__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The air hung thick with the scent of crushed roses.
Napoleon's boots struck against the cobbled streets of Highgarden as he rode at the head of his men — a column of blue-coated infantry, their muskets slung over shoulders, uniforms tattered but proud. Their voices filled the city like rolling thunder.
"La victoire est à nous! La victoire est à nous!"
Victory is ours.
The chant echoed through the ancient walls — drowning out the distant sobs of women behind shuttered windows and the low murmur of frightened prayers. Children clung to their mothers in doorways, wide-eyed as the soldiers marched by. Old men watched in silence, caps clutched tightly in their hands.
Napoleon's cold blue eyes swept across them — reading the faces, weighing every glance of fear or hatred.
They had seen conquerors before.
The Reach had bent the knee to kings for centuries — to Gardener kings, to Targaryens, to the Baratheons and Lannisters. But none like him.
He knew how they looked at him.
The Corsican Ogre.
The Usurper from Beyond the Narrow Sea.
The man who had swept through the Arbor, Oldtown, Horn Hill, and now Highgarden — undefeated.
His gaze flicked over the gathered crowd, his mind already calculating. Fear... respect... admiration... hate...
All were weapons in the hands of the right man.
The column halted before the keep — a grand tower rising from the heart of Highgarden, ivy creeping up its pale stone walls. The gates stood wide open.
They had not been forced.
They had been offered.
Napoleon swung down from his horse, his boots crunching on the gravel. His greatcoat swept behind him as he mounted the stone steps, every movement measured, every gesture deliberate. Behind him, the officers followed — Beaumont, Duhesme, Pierre, their uniforms streaked with powder and sweat.
At the top of the stairs, a single figure awaited him.
The Maester of Highgarden was an old man — stooped, with thinning white hair and a heavy chain around his neck. His wrinkled hands trembled as he bent into a low bow.
"Welcome... Emperor."
The title rolled uneasily from his tongue, as if the word itself might choke him.
Napoleon's cold gaze fixed on him.
"Your name."
"Maester Lombert, your grace."
Napoleon stepped forward, towering over the old man. He said nothing at first — letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of his presence press down on the withered scholar.
Finally, he spoke.
"Do you serve the Reach... or me?"
Lombert's throat bobbed. His eyes flicked to the French soldiers — to the tricolors unfurled above the towers.
"I... serve knowledge... and knowledge serves whoever holds power."
Napoleon's lips curled ever so slightly.
"A wise answer."
The old man bowed lower.
"I am at your service, Emperor."
The halls of Highgarden's keep smelled of dust and old parchment. Napoleon's boots echoed through the corridors as Lombert led him through the administrative chambers — rooms where scrolls and ledgers had once dictated the wealth of the Reach.
Every room had been emptied.
The Tyrells had taken what they could when they fled. The golden coffers of Highgarden were half-empty, the vaults stripped of coin. Only books remained — and knowledge.
Napoleon's fingers traced the spines of leather-bound tomes as he passed, his mind already sorting through what might be useful.
When they reached the council chamber, Napoleon seated himself at the head of the long oaken table.
The Tyrell lords were gone.
The Reach's banners were gone.
Only the tricolor remained — unfurled behind him like the shadow of a new world.
The officers gathered around the table, faces grim beneath the flickering candlelight. Maps were unfurled, reports laid out before him — grain stores, tax ledgers, garrison numbers.
Napoleon's sharp blue eyes swept across them — memorizing every figure, every name.
Beaumont stood at his right hand, silent and brooding. His eyes flicked toward the empty chairs where the Tyrell lords had once sat.
"They ran like dogs."
Napoleon's gaze remained fixed on the maps.
"No." His voice was soft, but certain. "They did what cunning men do when they see the tide turning... they bent the knee to power. First to the Lannisters... now to us."
He tapped a finger against the parchment.
"They will come back... when the time is right."
He could feel the weight of their eyes on him — his officers, waiting for orders.
In the silence, the faint chant of the soldiers still echoed through the windows.
