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Emil Pov seventh moon 289 AC
The Dothraki numbers haven't stopped growing. It's as if they're rising from the ground itself. And everything started to make some sense once the tortured captives began to talk.
This invasion isn't about slaves or plunder—this one is spiritual. According to some of the prisoners, the old dosh khaleen prophesied that the stallion who mounts the world would be born from the seed of the man who kills the false khal. And to them, that false khal… is Lothar.
Because a khal who wears armor, who destroys the land to build castles… is no khal. That's why we now have every damned khalasar in the region marching straight toward us, willing to die to fulfill that prophecy.
I've lost dozens of good men in these last few days. Hardened, disciplined soldiers… and still they fell—struck by arrows or overwhelmed by Dothraki who managed to cross the trenches. The locals fighting with us—recruited from Myr, Tyrosh, Lys—have been decimated. Their gear is pitiful. The light padding we wear just for labor, to avoid the full weight of steel, is their only protection in combat. The casualties among them have been brutal. In our sector alone, we've had to dig burial trenches for over three hundred.
By the grace of God, the Dothraki remain divided. Their attacks are erratic. They charge in all directions, all sectors, as if trying to wear down our defenses through sheer insistence. They throw hundreds—thousands if needed—at the trenches. They try to fill them with corpses and horses, only to find a wall of arrows and bolts waiting on the other side.
And still they don't stop.
Every frontier fortress has reported attacks. Some have managed to repel the waves without too much trouble—usually small khalasars, scouting parties testing the walls. But when a large khalasar charges in force, the story changes. They outnumber our garrisons easily. In some places, they outnumber us three to one—sometimes more.
The fields around the fortifications are clogged with corpses. Men and horses alike, piled where they fell—or where we had the strength to drag them. We don't even try to bury them all anymore. We don't have the time.
Our raids are over. We were forced to stop advancing and instead spent days just holding onto what we had. But holding ground against an enemy with no end in sight wears you down to the bone.
The Dothraki, with their endless numbers, have already managed to fill three of our five trenches. Not completely—but enough to reduce their effectiveness. Every attempt to clear them has failed. The moment they sense we're trying to remove the corpses and clear the path, the camp of the great khal—just three kilometers from our position—reacts immediately.
As soon as they notice we're undoing their "work," they throw everything they have at us. A wave of flesh, steel, and fury. The day turns into a massacre—for them and for us.
"Shit… these Dothraki are the most stubborn sons of bitches we've ever faced. They drop like wheat under the scythe and still charge like nothing happened. If this were Westerosi peasant levies, you'd only need to kill a few before the rest pissed themselves and ran," Beltran said while sipping the horse stew that had, as of late, become our most common meal—thanks to the sheer number of equine corpses their assaults left behind.
"I must've killed fifty of them these past three weeks," Merwyn added, without pride—just stating it, like someone counting stones in a sack. "And the khal's camp… it just keeps growing."
I nodded, watching the white smoke columns rising on the horizon. "I heard there's infighting. That's why it's been quieter lately. Apparently the khals are fighting among themselves for leadership. And that's a damn problem. So far, we've faced dozens of Dothraki warbands—poorly coordinated, underfed, advancing across scorched land from the Rhoyne all the way here. But if one of them manages to unite the others and focus their strike on a single point in our defenses… we're fucked."
Merwyn set aside his bread and meat, spat out a small bone, and stared toward the smoke.
"Well, looks like another wave is coming. They're cooking. And when the Dothraki eat… it's because they want their bellies full before they kill." He grabbed his crossbow and began replacing the cords with quick, practiced movements.
We finished eating and got ready for the next skirmish. As usual, a large Dothraki cavalry force approached at full gallop, loosing hundreds of arrows in every direction. We took cover behind the wooden walls we had placed in the trenches, braced to withstand the first impact.
As soon as they were in range, we began harassing them with crossbows. Several dropped instantly, swatted down like flies. But as always, they didn't stop. While we reloaded and the archers scrambled for more ammunition, the Dothraki used the chance to charge forward and toss sacks of dirt and the bodies of their own dead—trying to fill the trench
The skirmish lasted for several minutes. They left dozens dead on the field, though we lost a few men ourselves. Nothing serious, nothing unusual…
Once we were sure they had retreated to their camp, we tried to do what we could to stop their progress. Quietly, we sent a few men to remove the dirt and drag away some bodies. We barely managed to clear a short stretch before a large patrol of riders began circling nearby. They were out of range for our crossbows, but all it would take was one signal for them to charge. I ordered an immediate retreat.
We returned to the lines, and while my men gathered the arrows scattered across the ground like dead leaves, I approached the quartermaster. He stood beside the palisade, clutching the most recent paperwork, doing calculations without even looking up.
"How's our inventory?" I asked.
