Blood And Iron (ASOIAF/GoT)

well we decided to do this to better facilitate your votes since it is up to you which story will follow I inform you that the next chapter of got comes out tomorrow or the day after tomorrow so you can evaluate if I managed to maintain the personality of the protagonist with so much time I left him lying around.

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The snow was thick and heavy. It seemed as though the world itself wanted to conceal this battlefield under a white shroud, but there was no way to erase what had happened here. Corpses lay scattered among artillery craters and shattered vehicles. My breath was visible in the icy air as I moved cautiously, the worn AK-74 in my hands. It wasn't the ideal weapon, but it was what we had.

The Russian T-90M tank loomed like a cornered beast, its armor blackened by RPG strikes. Its treads were destroyed, and the engine emitted an agonizing wheeze as it smoked. But it was still a threat. A wounded monster is still a monster.

"Hans, to hell with this! Let's finish them and get back to the village," Yuri shouted from my right, his rifle trained on the tank. Yuri was a stocky man, a Ukrainian with a visceral hatred for Russians but an unwavering loyalty to anyone fighting for his homeland.

"Calm down, Yuri," I replied in Ukrainian. My German accent was unmistakable, but after months on this front, no one mocked it anymore. "If we rush, one of those idiots might blow our heads off from the hatch."

We circled the tank, ensuring there were no traps. I knew how a soldier's mind worked under pressure. If I were inside, wounded and with no way out, I'd take some enemies with me before going down.

"Hans? Are they still in there?" Mikola called from our cover line.

"Probably," I said, glancing at the main hatch. "But not for long."

I struck the hatch with the butt of my rifle, making sure they heard me.

"Вылезайте, или мы взорвем вас! (Come out, or we'll blow you up!)," I shouted in Russian.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a metallic noise.

"Yuri, get ready," I murmured. Yuri nodded, pulling out a smoke grenade and unscrewing the pin. He tossed it expertly through a crack in the tank. Seconds passed, and dense gray fog began seeping from the openings.

The hatch burst open, and a man scrambled out, coughing and disoriented. Before he could react, I struck him across the face with the butt of my rifle. His body collapsed heavily into the snow, unconscious.

Another attempt to escape didn't go as well. The second figure emerged with a weapon, firing blindly in our direction. I saw it coming, rolled to the side, and returned fire, praying I wouldn't hit the tank's munitions. A dull thud from inside told me I had taken out one of the tank crew.

A third man lunged out, charging at me with a knife. The movement was desperate, clumsy. I grabbed his wrist, turned, and slammed him against the tank. The struggle was brief; in seconds, the knife was in my hand, and he was on the ground.

With the tank secured, we exhaled in relief. We'd paid a high price for this victory, but capturing a T-90M was a significant prize. According to my contract, I'd receive a hefty reward if I managed to get it back to the safety of our lines.

"We did it, Hans," Yuri said, clapping me on the back. "Command will pay a fortune for this! Maybe they'll even let us rest!"

I smiled, though deep down, I knew rest never came. In war, the next danger was always just around the corner.

That's when I heard it. The buzz.

I raised my head immediately. The sound was clear, steady, and approaching fast. A drone. My training kicked in instantly.

"Take cover! Kamikaze drone!" I shouted, shoving Yuri into the snow.

I turned toward the tank, knowing it was the primary target. The small device appeared in the sky, a black speck against the white snow. It was moving fast, too fast. There wasn't enough time.

"Run, Hans!" Mikola yelled.

But I didn't.

I slipped, finding myself on top of the tank, watching as the drone descended.

"So this is how it ends," I thought with absurd calm. My final thought wasn't fear but rage. We had won. This wasn't fair.

The explosion engulfed me in fire, followed by a larger detonation. And then, everything went black.

The cold was the first thing I felt. But it wasn't the same cold I knew from Ukraine, from the snow that blanketed blood-soaked fields. This was drier, accompanied by the scent of wood, wax, and something earthy I couldn't identify. My mind was foggy, confused. I tried to open my eyes, but the light streaming through the windows was too bright.

