their Gods, surged forward like a flood, their chants of devotion to the gods echoing across the battlefield.
Brandon's mind raced with the stakes for this battle and the potential wildfire disaster the outcome could have. Yet, Brandon could see no way to turn the battle in his favour. His forces were being pushed back across the entire line, and the Blackwood soldiers were closing in, tightening the noose. The grim reality began to settle in his heart: defeat seemed inevitable.
Suddenly, there was a commotion on the right flank. A strange, thunderous noise, unlike the clash of weapons or the roar of battle, caught Brandon's ear. He turned, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of the scene. The right flank, which had been on the verge of collapse, suddenly began to push back against the Blackwood forces, driving them away.
For a moment, hope surged through Brandon. His men were rallying! But just as quickly as the Blackwood soldiers were driven back, confusion spread across both armies. The enemy lines began to falter and break. Brandon's eyes widened.
From the edges of the battlefield, a stampede of wild animals surged into view. Massive bears, their fur matted and bloodied, charged forward, crashing into the Blackwood King's ranks with bone-shattering force. Direwolves, their eyes gleaming green, leaped into the fray, tearing through the enemy like wolves through a flock of sheep. Ghouls their eyes glowing with an unnatural light, prowled into the battlefield, ripping through the fanatical Blackwood soldiers.
The Blackwood forces, who had been fighting with such confidence and zeal, were now thrown into utter disarray. They had no defence against this sudden, savage onslaught. Their fanaticism turned to fear as they were torn apart by the ferocity of the creatures. Men screamed in terror, dropping their weapons and fleeing in every direction as the beasts continued their rampage.
Brandon stood frozen for a moment, disbelief washing over him. What in the name of the Old Gods was happening? The Blackwood King's army was collapsing, their lines breaking apart as the wild creatures ripped through them.
Seizing the opportunity, Brandon roared to his men. "Push forward! Don't hold back!"
His voice carried across the battlefield, and his soldiers, emboldened by the chaos on the enemy's side, surged forward with renewed vigour. They crashed into the remnants of the Blackwood King's army, cutting down those who hadn't already fled in terror. The beasts tore through the ranks of the fanatics, leaving shredded bodies scattered across the blood-soaked field.
In the chaos, Brandon caught sight of the Blackwood King himself, struggling to maintain control over his men. But it was too late. The tide had turned, and his army was now fleeing in every direction, no match for the combined fury of Brandon's forces and creatures.
As the Blackwood King's army dissolved, Brandon pressed his advantage, driving the enemy back further and further until the field was clear. The animals, having wreaked their havoc, began to scatter, disappearing back into the wilds from whence they came, whilst many men in Brandon's army collapsed to the ground their green gleaming eyes closing for sleep. Leaving behind only the eerie stillness of a battlefield won.
Brandon stood panting, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand, surveying the devastation. His men gathered around him, victorious watching as the animals and monsters left and scampered back into the wilds.