The harsh reality

In case anyone is interested, I decided to write a story to distract me from the research I do for some chapters of this fanfic, it's called Industrial Baron in Caesar's Legion, it's more violent because there is no need to keep up appearances.

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

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-Pov of Eddard Stark tenth moon 288 AC

The Riverlands, at least in the northern area where my father-in-law held influence, had once been a symbol of prosperity. The vast farmlands fed the villages and cities with abundant harvests year after year. The land was fertile, and the people lived relatively peaceful lives. However, that was nothing more than a memory now. What were once fields full of life were now reduced to ruins and ashes since the Prussian wolfheads swept through Tully lands.

They had passed through like a devastating storm, but with a cruel precision that only the Prussians could demonstrate. The undefended villages burned, not out of whim, but as part of a well-calculated strategy. To an outsider, it might have seemed that the Prussians had shown mercy by not killing anyone. But after understanding more about how they wage war, their "honor" was an illusion. It was simply another way they optimized their brutality to cause maximum damage with minimal effort.

Killing the population would have been a waste of resources for the Prussians. Instead, they left the survivors in a state of despair, a slow punishment that turned the peasants into yet another tool of their war. The remaining villagers were nothing but doomed victims, displaced from their homes and becoming refugees who crowded the roads. Not only did this prevent a quick response from local armies, but it also created an internal crisis: hunger, shortages, and chaos.

The Prussians understood something that many lords of Westeros did not. Refugees were not just a consequence of war; they were a weapon in themselves. By filling the roads with the hungry and desperate, they slowed any effort of military reorganization. The famines caused by the destruction of crops meant that even villages that had not been directly attacked had to deal with disaster, while the Prussians continued their stealthy attacks, always one step ahead.

They didn't need to occupy a city or fortress to ruin a region. Their war was a war of attrition, but not just militarily—socially. Every village they left burning, every field they destroyed, was a slow, painful stab that, over time, would cause the Tullys to collapse from within, without spilling a single drop of blood in battle.

The fact that the Prussians used despair as a weapon made it clear they were no ordinary army. They had perfected warfare not just to win, but to annihilate their enemies' ability to rise again. This was not a simple military campaign, but a calculated process of total attrition—a tactic that not only physically ravaged the land but also destroyed the spirit of the nations they touched.

Every burned village, every destroyed field, was no accident or secondary consequence of the conflict. It was a deliberate maneuver designed to leave the region crippled, suffocating from its own wounds, incapable of responding quickly to Prussian incursions. It was the kind of war that not only devastated in the short term but condemned in the long term, creating a crisis that would haunt the Tullys long after the Prussians had moved on to new territories.

The chaos caused by the Ironborn with their raids and violence paled in comparison to the immense damage wrought by the Prussians. Wherever we camped in the Riverlands, the presence of refugees was constant. Men, women, and children, ragged and starving, followed us like shadows, begging for the little we could offer. Each night, more supplicating hands rose around our camp, and it became increasingly difficult to ignore them.

But it wasn't just on the roads. Every castle of a local lord we passed was filled with makeshift tents, packed with hungry and desperate people. The fortresses, once bastions of power, now seemed like camps of misery. Diseases ran rampant among the crowds of refugees. The stench of death and rot filled the air, and news of fever and plague became more common as we advanced.

Luckily, our stay in the Riverlands was brief. Hoster Tully wasn't there, and we had no reason to linger longer than necessary. We passed through, avoiding the large gatherings of refugees and desperate people that had accumulated in the cities and castles of the local lords. The landscape was bleak, but we couldn't afford to stop; there was a war to fight. We left behind the devastated lands and soon crossed into Lannister territory, where the mark of Prussian presence was also evident, though more subtle.

The difference was clear. Unlike the Tullys, Lord Tywin had managed to stop the Prussian attacks before they caused irreparable damage. The villages and fields we crossed were ruined, and while some damage was visible, there were no signs of the famine and chaos we had seen in the Riverlands.

We continued our march toward Lannisport, where we were supposed to join the armies of the other lords, as a decisive naval battle against the Ironborn had to be coordinated. We'd had enough skirmishes and raids; now it was time to face them on their own turf and finally invade the Iron Islands to crush the Greyjoy rebellion once and for all.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Lannisport, the first sight that greeted us was that of a vast military camp. Banners fluttered everywhere, representing the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms: the banners of the Lannisters, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys were visible among the tents and pavilions, but it was another symbol that caught my attention.

