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Emil Pov seventh moon 289 AC
"God… how I love the sun now," muttered Beltran, leaning against the starboard railing, neck stretched like a lizard soaking up heat. "All those years cursing when my balls were sweating in The Reach… but after being soaked and frozen in the Iron Islands—I swear by the Almighty I'll never set foot in that nest of rapists again, not even if they paid me gold for every step."
The sea breeze was soft, warm, and smelled of clean salt—not like that sour, stale humidity of the islands. I leaned back against the mast, letting the gentle sway of the hull carry me while I listened.
"True. I never thought anything could be worse than marching through the heat and rain in the South. But the Iron Islands… that was something else. Constant rain, wind like knives, mud up to your knees. And if it wasn't raining, it was snowing."
Merwin, sitting on a supply crate, shrugged while holding his cloak to keep the wind from whipping it around.
"I thought the Prussians that came with the king were tough as steel. But even they were soaked and wrapped up in blankets like old women. Those were the worst days I can remember. Still… with our minds set on reaching the walls first, at least our bodies kept moving," said Merwin.
"Winters in Prussia were never that wet," I said, recalling the plains of my homeland. "Plenty of snow, sure. Cold that cracked your bones. But that kind of wet didn't sink into your guts like it did in the Iron Islands. There, you could stay dry even in the cold. You could fight. If that constant rain had hit us during a real siege… half the army would've been buried before we broke the gates."
A moment of silence settled between the three of us. The creaking of the ship, the rhythmic flap of the sails, and the murmurs of the sailors working filled the background with a cadence we had already made our own.
"Is this normal… that we don't get to return to The Reach and are now being sent to Essos?" asked Merwin, this time more quietly. As if he didn't want the others to hear.
I looked at him, calm.
"For the common footsoldier? No. They should return. But for knights like you and me… this is expected. We march where we're sent. Not because we want to. Because it's our duty."
"'It is our duty to serve… blah blah blah, I'm a noble with my ego in the clouds,'" Beltran mocked, mimicking my voice like a child imitating a stern father.
Laughter was inevitable. Even the soldiers nearby chuckled under their breath.
"Idiot," I said, smiling as I stood.
"Yeah, but an idiot with dry feet and his ass in the sun," he replied, raising one boot toward the clear blue sky. "After what we went through, that's worth a promotion."
I walked to the edge of the ship and looked east. The distant silhouette of Essos's coast wasn't yet visible, but we knew it wouldn't be long.
For a couple more hours we talked, letting the sun fall gradually as the ship kept its course toward Essos. Our conversation circled the same questions: what we'd face upon arrival, whether there'd be battle or rest, if it would start the moment we set foot ashore. The truth was, we knew little to nothing about the front. Only rumors.
The one certainty was that Count Lothar—fanatic exile turned crusader—needed reinforcements. And he needed them badly.
According to the official messages, his war wasn't a simple campaign of conquest. It was a crusade to eradicate the sin of slavery in the Free Cities. A war to break chains and free men. And also—though no one said it aloud—to expand Protestant influence over a continent that still looked at our faith and banners with suspicion.
Lothar was practically alone. He had only one "ally" in the region: the Free City of Braavos. That strange beacon of freedom and commerce which, while rooted in hatred for slavery, did not view the presence of a foreign army near their trade routes kindly. To them, Lothar was as much a threat as the slavers he was fighting. A religious and militaristic expansion that could consume everything it touched.
And Braavos knew how to defend its interests. Having Lothar encamped not far from their banks, flying new banners and marching unfamiliar troops, was a sword hanging by a thread.
Worse still—according to information someone gave me before we boarded—Lothar wasn't just facing visible enemies. He was surrounded.
Three Free Cities were already out of the game—taken, destroyed, or brought to heel. But that had only made him more isolated.
Pentos had never officially declared war, but they had always been behind every attempt to bring Lothar down. They financed uprisings, bribed officers, encouraged corruption and sedition. They sent emissaries disguised as merchants to sow discord among his ranks. Their poison flowed constantly, and although the high command was well aware of their meddling, Lothar couldn't afford to open another front.
Volantis, for its part, was gathering strength. A full army was being prepared—carefully, patiently. Their plan was to wait for the Dothraki to do the dirty work. Let Lothar burn out his troops and supplies resisting a storm of savage riders. And only then, once his army lay broken, would Volantis strike like hungry vultures, hoping to claim everything Lothar had conquered.
And Volantis was not alone. They received financial and logistical support from elite circles in other Free Cities: merchants, bankers, politicians. People who didn't want the slave trade to die—and who, in private, feared Lothar far more than they feared Volantis. They didn't just see him as a conqueror. They saw him as a threat who could take not only their chains, but their thrones, their temples, their markets.
Even more dangerous than Volantis trying to revive the Valyrian Empire… was the idea that Lothar was succeeding where no conqueror had since the Doom: uniting faith and steel. Uniting men under something stronger than gold.
And then there were the Dothraki.
Last year, a massive horde—almost uncountable—descended upon the eastern plains. They pillaged everything in their path, burned crops, and razed entire towns. Neither Volantis nor Pentos could stop them. They didn't even try to pursue them. They were too many. And their true target… was Lothar.
The journey didn't last much longer once we crossed into Essos. We were assigned to disembark at the port of Myr, which was closer to the front where we were to be deployed. The king had decided to send us without a designated high-ranking officer, in order to avoid any disputes between the newly arrived commanders and the veteran Prussians already operating in the region. For that reason—and not by choice—I was one of the highest-ranking officers in this expedition.
