Blood And Iron (ASOIAF/GoT)

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-Pov of Friedrich von Roon eleventh moon 288 AC

"Almighty God, have mercy on me… what a horrendous abomination!" I murmured in disgust, contemplating the pathetic spectacle of the Westerosi barbarian army, so poorly equipped and even more poorly organized. Their camp sprawled out before me—a place that should have been the heart and refuge of any army, a bastion of order amidst the chaos of war. But what I saw filled me with disdain: these barbarians didn't even seem to grasp the most basic principles of military logistics.

They were besieging the Greyjoy stronghold, a fortress with numerous structural weaknesses. Even from a single glance, I could predict the impending disaster: the structure seemed ready to yield to the weight of the ocean at any moment, taking with it any foolhardy souls daring enough to assault its walls. But these Westerosi, numb to the danger, blindly advanced, oblivious to the imminent threat of death beneath the castle's crumbling walls.

The camp itself… not a trace of discipline or common sense. In any civilized army, this place would be secured with palisades, guards, and proper latrines. Instead, it was a filth-ridden mess, littered with garbage and waste. Soldiers wandered aimlessly, some visibly drunk, with no semblance of order or protocol. There were no defensive palisades, not even a half-hearted attempt at a counter-palisade line. It was an open, vulnerable camp, with not the slightest concern for security or hygiene.

I struggled to understand how anyone who considered themselves a military leader could tolerate such disorganization. The entire army reeked of decay and disrespect for war. "What a waste of lives and resources… these Westerosi are nothing but savages playing at being soldiers. They don't know Prussian discipline, the true art of war, respect for order and strategy. Only those who have had the good sense to Germanize themselves deserve the honor of calling themselves soldiers."

It was evident that these men neither knew nor respected the principles of warfare. Their incompetence was not only an affront to strategy but an insult to everything we Prussians stand for. For us, war is an art, a science, and the military camp its heart. But for the barbarians, they barely understood it as a refuge, a mere waystation where survival, not glory or victory, was all that mattered.

Winter's snow fell hard, cloaking the landscape in a white blanket, and the relentless dampness of the area sent a chill that seeped down to the bones of those poorly prepared Westerosi soldiers. From my vantage point, I could clearly see the suffering of their men-at-arms, lacking the clothing and equipment suited to face this harsh season. Many of their extremities were already turning purple from hypothermia, and mountains of snow blocked paths, having piled up for days with no one bothering to clear them. Indifference ruled the camp, as if their misery was an inevitable fate.

I'd heard rumors of the Westerosi's deteriorating condition due to constant night raids from the pirates. Each incursion left dozens, if not hundreds, of bodies in its wake. The Westerosi called them relentless enemies, but upon seeing their disorganized ranks and their pitiful equipment, I wondered if they themselves were their own worst foes. Soon, winter would succeed even where the pirates failed, claiming the lives of men who, in the eyes of their nobles, didn't even deserve adequate protection.

Of course, the Westerosi nobles wrapped themselves in thick furs, as did their knights, while the poor infantry soldiers were left to fend for themselves. It reminded me of just how little these Westerosi understood true leadership and responsibility toward those who served them. No wonder the bulk of their army grew weaker by the day, under the cold and the indifference of their commanders.

My men, on the other hand, were prepared. Equipped with winter clothing forged from our experience in harsh climates, they endured the cold without complaint. The snow was no obstacle for us; we had fought in it, we had learned to live in it, and we understood what it meant to be ready for a true winter. The Westerosi, apparently, did not. Only the Starks seemed to be remotely prepared, though their camp left much to be desired, poorly organized and lacking adequate defenses, but standing out amid the general decay.

Only the Prussian Company camp—Prussians by birth and devotion or Northerners with some Germanization—displayed what a true military settlement should be: orderly, defended, and prepared for any eventuality. Even they had distanced themselves from the chaotic rabble of Westerosi lords, knowing, as I did, that they didn't belong among that horde of so-called soldiers.

Even the camp of the "mighty" Tywin Lannister was little more than controlled chaos. Although his tents were arranged in rows, the chaos of snow and the complete lack of defenses made it obvious why they suffered so much during the pirates' nighttime attacks. The Ironborn knew the terrain and exploited it mercilessly; their skill in ambushes and skirmishes was notable, and in these lands, facing them with traditional tactics was akin to leaping into the abyss.

