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NAPOLEON
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The tents stood firm, arranged with the precision only a seasoned army could manage. Fires burned low as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long, flickering shadows across the camp. The air carried the mingled scents of smoke, damp earth, and the sweat of soldiers who had once died but now stood resurrected.
Napoleon strode through the rows of men, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the encampment. The sounds of the Grande Armée settling in—**sharpening bayonets, tending to horses, murmuring in uncertain excitement—**felt at once familiar and foreign. They were soldiers. They were alive. But they were nowhere near home.
The command tent had been raised at the center of the camp, a crude wooden table inside already littered with hastily drawn maps and scattered reports. The land had yet to be tamed, yet to be understood—but Napoleon would change that.
Inside, his officers awaited him.
Marshal Michel Ney, standing with his usual stiff-backed intensity, his red hair still as fiery as his temper. General Jean-Baptiste Duhesme, commander of the Young Guard, bent slightly over the map, tracing what little they knew of their surroundings. Beside him, General Pierre François Joseph Durutte, ever the cautious strategist, sat with arms crossed, his sharp eyes flicking between the map and Napoleon. General Guillaume Philibert Duhesme stood rigidly near the edge of the table, his hands behind his back, his mind clearly already working through possibilities. General Henri-Gatien Bertrand, perhaps the most measured of them all, regarded the Emperor with quiet expectation.
And then there was Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont. Lounging in his chair, arms draped over the back, one boot casually resting on his other knee, he looked as though he'd wandered into the wrong meeting and was waiting for the wine to be served.
Napoleon stepped inside, and all fell silent.
He did not sit.
"Gentlemen," he began, "we are alive. That is our first victory."
Some men smirked, others nodded solemnly, but none spoke.
"But we are in an unknown land. And that, mes amis, is our first battle."
No one needed to be reminded of the dangers of the unknown. This was not France. This was not Europe.
Napoleon gestured to the crude map. "We need information. We need to understand where we are, who inhabits this land, and what threats it holds." His gaze swept over the assembled officers. "A scouting party must be formed immediately."
Duhesme, commander of the Young Guard, nodded. "We have voltigeurs and chasseurs. They will be our eyes and ears."
Napoleon inclined his head. "Good. I also want men who speak other languages. If there are people in this land, we must learn their tongues before we teach them ours."
A grunt from Ney. "Then Beaumont goes."
Johnny, not missing a beat, placed a hand over his heart. "Ah, so this is my reward for being multilingual. A one-way ticket to an early grave."
Napoleon ignored the sarcasm. "Beaumont, you will join the scouts. You are fluent in English, yes?"
Johnny let out a dramatic sigh. "And Spanish, some German, a bit of Italian, and enough Russian to get stabbed in a tavern."
"Good. You leave at dawn."
Johnny gave a lazy salute. "I shall make sure to die heroically, Sire."
Napoleon turned back to the table. There were more pressing matters.
"Now, our situation."
The tent grew heavier. They all knew it—an army without supplies was an army waiting to die.
Marshal Ney spoke first. "We have powder and shot, but once it's spent, we have no way to replenish it. Our muskets, our cannons—they are useless without ammunition."
Durutte added grimly, "And we do not know if this land has gunpowder at all."
Napoleon's fingers drummed against the wooden table.
"Then we make our own."
Silence. Then, Bertrand spoke cautiously. "Sire?"
Napoleon's gaze was sharp. "We have engineers, gunsmiths, and artificers among our ranks. The same men who built the Empire's cannons can forge new ones. The same men who shaped bullets for our muskets can do so again."
Duhesme's expression tightened. "That will take time, Sire."
Napoleon nodded. "Then we begin immediately. Our first priority is gunpowder. I want men searching for sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. If we cannot find them, we will devise alternatives." His voice hardened. "We will not be reduced to fighting with sticks and stones."
A murmur of agreement.
"Weapons?" Ney asked.
"Our muskets and cannons will hold, but they are finite. We must prepare to forge new ones." Napoleon's fingers traced the map. "If we find a source of iron, we begin blacksmithing immediately. If we do not, we will take it from whoever has it."
Durutte exhaled, but there was no disagreement.
"And food, Sire?" Guillaume Duhesme asked. "We have rations, but not enough."