La victoire est à nous... la victoire est à nous...
Napoleon leaned forward, his voice cold and precise.
"The conquest is over. Now begins the rule."
His mind was already moving ahead — weeks, months, years into the future.
Highgarden would be the breadbasket of his empire. Its grain would feed his armies, its wealth would fill his coffers.
But it was not enough to take a kingdom.
It must be remade.
He turned to Maester Lombert.
"You will draft new laws... under my dictation."
Lombert blinked, startled. "What... laws, Emperor?"
Napoleon's cold blue gaze fixed on him.
"The Napoleonic Code."
He could see the confusion flicker in their eyes — the officers, the maester, even Beaumont.
None of them understood.
Not yet.
But they would.
The old gods of Westeros were crumbling.
He would build something new.
Justice — not by blood, but by law.
Titles stripped away. Power given to men by merit.
In the old world, the Tyrells had ruled because their name was old and their coffers full.
In Napoleon's world, they would serve — or be forgotten.
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands before him.
"Begin the proclamations. All men equal before the law. The land redistributed. The guilds abolished. The Reach will learn what it means to be free."
A long silence filled the chamber.
Even his own officers shifted uneasily.
But Napoleon's cold blue gaze never wavered.
"The roses have wilted."
He glanced toward the windows — toward the distant spires of Highgarden rising against the twilight.
"Now the iron blooms."
Outside, the soldiers' chant rose louder.
"La victoire est à nous... la victoire est à nous..."
Napoleon sat beneath the tricolor banner, his mind already shaping the world to come.
The Emperor of the Reach.
The Usurper from Beyond the Narrow Sea.
The Conqueror.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Weeks had passed since the banners of the Tyrells were cast down from the golden towers of Highgarden. The once-proud seat of House Tyrell — the beating heart of the Reach — now served as the capital of Napoleon's new empire.
Where silk-clad lords once strolled through marbled halls whispering of courtly intrigue, now the hurried steps of clerks echoed through corridors stacked high with ledgers, decrees, and laws.
Napoleon stood at the central chamber, where the Lords of the Reach had once gathered to petition their liege. Now, it had become a place of reason, not privilege. The heavy scent of old parchment lingered, mingling with fresh ink and the sweat of labor.
Outside the stained glass windows, the great gardens of Highgarden bloomed — yet the streets beyond had transformed. The merchants and smallfolk bustled in the markets, murmuring in the tongue of the Arbor and the Reach. For the first time in centuries, the people had begun to look to the castle not as a distant master... but as the heart of the law.
Napoleon sat at the raised seat — not a throne — dressed in his simple gray greatcoat, his bicorne hat resting on the table before him. No silk, no gold. He was a soldier first.
Before him stood a line of petitioners — men and women alike. Not only the highborn, but commoners — tenant farmers, merchants, and laborers. It was the first time many of them had ever set foot inside the keep.
"The next case," Napoleon ordered.
A clerk unrolled a parchment.
"Bran Mullendore, butcher of Brightwater, seeks compensation for the loss of his livestock during the recent fighting."
A man stepped forward — gaunt, his hands stained red with years of work. His eyes flicked nervously between the French officers lining the chamber walls.
Napoleon leaned forward, clasping his hands.
"You say the soldiers took your cattle?"
"Aye... both Reachmen and yours, Sire."
Napoleon's blue eyes narrowed.
"How many?"
"Seven cows, Sire... and my bull."
Napoleon glanced toward the clerk.
"What is the price of a cow in the Reach?"
"Ten silver stags, Sire."
Napoleon's mind worked quickly, calculating. The man had lost nearly a year's labor.
"In the Napoleonic Code, all property is protected — no matter the rank of the owner." His voice echoed through the chamber.
"Your loss will be repaid. You will be given seventy-five silver stags from the coffers of Highgarden... and the men who took them — no matter whose banner they wore — will face punishment if found."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
It was not the decision that shocked them — but the principle behind it.
In the old days, a butcher would have been lucky to receive a word of sympathy from a lord — if he was even heard at all.