As soon as we arrived, we began unloading our equipment. The port had been refurbished recently, prepared specifically to receive the massive Prussian galleons and their enormous cargo capacity. Everything was set up to make the work easier: reinforced ramps, wooden cranes, local labor under supervision, and guards stationed on the docks.
While we unloaded crates filled with swords, armor, tools, and provisions, the officers began to arrive. There were many of them—well-armed, most bearing the new crusade insignia. Since this war had been declared holy, Lothar had replaced his traditional banner with a new one: a broken cross in red and black over a field of shattered chains.
Eventually, a man difficult to ignore approached us. He wore hardened leather over chainmail, but what stood out most was the hat he wore—set with a silver skull in the center. Half his face was disfigured by something I preferred not to imagine. Part of his teeth were exposed, as if the flesh had been stripped away years ago and never covered again.
"How many in total?" asked the Hussar Totenkopf as he scanned the line of ships still unloading.
"Forty thousand. Thirty thousand infantry, ten thousand cavalry—all in heavy armor," I replied.
"Good. We need men to fill the garrisons in the hills," he said without enthusiasm. Then he looked at me more closely. The intact side of his face tightened slightly, unsure. "Do they have campaign experience?"
"Not all. Many only served in auxiliary roles—guard duty, trench digging, fortifications. Only two tercios have seen real combat. We reinforced our numbers with veterans from other formations, but from our own units, only about seven to eight thousand have fought in a full-scale battle."
The hussar clicked his tongue with clear disappointment, slowly shaking his head.
"Well… worse than nothing. Once you finish unloading, prepare to march east. It will take you a few days to reach our fortifications. We'll regroup there to stop the Dothraki. In the meantime, you'll help reinforce the defenses. There's no time to waste."
He turned without another word and moved on to speak with other newly arrived commanders, leaving us with our orders.
"Shit… not even a single day to rest…" I muttered under my breath before going to issue commands.
I gathered my men, passed on the orders, and we immediately began coordinating with the other tercio commanders and cavalry officers. It didn't take long to organize the column and begin our march east. For a week we advanced without pause, following uneven roads, passing through scorched villages and fields that looked like they'd been ripped from the earth.
The chaos was evident in every corner. Myr had not been under Lothar's control for long, and the city—along with the lands surrounding it—still bore the scars of recent campaigns. It looked as if the Dothraki had pillaged everything in their path. On both sides of the road we saw blackened fields, some recently cleared by groups of peasants trying to clean up the wreckage, rebuild fences, and plant again, even if only out of a desperate instinct to survive.
We passed through towns completely burned to ash, where only the skeletal remains of wooden and stone structures stood, as if a storm of fire had swept the land. And the farther east we went, the worse the devastation became. It was clear the Dothraki hadn't simply passed through like a roaming horde—but like a plague.
Finally, we spotted the hills. From a distance, we could already see several fortifications built along the slopes—watchtowers, wooden and stone bastions, and some palisades following the curves of the terrain like they were trying to hold back the horizon itself. But as we got closer, we noticed something unexpected: many of those defenses were still under construction or undergoing repairs.
Wagons loaded with bricks and freshly carved stone blocks—still unpolished—were arriving along the roads. Workers, soldiers, and prisoners toiled under constant orders, raising walls, reinforcing parapets, and organizing supply depots. The marks on the land became more evident the further we advanced: long rows of trenches, deep and well-defined, stretched out toward the east. Four, five lines—maybe more—separated by corridors, with shooting zones and space for troop movement.
Some of the veterans in the tercio—myself included—exhaled with some relief. We knew our enemy. We knew the Dothraki knew no tactics beyond the frontal cavalry charge. And here, with those trenches before us and those growing fortifications, it was clear: if they wanted to advance, they would have to fill the ditches with the bodies of their own men and beasts.
Lothar's local commander was a Finn. He had neither the bearing of a knight nor the solemn tone of a noble, but it was clear from his movements that he was used to being obeyed. He moved through workers and soldiers like an engineer among gears—adjusting parts, correcting flaws. He ensured everything ran as it should: from construction timetables to supply lines.
He wasted no time in organizing our deployment. We were assigned to a northern fortress still under construction, where we would have to stand watch, build, and extend the trench system as far as possible before the steady trickle of Dothraki turned into a flood. According to the Finn, there were already small khalasaars operating in the area—scattered groups raiding minor villages or testing our defenses.
We were preparing to depart when riders arrived. They weren't enemies. Nor were they part of our units—but they moved as if they belonged. Well-armed, clad in reinforced jerkins, light chainmail, and gauntlets hardened by the desert. But what stood out most were their long braids, full of metal rings, tiny bones, and ornaments that told stories none of us on this side of the sea could fully understand.
One of them dismounted quickly and approached Lothar's second-in-command. His gaze was sharp, and when he spoke, it was in his own tongue—fast, guttural, full of hard consonants between each syllable. I understood almost nothing… except two words: khal and Lothar. He said them like they were sacred, and hearing them together, I assumed he was on our side.
The Dothraki didn't bow, but he did take a respectful step back when he finished speaking.
The Finnish commander had watched the scene from atop a small slope. He approached quietly and listened to another rider speak, not interrupting. When they finished, he gave a brief nod.
"They've confirmed movement. A large khalasar. Seven days on horseback—if they ride without rest."
"Get to work. Now," said the Finn before turning back to direct construction.
And we began our journey toward our assigned fortress.