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The tension crackled like a live wire between the two groups, the kings' men and the mercenaries standing mere paces apart, blades lightly drawn from scabbards as eyes narrowed. The silence suffocated them, a taut thread begging to snap with the slightest provocation. Connell stood at the forefront of the mercenaries, his smile fixed, but now with an edge that dared anyone to step forward.
A soldier from the Harmond shifted his weight, the soft clink of his breastplate like a thunderclap in the strained quiet. The mercenaries flinched, hands tightening on weapons, eyes darting like wolves scented on blood. Brandon felt his pulse hammering in his ears, every muscle coiled, ready to spring. Frost's jaw clenched, pulsing beneath his stubbled cheek, while Edwyn's dark eyes flicked between faces, waiting.
Connell raised a hand, making the king's men draw their swords out just a little more. With palms out, for a moment the mercenaries held their breath, eyes flicking between their leader and the kings. His grin faded slightly. "Easy, lads," he called out, voice low and steady. "We've proven our betterment today. Let them gnash their teeth and stew."
The mercenaries exchanged looks; the glint of anger still hot in their eyes but tempered by Connell's words. One by one, they began to lower their weapons, the tension loosening like a held breath finally released. Connell turned, giving Brandon a final, pointed look, before sarcastically waving, and nodding to his men.
"Time to celebrate our victory," Connell announced, striding through the crowd. The mercenaries parted for him, falling into step behind him with proud smirks and victorious hollers. The sound of their laughter and rough songs echoed off the cliffs as they retreated.
Brandon watched them go; his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. Around him, the kings and their guards shifted on their feet.
Frost exhaled a cold, frustrated breath that misted in the chill air. "This isn't over," he muttered. They turned away, their steps heavy as they made their way back through the battered terrain, taking their hollow loot and prises with them.
In the days and weeks following the battle, the kings and their retinues returned to their kingdoms, their banners stained and torn, their men tired and embittered. People hollered in victory and joy. Tales of their feat raced through the towns and villages, carried on the lips of travellers, and talked about in every lit home.
In the grand halls of Winterfell, Brandon's name was still spoken with respect and loyalty, but outside there were others who murmured and gossiped. Merchants in the markets would argue in hushed tones, and farmers would trade gossip by their fences. Those who liked Brandon talked of his courage that had led to the death of Aloe, that without the kings' united might, the mercenary would have never succeeded. Yet, those dissatisfied with their king, in the lands of the Slate, Barrow, Tower, and Greenwood, told a different story.
There, people who had fallen on hard times harboured doubts about their rulers' strength, found a new tale to rally behind. Connell became a figure whispered about everywhere. His deed was painted with flourishes: the lone hero stepping in where kings faltered, the rogue who had struck down the greatest evil. Every retelling of the battle made him grander, a myth forming in real-time. Some kings played it well, spreading their rumours, others less well, instead banning the telling of Connell which only spread his name further.
While the North stirred with stories, Connell himself remained elusive. He moved like a shadow, slipping between villages and homes. Ge gathered the mercenaries and outcasts, he was their symbol of boldness, of power wrested from kings. His reputation grew sharper with each whispered pledge of loyalty, each mercenary captain who chose to follow him over the coins of a king.
In the barrows and hollows of Greenwood and Barrowlands, in the frost-crusted lands of the Slate King's domain, the clamour grew louder. Connell's name was constantly spoken with hope. The kings' men, wary of this rising star, tried to stamp out the embers of rebellion before they grew into flames. Yet Connell's legend spread like wildfire.
Brandon watched from the warmth of Winterfell, nursing his injuries as he contemplated the storm.
As Connell's name rose like a star across the northern expanse, some kings worked tirelessly to extinguish it. Rumours were seeded like weeds, spread by spies and loyal informants who mingled with travellers and traders. Word was passed that Connell was no hero, but a cunning manipulator, a warmonger with eyes only for power. "He would turn brother against brother," they said. "He seeks not to save the North, but to own it." Songs in the halls began to shift, once praising his daring, now laced with barbs: tales of his supposed ruthlessness, stories of villages burned in his wake to feed his growing legend. Bards, bribed or loyal to the kings, spread these ballads with venom.
The Slate King wanted blood and so sent a band of killers under the cover of night to strike at Connell as he rested in a village in the Greenwood lands. Unfortunately, he escaped the attempt, turning the would-be assassins into calling cards for people, as people always want to listen to what they are told not to.