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Chapter Text

The docks of Lordsport stank of fish guts, tar, and cheap ale. So, in other words, a perfectly normal morning. Sailors hauled nets, mended lines, and shouted at each other over crates of cod. And right in the thick of it, Old Garron Salt-Tongue planted himself on an overturned barrel and resumed his rant for the fifth day straight.

“I’m tellin’ you!” he barked, jabbing a finger at anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact. “Ships o’ iron, I say! Not wood, not pine, not oak iron! Twice the size of our longships, and puffin’ smoke from tall black towers like some demon’s chimney!”

A pair of dockhands snorted as they walked past.

“Here he goes again,” one muttered. “Next he’ll say they were crewed by giants ridin’ whales.”

Another fisherman tossed a fish head at Garron’s boots. “You’ve been drinkin’ the bilge again, old man. Ships don’t smoke unless they’re burnin’.”

But not everyone laughed.

A few younger sailors lingered nearby, pretending to sort rope while leaning just close enough to hear. A weathered mother clutching her son’s hand slowed as well, eyes narrow with unease. One of the captains (Varric Pyke) stood at the fringe of the gathering, saying nothing but listening very, very carefully.

Garron raised both hands like a priest delivering bad news.

“They cut the waves like knives! No sails, no oars, just a deep rumblin’, like thunder trapped below decks. I swear it on the Drowned God’s own beard!”

Someone shouted back, “The Drowned God has no beard, you salt-soaked goat!”

More laughter. More jeering.

But Garron’s eyes stayed wide. Haunted. Unshakable.

“I saw ’em,” he insisted. “Far out to sea. Nothin’ natural about it. Made me feel… small. Like the world’s growin’ bigger without askin’ us.”

The crowd thinned, as they always did, mockery drifting away with the gulls. Within minutes, only two people remained close enough to hear Garron’s final whisper:

“They’re out there. Great ships of iron. And if they come this way… the Ironborn won’t be the ones doin’ the reavin’.”

He glanced toward the distant horizon, as if expecting something enormous to rise from it.

Nothing did.

***

Under the dull electric glow of the command cabin, Commander Flock Rienhardt stood over a massive steel table covered in charts of the Iron Islands. Every reef, every harbor, every weak shoreline was marked in precise red and blue ink. The low thrum of engines vibrated through the floor beneath his boots as the fleet advanced in disciplined formation across the sea.

Forty-five ships.

Eight armored cruisers formed the spearhead.
Twelve gunboats fanned wide.
Twenty cargo and mining vessels followed.
Three medical and logistics ships remained safely in the rear.
Two mobile foundries rumbled forward.
And at the very heart of it all one towering radio command ship.

“The Iron Islands fall within hours,” he said calmly, tapping Pyke on the map. “Their fleets are wooden. Their weapons are medieval. We seize Pyke first, convert it into a naval hub, then move east. Seagard becomes our beachhead. From there, the Riverlands collapse inward towards The Twins, Oldstones. After that… we offer diplomacy. If they refuse, we wait for reinforcement fleets.”

One of the junior officers frowned. “Sir… we outgun them in every measurable category. Why wait at all?”

Rienhardt didn’t look up.

“Because soldiers die,” he said simply.

Another officer scoffed quietly. “Dragons, sir? Even their largest beasts will struggle to seriously damage armored hulls. Iron doesn’t burn from a single pass of flame. Our cruisers can absorb prolonged heat. Their wings tear easier than steel plates.”

Rienhardt finally lifted his eyes.

“Yes. The ships will not drown,” he said. “But decks still hold men. Cannons still need crews. Observation towers still need gunners. It’s not the ships dragons kill first, it's the people on them.”

“A few dragons could do little to our full fleet,” Rienhardt continued. “But sustained engagement? Repeated attacks? Fatigue? Panic? That’s where casualties grow. Not catastrophically. Steadily. And steady casualties compound.”

The radio crackled softly with position confirmations. The fleet was already inside striking distance.

Rienhardt folded his hands behind his back.

“We are not here for a glorious charge. We are here for a cold takeover. Minimal losses. Maximum extraction. The Ironborn break fast when their ports fall. And once Pyke becomes ours…”

He tapped the island again.

“The sea itself becomes Kruger territory.”

***

The nets were half-full when the sea changed.

The fisherman noticed it first not the ships, not yet but the water. The tide shifted strangely, pulling outward as if the ocean itself were being dragged away. His son frowned, squinting.

