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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"Generals... General Davis has failed. The Ghost killed her... many of our forces have deserted—at least among the lower ranks," one of the aides reported, standing rigidly by the command room's entrance. His face was pale with tension.

The words hung in the heavy air of the ship, saturated with defeat. My eyes scanned the faces of the officers present, searching for a glimmer of resolve among expressions etched with despair. The betrayal was palpable, a silent echo yet to manifest.

"This is over... We'll be on every communication channel. We tried to overthrow the Emperor, and now we're the Dominion's number one enemy," murmured another general, his words weighted with resignation.

"Our best option is to surrender and beg for mercy. The Emperor can't eliminate all of us. He needs us to face the threats—the rogue Tal'darim Protoss are out of control, and we still have a significant number of battlecruisers under our command," another added cautiously, his tone bordering on a plea.

I felt fury welling up inside me. Speaking of mercy in the face of the traitor who had brought us to this point was intolerable.

"We can still fight. If we can get close enough and execute a tactical jump into Valerian's territory, we could end him once and for all," proposed one of the younger officers, his voice tinged with anxious determination.

"Are you insane? We'll all die! Hope died with Davis. We lost too many—pawns, yes, but far too many. Now that they know our plan, we're finished," another retorted, his tone wavering between rage and despair.

I had reached the limit of my patience.

"Have you forgotten that the damn false Emperor conspired against his own father? That coward allied with the Queen of Blades to seize the throne! We will die for Arcturus! We will never serve his murderer," I snapped, letting my rage spill into every word.

I felt my psionic energy surge before I could control it, enveloping the officers who dared to speak of surrender. Their minds faltered under my influence, their thoughts sluggish and smothered by the pressure I exerted.

An oppressive silence descended upon the room. I fixed my gaze on the officers, fury burning in my eyes. Their talk of surrender was a mockery I could not tolerate.

My eyes began to glow with an intense blue light, casting dancing reflections across the metallic walls of the command room. The energy within me churned, restless, yearning to be unleashed, to punish those who failed to grasp the stakes.

"Do you think you can betray Arcturus' cause and leave this room alive?" I asked, my voice icy with rage and steely resolve. My energy expanded like an invisible tide, filling the room and compressing the very air. I could feel them—their weak, doubt-riddled minds. My power pierced through them, exposing their deepest fears.

"Mercy..." I muttered with contempt. "There is no mercy for the weak."

Slowly, I raised my hands. I knew there was no turning back. The officers recoiled, their faces transforming into masks of pure terror as they felt the invisible pressure tighten around their skulls.

"The Dominion has no need for cowards. It has no need for traitors."

With a sharp motion, I channeled my psionic fury toward them. Their eyes widened in horror as their heads began to tremble. The air around them warped, distorted by the energy I unleashed. One of them attempted to scream, but it was cut short by a wet, sickening sound as his head burst in a gruesome explosion of blood and gore, splattering the room.

The others had no time to react. Within seconds, one after another, their skulls ruptured. The room was left drenched in the metallic stench of blood and the sound of viscous liquid dripping onto the floor. When it was over, only the hum of the ship's systems and the echo of my breathing filled the silence. My eyes swept over the remains of the men who had betrayed our cause. They were stains now, reminders of a lesson no one would forget.

An aide, who had been standing frozen near the doorway, trembled as he stared at me. His legs seemed ready to give out at any moment. I turned to him slowly, letting the still-glowing intensity of my eyes speak for itself.

"Clean up this mess," I ordered, my tone cold and razor-sharp. "And send a message to the rest of the crew: Loyalty is non-negotiable. Any doubts will be met with the same fate."

I left the meeting room behind, the remnants of treachery and despair fading in my wake, and made my way to the communications chamber. The echo of my footsteps resonated through the ship's corridors, a stark reminder of the void in the heart of our cause.

"Davis... If only you had waited..." I muttered to myself, the words slipping through clenched teeth. "You walked right into his trap. At least he inherited his father's cunning... but we will never serve that murderer."

When I arrived at the communications chamber, I approached the central panel. My gaze landed on the automated assistant—a machine efficient yet devoid of warmth, overseeing the network transmissions.

"Send a message to all battlecruiser commanders," I ordered firmly, my thoughts laser-focused on salvaging what remained. "We will regroup at the coordinates I am about to transmit. Tell them to bring everyone still loyal... loyal to humanity's true cause."

The machine acknowledged with a soft beep, signaling the command was in progress. Every second mattered. There was no room for error. Each message had to be precise, each move decisive. There was no space for hesitation or weakness—not now.

With the message sent, we began the evacuation of all remaining members of the Defenders of Man and the Royal Guard who still answered to our authority. Every loyal soldier was invaluable. We ordered as much equipment as possible to be salvaged from the arsenals, knowing that every recovered weapon could tip the scales in the battles ahead.

We could still fight. Perhaps not head-on—not after Davis's reckless sacrifice, which had drained so many of our resources. But fragments of the military arsenal remained under our control, and they could not go to waste. Yet there was a problem: we lacked enough personnel to operate it all.