Not far away, in the city of Lannisport itself, flew the imposing Prussian eagle. That black and majestic symbol flying over the city walls sent an immediate chill down my spine. Something was off. Why was the Prussian flag flying over a city that belonged to Lord Tywin? It wasn't normal, especially not in such an important place as Lannisport, the stronghold and crucial port of the Lannisters.

Tywin Lannister wasn't the kind of man to allow another banner to fly in his city without a good reason, much less that of a foreign power like the Prussians. Something strange was happening, and the presence of the Prussian eagle over Lannisport suggested that the Prussians' influence in the Seven Kingdoms was deeper than we had anticipated.

With urgency, we made our way to the great camp that stretched outside the city. The banners of the great houses fluttered in the wind, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. While my men set up their place among the other armies, I headed directly to the central pavilions where the lords of the allied houses were gathered. There, I tried to understand what was happening.

Murmurs and a few exchanged words with the Tully and Arryn bannermen confirmed what I had already suspected: something serious had occurred. According to them, Lord Hohenzollern had lost his patience with the southern lords. His mask of friendliness, which he had maintained to cultivate an appearance of diplomacy, had been ripped away, revealing his true nature: authoritarian and brutal. The complaints and suggestions of the Westerosi lords, which had once been discussed and negotiated, no longer mattered. Hohenzollern was no longer willing to tolerate any interference.

But the most alarming action followed his outburst. Without warning and without asking for permission, he had taken Lannisport as his own headquarters, establishing his massive Prussian army there, which outnumbered all the combined forces of the Westerosi lords. None of the great lords, not even Tywin Lannister, had been able to stop him. The Prussian domination of the city was evident, and with the Prussian eagle flying over Lannisport, there was no doubt who truly controlled the situation.

"Ned, it's been a long time," said Robert, his voice heavy with a weariness I hadn't heard before. He looked worn out, as if the weight of the crown was crushing him more than usual—or perhaps it was something else. The spark in his eyes, the one from before, was gone.

"Robert... where is Jon?" I asked, trying to understand why the atmosphere felt so grim.

"He's... with him," Robert said, his voice barely a whisper before he continued more clearly. "He's advising Wilh... Lord Hohenzollern on how to proceed with the war."

"Advising?" I said, somewhat surprised at the idea.

Robert let out a bitter laugh, almost without humor. "He doesn't take orders from anyone, Ned. He's not the kind of man who can be guided. And it's not as if we could force him. He's angrier than you can imagine. I've never seen anyone hold so much fury behind such a cold mask. That damned Prussian is a force that even Tywin Lannister couldn't control. The religious issue between the Prussians and the southern lords... it got out of hand, and now he barely tolerates us. He's only holding back to avoid starting another, even larger war."

"Tolerate us?" I asked, trying to grasp just how deep Hohenzollern's influence had gone.

Robert snorted. "Ah, Ned, you should have been there when he silenced Tywin. I've never seen anything like it. The mighty Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King to Aerys, the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms, with his lips pressed shut, unable to say a word. Hohenzollern cut him off, and Tywin had no choice but to swallow his pride."

The description sent a chill through me. "That sounds... dangerous. If Hohenzollern can silence Tywin and make him look like a fool, what does that leave for the rest of us, Robert?"

Robert made a weary gesture, as if everything weighed more than he could bear. "That's what worries me, Ned. True power isn't just strength on the battlefield. It's the ability to subdue men like Tywin without even raising a sword. Hohenzollern has that. And worst of all, he knows it."

"I thought we were truly friends, he and I... but he hated me, Ned," Robert said, with a sadness he rarely showed. "Those eyes... full of hate. A deep, pure hate. I didn't see it coming. When I close my eyes, I can still remember them... those piercing blue eyes, as if they were looking beyond me, judging me, despising me."

Robert's voice was filled with bitterness, almost pain.

"How did we get here, Ned?" he asked, as if searching for an answer he would never find. "He looked at me, and I knew that somewhere inside him... he had always hated me. And that hate, no matter how much he hid it, had always been there."

