Blood And Iron (ASOIAF/GoT)

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-Pov of Friedrich von Roon eleventh moon 288 AC

"I need a knightly escort, immediately," I ordered my guards, with the firmness the situation required. My men, trained to obey without hesitation, moved swiftly, organizing into an escort that surrounded each flank of my march. While the preparations to further fortify our camp continued ahead of the imminent arrival of reinforcements, I advanced with determination toward the center of the Westerosi chaos.

Today, I would face these barbarians head-on. It was time to observe up close those who dared to call themselves my allies in this campaign, to see their faces and hear their words—not to learn from them, but to understand just how far their methods jeopardized our strategy and conquests.

With snow nearly up to my knees, I advanced through the Westerosi camp, my Prussian boots crunching through the white mantle with each firm step. I was surrounded by a chaos of disordered tents, all covered in a thick layer of snow that seemed to have been ignored for days. My eyes scanned the camp, searching for any sign that might lead me to the tent where the great lords of these barbarians were supposedly gathered.

Every banner that could have served as a guide was buried under a layer of snow, barely visible, and there was no attempt to clear or maintain the main areas of the camp. It was surprising, though not unexpected, that they didn't even bother to clear the primary paths through their own encampment. For Prussians, every space has a purpose, a functionality that contributes to the overall order; here, in the middle of Westerosi disarray, that logic was nowhere to be found.

With the biting wind and continuing snowfall, even my own guards began to glance around, baffled by the negligence surrounding us. "These Westerosi," I thought, "don't even realize that the cold and snow will be as much their enemy as any weapon." But with patience, I continued forward, determined to find the leaders of this disastrous army.

It took me longer than expected to locate the tent where the Westerosi lords were convened. It was the only place where fires were blazing, and the snow had been carefully cleared, as if these small comforts were too precious to share with the rest of the army, freezing outside and dealing with the consequences of negligent leadership. These nobles, it seemed, considered themselves far too important to share the hardships they themselves had created.

As I approached the entrance, two royal guards tried to block my path. Tried, because my Teutonic knights swiftly moved them aside without a word. They knew I would not tolerate a couple of poorly prepared and proud soldiers attempting to stop me at such a critical moment.

Entering, I found myself surrounded by the crème de la crème of Westerosi nobility, all gathered around a table covered with maps of the region. I couldn't help but sneer at these maps—crudely drawn and barely functional. The lines were rough and imprecise, the information fragmented and often inaccurate. A child, surely, would have better cartographic skills than whoever had created this abomination.

The nobles barely looked up when I entered, perhaps too absorbed in their false display of strategy or too blind to recognize true authority when it arrived. I couldn't help feeling disdain for the scene before me: great lords incapable of seeing beyond their own titles, discussing plans based on maps any competent commander would have discarded immediately.

"What a miserable performance you're putting on here; it's almost pitiful…" I remarked aloud as I entered, letting the contempt seep into my tone. The Westerosi lords turned toward me, and I saw their faces harden, some visibly angered by my words. "And to think you once dared to attack us…" I continued, sweeping my gaze slowly over each of them, letting them feel the weight of my disdain. "We would have crushed you in the first battle."

The tension in the air was palpable, but I remained unfazed, letting my words sink in. Finally, I gestured toward the shoddy maps on the table and added with a cold smile, "Do you have a plan, or is your strategy just to wait until you starve?"

I watched as some clenched their fists, others glared at me with defiance, and a few nobles exchanged reproachful glances with their peers. There was wounded pride in their eyes, pride without foundation, which blinded them to their own errors. Here, in this room, stood the leaders of a disorganized army, unable to accept even constructive criticism without succumbing to their egos.

"If you have anything resembling a strategy," I added, impassively, "now would be the appropriate time to demonstrate it. Because from where I stand, you've turned this campaign into a monument to improvisation and incompetence."

"We have a relentless guerrilla at our doors," said Lord Arryn, looking at me seriously, as though such a statement could justify the sorry state of their camp.

"Oh… I see," I replied, allowing a slight smirk to cross my face. "So this guerrilla justifies every mistake, every deficiency, every sign of disorder I've seen in this camp, does it?" My tone dripped with scorn, and I could see some lords shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

"This place is a disgrace," I continued bluntly. "Are you planning to bore the Ironborn to death, or are we here to rid ourselves of that plague once and for all?" I looked from Lord Arryn to the others, making sure each one felt the weight of my words. "Tell me, why in the name of sanity are those brittle walls still standing? Or do you expect winter to bring down Pyke for you?"

The silence following my words was nearly as icy as the air outside. The nobles glared at me with barely-contained fury, but they couldn't refute the obvious. They lacked discipline, preparation, and leadership. There they were, with all the necessary resources and a fleet at their disposal, yet the walls of the Ironborn still stood defiantly before them.