“Father… why is the water moving like that?”

Then the ships came into view.

Steel giants. Black-hulled. Endless.

No sails. No oars. Only towering structures and the slow, monstrous churn of propellers that made the water boil behind them. Smoke poured from their stacks in dark banners that scarred the sky.

The boy dropped the net.

The fisherman did not move at all.

Around them, the harbor exploded into panic.

Bells began to scream. Dockworkers fled screaming into the streets. Boats collided as men abandoned them mid-launch. Women dragged children away from the water. Priests of the Drowned God fell to their knees, praying aloud in terror. Somewhere, a horn sounded too late, far too late.

Only the fisherman remained still, staring as if his soul had been nailed to the sea.

“They’re… not ships,” he whispered.

High above, on the steel decks of the leading armored cruiser, Kruger soldiers lined the rails, peering down through precision glass.

Dozens of binoculars lifted in perfect unison.

Through those lenses, the Iron Isles were suddenly very small.

A young lieutenant laughed as he focused in on the harbor.
“Hah! Look at them scatter.”

Another soldier adjusted his view, watching men dive from docks into the water in blind terror.
“Goodness… oh, Mother Goddess forgive, they look pathetic.”

Below, the fisherman finally felt his legs give way. He fell to his knees in the shallow surf, clutching his son against his chest as the shadow of the fleet swallowed the harbor.

The Kruger ships did not slow.

The first cannon ports slid open with a metallic chorus.

The first shot came.

A single, thunderous crack split the air—deeper and louder than any thing the Ironborn had ever heard. The recoil shuddered through the armored cruiser as the shell screamed across the harbor and blew up against the stone docks in a ball of fire and pulverized rock.

Wood, men, and stone vanished in the fire.

A shockwave rolled over the harbor, capsizing small fishing boats like toys. The fisherman and his son were thrown backward into the surf as burning timbers rained from the sky. Where the shell struck, there was almost no dock anymore only a smoking crater full of bodies.

On the deck above, cheers erupted

“Did you see that?! Straight through the pier!”

“By the Mother Goddess, that thing folded like paper!”

Some soldiers leaned over the rails, hooting and clapping as panic below turned into pure carnage. Ironborn sprinting in every direction, some on fire, some diving blindly into the sea.

Then boots thundered down the deck.

A voice like a whip-crack tore through the laughter.

“HEY! OUT! OUT-MOVE, YOU WORTHLESS IDLERS!”

The sergeants stormed in, shoving cheering men aside with rifle butts and gloved fists.

“Laugh on your own time! Boats, now! Bayonets fixed! Rifles up!”

Soldiers broke for their landing boats at a dead run, gear rattling. Steel ramps dropped with heavy booms along the sides of the ships. Gun crews reset the cannons, already lining up the next targets.

Down below, the fisherman crawled toward his son through choking smoke and falling ash. The boy was crying alive but the harbor behind them was a burning ruin.

Infornt of them the fleet of iron advanced.

And now the age of Stem and Gunpowder arrived at the doorsteps of Westeros.

Chapter Text

For uncounted ages, the Grey Fog ruled the far western edge of the Sunset Sea. It was not a storm, not a cloud, not magic in the way maesters understood it. It was a planetary-scale atmospheric phenomenon cold, dense, light-devouring, and endless. Ships entered it and never returned. Compasses failed. Stars vanished. Winds turned in on themselves. Even dragons refused to cross it.

To Va Maria, Ostravia, and Afrika, the Fog was legend turned science problem.
To Westeros, it did not exist at all.

Elissa Farman did not reach Asshai by miracle. She was swallowed by the Fog, drifted for months in blind terror, and emerged on the far side of the world without understanding how.

For Westeros, she vanished into myth.
For the other continents, she was proof the world continued past the Fog.

By the time they solve the Fog, these three continents possess:

Steel-hulled steamships with coal and oil engines

Long-range navigation using gyroscopic compasses

Electric arc lamps powerful enough to pierce the Fog

Refrigeration, canned food, and chemical preservation

Early machine guns, bolt-actions rifles, and artillery

Colonial doctrines already tested on their own continents

They do not see Westeros as a fantasy land.
They see it as an untapped world full of resources, weak states, and feudal fragmentation.

In short: perfect for expansion.