"What did he say?" I asked as I moved closer to Robert, offering him a cup of wine from the nearby table.

Robert looked at the cup for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "No... thank you, I don't want any." His voice was low, tired. "He told me only truths, Ned. Only truths... harsh, raw truths. He hates everything I am."

I looked at him, watching him struggle with what had been said. The man who had once raised the warhammer in battle and struck down Rhaegar Targaryen now seemed broken. Whatever Hohenzollern had said must have cut deep, far deeper than Robert wanted to admit.

"Truths?" I pressed. "What truths?"

"That I'm a degenerate, a drunk, a womanizer... good for nothing," Robert said, his voice laden with bitterness. He made no attempt to hide the pain behind those words, nor did he try to soften them. He simply let them fall, heavy, as if saying them aloud gave them more power.

I looked at him, seeing the weight of those words crushing him. The king who had led a rebellion, the unbeatable warrior on the battlefield, now cornered by words. Words that, to him, cut deeper than any sword.

"And that's what Hohenzollern told you?" I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear more.

Robert nodded slowly. "Yes... with that damned cold tone, emotionless. As if he were pronouncing a sentence. He didn't even bother to insult me. He just told me what he saw in me, what perhaps everyone sees but no one has the courage to tell me to my face." He paused, looked again at the cup I had offered him earlier, and almost ironically added, "And the worst part is, I can't even contradict him, because he knows he's right."

"So what do we do now?" I asked, seeing the resignation in Robert's eyes.

"Wait," he replied with a bitter sigh. "Wait for the Prussian fleet to crush the Ironborn while we... while we just watch. It's his way of humiliating us, Ned. They deny us the glory of battle, the only thing I have left." His tone was pure frustration.

"I'm going to speak with him," I said, determined to confront the situation. "Do you know where Lord Hohenzollern is?"

Robert nodded with a tired gesture. "There's a tent where he keeps all the war maps and listens to others' suggestions. He's probably there with Arryn."

"Good... let's go," I replied firmly.

Without wasting any more time, we headed toward the Prussian command tent, where Hohenzollern was planning his next moves.

The open-air command tent was surrounded by Lannister and Arryn men, all tense and expectant. When Robert and I arrived with our escorts, we were met with a scene we hadn't anticipated. The Lannister knights had their swords drawn, pointing at a man wearing a Prussian monk's habit, covering his entire body.

The man in the habit was tall and broad, an imposing figure in his own right, but what made the scene even more unsettling was his opponent, who was much taller and far more terrifying: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. His massive figure loomed over everyone present, his gigantic sword resting in his hands like it was nothing more than a simple knife.

The Lannister knights, though pointing their swords at the Prussian monk, were clearly nervous. No one moved, waiting for the inevitable as Gregor advanced toward the man.

"Didn't you hear what I said? Get lost! Lord Tywin doesn't want to be disturbed," Ser Gregor growled, dangerously approaching the Prussian monk, his massive figure blocking the view of everyone around.

Before anyone could react, the sound of bones crunching filled the air, followed by a metallic echo, as if armor was being crushed under a colossal force. It happened so fast we barely processed it: the Prussian monk had landed a brutal blow to Ser Gregor's chest, a thunderous impact. Gregor, known for being nearly invincible, let out a deep scream of pain, something no one around expected to hear from the Mountain.

What happened next was even more shocking. In one impossible-to-ignore movement, the Prussian monk grabbed Gregor Clegane by the throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. The giant, over two meters tall, who always seemed like an unstoppable monster, now hung in the air, trapped by a single hand that held him with inhuman strength. The monk's face was still hidden beneath his hood, but he didn't need to show his face to make it clear: Gregor's brute strength was nothing compared to the Prussian's power.

The Lannister knights, who had been pointing their swords at the monk, instinctively stepped back, shocked and terrified by the scene unfolding before their eyes. Robert and I could only watch, stunned, as the monk held Gregor suspended in the air, the sound of his armor creaking under the pressure.

"I heard you well... but you won't stop me. No one can, not while I seek my redemption," said the Prussian in a deep, controlled voice. Without letting go of Gregor, he let his habit fall to the ground in a smooth motion, revealing a full suit of Valyrian steel armor that gleamed in the daylight.