Blood And Iron (ASOIAF/GoT)

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-Pov of customs worker second moon 289 AC

The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I settled into my inspection post, a cup of cold tea beside me and a stack of documents that barely seemed worth reviewing. I already knew most of the applications would be rejected. Not because I wanted to, but because that was how the system worked.

The small folk from the Riverlands and beyond arrived in waves—hungry, their skin hardened by the cold, desperation in their eyes. Peasants, laborers, widows with children in their arms, old men who could barely stand. They all begged for the same thing: entry into The Reach.

On the other side of the wall, winter was their executioner. No harvests, no reserves, no support from their lords—famine was devouring them alive.

"Next," I said, my voice weary.

A man stepped forward with a woman and two children, hope flickering in his expression. They were dressed in rags, but at least they had tried to clean themselves before arriving here.

"Reason for entry?" I asked without looking up.

"Work, sir… any work," the man answered, holding out a bundle of crumpled papers.

I took the documents and knew immediately they were useless.

No official seals, no letter from a registered employer, and worst of all… they couldn't read or write.

That meant someone had sold them these fake papers. Someone had preyed on their desperation, taken what little they had, and sent them here with the false hope that a miracle would let them through.

"These documents are invalid," I said flatly, sliding the papers back toward them.

The man's eyes widened in horror.

"No… that can't be! They told us these would work… they told us we could get in…"

"You were deceived," I replied, avoiding his gaze. "You do not meet the requirements. Next."

The woman sobbed, clutching her children. The man tried to plead, but the Prussian guards were already approaching. A shove, a shout, and soon I watched them disappear into the crowd gathering outside the wall.

I looked through the iron gate and the stone barricade. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, waiting, dreaming of crossing into a place where they wouldn't starve. But most never would.

Only the merchants were allowed through.

Wagons covered in thick cloth, escorted by guards, displaying permits stamped with the Prussian seal. They brought goods, paid taxes, and continued on their way.

But the small folk had nothing to offer.

And so, they would die on the other side of the wall.

"Papiere, bitte." I said in my best German to the next group of people, keeping my composure as I extended my hand for their documents.

Three men and a woman stood before me, all wearing the same expression of hunger and exhaustion. Their clothes were worn, their boots caked in dried mud, their faces hollow with the emptiness of those who had wandered for days—perhaps weeks—without direction.

The first to step forward was a middle-aged man, his hands rough and scarred from working the land. He placed a few papers on my desk with trembling fingers.

I gave the documents a quick glance.

The same as always.

No Prussian seals, no employer authorization, no proof that anyone in The Reach was expecting them.

A foregone failure.

"These papers are invalid," I said, my tone as cold as I had perfected over time.

The man flinched.

"But… sir, we have nowhere else to go. There's nothing left at home. They burned everything—the crops… my wife is dead. My children—"

"I'm sorry," I cut him off before he could finish. "Next."

The other three remained frozen in place. They knew their fate would be the same.

From the wall, the Prussian guards watched with indifference. They knew that soon, another group of rejects would have to be moved away from the entry zone, pushed back from the gate. The process was mechanical, devoid of emotion.

The woman tried to speak.

"I can work… I can sew, take care of children, clean… anything."

I shook my head.

"Without valid documents, there is no entry."

"But—"

I didn't let her finish. I extended my hand and moved on to the next.

The three of them lingered for a moment longer before the guards stepped in. At first, they pushed gently, then more forcefully when resistance grew. Their pleas turned to cries, then to muffled sobs as they were swallowed by the crowd waiting outside the wall.

"Papiere, bitte." I said to the next person, not even bothering to look up from the desk.

The man stepped forward hesitantly, placing a bundle of dirty, timeworn papers on my desk. I picked them up and barely needed a glance to know the outcome.

No seals. No authorization. Nothing that would allow him to pass.

I sighed inwardly. Another rejection.

I looked up to give him the bad news—but stopped.

Behind him, an entire family waited in silence. Women holding children, old men with vacant stares, young faces tightened with hunger. The same look of desperation I had seen too many times before.

The man understood what my expression meant before I even spoke.

And then, without a word, he pulled a wooden cross from within his clothing.

He held it in both hands, as if it were the only thing he had left in the world. He did not beg, did not cry. He simply looked at me with silent determination, waiting for my verdict.

My chest felt heavy.

The religious protection procedure.

It was rare, but I knew what it meant.

I looked at the cross. It was simple, worn—probably carved by his own hands or those of his father. He hadn't brought it to deceive anyone. It was real.

But a cross alone was not enough.

If the man was a true believer, he could prove it.

I took a deep breath and recited the first words in Latin.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis…"

He blinked.