Napoleon nodded. "Then we ration immediately. No waste." His gaze swept over them. "Hunting parties will be organized at dawn. Scouts will locate fertile land and sources of fresh water. If there are settlements, we will determine if they can be... persuaded to supply us."
A silence. The implication was clear.
"And morale, Sire?" Bertrand asked.
Napoleon let the question hang for a moment. Then, his gaze swept across the room, settling on each man in turn.
"We are the Grande Armée." His voice was quiet but unshakable. "We do what we have always done. We march. We fight. We win."
A shift in the room. Backs straightened. Eyes hardened.
The fire was still there. The hunger.
Johnny let out a slow breath, shaking his head. Damn him, the old bastard still had it.
Napoleon turned to his officers. "Get to work."
With that, the meeting was over.
And the world—whoever lived in it—was about to learn the name of Napoleon Bonaparte once again.
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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Capitaine, Voltigeurs of the Young Guard
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Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont had done plenty of questionable things in his life—faking injuries to avoid inspections, swindling British officers out of their brandy, and once accidentally starting a tavern brawl with an offhand comment about a Spaniard's mother. But leading a scouting party through a land unknown to gods or men? Well, that was new.
It was just past midday when he rounded up his best men—the ones who had a healthy appreciation for wine, a talent for survival, and a convenient lack of fear. They came willingly, some grinning, some grumbling, but all eager to do something other than setting up tents or discussing Napoleon's grand plans.
As they marched under the sun, the terrain unfolded like something ripped straight from the vineyards of Bordeaux—rolling hills of green and gold, warm breezes carrying the scent of salt and sweet fruit, and trees that swayed lazily, as if they too had nowhere urgent to be.
Johnny adjusted his bicorne hat, squinting against the sunlight.
"You know," he mused to the men beside him, "if we hadn't all died at Waterloo, I'd think we were on campaign in Spain again. Except this time, no British to shoot at, no angry peasants trying to stab us, and—best of all—no damn Soult barking orders."
One of the men snorted. "Only thing missing is the wine."
Johnny grinned. "Then let's fix that."
It took a few more miles, several near-twisted ankles on uneven ground, and one unfortunate tumble down a hill that Johnny swore never to speak of before they finally spotted something promising—a village nestled between sprawling vineyards, its rooftops peeking through the foliage like hidden treasure.
Johnny slowed, taking in the sight. His sharp eyes picked up details immediately—workers tending the vines, carts filled with barrels, a few guards loitering by what looked like a storehouse.
"Mes amis," Johnny said, clapping a hand on the nearest soldier's shoulder. "I think we've found civilization."
"And more importantly," another added, "we've found wine."
Striding into the village, Johnny ignored the curious stares from the locals. Their uniforms, their muskets, their very existence in this land—none of it made sense to these people. That was fine. He wasn't here to explain the unexplainable.
He spotted the largest farmhouse, a stately structure draped in ivy, its doors wide open as workers carried in crates of grapes. A man in his fifties, dressed in a fine but practical doublet, eyed them warily from the threshold. His hands were stained with grape juice, and his posture suggested he'd seen enough of life to not scare easily.
Johnny approached with his most disarming grin, switching from French to English. "Good evening, monsieur. Might I trouble you for a word? Perhaps over a glass of whatever fine vintage I suspect you produce?"
The man's wary expression didn't change. "And who might you be, stranger?"**
Johnny tapped his chest dramatically. "Captain Jean-Baptiste Beaumont, at your service. My men and I are travelers, and we find ourselves in need of direction."
The man studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "You'll be wanting Lord Redwyne's maps then."
Johnny blinked. "Lord… who?"
The man sighed again, already looking like he regretted this conversation. "Come in. You're drinking my wine, at least."
Inside, the farmhouse was warm and rustic, filled with the scent of fermenting grapes and aged oak barrels. Johnny barely had time to admire the selection of bottles before a woman entered the room.
She was young, perhaps no older than twenty, with auburn hair that caught the candlelight like copper. Her dress was simple yet elegant, and when she looked at Johnny, it was with an expression he recognized all too well—curiosity, suspicion, and just the faintest hint of amusement.