Napoleon saw it in their eyes. They were beginning to understand.
"The law does not belong to lords," Napoleon declared, his voice hard. "It belongs to all men."
One by one, the cases passed — land disputes, thefts, debts. Every judgment was measured, written down, bound into the growing ledgers of the Napoleonic Code of the Reach.
He would not rule by sword alone.
He would rule by law.
The Reach Reformed
The weeks wore on, and Highgarden began to change.
The old tithes to the Faith were abolished — no longer would the Septon demand one-tenth of every harvest from the smallfolk.
The corrupt tolls on the Mander River were stripped away — replaced by a single uniform tariff across all the Reach.
The lands seized by the Tyrells from smallholders during the wars were returned to the people — parcel by parcel, acre by acre.
In the great square of Highgarden, a new proclamation was nailed to the walls every week — the laws of the Napoleonic Code translated into the tongue of the Reach.
Article I: The Law is equal for all men — noble and common alike.
Article II: Property is sacred and inviolable.
Article III: No man shall be imprisoned without charge or trial.
Article IV: All men may worship freely — be it the Seven, the Old Gods, or the God of the Stranger.
The Reach had never seen its like before.
The merchants prospered — freed from the web of tolls and bribes that had choked their trade for centuries.
The smallfolk began to save what little they earned, knowing it could not be stolen by greedy septons or tax collectors.
Even the women of the Reach began to whisper of the new laws. Widows could inherit. Daughters could claim land.
March of the People
The greatest change came on the morning when Napoleon rode through Highgarden's streets with his officers at his side.
Behind him, the soldiers of France marched in their blue coats — muskets shouldered, bayonets fixed. Their chant echoed through the city:
"La Victoire est à Nous!"
Children clutched at their mothers' skirts as they watched the column pass. Merchants paused at their stalls.
Some gazed with silent hatred — but others... others watched with something close to awe.
They had heard the stories from Oldtown, from the Arbor.
The French were not like the knights of the Reach. They did not ride in gilded armor or feast in lordly halls.
They were soldiers — and they carried laws with their swords.
Napoleon saw their eyes.
They were not subjects.
They were citizens — though they did not know it yet.
A New Nobility
That night, Napoleon stood at the balcony of Highgarden's keep, overlooking the flickering lights of the town below.
Pierre and Duhesme stood beside him. Beaumont leaned silently against the balustrade, smoking a long clay pipe.
"They're adjusting faster than the Arbor did," Pierre observed.
"They have nothing to lose," Duhesme muttered.
Napoleon's eyes remained fixed on the distant lights.
"No."
He turned, his voice quiet.
"They have everything to gain."
He glanced down at the half-written pages of the Napoleonic Code resting on the table beside him — the pages that would soon govern all the Reach.
The old nobility was crumbling.
But a new nobility would rise — not of blood, but of merit.
A merchant who grew rich through labor would stand higher than any lord.
A soldier who fought bravely would wear medals, not banners.
A scholar who knew the law would rise higher than any maester.
The Reach would become the heart of the new world.
Napoleon turned back to the window, watching the lights flicker in the night.
Tomorrow, they would march north.
Tomorrow, they would tear down the last remnants of the old world.
But tonight, the Emperor of the Reach watched his empire being born.
The old world had died beneath the walls of Highgarden.
And in its place, something new was rising.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Napoleon had given the order himself.
"Return to the Arbor, Beaumont. Inspect the situation there — and see to the defenses. The Reach will not stay quiet forever."
But the Emperor's piercing eyes had softened just a little before he added,
"Take time to rest. You've earned it."
The sun hung low as the ship cut through the shimmering waters of Vinetown's bay. Golden light painted the whitewashed walls and red roofs of the town, casting long shadows across the vineyards that stretched inland. The warm air carried the scent of ripening grapes and salt—a familiar blend that stirred something deep within Johnny's chest.
Home.
Yet the word tasted strange on his tongue.
