Version 2.0
Brandon and his men marched with unrelenting urgency. Every night, they pushed through exhaustion, covering the vast ground and completing a journey that would normally take weeks, but they made the journey in just under a single week. The biting cold nipped at their heels, and though the nights grew darker and the snow heavier, Brandon didn't allow them to stop.
When they finally crested the last ridge and the silhouette of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, Brandon squinted through the mid-day light, expecting to see smoke rising or complete devastation. But as they neared, the sight surprised him. The palisade around the village still stood tall, the familiar Stark banner flapping defiantly in the cold wind. No blackened ruins or plumes of smoke greeted him.
The gates opened at their approach, and as Brandon and his men entered, the village seemed strangely intact. Only a few houses had been burned down, and to his surprise, the villagers had already begun to rebuild them, hammering and working away. The air was filled with the sounds of construction, not the wails of mourning he had anticipated.
He quickly made his way to Winterfell's castle, giving quick greetings to the villagers who waved as he passed by. His castle itself stood strong. Only traces of blackened patches surrounded the walls failing to seep into the castle, no gaping breaches, no crumbling battlements.
Brandon hurried inside; his anxiety not entirely dispelled despite the apparent calm. His footsteps echoed through the halls, and his mind raced, expecting to find some hidden disaster waiting within the keep. When he finally reached the main hall, he found his household gathered. Everything was the same as when he left, not a single thing was out of place or changed.
Brandon's brow furrowed in confusion, as his boots echoed off the cold stone floor. The tension in his shoulders did not leave him as he headed to Jon.
Jon smiled. "Bran, Welcome back, did you like the renovations I did to the outside?" He smiled before bringing Brandon into a hug. "Winterfell and everyone are safe. The Celtic attack didn't go as they planned. They took us by surprise and managed to get to the castle quickly and tried to burn us in the castle, that is when I sent you the message. But as we were discussing what to do a large band of mercenaries showed up. When we spotted them attacking the Celtics we marched out and attacked." Jon led Brandon to the throne.
Jocelyn smiled and Brandon sat down. "We were quick to corner them to a part of the village and push them to the gate. Sadly, for us, the gate had been opened by the Celtics the night before which is how their reinforcements got in. With the gate open they fled before any real harm could be done."
Brandon's brow furrowed. "Where are they now then?"
Jon glanced at the others, and then back at Brandon, his face grim. "The man who led the attack managed to escape. Even worse, he's gathered more people, and they've swelled his numbers to nearly seven thousand."
Brandon felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "Seven thousand?"
Jocelyn replied quickly, "Most of them aren't soldiers. But there are more of them arriving every day. But he has not attacked yet."
Brandon raised an eyebrow at the two of them.
Jon hesitated before answering. "To put it simply he's decided to chat with us. He comes to the palisade each day and speaks to the people of Winterfell. At first, it was just a few who would listen. But people became curious after we tried to stop them from listening to him and the guards weren't willing to push the people back. We couldn't attack him either for fear of his army. And even after what he did, and with damage so light people, could not help themselves. He's also a pretty charismatic, guy Bran."
Brandon's jaw tightened. "What is he saying?"
"He just chats with the people, listening to them and stuff, helping them understand what's happening. He hasn't tried anything overtly hostile since the attack, and with him now just chatting we couldn't do anything until you arrived back home."
Brandon nodded, before sighing. The sheer number of the Celtic followers was concerning enough, but the fact that he was suddenly so nice to the people was rubbing Brandon the wrong way.
"Get the men some rest," Brandon ordered. "I'll hear what this man has to say for myself tomorrow."
/
The next morning, Brandon stood atop Winterfell's palisade, the biting wind cutting across the ramparts. Below, at the edge of the village, a small crowd had already gathered. He could see the figure of the Celtic leader standing tall, talking animatedly to the growing assembly. As the sun slowly crept over the horizon, more villagers filtered in, drawn by his voice. Brandon clenched his jaw.
Next to him, Jon leaned in. "There he is, Connall."
Brandon studied the man. Connall was tall, with long auburn hair that fell in loose waves over his shoulders, and a neatly kept beard framing a strong jaw. His eyes were sharp, glinting with 'that' kind of confidence that perfectly matched his cheeky smile. He wore simple but well-crafted bronze armour, marked with Celtic runes.
Connall glanced up at the growing crowd, flashing a disarming smile. "Ah, so many beautiful faces today! Good, good! It seems word travels quickly, even in the cold of Winterfell!" His voice was rich, carrying easily over the murmurs of the crowd. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Connall. And I'm not here to cause you any more trouble. No, no, far from it! I'm here to offer something better!"
The crowd stirred, curious. Brandon crossed his arms, watching carefully.
"I know what some of you are thinking," Connall continued, his tone light and humorous. "Didn't I just try to burn down this place? Well, let me explain that—poor decision on my part! What can I say, we all make mistakes, eh?" He flashed a grin, and a few people in the crowd chuckled. "But I'm here now, not as an enemy, but as a friend. A fellow Northerner, just like you."
Brandon could hardly believe his ears.
Connall went on, pacing as he spoke, making eye contact with individuals in the crowd. "The old ways, the ways of the Celts, they aren't about violence. They aren't about destruction. They're about connection—to the land, to the gods, to each other. What I did before, was a mistake, but I have seen the errors of my way. I realise that we are all the same all stuck in this cold winter, we all sit on the same table that has less food to feed us every day."
The crowd murmured.
"I know and understand your fears of food, beasts from the wilds, and wars, I fear those too. We are alike." He smiled at the crowd. "I know your fears, will I be able to feed my kids today, will my husband return from war, why do my parents need to live in the snow because there is not enough food? I understand you and I can help you. We can all help the whole North. We can stand together, stronger than ever before. And I know, I *know, that some of you can feel it too. You feel that pull, that desire for something more—something greater."
Brandon's fists clenched as he listened.
"I'm not asking you to abandon your ways," Connall said, holding up his hands as he spun around. "Keep your gods. Keep your traditions. All I'm asking is that you open your hearts to the possibility that there's more out there. That maybe, just maybe, we're all part of the same grand design. The Celts, the followers of the Old Gods, even those who worship the sea. We can all thrive together. We can live in a world where food is plentiful, our men don't have to march to wars and our families can grow old together."
Brandon watched in disbelief as more of the crowd nodded, captivated by Connall's words.
"We can all be pure in the world we can create, and I can do it for us. Believe in our words and cause and we can create it."