The man—Thomas Hill, as he introduced himself—gestured toward her. "My daughter, Elena."
Johnny bowed with practiced ease. "Mademoiselle Elena, I was unaware this fine establishment also produced such rare beauty."
Elena arched an eyebrow. "And I was unaware travelers wore such odd uniforms."
Johnny grinned. "We believe in looking our best, even when lost."
She hummed, clearly unconvinced. "And where exactly are you lost from, Captain?"
Ah. The million-franc question.
Johnny took the offered glass of wine from Thomas, savoring the rich, smooth taste before answering."Let's just say… a very long way from here."
Elena's eyes narrowed slightly. "And what do travelers from 'a very long way' want in my father's house?"
Johnny tilted his head, watching her over the rim of his glass. "Oh, just a little thing called knowledge. Perhaps a map or two."
Thomas sighed again and waved toward a shelf. "There's an old map of Westeros in the study. It's not much, but it'll show you who rules what."
Johnny set down his glass. "Monsieur Hill, I could kiss you."
"Don't."
Johnny chuckled, but as he turned toward the study, he caught one last glance at Elena.
She was still watching him, lips pressed together as if trying to solve a puzzle.
And Johnny had the distinct feeling he was the puzzle.
Johnny tapped his fingers against his wine cup, his sharp eyes studying Thomas Hill across the table. The vineyard master had the air of a man carefully weighing his words, as if speaking too freely might invite trouble. Which, in all fairness, was a good instinct when dealing with men like Johnny.
Finally, Thomas sighed. "If you need maps, you'll have to go to Vinetown."
Johnny arched an eyebrow. "Vinetown? Sounds promising. Wine and a town—two of my favorite things."
Thomas gave him a flat look."It's the largest settlement on the Arbor. Lord Redwyne rules from there, and the maester in his service keeps records, books… maps."
"Ah, a maester." Johnny rolled the word around in his mouth. "Like a minister or a scholar? Someone who knows more than he probably should?"
Thomas nodded. "They serve the lords, tend to their knowledge, and treat their sick."
Johnny smirked. "So, a doctor, a librarian, and a political headache all in one?"
Thomas merely grunted in confirmation.
Johnny stretched out lazily in his chair. "And what should a weary traveler such as myself expect in this fine Vinetown? Is it all just barrels of wine and dusty books, or is there something more enticing? A tavern, a brothel, maybe a good steakhouse?"
Thomas let out a breath through his nose. "You'll find all of that."
That got Johnny's full attention.
"There's the Mermaid's Cask, best tavern in the town. If you want a fine Arbor vintage, they have it. If you want something stronger, the barkeep keeps imported spirits for the right price."
Johnny grinned."And if I want companionship?"
Thomas shot him a look. "Then take your pick. Plenty of girls work out of the taverns, or if you've got the coin, go to the Lavender House."
Johnny whistled. "Fancy name. Expensive?"
Thomas folded his arms."More than you can afford if you don't know the currency."
Johnny tilted his head. "And that would be?"
"Gold dragons, silver stags, copper stars, and half-pennies."
Johnny hummed. "What's the price of a bottle of wine? Say, the kind I just drank?"
Thomas considered. "A good vintage? Four to five silver stags. A common one? A few coppers."
Johnny tapped his chin. "And for, let's say… an evening at the Lavender House?"
Thomas smirked. "Depends on your tastes. The cheap ones will take a few silvers. The highborn girls will cost gold."
Johnny let out a low whistle. "I do love a land that knows how to charge a man for his sins."
As the scouting party gathered their supplies and prepared for the journey, Johnny found himself lingering near the doorway. There was one last piece of unfinished business.
Elena stood outside, watching the sky shift into the warm hues of a setting sun. The orange light made the strands of her auburn hair glow like fire. She was pretending not to watch him, which meant she absolutely was.
Johnny smirked as he stepped beside her. "So, do all the fine ladies of this land let strange men walk away without at least a farewell kiss?"
Elena didn't even glance at him."Only the strange ones who don't tell us where they're from."
Johnny sighed dramatically. "Oh, the pain, the sorrow! Here I am, a lost and weary traveler, off to seek knowledge, and not even a shred of kindness to see me off—"
"Goodbye, Captain."