My gaze hardened. If he was truly of the faith, he would complete the prayer without hesitation.

The silence lasted a moment. Then, in a deep and steady voice, the man answered.

"Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum…"

He completed it precisely. Without mistakes.

I did not look away.

"Vater unser, der du bist im Himmel…" This time, I repeated in German.

Without faltering, he continued.

"Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme…"

The Prussian guards watching from the gate nodded discreetly. There was no doubt.

My fingers drummed against the desk. I knew what I had to do.

I took a quill and wrote precisely on the document, marking the necessary notes for the administration.

I handed the papers back to the man.

"Your documents are correct. Present them at the next registration office."

The man blinked, surprised, and for a moment, it seemed as if he wanted to say something—but he only nodded.

He took the documents and held them with the same reverence with which he had lifted the cross earlier. His family followed him, moving cautiously, as if afraid that this was all a dream that could vanish at any moment.

The small door in the wall opened, and our brothers in faith were swiftly allowed through—those who had returned home.

The Prussian guards stood firm, closing the gate the moment the last of them had crossed. They knew that if they kept it open for even a second longer than necessary, the tide of refugees on the other side would try to force their way in.

It wasn't uncommon.

From my post in the watchtower, I saw people attempting to climb the walls every day, desperate to make it across. Others dug, trying to tunnel their way through, but the Prussian administration had anticipated those attempts.

A vast military contingent was deployed along the border, with constant patrols and watchtowers that allowed them to detect any suspicious movement. More than that, engineers had installed buckets of water in the ground—primitive yet effective vibration detectors—to catch any clandestine digging before it could succeed.

So far, everything remained under control.

But the crowd of refugees beyond the wall only continued to grow.

Every day, more and more people arrived, drawn by rumors that The Reach had food, work, and shelter.

Every day, the starving eyes of the masses grew more desperate.

Every day, hunger tightened its grip around Westeros.

And I knew this was only the beginning.

It was no secret. It was well known to all: how prudent and wise our lord administrator had been in managing our lands. With diligence and discipline, he had enforced every iron fist with which we had been subdued, molding us to adapt to Prussian laws, technology, and culture.

The granaries of The Reach were full.

Completely full.

Even without considering the hundreds of additional granaries built across our homeland, The Reach could withstand three entire years of winter without a harvest.

And that wasn't even counting the thousands of greenhouses that continued producing constantly, without interruption.

Hunger would never reach our lands.

The merchants never stopped talking about it. No matter where they went, if asked where they had managed to buy grain—even at high prices—there was only one answer they could give.

The Reach.

And while, beyond the wall, people starved to death, we ate warm bread, well-cured meats, and fresh vegetables at every table.

One might wonder why so many people gathered, only to die of cold and hunger at the gates of The Reach, knowing that almost no one could enter without authorization or a work contract.

Well… the reason was the Horned Knights.

The Teutonic Order.

Every day, without exception, their knights delivered food to the starving masses, distributing bread and hot meals to the desperate souls beyond the wall. It was the only thing keeping many of them alive.

But the most important thing wasn't the food.

Once a week, the Teutonic Order searched for new workers for their border castles.

And they found them here.

The Teutonic convoy passed through the great gates used by the merchants, advancing with their characteristic implacable discipline. Immediately, the entire starving crowd surged toward them.

A tall knight, clad in gleaming black armor adorned with horns, stepped forward and raised his voice with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"The Teutonic Order requires one hundred stable hands, three hundred servants, eight hundred laborers, thirty cobblers…!"

An endless list of jobs.

The Teutonic Order allowed a few hundred—sometimes even thousands—to pass each week.

For the fortunate, it meant hot food and a guaranteed roof over their heads.

But it wasn't simple. One had to be the luckiest, the strongest, or the most skilled in a trade the Order needed.

Desperation alone was not enough.

The Teutons sought capable workers—those who could serve in the border castles, the military camps, the stables where the knights' horses were kept.

Those with experience in blacksmithing, carpentry, leatherworking, or tanning were the first to be taken. Then came the laborers, the servants, the stable hands. And, if luck was on their side, the youngest among them could even be accepted as squires or apprentices within the administration of the Order.

But the true prize was being chosen to serve the elite knights—the heavy cavalry who answered directly to the King in Prussia.

If one managed to enter their service, their future was secured.

That was the hope that kept people coming.

Not charity. Not faith.

But the possibility of crossing over and finding a better life—far from the certain death that loomed over Westeros.

Because while The Reach was full of grain, its granaries overflowing and its greenhouses producing without end, the rest of Westeros was starving.

War had devastated the harvests, burned fields, wiped out reserves. The grain shortage was overwhelming.

And for many, the only difference between life and death was whether they were accepted by the Teutonic Order.

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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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