"We're running out of arrows. We have enough bolts for the next skirmish, but not much more. We're out of boots. We'll have to start patching up the broken ones with whatever we have. I put in a request for a new batch, but it won't arrive anytime soon. Steel for repairs is scarce, and the worst part: we have no bandages. Not a single one. As for flour, we're fine. And the stores are full of horse meat."
The quartermaster spoke without lifting his eyes from the sheet of paper, his tone dry and flat.
"They promised me scorpions. When are the machinery parts arriving? If we already had them mounted on the towers, we could force the Dothraki to retreat. We'd recover what they've thrown into the trenches—arrows, bolts... everything we're losing day after day."
I asked without raising my voice, though my jaw was clenched tight.
"They were requisitioned." The quartermaster curled his lips in a grimace. "Diverted to another fortress deemed more critical than ours. The pieces should arrive in two weeks… if we're lucky."
"Shit." I brought a gloved hand to my face and rubbed my eyes. "Only one and a half trenches remain. If they manage to fill them, we'll be forced into close combat… against an enemy that outnumbers us six to one. We don't have two weeks."
I turned to him.
"Draft a message. For the Finnish commander. Ask him to reconsider. I need those parts. Urgently."
That ended the discussion. I headed off to inspect the state of our troops and tally the day's losses. I needed to send a report, assess if reinforcements were required. I had just begun counting when one of my subordinates entered the tent, slightly out of breath.
"Commander… Graf Lothar has arrived. He brings several thousand horsemen with him."
I held his gaze for a moment, processing the information.
"Good… have his men quartered inside our fortification. All our forces are at the trenches; no one remains behind the walls."
The soldier nodded, but didn't leave.
"Graf Lothar requires your presence immediately, sir. Apparently, he wants to discuss the strategy of a maneuver he plans to carry out soon."
I let out a long sigh and covered my eyes with my steel gauntlet.
"Maneuvers? Without boots? How the hell am I supposed to march my men when I don't even have replacements for their feet?"
I stood up, resigned, and left the tent toward my meeting with Lothar. I hoped he wasn't planning anything too ambitious. Because if he was thinking of marching on foot...
"Well... let's see what this noble has in mind," I muttered as I walked toward the fort.
We had finished the basics—just enough to hold, so long as the Dothraki didn't manage to cross the trenches. If they did, all we could attempt were quick sorties to harass small groups. Against their main force, we had no margin.
I entered the castle and made my way to the war room. The Graf was there, clad in shining Valyrian armor, surrounded by Prussian knights discussing the maps. To the side stood several Dothraki—those who had joined him—watching silently. They didn't look pleased, but they said nothing. Their eyes tracked the nobles' hands as they pointed out routes and positions with confidence.
"Emil? No." The Graf's deep voice broke the murmur.
"That's right, Graf," I nodded, moving toward the only empty chair.
"How many men do you have ready for combat?" he asked directly.
"Approximately seven thousand. Most of them poorly armed, Graf."
"That should be enough," commented one of the Prussian knights, eyes still fixed on the map.
Lothar rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
"Good, Emil. Prepare your men. And the bridges you have stored... those too. You'll need them. You will be the main distraction."
I looked at him for a second before responding. "May I ask how extensive the maneuver is? So I can prepare the men properly."
"Do the Dothraki attack every time you try to clear the trenches and recover bolts?"
I nodded. "Every single time."
"Perfect. You and your men will cross into the plain. Form up with pikes, trenches at your back. That will prevent flanking, even if they outnumber you. Make it look like you're clearing the field, as usual—gathering arrows. When they charge, you'll hold."
He pointed firmly at the map. "Meanwhile, my horsemen and I will cross several kilometers to the north. We'll strike directly at their camp. Burn everything. Take prisoners—their women, their children. Leave them two options: retreat in shame… or die."
He looked back at me. "And if any khal dares challenge me, let him. That will be the end of his authority. Because neither his faith, nor his gods, will lift him from the ground once I split him in two in the name of the Almighty."
He finished the sentence with a hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
"When, Graf?" I asked, throat tight. I felt sweat running down my forehead.
"Today." His response was immediate, leaving no room for objection. "I want those Dothraki fleeing before nightfall. If we break them here, we can ease the pressure on this front and redirect resources. In the south, the situation is dire. Three khalasars are advancing—together, they exceed a hundred thousand riders. We cannot afford to wait."
"A quick mass before the battle. Let every man make peace with the Almighty. And then… let blood flow. For the Kingdom."
He pointed toward the door.
I left the room without another word. With each step, the weight of Lothar's order settled heavier on my shoulders. Outside, the wind whipped through the tents.
I made my way to the area where my men were quartered. Many were still checking weapons, mending belts, adjusting mail. Upon seeing me, some stood at attention without a word.
I scanned the camp for the priest and found him standing near the makeshift field altar, finishing the bandage on a wounded man's arm. His robes were stained with dirt and ash, but his hands moved calmly.
"Father," I said as I approached. "Gather them. Brief mass. The Graf has given the order. We cross today."
The priest looked up at me. He said nothing, only nodded.
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Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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