Johnny grinned. "I'll take that as 'I'll miss you terribly, please return soon.'"
She rolled her eyes, but she didn't deny it. That was victory enough for Johnny.
With a final flourish of his hat, he turned toward his waiting men, the adventure ahead promising maps, wine, and whatever else fate threw his way.
The sun was drifting lower in the sky, painting the rolling hills in warm shades of gold and orange. The road ahead wound through endless vineyards, the sweet smell of ripening grapes hanging heavy in the late summer air. A breeze rolled in from the west, stirring the leaves, and for a brief moment, Johnny almost forgot that they were in completely unknown territory.
Then he glanced over his shoulder at his men—twenty uniformed French soldiers, marching like ghosts from a forgotten war. Yeah, hard to forget when you looked like that.
"Alright, boys, we've had time to breathe in the air and stretch our legs. Tell me, what do we think of this place so far?"
Sergeant Luc "The Bear" Tremblay, riding on a poor horse that looked like it was regretting every choice that led to this moment, let out a big, satisfied sigh.
"I tell you what, Capitaine—if every road smells like wine and fresh bread, I'm staying."
Corporal Étienne "Quick Fingers" Moreau, trotting alongside him, snorted. "You'd stay anywhere with food, Luc. Hell, you'd marry a loaf of bread if it asked nicely."
Luc grinned, rubbing his stomach. "And I'd be a faithful husband."
Private Jacques "The Rooster" Lefevre stretched his arms behind his head and yawned. "This whole place feels like a dream, Capitaine. The hills, the air, the quiet... Too damn peaceful, if you ask me."
Johnny smirked. "You complaining, Rooster? We could always go find another battlefield."
Jacques shook his head quickly."Non, non, I like it. Just saying—it doesn't feel real."
"Maybe we're in Heaven," Étienne offered, eyes glinting.
Luc chuckled. "If this is Heaven, it's missing a tavern."
"And women," Marcel "The Fox" Girard added. "Not a single one on this road."
Johnny laughed. "Patience, mes amis. We're heading into a town, aren't we? There's got to be a tavern. Maybe even a brothel."
Étienne perked up."Think they take French coin?"
"Doubt it," Marcel muttered. "We'll need to get our hands on some of this 'gold dragon' nonsense first."
Private Henri "The Whisper" Dubois rode silently at the back of the group, his sharp eyes scanning the landscape. He hadn't spoken much all day, but when he finally did, his voice was quiet as ever.
"It's too quiet."
The laughter died down a little.
Johnny glanced at him. "You worried about something?"
Henri shrugged. "Nothing yet. Just… I don't trust places this peaceful. Never ends well."
The others shifted a little in their saddles. Whisper had a habit of noticing things before anyone else did. Johnny made a mental note to stay alert.
They rode on, passing small farmhouses tucked between the vineyards. Now and then, they caught glimpses of locals peeking out from behind shutters or standing in the fields, tools in hand, watching them pass. Not fearful—just… curious. Wary. Like they were trying to figure out who the hell these strange, uniformed men were.
Johnny tipped his hat at a few of them. "Friendly people."
Marcel smirked. "They're staring at us like we fell from the sky."
Jacques chuckled. "Well… technically…"
The road dipped into a shallow valley, and as they crested the next hill, Vinetown came into view.
It was a sight to behold. Nestled between the vineyards and the distant sea, the town spread out in clusters of white-walled buildings with red clay roofs. At the center of it all, a grand estate loomed—likely the home of the local lord. From here, they could already see smoke curling from chimneys, the faint sounds of life drifting through the hills.
Johnny let out a low whistle.
"Gentlemen, I do believe we're about to make some very interesting new friends."
As Johnny and his men rode through the outskirts of Vinetown, he couldn't help but admire the place. It had everything a man could want—rolling vineyards, clean air, and the faint scent of roasted meat wafting from somewhere in town. Not bad at all.
But then he saw them.
A group of soldiers in full plate armor stood at the town's entrance, their metal helmets gleaming in the afternoon sun. They held long spears and round shields, and as soon as they spotted Johnny's group, they straightened up and gripped their weapons tighter.
Johnny stared.
Then blinked.
Then stared again.