Pyke is unlike the other islands where our forces have operated, with broad expanses of flat, fertile land that facilitate cavalry mobility and the deployment of orderly formations. Here, the land is little more than a collection of rocky hills and steep mountains. Cavalry, in which Tywin and the other nobles seem to blindly place their trust, is utterly useless in Pyke. Their horses could barely maneuver, becoming easy targets on the rocky ground, while the pirates, light and agile, struck from the shadows and disappeared in a blink, leaving the nobles baffled and without answers.

It was no wonder the Westerosi suffered continual losses in their camps. The defensive lines of the Lannisters and the other great lords were nonexistent, and the contempt for organization was evident. With no palisades or guards capable of detecting the slightest movement in the dark, they had allowed their camps to be attacked and even set ablaze multiple times. What the Westerosi called a camp was nothing more than a pathetic display of disorder and arrogance—a tempting invitation to the pirates.

I felt disgust as I looked upon this chaotic display the Westerosi dared to call a camp. They barely organized, letting the terrain and snow consume them. Meanwhile, we began constructing a real encampment, prepared to join the siege against the self-proclaimed king Balon Greyjoy, who hid in his castle like a frightened animal.

Our men, with an efficiency and discipline these barbarians could never comprehend, quickly set to work, leveling an area with shovels and pickaxes, clearing the snow, and establishing a firm stronghold. In mere hours, we had dug deep trenches to fortify our lines and raised solid palisades, ensuring that no enemy, not even the cunning pirates, could approach undetected.

Our tents rose in perfect formation, aligned with precision not only to provide shelter but to facilitate movement and communication within our ranks. From watchtowers, built with the same speed and precision as everything else, our sentries kept constant vigilance, their trained eyes scanning the horizon and shadows for the slightest hint of threat. While the Westerosi barbarians left their men to die from cold and surprise attacks, we deployed hundreds of guards to patrol and secure every perimeter, every vulnerable point.

This was a true military encampment—a miniature fortress built on Prussian efficiency—not some laughable improvisation like the Westerosi settlements. I quickly began calculating the supply needs, because unlike these barbarians, my men would not starve due to the negligence of inept leadership. Every ration, every ton of equipment had been meticulously planned. The Westerosi, on the other hand, seemed to act with no understanding of how much supply they needed or how to maintain an effective supply line.

Most of these Westerosi nobles barely grasped the basic principles of logistics. It was enough to see them bringing their warhorses to an island full of rocky hills and mountains. They lack the terrain to deploy their cavalry, and their precious horses are nothing more than an unnecessary burden in a place like this. Keeping horses under these conditions is absurd—a demand for large amounts of food and care, something they can barely provide to their own soldiers, let alone their mounts.

I swear, these Westerosi do everything possible to ensure their own failure. It's not that they simply lack knowledge—they actively choose to ignore every factor that could optimize their campaign. Every detail in their logistics and planning is a self-destructive chain of errors that will undoubtedly lead them to disaster. It's almost as if they're determined to lose, while we Prussians demonstrate with each action the power of a true military machine.

If it weren't for the Ironborn making the mistake of thinking they could face all the united Westerosi on their own, I doubt these barbarians could even keep control of their own territories. Shortages in supplies, inept leadership, a lack of siege weaponry, and constant attacks on the camp—everything about them points to defeat. Yet, I must admit there's a glimmer of success in this campaign, a light that doesn't come from the Westerosi but from us.

We have everything necessary to conduct this siege and finish it in due time. With the Prussian navy's support, our operations don't rely on hostile geography or haphazard planning. Thanks to the vast resources from The Reach, we have at our disposal tons of stored grain, ready to be transported and rationed with precision. Furthermore, the siege equipment is already prepared, ready to crush any resistance in Pyke.

For us, this war is a display of organization and power, whereas for these useless Westerosi, it's a series of stumbles and minor victories in the form of ports and lesser castles, conquered at the cost of casualties that a true army would never accept. With each island we've taken, we demonstrate what a successful, well-managed campaign looks like—minimizing our losses and ensuring a stable occupation. While they celebrate their minimal conquests as if they were legendary achievements, we advance with relentless precision, seizing the true prestige of war.

It's not enough to fight; it's about how you fight and what you gain with each step. The Westerosi may claim their small victories with pride, but everyone knows, even in their chaotic camps, that only we have secured entire islands, entire territories, without wearing down our troops, with an efficiency they will never match.

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

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