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'Magic ...is, in some people's opinion, the embodiment of nature and unnatural forces. It is a key capable of opening the forbidden door. The door behind which lurk nightmares, fear and unimaginable horrors, behind which enemies hide and wait, destructive powers, the forces of pure evil capable of annihilating not only the one who opens the door, but with them the entire world. And since there was no lack of those who try to open that door, someone, at some point, is going to make a mistake and then the destruction of the world will be forejudged and inevitable. Or so the books I've read said.'
'And so magic, then, is described as nature's revenge upon mankind. A weapon turned back upon its wielder. The men, following….and even predating….the Children of the Forest, and learned to harness its power, are said to be the world's true curse. They would be the undoing of humanity itself.'
'And those who believe that magic is Chaos are not mistaken. For it was'
'But yet, here I wielded that chaos like a demigod from the heavens. With a flick of my wrist I could bend fire to my will, though it would burn me still if I allowed it or lacked proper control , the elements of nature could be a boon as much as it could be your death. And I wasn't no damn Denaerys Targaryen either , I couldn't just up and walk into fire without being badly burned no I had to use magic to make an unnatural outcome.'
'An outcome, where I am unharmed by its usage. With just a thought , I could break a man's neck, i could swim in the minds of animals , preys and predators alike , I could go days without sleeping resting my mind in a meditative state while also being aware of my surroundings. I had great power'
'Though with this burden of power, I had soon learned that it always came at a cost. Consequences for those who drunk from its fountain without pause. Nothing was free, you had to give something to gain another.
For me however fatigue would wrack my body if not pain,the farthest I pushed my self then saw me bleeding from my eyes and since then I never dared repeat the same mistake again.
I was experimenting and testing my limits at that time, and so I had called down thunder from the heavens above on a stormy day to strike down on a hillside.
It worked with a devastating effect yet I almost killed myself. I think I also pissed my pants then.
At that time I had also realized and it was made clear that through these sacrifices of exchange it might've also be why the mages of this world incapable of performing magic as I do sacrifice people, or use blood and death as a sacrifice to conjure and draw on magic, however crude it was.
I never delved into that side of the dark arts and there wasn't much of a way to without leaving these lands for years. But even so , there was a line I'd never cross when it came to learning more and mastering this power more and more as time went by. The limits to what I could achieve no doubt was infinite yet I knew at the back of my mind that the consequences for even trying to achieve such a power would doom myself and perhaps even a continent.
I often wondered what Asshai had once been, before it became a haunted shadow of itself. Its lands broken by sorcery, its greatest city… Stygai was said to harbor twisted creatures, demons and dragons alike, and it was so feared that even shadowbinders wouldn't ever dare pass beneath its gates
Just the thought alone made his skin crawl.
Nevertheless as one touched by magic, I could feel it everywhere. Even the faintest trace sang to me. Whether this was the result of dying in the real world and crossing over into this one, I could not say. Perhaps God, amused or cruel, had placed me here instead of whatever heaven I might have deserved.
Yet I doubted God concerned himself with fairness when it came to my situation.
And waking in the body of a boy of fourteen had been its own kind of reckoning to reality. I remembered my years as a squire in the Eyrie, serving House Redfort.
Lord Horton had been a just man. His sons, Dalton and Donal, were my good friends. I still wrote to them, sent coin and gifts whenever I could, yet in the seven years I had come back north, I had never returned back to the Eyrie. And I had never invited neither to the Dreadfort.
How selfish I was.
It had filled me with some sadness that I had to leave such a well liked company , but when you assassinated your father to replace him , nothing else came first than the act of ruling and focusing on said rule.
Still, when Robert Baratheon came north, when Jon Arryn lay dead and the fat king rode for Winterfell. I would send for them. And they would be welcomed in my halls.
On another note , I had never seen Robert the whoremonger with my own eyes, though King's Landing had left its impression on me,beautiful from a distance, yet foul up close. In that way, it reminded him of New York just with less human filth, and more stone and splendor.
He'd visit it again when the time was right and he would need to but for now there was no rush.
There was still things to do, forts to build and infrastructure.
The Dreadfort itself had changed.
It no longer resembled the eerie austerity, nor a prison carved from stone. New walls had risen. Barracks expanded. The inner keep was now reserved for myself and honored guests. A larger armory, a greater hall, extended servants' quarters. Stables capable of housing one hundred and twenty horses. Granaries sufficient for three thousand tons of grain and stores.
The fortress had expanded outward by two full acres beyond the old outer wall. Around it, a town of nearly twenty-four thousand souls had risen, drawn by trade, construction, industry, the simple pull of coin, and its centrality as the heart to the reformed kingdom. A second wall was nearing completion around the growing settlement, with a water-filled ditch fed by the Weeping River.
Even beyond that, the town continued to spread.
The port and docks were the heart of it all, protected by a curtain wall that extended into the river itself, forming a narrow choke point through which only a few ships could pass at a time. Along the coast, industry flourished. Precision tools were crafted there, navigational instruments sold only to trusted allies, and even then in quantities small enough to count on one hand.
Agricultural tools, armor, weapons….all were produced within his domain.
I had settled on steel lamellar armor for the infantry and archers alike. It was cheaper, faster to produce, and easily repaired. A man with sense could sew the plates himself. The common soldiery was also issued a kettle helm, a twelve-foot pike, a dagger, and a slender falchion. Selected men carried halberds.
The calvary and mounted knights were also given their own standard armor.
Sallet helms was the norm for the heavier mounted counter parts, a black partial plate armor was given to them and armed with steel-tipped lances, maces, and longswords. They would take control wherever the roamed.
Light cavalry wore only breastplates and gauntlets, carrying spears, swords, or short bows, serving as scouts and harassers.
Archers that trained with longbows from their boyhoods kept them; the rest were issued crossbows.
We also employed pavisers to shield crossbowmen, and gynours trained to operate siege engines.
This was no levy.This was his army, the army of the flayed man.
This was a permanent force, a well paid one, disciplined, and in times of peace like now the soldiers were employed in construction and labor rather than left idle.
Ranks were formalized: corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, commanders, and one final rank left deliberately vacant—Liege Commander.
Each rank had its own colors codes and sigil.
The level of their rank was obvious in either their armor and more importantly their capes , brown being for a corporal, yellow being a sergeant, Red a Captain, white being a commander and Purple a liege Commander.
And with such a large force , their had to be a large camp to mold them into proper soldiers.
And this place was called Camp Hardheim .
They hardened boys to men and men to steel.
The training camp lay a mile north of the Dreadfort, housing up to seven thousand men.
The grounds spanned three miles, barracks, obstacle courses, running fields, sandbags for weight lifting, archery ranges, and river access for swimming drills.
Hardheim was the place where peasants were broken and reforged.
These place created the arm and hammer of House Bolton.
They called themselves the Black Legs, for the color of their arms and cloaks.
The commoners had taken to call them the Black Legs, due the color of their arms and cloaks.
A fitting name he thought. And he liked it.
And through all of this, my coffers remained full enough to hire mercenaries from any land I desired.
Order, power, and coin.
That was how the world was truly ruled.
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