He leaned against the ship's railing, his gloved fingers drumming against the worn wood. The town had changed. French banners hung from the watchtowers, the blue and gold of Napoleon's standard rippling beside the grapevine sigil of House Redwyne. Soldiers patrolled the docks—his soldiers. Their polished bayonets caught the last light of the sun as they moved through the streets.
It was his victory.
Yet none of it set his heart pounding like the thought of her.
He hadn't sent word.
The thought gnawed at him the entire voyage—whether Desmera would still be waiting, or if the months had hardened her heart.
A man like him—half-drunk on war, living from one battlefield to the next—did not deserve to be waited for. He had chased death across half the Reach, but this...
This felt more terrifying than any musket volley.
The horse beneath him shifted as he rode through Vinetown's streets, ears flicking at the murmur of smallfolk gathering at the edges of the road. They watched him pass—blue-coated Frenchmen riding at his back—but their eyes lingered on him.
The wolf of the Arbor.
He had earned the name on blood-soaked fields, but now it hung heavy on his shoulders. They whispered it like a curse.
He barely heard them.
His heart was hammering too loud in his ears.
The Redwyne estate lay beyond the vineyards, hidden behind rows of olive trees and stone walls. The scent of crushed lavender clung to the air as the sun dipped behind the hills.
Johnny rode alone through the gates, leaving the escort behind.
The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he dismounted, his breath quickening with every step toward the courtyard.
He stopped at the fountain.
She was there.
Desmera stood beneath the olive tree, half-hidden in the shade.
Her hair was veiled beneath a linen shawl, but even from a distance, he could see how it curled loose around her neck. The late sun caught the curve of her face—the proud arch of her brow, the soft line of her mouth.
For a moment, Johnny couldn't move.
Then he saw it.
The swell beneath her dress.
His heart stumbled.
His throat clenched as he took a step forward, boots scraping against the gravel. Desmera's head snapped toward him, eyes flicking through the shadows—wide, uncertain.
Her breath caught.
He saw the tremor in her fingers as they rested on her belly.
Johnny's heart pounded beneath his coat, each step drawing him closer. The whole world seemed to narrow to the space between them—the rustle of olive leaves, the distant murmur of the sea.
He stopped a breath away.
Neither of them spoke.
Her eyes—those deep, sharp brown eyes—locked onto his face, searching him as if afraid he'd vanish like smoke.
"You came back," she whispered, the words barely more than a breath.
Johnny's throat worked.
"I always come back."
Desmera's eyes flicked downward—toward his gloved hands, still stained from war—then to the roundness beneath her gown.
A life growing beneath her heart.
His life.
God above...
He had seen men torn apart by grapeshot. Held brothers dying in his arms. But nothing had ever struck him so deep—so raw—as the sight of her standing there, carrying him beneath her heart.
"You left me," she said quietly.
Johnny's chest ached.
"I know."
Her hands curled protectively around her belly.
"You only ever wanted one night."
Johnny's breath caught.
He had—once. But now...
He dropped to his knees before her without thinking, his hands trembling as they reached out—hovering just above her stomach. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that if he did, she might shatter like glass.
Desmera's lips parted, her breath catching as his fingers brushed against the curve of her belly—warm and soft beneath the linen.
A faint flutter stirred beneath his touch.
His heart stopped.
"Mon Dieu..."
The words broke from him in a hoarse whisper.
Desmera's hand found its way into his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
"You didn't ask for this," she murmured.
Johnny pressed his forehead against her stomach, his breath hot against the linen.
"I don't deserve this."
Her fingers tightened.
"No... you don't."
He looked up—his blue eyes locking onto hers.
"But I want it. I want you."
Desmera's breath hitched.
"You only say that because you're here now."
Johnny rose slowly, his hands sliding up to cradle her face—scarred palms brushing against soft skin.
"I say it because every night on the march... I prayed for one more chance to tell you."
Desmera's dark lashes flicked low, her breath hot against his lips.
"You prayed?"
Johnny's mouth quirked in a crooked smile.
"The Emperor makes a Catholic out of all of us sooner or later."
Her laugh broke—soft, breathless.