"This can't be heaven," I thought. Not after everything I'd done.

I forced my eyes open completely. I was lying in a large, canopied bed. The sheets were heavy, made of a thick fabric I didn't recognize. Around me, the walls were stone, adorned in places with embroidered tapestries. There was no sign of technology, so it didn't seem like a hospital.

"My lord Albrecht, you've finally awakened."

I turned my head toward the voice. A young woman stood by the bed, wearing a simple yet elegant dress and an apron embroidered with floral patterns. She looked worried.

"Albrecht?" I murmured, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. It didn't sound like me, and that scared me more than anything.

She frowned and stepped closer. "Yes, my lord. I am Greta, your maidservant. You've been unconscious for three days. We feared the fever would take you to Morr."

Morr. The name struck me like a hammer. It was familiar, but not from the world I knew. I'd read it somewhere. In a book or a game, maybe. It was the god of death in the Warhammer Fantasy universe.

"This has to be a dream," I thought, but the cold of the sheets and the weight in my chest were too real for that.

With effort, I sat up and looked around. There was a large silver mirror, oval and ornate, hanging on the wall near a desk. Something compelled me to approach it, though every movement felt as though my muscles were made of lead.

When I finally reached the polished mirror and saw my reflection, the air seemed to leave my lungs. That wasn't me.

The man in the mirror had ash-blond hair, short and neatly combed, a strong jaw, and piercing blue eyes. He looked like someone belonging to nobility, not a mercenary like me, with my grenade-scarred face and shaved head. My mind tried to rationalize it, but every attempt only deepened my confusion.

When I tried to remember anything beyond the moment I woke up, a sharp pain pierced my head like a dagger. I shut my eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass, and then a name emerged, clear as day—Albrecht von Reinsfeld.

That's who I was. Or at least, that's what they called me now. Fragments of memories began to take shape, each like a shattered mirror reflecting pieces of a life that wasn't mine. There was a father: an ambitious man who dreamed of imperial politics but had become little more than a personal banker for Altdorf's nobles. Those aristocrats, with their glittering clothes and endless parties, drained our family's fortune while playing at governance.

"A man with no power but with money is always useful," I murmured, recalling my father's words as if they were my own. He had believed the connections he made in Altdorf would amount to more than just the squandering of our wealth. And, in part, he was right. He managed to secure contracts to sell the iron and steel produced by our small mining town. Yet, not everything went as planned.

The fever. That memory hit like a blow. We had traveled to the imperial capital to solidify those deals—my father, mother, older brother, and I. It had seemed like an opportunity to climb the social ladder, to restore our family's name and earn some respect. But Altdorf, with its filthy streets and infected canals, offered more than just promises.

I didn't know exactly what we had contracted. The physicians blamed poisoned water or spoiled food. All I knew was that we all fell ill on our return. High fevers, vomiting, delirium.

"But I survived," I thought, feeling a mix of guilt and emptiness. My father, mother, and brother weren't so fortunate. They were buried in the family crypts.

When the fever finally released me, there was no one left to inherit the responsibilities of the von Reinsfeld family. At just 14 years old—or at least, that's how old this body seemed—I became the lord of a town of 3,000 souls.

Stumbling, I walked toward the window. Greta tried to stop me, but I ignored her. I pulled back the heavy curtains and looked outside. What I saw was modest but bustling with life. Stone-and-wood houses stood in uneven rows, their chimneys sending thin trails of smoke into the cold air. In the distance, the entrances to the mines dotted the mountainsides like small dark wounds.

"A mining town," I murmured. Iron and steel—the goods that kept this place alive.

It was strange. I knew this place as if I had lived here my whole life, but also as if I were seeing it for the first time. I knew the lands were fertile, though most of the men worked in the mines. I knew that greenskin raids were rare but not impossible. And I knew that my father had spent much of the family's fortune ensuring that this town was relatively safe and self-sufficient.

"My lord, do you need anything?" Greta asked, her voice trembling with worry.

"No," I replied instinctively, though the truth was I needed everything. This place… this world… felt dangerous, hostile, as if death lurked around every corner. And damn it, I didn't want to die again.

