Fighting against the pirates I

I forgot to translate the chapters, I will be uploading them as soon as I finish translating them.

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-Eddark Stark Pov tenth moon 288 AC

The situation in the camp near Casterly Rock was unsettling, like a silent storm we all knew was approaching. Winter was drawing closer, and though we had always awaited it with respect, this time it felt different. It was more tangible, colder, and its threat weighed upon us like a heavy layer of frost. The lords of the Riverlands were visibly worried, and with good reason. The days were shortening, and the nights were lengthening, each one colder and harsher. Fear was etched on their faces.

Who wouldn't be worried? The Prussians had not only raided the southern territories of Hoster Tully but had done so with a calculated strategy. They burned the granaries but left the people alive—a twisted tactic ensuring hunger would become their executioner. When the snow falls, those people will be doomed. And if winter is as long as we fear, famine will be unavoidable.

The Crown, in its eagerness to respond to the Prussian threat, mobilized the armies of the great lords, investing heavily in their upkeep as they wait for war to begin. But with each passing day, these armies consume more than we have. The reserves are alarmingly low, and worse, the Prussian lord has banned grain exports, a reprisal for our moves. Although we are not yet in open war, that ban remains in effect, slowly choking us.

The people of the fields have scattered. Many have abandoned their lands. And who could blame them? For years, the Prussians flooded the market with their grain at such low prices that no local farmer could compete. It wasn't profitable to work the land when merchants offered copper coins for entire harvests, only to resell them in the cities, competing with Prussian grain. And now that the Prussians no longer sell, the barren lands remain empty. People are moving to the cities, seeking work in the ports, or offering themselves as apprentices to artisans. The fields, once fertile, have turned to dead lands.

The irony is that, in the early years of our alliance with the Prussians, it was they who filled our granaries. Back then, their grain still flowed northward, and although it wasn't abundant due to tensions with The Reach and wars among the Seven Kingdoms, it kept our lands fed. But now… all that is over.

As I reflect on this, I cannot help but feel a growing distrust. Alliances are always forged with hidden interests, and the Prussians are no exception. They ensnared us in a cycle of dependence, and now they are tightening the noose. The southern armies are facing a supply crisis, and I don't know how much longer we can hold out before hunger weakens us completely.

With the Ironborn in rebellion, raiding the coasts relentlessly, this winter would have been unbearable if not for the return of the Prussians. Though their aid is welcome, I cannot shake the feeling that they are keeping us at a distance—even us Northerners, who share a military alliance with them. Their lord gave me his word that we would always be allies, and though I trust his words, a part of me remains uneasy. They say that when the Ironborn rebellion ends, grain will begin flowing south to north once more. I look forward to it, but the south is in ruins. The Tullys, with little to offer, stand on the brink of famine. The Lannisters are no better; their farmlands have been raided both by the Prussians and the Ironborn. And the peasants, the smallfolk who worked those lands, have fled. They have left the villages, seeking other livelihoods in the cities or turning to trades that do not involve land or food. It is a bleak landscape.

With the Iron Fleet destroyed by the Prussians, I thought we might move towards the Iron Islands, but I was wrong. The Prussians, with their immense fleet, have chosen not to transport us. They sail to the islands daily, bringing their men and tons of material for the siege of the Ironborn castles. But they keep us on the mainland. They have made us wait for Stannis, as if our presence is not necessary in this conflict. So here we are, stranded outside the Lannister stronghold, listening to the rumors and whispers circulating through the camp.

And, of course, everyone talks about him. Lothar von Ruppin. The Beast from the East.

From what I've heard from the Prussian officers within my army, Lothar is one of the most dangerous fanatics, one who wants to purge the Seven Kingdoms of all who are not Protestant. His strength is something almost unreal. The Prussians have always spoken of Charles, their champion, a man as strong as the Mountain but with far superior skill with weapons. But Lothar… Lothar doesn't need skill. I saw him with my own eyes.

With a single blow, Lothar broke several of Gregor Clegane's ribs. But it wasn't just that. He shattered the heavy plate armor the Mountain wore, something even the sharpest steel couldn't easily do. And then, he lifted him by the neck, with a single hand. I saw Gregor Clegane, the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms, treated as if he were nothing more than a helpless cub. That giant clad in steel was reduced to nothing before Lothar's brute strength.