My thoughts drifted toward solutions I wasn't proud of. Forced conscription, perhaps. After all, weapons without hands to wield them are nothing but scrap. I even considered a more extreme measure: reactivating the explosive failsafes in the CMC marine suits, much like Arcturus had done with Tychus' renegades.

The battlecruiser Pride of Augustgrad executed its preparations with precision, accounting for every variable. When everything was ready, we initiated the warp jump to the coordinates I had transmitted to all commanders. We headed to a distant location, light-years away, beyond the reach of the Dominion fleet's remnants.

The hours passed in a haze of tension and expectation as reinforcements slowly began to arrive. First came dozens of standard battlecruisers, then more Pride of Augustgrad vessels. Several Gorgon-class battlecruisers and general transport ships also joined the ranks. But numbers were not the most important factor—it was who had arrived. Among the reinforcements were ships carrying the scientific expertise of the Moebius Foundation.

That technology was vital if we hoped to continue the war. Their scientists were already working on replicating Protoss transposition techniques. If they could perfect the system, we could achieve what the Protoss could: transporting capital ships through portals in an instant. But time was not on our side.

The solution, though desperate, was clear. For now, our options were limited. We focused on raiding Dominion military arsenals within range. Every weapon, every resource was another piece on the board. But it wasn't just about equipment; we needed soldiers. We began conscripting—willingly or not—any civilians we could, hoping to turn them into fighters for the battles ahead.

Meanwhile, we steadily retreated to the fringes of Dominion space, moving further from their reach. Every day we bought was a chance to regroup, to prepare for the strike that might turn the tide in our favor.

I found myself frequently forced to use my psionic abilities to manipulate our officers. Thoughts of surrender arose often, driven by fear and their desire to protect their families. But surrender was not an option. Every faltering mind had to be controlled, every doubt extinguished before it could infect the others.

Our days became a relentless cycle of raids. Planet after planet, we dismantled local defenses, looted military stockpiles, and conscripted civilians to bolster our ranks. Attack, loot, evacuate—it was exhausting but necessary. Until everything changed.

A message arrived from one of our covert operatives within the Dominion government. The news could not have been worse: the Emperor was on the move, and with him, a significant Protoss fleet. The alliance we had always feared was now a reality. Not only were we being hunted by the Dominion, but we also faced the threat of a superior alien force.

Before I could fully process the implications, alarms blared across the bridge. Several Dominion battlecruisers emerged from warp nearby, accompanied by Protoss ships. Their gleaming hulls reflected starlight as they moved to cut off our only escape route.

"Adjutant, order all ships to execute a tactical jump to a distant zone!" I commanded, watching the screens display the growing threat.

"General, all safe zones are under Dominion control. The only option is a tactical jump into unknown territory. The risk is significant," the adjutant replied, her tone cold and logical.

"We have no choice. If we stay here, we're finished. Send the jump coordinates to all commanders. Prepare for the jump!" I shouted, the tension rising on the bridge.

The batteries from both fleets came alive. Yamato cannons roared, and battlecruisers maneuvered to evade incoming fire. Our standard ships could withstand one direct hit, perhaps two, but no more. Each explosion filled the void with fiery debris, a grim reminder of the stakes.

The bridge shook violently as our ships initiated the warp jump. I watched the monitors as several of our cruisers absorbed heavy fire. One took a second direct hit, its shields collapsing before the ship began to break apart. It barely managed to disappear into hyperspace. Others were less fortunate.

When we finally emerged from hyperspace, I thought we had escaped. But the alarms sounded again. Ahead of us, space distorted—a strange phenomenon that wasn't on our charts. Before I could react, our ships were drawn toward a rapidly expanding dark vortex.

"Adjutant, report!" I demanded as the ships shook violently, struggling against the gravitational pull.

"General, scans indicate we've exited hyperspace in an unstable region. The anomaly is generating a wormhole. It is pulling us in."

"Activate auxiliary thrusters! Resist it!" I ordered, but the vortex's force was overwhelming.

One by one, our ships were consumed by the wormhole. The known universe disappeared in a cascade of chaos. The bridge trembled violently; alarms blared incessantly. The crew clung to anything they could as we were dragged into the unknown.

I couldn't say how long we endured that nightmare. Time lost all meaning. The engines roared like wounded beasts, the hull groaned under incomprehensible forces, and the cacophony of alarms filled every corner. It was like being trapped in an endless dream of destruction.

Finally, we emerged.

With a metallic groan, the battlecruiser Implacable broke through the barrier between chaos and the relative calm of empty space. I rose from my seat, still dazed, and walked toward the bridge's viewport. What I saw left me speechless.

Our fleet, which had once numbered nearly a hundred battlecruisers, was shattered. Some ships were torn in half, their exposed interiors a testament to the violence of the journey. Others floated lifelessly, their lights flickering weakly. Even the ships that appeared functional bore significant damage. The starship graveyard around us was a stark reminder of the cost we had paid to survive that cursed jump.