That thought sent a shiver down my spine, a vivid reminder of the explosion's searing heat, the impact that threw me from the ground, the sound of fire devouring the snow. Everything was still too fresh in my mind. And now this body, this place… it all hurt. Every muscle, every joint, even my head. It wasn't just the weight of this new life but the remnants of the one I had left behind.

I gazed out the window of the von Reinsfeld mansion, letting my eyes wander over the town sprawled below the hill. From here, I could see almost everything: the bustling central square, peasants and merchants moving quickly, carrying sacks of grain and worn tools. Beyond, the mines yawned like open wounds in the mountains, and the muddy roads wound between ramshackle huts that seemed on the verge of collapse.

Everything about it screamed fragility. Every person in that town seemed to live on the edge of disaster, as if they knew a single storm or accident could destroy what little they had.

"Bring me someone who oversees the mine's accounts and the taxes," I finally said, my voice calm but laced with exhaustion.

"My lord, you need rest. Your health—"

"I gave an order, damn it!" My patience snapped, frustration burning within me. Greta stepped back, startled. Fear? Perhaps. Good. Let her fear me. That would make things simpler.

When she hurried out, leaving the door closed behind her, the silence that remained was a relief. I didn't bother thinking about how she'd taken my words. Greta, this town, all of it—they were just pieces on a board I needed to learn how to control if I wanted to survive.

A short while later, the door opened again. A thin man with a gaunt face and sharp eyes entered, holding an account ledger in his hands.

"My lord," he said with a slight bow. "I'm Dietrich, your steward. Greta said you wished to review the finances."

"Sit down," I said, gesturing to a chair across from me. "Start talking."

Dietrich obeyed immediately, flipping through the ledger's pages with deft fingers.

"The mines produce iron and tin, my lord. They are our main source of income. However, production has dropped after a recent collapse in the western section. We lost three men, and many tools were rendered unusable. The merchants from Altdorf purchase the ore, but they paid less than agreed on the last shipment."

"Why did you let them?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended.

Dietrich glanced up, slightly surprised. "We had no choice. If we refused their offer, we would have no buyers."

'We're dependent on a single source,' I thought, motioning for him to continue.

"And the taxes?" I added.

"The townsfolk pay what they can, but it's little. Most live hand-to-mouth. The income is used to maintain the garrison and repair the roads. Your father spent much of the family fortune trying to gain influence in Altdorf. The coffers are nearly empty."

He hesitated before adding, "But, my lord, if you cut unnecessary expenses and steer clear of Altdorf's politics, we might begin to recover. It won't be immediate, but the town has potential."

I nodded, not because I was impressed but because his words were obvious, even to someone new to this place. The problem wasn't just spending less—it was spending smarter.

"How long can we sustain ourselves like this?" I asked.

"A year, perhaps, if nothing changes. But if we stabilize the mines, attract more merchants, and adjust taxes, we might see improvements within a few months."

"That's assuming there are no attacks," I pointed out, crossing my arms.

Dietrich swallowed nervously. "Yes, my lord. A raid or a poor harvest could ruin everything."

I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. "Then we won't wait. From now on, every coin will go toward what truly matters: security, tools for the mines, and food reserves. Nothing else. Altdorf can wait."

Dietrich hesitated before nodding. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."

"I also want you to renegotiate the contracts with Altdorf. If they keep underpaying for our labor, we'll find other buyers. Offer better terms to smaller caravans if needed, but we won't let them treat us as their private quarry."

"That might upset certain contacts in Altdorf…" he murmured cautiously.

"Let them be upset," I said firmly. "I don't need their approval to protect what's ours."

Dietrich rose at my signal, carefully closing his ledger. "I'll see to it, my lord."

When he left, the silence returned, heavy and oppressive. I leaned against the desk, letting out a long, weary sigh. My gaze drifted to a corner of the room, where a parchment pinned to a board caught my eye. As I approached, I saw it was a calendar. Each month was neatly arranged, marked with festivals and tasks. At the top, a date stood out:

Year 2476.