The Main reason thier here is 'Aetherstone' a crystal formed in the deep mantle of the world the person to first ever adventurer Salvatore Gustav when studying an extent volcano over 20 years ago. It Produces no ash can be cracked, ground, and used as a super-reactant in steam engine and In dangerous amounts, destabilizes metal and glass instruments. The problem? There wasn’t much of it. Volcanic eruptions spit out crumbs at best. The mantle was unreachable.

The Veterilli Republic of Va Maria declared they would reach the Aetherstone layer first. They dug deeper than any drilling effort in their history.They barely reached a quarter of the depth they needed until The ground convulsed. Equipment shattered. The drilling platform collapsed like a kicked anthill.

The Kruger Empire in Ostravia however saw oppurtunity so they did research and decided to send a daring mission beyond the the Grey Fog for the first time in mellenia they were trying again and they succeed however it was a secret mission and only one ship was sent but that ship made an discoveries one of those being Aetherstone was easier to extract. 

With the news arriving home the Kiezer of the Empire ordered the fifth imperial fleet to move but undercover so thier rivals wouldn't know the fog is crossable.

The Religion on the Otherside

The Church of the Three Pointed Star

(Veterilli Republic, Makedon, Bosnika)

This is the most institutionalized religion on the Other Side. It is rigid, scholarly, and deeply tied to law and governance.

They worship the three poinated star each point represents an aspect of the universe (Creation, Destruction, Restoration)

The Mother Goddess of the Night

(Kruger Empire, Ruskian Empire, Lin Pao)

The Mother of Night is the primordial womb of creation. She existed before the stars and will exist after their collapse. 

They believe in other gods hpwever they are not worshipped and are scene as just children of the Mother Goddess like the rest of humainty.

The Great Elder One

(Tudor Empire, Kingdom of El Marino, Kakas)

The Great Elder One is not a god of love or war.

It is an eternal witness. It neither created the world nor will it destroy it. It observes all cycles, endlessly recording reality itself.

Yigism (Followed in Takumiya)

A serpentine theology focused on:

Rebirth through destruction. Flesh as temporary vessel. The soul as coiled energy

Kruger Empire Military 

Total Strength:
• Imperial Army: 1.1 million
• Imperial Navy: 450,000
• Air Legion: 55,000

Imperial Army

Organization:
20 Field Divisions, each ~55,000 troops, built to operate independently for months—especially in colonial theaters like Essos.

A typical division fields:
• 24 Infantry Regiments
• 4 Artillery Regiments
• 2 Heavy Artillery Battalions
• 2 Recon/Cavalry Regiments
• Engineer, Signals, Medical, and Logistics units

Standard Small Arms

Verreni Model 94 Rifle (M94) (Irl: Carcano M91 long rifle in appereance but machinism is improved)
Bolt-action, reliable.
Caliber:7.65×53mm Kruger.
Range: 600–800 m.

Victor Model 98 Pistol (M98) (Irl: Mauser C96)
Semi-auto sidearm. Used by officers, Air Legion, elite units, and naval crews.
Caliber:7.63mm Kruger

Fuchele Type 88 Revolver (Webley Mk iv)
Webley-style heavy revolver. Favoured by cavalry, artillery, and colonial police for its reliability.
Caliber: .455 Kruger

Support Weapons

Kruger M08 HMG (IRL counterpart: Maxim MG08): water-cooled Maxim-type, core of defensive lines.

Artillery 

77/04 Feldkanone: standard 77mm field gun.
M11 Howitzer: 150mm siege gun used for city flattening and fortress reduction.

Cavalry 

Cavalry remains vital for recon, pursuit, and terror-shock tactics.
Weapons: M94 carbines, Type 88 revolvers, light sabers.
Armored cars are beginning trials (Ehrhardt-style).

Imperial Navy

Kruger’s pride and obsession.

Home Waters Fleet:
• 32 Dreadnoughts
• 58 Pre-dreadnoughts
• 96 Armored Cruisers
• 210 Light Cruisers
• 330 Destroyers
• 180 Submersibles

• Hundreds of auxiliaries.

Naval doctrine favors decisive battles, blockades, and heavy escort around vital Aetherstone convoys.

Air Legion

55,000 personnel, still experimental.

Aircraft include:
• Recon biplanes
• Early fighters
• Zeppelin bombers.

Kruger is arguebily the strongest nation on the Otherside though thier naval dominence is always challenged by the Tudor Empire which is having a naval cold war with Kruger.