"Adjutant," I said firmly, masking my frustration and the weight in my chest. "Damage report."

The assistant responded instantly, her neutral tone contrasting sharply with the devastation outside.

"Preliminary analysis underway. The battlecruiser Implacable has sustained critical damage to secondary engines and life support systems. Estimated human losses: 32% of the crew. Primary weapon systems: operational but degraded. Energy shields: functioning at 60%. Further tactical jumps are not recommended without repairs."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm as I awaited the fleet-wide report.

"Surrounding fleet: 97 battlecruisers recorded at the start of the jump. Of these, 24 have been completely destroyed. 38 have sustained critical damage and are incapable of maneuvering. 35 remain operational with reduced capabilities. Communication established with 54 ships."

I stared out at the wreckage, letting the weight of the numbers sink in. Survivors. But at what cost? Our fleet was a shadow of its former self, and yet, against all odds, we were still here.

"Begin immediate repairs. Secure the surviving fleet. And prepare for a full systems analysis of this anomaly," I ordered, knowing the road ahead would only grow darker.

The battle for survival was far from over.

I clenched my fists as I processed the information. Over half of our fleet was out of commission. What had started as a strategic retreat had spiraled into a catastrophic disaster. And worst of all, I had no idea where we were.

Then, a new sound broke through the tense silence—a sharper, more intense alarm echoed throughout the bridge. On the monitors, a bright red message flashed:

"ALERT: IMMENSE PSIONIC SIGNATURE DETECTED."

I turned toward the screens, my heartbeat pounding as I read the message. Around me, the crew froze, their expressions oscillating between confusion and fear. I knew exactly what that alert meant. I knew better than anyone.

"Adjutant," I demanded, my voice sharp, "specify the source of the alert."

"Tracking in progress... analysis complete. Source confirmed: Command bridge. Psionic signature associated with... General Augustus Vradek."

The silence on the bridge became almost suffocating. I could feel the stares of the officers and crew drilling into me—mixes of astonishment, fear, and what might have been reverence. I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the energy within me churn, surging like an untamed river after a dam had burst.

Since the day the Moebius Foundation subjected me to their most brutal experiments, I had known I was different. My psionic index had been a 10—the highest ever recorded in a Terran. And with the infusion of terrazine, it had been pushed to an unprecedented 11. My power far exceeded that of any Ghost. But it was also a burden. I had spent years mastering control, honing myself into a weapon of unparalleled precision. Yet now, something had changed. After that cursed warp jump, the energy coursing through me felt more intense, almost feral, as if the vortex had unleashed something that had once been contained.

"This doesn't make sense," I muttered, shutting my eyes as I struggled to reign in the overwhelming flow of power. I took a deep breath, centering myself, forcing my mind to focus on regaining control.

"Adjutant, can you confirm whether this increase is stable?" I asked, striving to sound calmer than I felt.

The adjutant hesitated for a moment before responding.

"Analysis in progress. Psionic energy detected... levels exceed maximum recorded human thresholds. Increase is non-linear. Fluctuations detected. Stability... indeterminate."

My hands clenched tighter. The tension on the bridge was palpable; no one dared to speak, but their glances spoke volumes.

"Stop staring and focus on the rescue efforts!" I barked, my tone sharp, leaving no room for argument. "We have men and women dying while we waste time."

The officers scrambled to carry out my orders. Rescue teams were dispatched to the damaged battlecruisers, retrieving survivors and securing any salvageable resources. On the bridge, the tension lingered, but the focus on tasks seemed to help dissipate the crew's unease. Meanwhile, I turned toward the main screen, awaiting the analysis of our surroundings.

"Adjutant, do our scanners detect anything?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the flickering lights of the consoles.

"Sector scan complete. A planet has been detected at 1.4 astronomical units. Classification: barren. Characteristics: stable magnetic field, breathable atmosphere, temperate climate compatible with standard life support systems. Additional readings: no detected flora, fauna, or complex or rudimentary lifeforms. No significant energy activity on the surface."

I frowned at the report. A dead world, utterly desolate, yet with almost perfect conditions for life. It didn't feel natural. No planet should be so perfectly balanced without an ecosystem. Something was off, but I had no time for theories.

"Is the planet habitable?"

"Yes. Conditions permit human settlements. Minimal risk of extreme weather or geological instability."

"That will do," I murmured. "Adjutant, adjust the course of the Implacable and all functional ships toward the planet."

The adjutant acknowledged, and I turned to the bridge crew.

"Ensure all ships follow in formation. Begin preparations for orbital scans upon arrival. Once we land, I want immediate reports on the surface conditions and a full assessment of what we can salvage."

As the fleet adjusted course, I stared out the viewport at the remnants of our once-mighty armada. Whatever awaited us on that barren world, it had to be better than the chaos we had just escaped—or at least I hoped so.