He is a man to be feared, and if he ever turns his gaze upon us, I'm not sure what we'll do to stop him.

The whispers about Lothar von Ruppin have become more than mere stories. Every knight who speaks of him does so with fear, as if mentioning him would summon a shadow that might appear at any moment. The stories coming from the East grow more terrifying. At first, they were simple rumors, but when it was confirmed he had returned, even defying his own lord, fear spread. He had been exiled, but Lothar returned, and he didn't come back empty-handed. No, he came laden with enormous treasures, all brought with one purpose: to seek the forgiveness of his lord, whom he idolizes as an extension of his god.

The treasures he brought with him are the stuff of legend. Valyrian steel armor, swords, axes, and even maces—all forged from that legendary metal that seems almost impossible to acquire. We know that any lord would forgive a man who brought such offerings, but in Lothar's case, fear and devotion seem to go hand in hand. He is a man feared, yet also revered by those who serve under him. His reputation is such that his very name is enough to make even the bravest knights turn pale.

And it's no wonder. Lothar is no mere warrior. The tales of his exploits speak of something more, something monstrous. They say he defeated the Dothraki, that he killed several khals in single combat. For him, it was not enough to merely defeat them; he left hundreds without eyes, sending them back in chains to their armies. The only reason his stories reached us was thanks to a single man—a "lucky" survivor, if he can be called that—whom Lothar spared by taking only one eye. The others, blinded, marched like beasts toward slaughter.

But the most terrible tale was not that. There are stories of how he slaughtered dozens beneath the walls of one of the Free Cities, without mercy, without remorse. He killed a war elephant with a harpoon, and, as if that wasn't enough, strangled the enemy general with his own hands after killing nearly all his guards. It wasn't a mere victory; it was a massacre, a demonstration of the brutality with which Lothar handles his enemies.

These are not just stories to scare children before bed. They are accounts that everyone here knows, that everyone believes—and with good reason. Lothar von Ruppin is more than a warrior. He is a force that has defied everything we thought possible, and though he now fights for the Prussians, I can't help but wonder: what will he do when his enemies are gone? Where will his thirst for destruction lead him?

Fortunately, that monster, Lothar von Ruppin, is on the right side—for now, at least—fighting against the Ironborn. No one knows exactly what he's doing on those islands, but one thing is certain: the pirates and their lands are suffering the consequences of facing such an overwhelming force. In a way, it's a relief that he's not here among us. Instead of our men, it's the pirates who must face his wrath and brutality.

Every time I think about what happened beneath the walls of those Free Cities, about what he did to the Dothraki and their captives, I can't help but feel relieved that the wind has carried him far from here, at least for now. As long as Lothar is occupied with the Ironborn, we have a bit of time—a respite before the storm, embodied in that man, turns to other lands.

Robert is devastated, more than I've ever seen him. The last time he was like this was when he spoke to me of Lyanna's death, and the weight of that sorrow has never fully left him. But this time, it's different—something deeper troubles him. Robert has always been aware of his flaws; he'd admit them as readily as he would lift a cup of wine. But to learn that someone he considered a friend, like Lord Hohenzollern, harbored such visceral hatred… that shattered him.

For Robert, Lord Hohenzollern was unlike the other nobles who surrounded him, always seeking something in return—favors or power. He saw him as a true friend, a man with whom he could be himself, free from the masks of royalty. But to discover that this man loathed him with such intensity, despising everything that defined Robert, was too hard a blow.

Robert is no longer the man he once was, at least not these days. Jon told me he has stopped drinking, something that seems almost impossible to believe. He's been sober for days, asking only for water or fruit juice, without a single request for wine or liquor. He confines himself to his tent, as though everything around him is a distant echo of what it once was. He barely comes out, and when he does, it's only to speak with Jon or to ride in silence, far from the battle and the noise of the camp.

It's hard to see the king like this, without his usual bravado, without the fire that always burned within him. The war seems to no longer motivate him, and I fear this sorrow is consuming him.

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

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