World Map:

Capital cities

Kruger Empire: Liberty CIty

Tudor Empire: Albionport

Veterilli Republic: Florenza

Ruskia: Novgorin

Bosnika: Sarvograd

York: York

Lin Pao: Xianjing

Takumiya: Kyotaro

Prutenia: Lympsmouth

Persasa: Isfaran

Kakas: Sultanköy 

El Marino: Castelmar

Makedon: Thermikon

Duchy of Wiglia: Bertonbeck

Magyara: Trerington

Portshamia: Pentates

The Kruger Empire is ruled by the Freyodor Dynasty. Founded 870 years ago by Kiezer Rienhardt I Freyodor and currently ruled by Kiezer Karl II Freyodor. They are distinguished by thier icey blue eye or golden yellow eyes which every Freyodor has as thier DNA overrides any other DNA due to thier stronge Magical ties.

The Otherside also has more developed and more powerful arcane arts though it is agreed upon by the league of nations that Arcane Arts should only be used in battle if absolutely needed so most of the time it is used for dueling or by the Arcane divison of a police force to capture any illegal arcane activities.

How does one become a mage?

1. Acquire a True Arcane Codex
A semi-sentient tome bound to a single magical discipline. Without one, no magic. With one… well, good luck.

2. Read the Codex Completely
Most die here. Causes include:

Madness

Brain hemorrhage

Psychic collapse

Violent mutation

3. Consume the Symbolic Catalyst
Each discipline requires ingesting a ritual food or drink that embodies its essence.

4. Endure the Internal Conversion
If the body rejects the arcane surge, it responds with:

Organ rupture

Crystallizing blood

Total neural burn-out

Survival rate: under 12%.
Those who endure become Initiates.

Re-ascend (advancing in power)

Magic isn’t static. Initiates can attempt to ascend by:

Training and conditioning

Reading higher-tier codices

Taking stronger catalysts

Each ascent carries the same lethal risk. Grow too fast, and you simply… detonate.

Chapter Text

The harbor became a mouth of screaming.

Another cannon fired. Then another. Then a full barrage as the fleets’ guns fired in sequence a deep, mechanical thunder that hammered the island without mercy. Shells ripped into shipyards, and watchtowers. Stone burst and wooden longhouses vanished in fountains of fire and splinters.

People ran. They ran without direction.

Men shoved past their own kin to reach boats already sinking under the weight of too many peaope. Oars snapped. Ropes burned through. One crowded skiff tried to launch, only for a shell to strike the water beside it and flip it end over end. 

From the decks of the iron ships, the rain of fire continued with methodical precision. Gun crews worked like clockwork: load, seal, aim, fire. Smoke layered the sky in black sheets. The island disappeared behind flame and ash.

On the beach, mothers dragged children through wet sand slick with blood. An Ironborn captain tried to rally his men, sword raised high—until an explosion erased him and the men around him in a single flash.

Boats fled in every direction.

Some never made it off the shore.

High above, through binocular lenses, the chaos was observed in cold silence.

“They’re breaking,” one officer said flatly.

Below, the Iron Islands—who had lived by fear for centuries—now learned what it felt like to be one who were in fear for their sins had added up.

And the fire did not stop.

***

An order swept through the decks like a shockwave.

“LINE UP! FORM RANKS—MOVE!”

Boots slammed against the deck as soldiers rushed into formation along the portside rails. Rifles were unslung. Bayonets fixed with sharp metallic clicks. Bolts were drawn open; cartridges slid in smooth and fast; bolts slammed shut with a heavy, satisfying clack.

Along the deck, a towering sergeant stormed to the front.

“ALRIGHT, YOU MAGGOTS!” he roared. “THE KIEZER HAS ENTRUSTED YOU WITH THE FUTURE OF THE EMPIRE—SO TRY NOT TO DISGRACE HIS AND OUR GLORIOUS EMPIRE'S NAME!”

A wave of laughter, adrenaline, and bravado rolled down the rows. Someone whooped. Another punched his friend’s shoulder. They were excitement as no other campaign would have been more exciting.

“SHOW HIM YOU WASHED-UP BRATS AIN’T THAT USELESS AFTER ALL!”

A cheer thundered across the ship, adozens of voices, all swallowed the next second by the groan of metal as the landing hooks released.

“BOATS! NOW! MOVE!”

They sprinted, boots pounding the deck. Landing craft clattered as soldiers leapt in—rifles held tight bayonets fixed. Each boat lurched violently as men scrambled to squeeze in shoulder-to-shoulder.