He caught her lips in a slow, aching kiss. She melted against him, fingers curling into his coat—holding him as if afraid he might disappear again.
When they broke apart, their foreheads rested together.
"You came back," she whispered again.
Johnny's voice was hoarse.
"I came back to marry you."
Desmera's breath caught—her brown eyes wide and searching.
"You mean it?"
He nodded, his thumb brushing across her cheek.
"Not because of the babe. Not because of duty. Because you're the only thing that's ever made me want to stay."
The next morning, they wed beneath the olive trees.
The Septon bound their hands with green ribbons before the eyes of the Seven. A French chaplain whispered blessings in the Emperor's tongue, pressing a small iron crucifix into Johnny's palm.
Desmera wore white—simple and unadorned—her hair crowned with olive leaves.
Johnny stood in his blue French coat, sword at his side.
When they kissed, the smallfolk scattered lavender beneath their feet.
Frenchmen and Arborfolk alike gathered in the vineyards, watching as two worlds bound themselves together beneath the summer sun.
That night, Johnny lay beside her beneath warm linen sheets—one hand resting on the swell of her belly, feeling the faint flutter of life beneath his palm.
His son.
His daughter.
His future.
"What will we name him?" Desmera murmured in the dark.
Johnny's fingers traced soft circles across her stomach.
"Jean... if it's a boy."
"And if it's a girl?"
He grinned into her hair.
"Jeanne."
Desmera's soft laugh bloomed against his chest, curling warm against his heart.
"You mad, beautiful Frenchman..."
Johnny only smiled—pressing a kiss into her hair.
He had chased death across the Reach...
And found life waiting for him in her arms.
Outside the window, the banners of France and the Arbor hung side by side—whispering of old worlds and new beginnings.
The wars would rage on.
But tonight...
The Arbor belonged to love.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Robb Stark
King of the North
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Robb Stark stood in the dimly lit solar of Riverrun, the weight of command pressing heavily on his young shoulders. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, mirroring the turmoil within his mind. A raven had arrived bearing a message sealed with an unfamiliar sigil: a tricolor flag of blue, white, and red.
Breaking the seal, Robb unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the precise, foreign script.
To Robb Stark, King in the North,
I am no king. Thrones are the ornaments of idle men. I am but a soldier—and the laws I bring are the fruit of battles won, not bloodlines traced.
If you would know more, send your men to Oldtown. They will find the Napoleonic Code written there—for all men to read.
Justice is not a gift. It is a burden—heavy, and often cruel. I seek not to make men equal, but to give them the same chains. If you would break the old world, then break it utterly—or not at all.
I await your answer.
Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the Reach
Robb's brow furrowed as he absorbed the words. This Napoleon had carved a realm in the south, challenging the established order with his own code of laws. The audacity intrigued him.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," Robb called.
The door creaked open, revealing his mother, Catelyn Stark.
"Robb, you've been here for hours. What troubles you?"
He handed her the letter. As she read, he watched the flicker of emotions cross her face—curiosity, concern, contemplation.
"This... Emperor," she began, choosing her words carefully, "he replied to my message. Will he propose an alliance?"
"Maybe, Of sorts," Robb replied. "He speaks of justice and a new order. It's unconventional."
Catelyn's eyes met her son's, the weight of their shared burdens evident. "What do you intend to do?"
Robb took a deep breath, the decision crystallizing in his mind.
"I will invite him here, to Riverrun. We need allies, and understanding his intentions firsthand is crucial."
Catelyn nodded, though worry etched her features. "Be cautious, Robb. The south is rife with intrigue."
He offered a reassuring smile. "I will, Mother."
As she left, Robb sat at the desk, quill in hand, and began to draft his response:
To Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the Reach,
Your words have reached me in the heart of the Riverlands. The North has always valued justice and honor, and your vision intrigues me. I propose a meeting, here at Riverrun, to discuss our shared interests and the possibility of alliance.
Additionally, I extend an invitation to you to attend my wedding at The Twins. In these times of war, such unions are rare beacons of hope. Your presence would be both an honor and a testament to the potential of our collaboration.