"Well… from now on, the siege of Pyke is under my command," I declared in an authoritative tone, leaving no room for argument. "Seeing how useless you all are, incapable of defeating a group of peasants wielding sharpened sticks in the mountains, and you can't even operate trebuchets or catapults… I have no intention of dying while waiting for the Ironborn to starve to death."

At that moment, a lesser noble, whose emblem I barely recognized, dared to intervene. "The siege is led by Lord Lannister, heathen," he murmured, with the defiance of one defending his superiors but simultaneously fearing the weight of true authority.

"And?" I responded, unaffected, looking at him with indifference. "That wasn't a question; it was a statement. From now on, I lead this siege in the name of King Wilhelm von Hohenzollern, King of Prussia. I will take Pyke in his name, as it's clear that none of you are capable of doing so."

I watched the effect my words had on those in the tent—their faces twisted with fury and surprise. Yet they knew, deep down, that my decision was resolute. If they wanted victory at Pyke, they would have to submit to a command that truly understood the art of war, not the petty games of pride and politics that seemed so important to them.

"Well then, with that said, I'll be taking my leave. Keep out of my way," I declared coldly before turning and walking out of the tent, leaving the Westerosi nobles stewing in their indignation and frustration. There was no time to waste. Quickly, I gathered a couple thousand of my men and marched to the Lannister siege camp, which, as expected, was barely functional. The lack of siege equipment and sheer negligence had left the site in a pitiful state.

Upon arrival, my men and I got to work immediately. Without hesitation, we dismantled the Lannister tents and erected palisades and trenches—essential defensive works that had inexplicably been ignored. To my surprise, there was little resistance. The Lannister soldiers simply watched, resigned or perhaps confused, as we reorganized their camp and began the earthworks. They sensed, or perhaps understood, that my command was non-negotiable and that the Prussian presence was transforming the chaos they had left into a true military encampment.

In the midst of our preparations, a familiar voice, cold and calculating, demanded answers from behind me. "What is the meaning of this?" he said, in a tone that tolerated no insolence. That voice was unmistakable: Lord Tywin Lannister.

I turned slowly, meeting his hardened gaze, his eyes a blend of anger and curiosity. "Lord Tywin," I responded calmly, without a hint of deference. "The meaning is simple: your negligence is an affront to any military strategy worthy of the name. Your siege camp was closer to a traveling market than a military base."

"If you want results here," I continued, making it clear that I was neither intimidated by his status nor his reputation, "then you will need to adapt to methods that go beyond vanity and lineage. This siege will be executed with Prussian discipline, and Pyke will fall—not by starvation, but by the weight of steel and strategy. This is no longer a farce."

Seeing that Tywin Lannister had begun employing silence as his weapon, I decided to take the lead. I began to walk slowly toward him, then around him, keeping my gaze locked on his, daring him to break his stoic mask.

"Oh, just going to stay silent?" I murmured with a hint of mockery. "What happened, little lion? No longer the intimidating monster you thought yourself to be, are you?" I made sure my words cut deep enough to sting. Around us, his Lannister guards gripped their swords, ready to strike if their lord commanded. But I knew Tywin wouldn't give that order—not here, not now.

"Curious, isn't it?" I continued, circling him. "Years ago, you could have had me killed without a single word of protest from my king. I would have been a mere pawn, a dispensable piece, easily sacrificed to maintain good relations with the mighty Lannister lion. But times have changed, haven't they?" My tone sharpened like a blade.

"Because, of course, you made a crucial decision: not to recognize my king as an equal. You chose to look down on Prussia with disdain. And now you, the man who was once beyond question, can't even order your men to lift a hand against me without risking it all. Or am I wrong, Lord Tywin?"

My voice fell into a deadly silence. Tywin remained mute, his gaze cold and calculating, but I knew my words had hit their mark. His silence was no longer his weapon but his only defense. A lord as proud as he had to feel the weight of his pride now that the tables had turned, and I was determined to make him understand that in this siege, and in this moment, I was the one in control.

"The king himself gave me the honor of this siege," Tywin declared with a voice that was hard and restrained, clinging to the last remnants of his authority.

"And I claim it by the right of steel," I retorted, sharp and without a trace of deference. "The strongest right of all. So don't waste my time, Lord Tywin. I'm a busy man and have no time to discuss trivialities with a lesser lord."

I watched as his jaw tightened, his teeth clenched, his lips pressed together—the effort to contain his rage evident in every line of his face. I didn't need to say more. I walked away from him calmly, ignoring any words he might have tried to add. I knew that, in his silence, Tywin was acknowledging a defeat he couldn't bring himself to speak aloud.

"All right… let's bring that castle down," I ordered my men, my voice carrying with the authority that only true power and resolve could command. My soldiers' eyes lit up with determination as they began preparing for the final assault.

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Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

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I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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