Above them, cranes swung.
Below them, the sea churned with smoke and debris.

With a shaky descent, the first wave of landing boats lowered toward the burning shoreline.

On the stern of each craft, a sergeant primed the motor, yanking the cord hard. The engine loudly snarled to life.

He turned back to the packed soldiers, eyes like iron.

“REMEMBER!” he bellowed over the noise. “SHOOT—CHARGE—SHOOT!”

The soldiers nodded, knuckles white on their rifles.

“DON’T TRY TO BE A HERO!”
A pause.
“YOUR BAYONET ISN’T BEATING A WAR AXE! YOU GOT THAT?!”

“YES SIR!”

“GOOD! SAVE THE HEROICS FOR WHEN THE MOTHER GODDESS IS ACTUALLY WATCHING!”

The engines roared.

The boats surged forward.

Ahead lay fire, ash, and Ironborn steel.
Behind them, forty-five warships rumbled like a continent made of metal.

The first wave was on its way ashore.

The landing boats ground hard against the coast of Great Wyk. Before they had even fully settled, Kruger soldiers leapt out, boots splashing into blood-tinged water, rifles already raised.

“GO! GO! SPREAD OUT!”

Gunfire cracked in disciplined volleys as the first wave surged forward.

The Ironborn who had stayed behind—raiders, salt-worn men armed with shields, axes, and the fury of the Drowned God—charged to meet them, roaring battle cries that were swallowed almost instantly by rifle fire.

A Kruger private rammed his bayonet straight through the ribs of the first warrior who reached him, driving the man back into the sand with a wet choke. Before the dying Ironborn even hit the ground, another charged—two axes swinging wildly.

CRACK!

A shot from a Kruger rifle split his chest open mid-scream. The soldier worked the bolt, fired again, then again he missed two but he hit one.

To the left, an Ironborn berserker barreled through the smoke, grabbing one Kruger soldier by the neck with one hand while burying his axe deep into the skull of another. He snarled and lifted the choking soldier off his feet...

Until three Kruger rifles opened fire at once, bullets tearing through his torso and dropping him like a tree. The saved soldier fell to his knees, coughing, staring at the corpse in shock.

“KEEP MOVING!” someone screamed.

A Kruger Captain sprinted down the beach like a storm sabre in one hand, revolver in the other.

BANG!
An Ironborn’s shoulder exploded.

BANG!
Another took a round through the jaw and dropped screaming.

A raider swung at him, axe raised high. The captain sidestepped, whipping his sabre across the man’s stomach in one clean, lethal arc. He didn’t slow down—fired once more over his shoulder, dropping a fleeing reaver before turning toward the next cluster of resistance.

All along the shoreline, steel clashed with steel, but rifle reports drowned out axe blows almost instantly. Ironborn roars became dying howls. Kruger boots crushed through broken shields and shattered spears as they advanced inland.

And Great Wyk, proud and savage, was being carved apart one gunshot at a time.

***

The chamber stank of sweat, salt, and victory wine.

Dalton Greyjoy—The Red Kraken—lay back against a mound of pillows, two salt wives tangled around him, when the heavy oak door slammed open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

An Ironborn warrior stumbled inside, dripping with swear, his breath coming in sharp gulps.

“Milord—!”
He dropped to one knee, head bowed. “Milord, ravens from Great Wyk!”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, almost lazily, he pushed a salt wife aside and sat upright, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he reached for his blade out of habit rather than need.

“Ravens?” he said, voice low and dangerous. 

The messenger swallowed.

“Aye, milord. And… and not just ravens.”
A pause.
“People. Half the damn island fleeing in boats. They docked an hour ago, screamin’ of—of iron ships, milord. Ships larger than any fleet, belchin’ smoke, tearin’ Great Wyk apart.”

One of the salt wives gasped. The other simply froze.

Dalton scoffed and rose to his full height, towering over the kneeling man.
“Iron ships?” he said, wiping a smear of wine from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Since when do the Westerlands forge their boats out of metal?”

“They—these ain’t the Westeralnds, milord,” the Ironborn whispered. “These things… they tore the harbor to pieces. Cannon fire like thunder. Houses blown apart.”

Dalton’s smile faded.

“They say Great Wyk burns, milord.”
A beat.
“And Pyke may be next.”

Dalton Greyjoy tightened his grip on the pommel of his blade, expression shifting from amusement to something cold and intent.

“Fetch my captains,” he said quietly.
“And wake every reaver on this rock.”