"Oh, mon dieu." He muttered under his breath. "We've walked straight into a goddamn fairytale."
The men behind him noticed, too.
"Are those... knights?" Étienne whispered.
Luc let out a low chuckle. "Looks like the poor bastards haven't discovered gunpowder yet."
Marcel whistled. "Merde. We're centuries ahead of them."
Johnny rubbed his temples. "Well, that explains why they were looking at us weird. We must look like wizards to them."
Jacques grinned. "I always knew I was magical."
The armored guards stepped forward, and their leader—a gruff-looking man with a thick brown beard and a dented helmet—raised a hand.
"Halt! State your business!"
Johnny, ever the charmer, put on his best winning smile.
"Good evening, messieurs! We're travelers from a faraway land, here to see the maester of Vinetown."
The guards exchanged skeptical glances. Then one of them, a younger lad with a sharp nose, pointed at the muskets slung across their backs.
"What are those sticks you're carrying?" he asked. "Are they weapons?"
Johnny paused. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, waiting to see how he'd handle this.
He thought about being honest for half a second, then immediately threw that idea out the window.
"These? Oh, these are… ah… ceremonial staffs!" He patted his musket like it was a beloved pet."A symbol of our people's traditions. We use them to, uh… ward off evil spirits!"
The guards frowned.
Johnny nodded solemnly."Very effective. No ghosts in sight, are there?"
Luc coughed loudly to hide his laughter. Marcel bit his lip. Étienne looked like he was about to pass out trying not to laugh.
The bearded guard squinted at Johnny, clearly not convinced but not quite sure what to say.
"Hmph. A strange lot, you are," he muttered. "But if you're here for the maester, you can enter. Any trouble, and you'll answer to Lord Redwyne's men."
"Wouldn't dream of causing trouble, mon ami!" Johnny tipped his hat.
As they passed through the gates, he let out a long breath.
Étienne leaned over."'Ceremonial staffs?' That's the best you could come up with?"
Johnny grinned."Would you rather I tell them we have weapons that can kill them before they can even raise a sword?"
Étienne shrugged."Fair point."
As they made their way deeper into Vinetown, Johnny couldn't help but smirk.
So far, so good.
Vinetown was bustling with life. The streets were narrow but lively, with merchants shouting over each other, carts rolling over cobblestone, and the smell of freshly baked bread mixing with the salty breeze from the harbor.
Johnny took it all in, his sharp eyes darting from one place to another.
People here wore simple tunics and cloaks, no tricorn hats, no polished boots, and certainly no muskets. If he hadn't already seen the guards in rusty tin-can armor, he might have thought they had just stumbled into a particularly elaborate medieval festival.
"This place is incredible," Luc muttered, eyes fixed on a butcher's stall where a massive roast pig was being turned over a fire.
"It's old, that's what it is," Étienne whispered back. "No gunpowder, no proper roads, and—mon dieu, look at that! That man is pulling a cart with a donkey instead of a horse!"
"The poor donkey looks miserable," Marcel added.
Johnny barely heard them. His focus had shifted to something—or rather, someone—far more interesting.
Across the marketplace, standing by a well-dressed servant, was a man in fine clothing. He was tall and lean, with auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His doublet was embroidered with golden vines, and he carried himself with the kind of arrogant ease that screamed nobility.
The man's sharp green eyes had already locked onto Johnny's group.
"Well, well, what have we here?" he mused, stepping forward. His accent was smooth, refined—definitely someone important.
Johnny smiled, ever the showman.
"Ah, monsieur, you must be one of the fine lords of this land." He tipped his hat slightly, just enough to show respect, but not enough to look like a common bootlicker.
The nobleman raised a brow."You're not from around here."
"That obvious?" Johnny smirked.
The noble chuckled. "Dressed like that? Carrying strange staffs on your backs? Yes, it's quite obvious." He crossed his arms, studying them like they were some rare animals brought in from across the world.
"And you are?" Johnny asked.
The noble tilted his head slightly. "Ser Horas Redwyne."
Johnny forced himself not to react.A Redwyne. One of the ruling family of the Arbor. That meant this man was powerful.
"Captain Jean-Baptiste Beaumont, at your service," Johnny said smoothly. "My friends and I are travelers from a distant land, come seeking knowledge and… perhaps a fine drink or two."
