Version 2.0
The battlefield settled into a tense, frustrating stalemate. Connell and Royce remained atop their hill, fortifying their defences setting up wooden barricades, sharpening stakes, and stationing slingers to attack Brandon as soon as he came close enough or looked to attack their defensive positions.
Brandon's army, on the lower ground, was left with little choice but to wait. Every morning, his forces would march out in formation, their banners raised and swords gleaming in the sun, hoping to bait the enemy into descending. His men shouted taunts and insults, banging their shields, but the enemy stayed.
The days dragged on, but for Brandon, the pressure was mounting. He knew he could not afford to linger in enemy territory indefinitely. Supplies were holding steady thanks to the winter crops, but the strain of maintaining such a large force far from home grew heavier with each passing day.
Beyond the battlefield, the greater danger loomed. Brandon knew of increasing raids by the Ryder King, who could take advantage of Brandon's absence to escalate his attacks. Small villages near the border had already been burned, and their stores of food and supplies plundered.
"Staying here much longer is a risk," Halvar said one evening. "The Ryder King isn't the only one watching, The Blackwood could change his targets and come for us. If another king thinks you've weakened yourself too much, they'll strike. We're not just fighting Connell and Royce."
Brandon nodded; and sighed. Edwyn had him and this campaign a lot of risk.
/
The stalemate continued, the days blending into each other with an uneasy rhythm. Brandon's army maintained its posturing, taunting the enemy from below the hill. And it seemed that today was what broke the camel's back as the provocation seemed to work. The skirmishes grew in intensity, from the small groups to medium groups clashing on the outskirts of the battlefield. What began as a few scouts skirmishing over water sources or vantage points escalated into skirmishes involving close to 100 men.
Brandon's forces often emerged victorious in these smaller fights, with their numbers giving them the edge. These successes emboldened the men, and the atmosphere in Brandon's camp became one of cautious optimism. Some getting pumped up for the battle finally coming their way.
Then, one morning, the fighting stopped. Brandon's men ventured out as usual, expecting another day of skirmishes and bloodshed, but they were met with silence. The enemy remained atop the hill, their men no longer descending even in defence of the skirmishing ground.
Even their caravans had stopped coming, so most likely they got all the supplies they needed and were waiting for Brandon to react. The men on the hill seemed to cling to their position.
As the days passed, this pattern solidified. Connell and Royce's troops refused to even entertain the notion of going down the hill. Slingers still sent stones raining down on Brandon's men if they ventured too close, but not a single soldier came down to challenge them.
"Must be scared of a real fight!" one of Brandon's men shouted to the hill. "Terrified of showing us their real worth."
But Brandon wasn't so sure. Something felt wrong. He stood at the edge of the camp one evening, watching the enemy's campfires flicker atop the hill.
"Why are they so scared of us, we haven't done much," Brandon murmured to Halvar. "What would make men so scared to even skirmish with us."
Halvar nodded, his eagle perched silently on his shoulder. "It's strange, my King. I circled their camp and have found nothing out of place, no messages in or out."
The mood in Brandon's camp shifted as well. The soldiers grew uneasy at the enemy's silence. Some speculated that Connell and Royce were planning a surprise attack or waiting for reinforcements. Others whispered maybe they had gotten the Celtics on their side to become blessed by their Gods as they happened with the Blackwood King.
Brandon dismissed the more outlandish rumours, but the lack of action gnawed at him. His army could hold its position for now, but the longer they lingered in enemy territory, the more vulnerable they became.
"They're up to something," Brandon said one evening as he gathered his commanders. "And I don't like it. Keep our patrols tight and double the scouts. I want to know the moment anything changes up there."
/
The uneasy stalemate dragged on. And Brandon was getting more updates from home and scouts reported increased raids by the Ryder King back home, and some movement in the Blackwood Kingsmen. The gain that Brandon could get from this war was not good enough for Brandon to stay and drag it out, it was looking like it was time to go home.
However, Edwyn during the war had grown increasingly impatient. Each day he paced Brandon's camp, pestering Brandon and his commanders for action. This evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the chill of night began to settle over the camp, Edwyn stormed into Brandon's tent.
"You can't just leave!" Edwyn exclaimed, his voice rising with frustration. "You swore you'd help me reclaim my lands! What kind of king turns his back on a friend?"
Brandon, seated looked up with weary eyes. "And what kind of enemy hides on a hill like a turtle in its shell?" he shot back. "We've been here for weeks, Edwyn. They won't come down. I can't force them to fight if they refuse."
"Then take the hill!" Edwyn barked. "Charge them! Show them what kind of king you are!"
Brandon's expression hardened. "You want me to march my men uphill into fortified defences? I won't throw away their lives for nothing, Edwyn. They're not cowards, and neither am I. But if Royce and Connell won't fight, then there's no battle to win here."
Edwyn's face twisted with desperation. "You can't abandon me. You promised—"
Brandon rose to his feet, his presence commanding. "I promised to help you, and I have. I marched my men into your lands. I faced Connell and Royce in battle. But I can't win a war against an enemy that refuses to fight. If you want your kingdom back, then you need to bring them down from that hill."
Edwyn opened his mouth to argue, but there was nothing to be said. With a bitter scowl, the Slate King turned and stormed out of the tent, muttering curses under his breath.
/
The next morning, Brandon gave the order to break camp. His banners were furled, his tents packed, and his soldiers prepared to march. Though the retreat was orderly, there was a sense of frustration in the air, a feeling of unfinished business.
As they left the battlefield, the enemy troops watched silently from their hill, refusing to pursue. Royce and Connell had won the war of patience, holding their position until Brandon had no choice but to withdraw.
The march back to Winterfell was quiet, the men's spirits dampened by the lack of a clear victory. But Brandon's mind was already on his lands, where the other King's raids threatened his people.
When he finally crossed the border into Winterfell's lands, Brandon breathed a sigh of relief. Home and his wife could not come soon enough.