THE IRON THRONE OF ICE AND FIRE

The Thorn Corps stood shoulder to shoulder, bows raised, fingers steady on the strings. A single order rang out.

"Loose!"

One hundred and twenty bowstrings thrummed in unison, a sharp twang slicing through the air.

A storm of arrows hissed through the sky, darkening the sun like a swarm of crows.

Thud!

Thud! Thud!

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The first wave of savages collapsed mid-charge, arrows piercing through flesh and bone. Their cries filled the battlefield, echoing in all directions.

Their chieftains, unaccustomed to such devastation from afar, roared in growing panic. They bellowed and snarled, waving crude weapons in the air, desperate to drive their warriors forward.

Ser Mason stood firm, his sharp gaze locked on the killing field ahead—no more than a hundred paces from their line. He had seen battles aplenty, but the death zone carved by the Thorn Corps' volleys left even him shaken.

By the twentieth volley, Greene noted the subtle shift—the Thorn Corps' rate of fire had slowed. Even so, over two hundred bodies now littered the ground, and disorder spread through the savage ranks. Some warriors turned to flee, ignoring the howls of their leaders.

At the twenty-fifth volley, with yet another wave of dead and wounded collapsing onto the earth, the rout began. The enemy broke apart, a tide of warriors scattering in all directions.

Greene lowered his hand.

"Hold fire."

The Thorn Corps obeyed instantly.

Ser Mason wasted no time.

"Advance!" he barked.

Two hundred Kleb soldiers—shields locked, spears and swords gleaming—marched in perfect formation.

Their chant rose, deep and rhythmic, shaking the battlefield.

The savages, already on the brink of collapse, faltered further at the sight.

These were not mere men. These were warriors who had fought against them for over a decade, their steel tempered in blood. Veterans from the war under Greene's mother. The true legacy of House Kleb.

Here, among their ranks, there was no fear. No hesitation.

As they advanced, some desperate chieftains gathered what remained of their warriors and attempted to charge the shield wall.

The Kleb soldiers barely slowed. The attackers were cut down with methodical precision, swallowed by the tide of steel.

Greene watched, unmoved.

These savages were not enemies to be annihilated—they were future subjects to be broken and remade. But today, they had earned their name.

Savages, indeed.

A harsh land required a harsh hand.

He sighed.

If these people were to be ruled, they would need strict laws.

For now, though, the battle was won.

The game of power was only beginning.

And power, above all, rested in the strength of arms.

For the Kleb lands to rise, it could be no mere fiefdom—it would become a war camp, an iron-walled fortress where all within were soldiers.

This was the path Greene had chosen.

There was no turning back.

Battlefield Bonds

The Thorn Corps had been formed only days ago. That they had managed twenty-five volleys in open battle was no small feat.

Amparo had proven his worth.

Greene had expected as much, but the sight of his commander standing tall among the archers, unwavering in the chaos, only solidified his trust.

The corps had paused for rest, and here and there, spearwives—sweat-slick and flushed from the heat of battle—shed their tunics, baring themselves without a care.

The sight set off a ripple of reactions among the men.

Greene caught Amparo shifting beside him, his expression as disciplined as ever, though a deep red crept across his face.

A few spearwives noticed Greene's gaze and met it without flinching—some even straightened proudly, shoulders back, unbothered by modesty.

In another life, Greene might have whistled and given a thumbs-up.

But this was Westeros.

A lord must guard his image—one of the many lessons from his mother. And a misplaced gesture here might be taken as something entirely different.

Men in Kleb lands must learn to protect themselves.

He merely smiled and looked away.

For now, it was not a matter worth addressing. But in time, discipline would be drilled into them.

Even the wild must be tamed.

When the break ended, the Thorn Corps marched once more, joining the Kleb warriors in pursuit of the retreating foe.

Pell's Strike

Far from the main battle, Ser Pell's scouts moved like ghosts through the wilderness.

A tribe had been taken in a swift, merciless assault.

The first strike was a resounding success. Only a handful of his men were lightly wounded—none slain.

Three hundred captives had fallen into their hands.

The spoils were meager—pelts, dried meats, little more. A pouch of coin had been found in the tribal chieftain's hut, but even that contained fewer than twenty golden dragons.

The prisoners were burdened with the loot, and Ser Pell ordered the village torched.

Some captives rebelled, howling their defiance as the flames consumed their homes. They were put down where they stood.

Twenty of Pell's men broke away, leading the first batch of prisoners toward the heart of Kleb lands.

Before they left, Pell gave his final command.

"Near the territory, they'll be received. No delays—eat as you walk if you must. Once the captives are delivered, return to me at once. I'll be waiting at the second tribe."

His eyes hardened.

"If any try to flee—kill them without hesitation."

With that, he clapped the squad leader on the shoulder.

"Go."

Night fell before Pell struck the second tribe.

By dawn, the third had fallen as well.

His men rested briefly, then turned for home, marching with their prisoners and their hard-won plunder.

On the way, they captured scattered remnants of the broken army—more stragglers, more prisoners.

Twenty-three of Pell's warriors had perished in the campaign.

But three great tribes had been shattered.

The land was theirs.

The True Prize

For two days, the Kleb soldiers rested. Then, in groups of thirty to fifty, they fanned out in all directions, hunting down the remaining smaller tribes.

The savages were rounded up. Their homes were put to the torch.

Ser Mason himself led the final group of captives back to Whispering City, arriving at dusk.

As he passed the great warehouse, he spotted Herschel, the old steward, standing with his hands on his belly, grinning like a cat in cream.

Ser Mason smirked. "You're in high spirits, old man."

Herschel chuckled. "A fine evening, Ser Mason. The warehouse is near full. We haven't been this rich in years."

Mason let out a low whistle.

"Aye, it seems my lord was born for war."

He shook his head, recalling the sight of the savages breaking under the Thorn Corps' fire.

"We barely lost a man. The battle was over before it truly began."

Herschel's eyes gleamed. "The Kleb family will reclaim its old lands, Ser Mason. There's no doubt of that now."

"None at all."

Mason clapped the old steward on the back.

"Now, let's drink to it. I hear you've been preparing a feast."

Herschel grinned wider. "For days now. It's a banquet worthy of the gods."

Mason laughed. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

The Weight of Victory

In the lord's study, Greene leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Bachelor Al and Kalea stood before him, their calculations complete.

Over 2,500 prisoners had been taken.

Of those, nearly 700 were old or children.

The rest—1,800—were able-bodied. And most of them—1,200—were women.

Dispersal would be key. The captives must be scattered, each surrounded by strangers, unable to regroup.

The work would be slow, but stability required patience.

With these new hands, Kleb's warriors would be free to train.

And with that freedom, an army could be raised.

For now, Greene allowed himself a rare smile.

Power was not given.

It was taken.

And now, his hand was full.