Horas gave a small smirk. "Then you've come to the right place. The Arbor produces the finest wine in the world."
Johnny clasped his hands together."Then my prayers have been answered."
Horas narrowed his eyes slightly. "But tell me, Captain Beaumont, what exactly brings a group of armed foreigners to my town?"
Johnny felt his men shifting behind him. The guards at the gate had let them through, but now they were under the gaze of a nobleman who was clearly no fool.
Johnny did what he did best.
He lied.
"Exploration, Ser Horas!" he said cheerfully. "We come from far to the west, past the seas, from a land unknown to these shores. We seek trade, knowledge, and perhaps—if the stars allow—fortune."
Horas watched him for a long moment.
Then, to Johnny's relief, the nobleman smirked.
"Trade and fortune, you say?" Horas took a step closer, hands clasped behind his back. "I do believe I like the sound of that. But you see, Captain, I have a rule: I don't deal with men I don't know. And I don't drink with men I don't trust."
Johnny's grin widened.
"Then let's fix that, shall we?"
Johnny could feel the weight of Ser Horas Redwyne's gaze, sharp and calculating, like a man inspecting a fine vintage for flaws.
The nobleman's smirk lingered, but there was something else behind it now—curiosity, suspicion.
Johnny had seen that look before. It was the look of a man who had already decided he liked you but didn't trust you.
And that? That was dangerous.
"Tell me, Captain Beaumont," Horas said, his voice smooth as aged wine, "why do all of your men wear blue? Is it some sort of uniform?"
Johnny kept his expression easy, light, but his mind raced.
Uniforms meant organization. Organization meant an army. And an army—one that appeared out of nowhere with weapons no one had seen before—would be seen as a threat.
"Ah, blue! Yes!" Johnny clapped his hands together, flashing his most charming grin. "A most excellent color, don't you think? It represents… unity. Brotherhood. The sky above us, the ocean that connects all lands."
Horas raised an eyebrow. "So, you are soldiers."
Damn it.
Johnny kept smiling. "Travelers, first and foremost. But, well, the world is dangerous, my lord. One must know how to defend himself."
Horas stroked his beard, clearly not convinced. "And yet, you travel so far and speak our tongue fluently. You must have been prepared for Westeros."
Johnny chuckled, but inside, he was on high alert.
Before he could change the subject, another Redwyne spoke up.
This one was younger, perhaps no older than his late twenties, with the same auburn hair and green eyes but a colder expression. His gaze landed on Johnny's saber—polished, deadly, a symbol of a different world.
"That's an odd blade," the younger Redwyne muttered. "Not like any I've seen before."
Johnny glanced down at his saber, its brass hilt catching the light, then back up.
"A gift," he said smoothly. "From an old friend."
"A thin blade like that wouldn't hold up in battle," the young noble scoffed. "Not against steel plate."
Johnny tilted his head. "Oh? And have you tested that theory?"
The young Redwyne bristled, but before he could answer, Horas chuckled.
"Easy, Hobber," he said, waving a hand at his younger relative. "Let's not insult our guests before they've even had a drink."
Johnny filed the name away. Paxter Redwyne. Likely the heir. More pride than wisdom, by the looks of him.
Still, the tension remained. The noblemen had questions, and Johnny had very few answers he could actually give.
"If we are to drink, then let us drink!" Johnny declared, spreading his arms wide. "I have heard legends of Arbor wine, and I would be a fool to leave without tasting it."
Horas smirked. "Very well, Captain. Let us drink. But I do hope you'll be honest with me before the night is over."
Johnny grinned.
"Honesty is a matter of perspective, my lord. But wine? That's something we can all agree on."
But as they followed the Redwynes toward a fine estate in the heart of Vinetown, Johnny's instincts screamed at him.
This was more than just a meeting.
It was a test.
Johnny leaned back in his chair, twirling the stem of his goblet between his fingers. The wine was perfection, the company? A little less so.
Ser Horas Redwyne studied him with amusement, while Paxter remained tense, eyes never leaving Johnny's uniform. The rest of the hall had settled into a quiet hum of clinking goblets and hushed conversations.
"You've flattered our wine well enough, Captain," Horas said, setting his goblet down. "But every man comes to a lord's table with a purpose. Tell me—what is yours?"
Johnny feigned a thoughtful expression, as if he hadn't planned this conversation the moment he stepped into the keep. He met Horas' gaze and smiled.
"Well, my lord, since you ask so kindly, I'd be a fool not to take advantage of your generosity." He leaned forward. "A map. A proper one. Of this land, of its borders, its cities, its lords."
That got their attention.
Paxter exchanged a look with Horas, his fingers tapping the table. "A map? You mean to explore?"
Johnny shrugged. "A man in a foreign land should know where he stands, don't you think?"
Horas chuckled. "And you also wish to know our lords, I assume? That is a much more delicate request."
Johnny grinned. "Oh, I assure you, my lord, I am very delicate."
Horas smirked, but there was calculation in his eyes. "You ask for much, Captain. But I suppose, if you are to truly appreciate the wine of the Arbor, you should understand the land it comes from."
He gestured, and a servant stepped forward, unrolling a detailed map of the Reach. It was hand-drawn, inked with fine precision, showing the rolling hills, sprawling vineyards, and fertile lands of the Tyrells.
Johnny whistled. "Now that is a fine piece of work."
"The Reach, the fairest and most bountiful land in Westeros, belongs to House Tyrell," Horas explained. "We are their bannermen, sworn to Highgarden. Lord Mace Tyrell commands the greatest armies in the realm and serves King Joffrey Baratheon in King's Landing."
Johnny nodded, absorbing the information. So these Tyrells were the power here, but they answered to a king.
Paxter crossed his arms. "You come at a time of war, Captain. I wonder if you even know what land you've stumbled into."
Johnny tilted his head. "I know there's a war, but I don't know the full story. Enlighten me."
Horas sighed. "A most tedious affair, really. The North has risen in rebellion. Some boy king, Robb Stark, has won battle after battle, and the Lannisters can't seem to put him down."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "A boy king, winning battles? Must be some boy."
"A wolf pup, raised in war," Paxter muttered. "He captured Jaime Lannister, but the Kingslayer has escaped. No one knows where he is now."
Johnny filed that away. So there was a war, and the side that was supposed to win was struggling. That was always useful information.
Horas refilled his goblet. "The war is at its peak. The North remains undefeated, the Riverlands burn, the Greyjoys raid the western shores, and King Stannis and King Renly fight over the throne."
Johnny took a sip of wine, hiding his smirk.King Stannis, King Renly, King Joffrey, King Robb. It seemed Westeros had no shortage of people fighting over chairs.
"Sounds like a right mess," he said, setting his goblet down. "But I suppose a man like me should tread carefully."
"Indeed," Horas said. Then he leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Now, Captain, I've been very patient. I have answered your questions. Now, you will answer mine."
Johnny's smile never wavered, but he knew this moment was coming.
"I am an open book, my lord. Ask away."
Horas tapped a finger against his goblet. "You wear blue coats, carry weapons no one has seen before, and speak our tongue without flaw. And yet, you claim to come from a land no man has heard of."
Johnny shrugged. "The world is a large place. Maybe your maps aren't big enough."
Paxter scowled. "Tell us plainly. Where do you come from?"
Johnny took a long, slow sip of wine, thinking. He could spin a thousand lies, but the best lies were always rooted in truth.
He set his goblet down and sighed.
"From across the farthest seas, beyond where your ships have ever sailed. My people are travelers, warriors, merchants. We have seen many lands, fought many wars, and learned many tongues. But never have we seen a place like this."
He spread his hands. "This land, Westeros… it is something out of a tale. A place of lords and knights, of swords and castles, of kings who fight over thrones. In our land, things are... different."
Horas watched him, expression unreadable. "Different how?"
Johnny smirked. "That, my lord, is a conversation for another night."
Horas chuckled, but Paxter was still unconvinced.
Still, the tension in the room eased, if only slightly.
"Then let us drink, Captain, and perhaps in time, we will come to understand one another."
Johnny lifted his goblet.
"To understanding. And to fine wine."
But as he drank, he knew one thing for certain—House Redwyne might have played along tonight, but they would be watching him closely from now on.