I await your reply.
Robb Stark, King in the North
Sealing the letter, Robb handed it to a trusted courier.
"Ensure this reaches the Emperor of the Reach with all haste."
As the messenger departed, Robb gazed out the window, the moon casting a silvery glow over the tranquil waters of the Trident. The path ahead was uncertain, but with allies—new and old—there remained hope for the North.
In the days that followed, preparations for the wedding continued amidst the backdrop of war. Robb's thoughts often drifted to the enigmatic ruler in the south, wondering what their meeting might bring.
As the sun set on the eve of his wedding, a raven returned with a sealed parchment bearing the now-familiar tricolor sigil. Breaking the seal, Robb read:
To Robb Stark, King in the North,
I accept your invitation. Expect my arrival before the vows are spoken.
Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the Reach
A sense of anticipation mingled with the pre-wedding jitters. The convergence of paths—both personal and political—promised to shape the future of the North and beyond.
As dawn broke, casting a golden hue over Riverrun, Robb donned his ceremonial attire, ready to face the day that would unite him with his bride and potentially forge a pivotal alliance.
The great hall buzzed with activity, banners of House Stark and their allies adorning the walls. Guests filled the space, their murmurs creating a symphony of anticipation.
Standing at the altar, Robb's heart raced—not from the impending vows, but from the sight of a figure entering the hall. Clad in distinctive attire, with an air of authority, Napoleon Bonaparte had arrived.
Their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment passing between two leaders poised on the brink of history.
As the ceremony commenced, Robb couldn't help but feel that this day marked not just the union of two hearts, but the dawn of a new era for the North.
The soft glow of the evening sun bled through the high windows of Riverrun's solar, casting long streaks of amber across the stone floor. Robb Stark stood by the hearth, his fingers lightly tracing the map of Westeros spread across the oak table. His mind was restless, the weight of letters and rumors pressing down on him like a cloak of iron.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
"Robb?"
Talisa Maegyr's voice was soft—her accent still foreign in these halls, yet soothing in its warmth. She carried a tray of fresh linen and salves, remnants of her care for the wounded. Her dark hair was braided down one shoulder, framing the delicate curve of her neck.
Robb turned, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at the sight of her. He managed a small smile.
"You've been tending to the men again."
"They need care," she replied simply, setting the tray down. "And so does their king."
Robb's smile flickered at the word—king—as if it still fit awkwardly upon him. He crossed the room, his hand brushing against hers as she reached for the bandages.
"I'm not sure what kind of king I am," he admitted. "Not when my enemies sit behind stone walls and ravens bring news of victories that aren't mine."
Talisa glanced at the scattered maps, the unopened letters. She stepped closer, her hands brushing along his arms.
"You fight for your people, not for glory. That's the kind of king they need."
Robb's gaze lingered on her, the ache in his chest easing—but only slightly. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. For a moment, the world outside the solar—the war, the bloodshed—seemed to fade.
Yet the weight returned as his eyes flicked to the letter still resting on the table—the tricolor seal of Napoleon's reply, opened and read a dozen times.
"You've heard of him, haven't you?" Robb asked softly. "Napoleon Bonaparte."
Talisa's brow furrowed. "Only rumors. They speak of him across the Free Cities—a conqueror, they call him. A man who breaks kingdoms and builds them anew."
Robb's fingers drummed against the table. His blue eyes flicked between the map of the Reach and the letter.
"He has taken Oldtown, the Arbor, and Highgarden in less than a year... without a single siege dragging on for months. They say he rewrites laws wherever he goes, tears down old houses... even the Citadel bends the knee." His voice trailed off, half in disbelief. "And he offers me a meeting, as if we're equals."
Talisa studied him quietly, then moved closer.
"Perhaps he does not seek equals," she said. "Perhaps he seeks those who would listen."
Robb's brows knitted. The thought was unsettling—how this foreign conqueror could turn the order of Westeros on its head without claiming crowns or bloodlines. The Southron lords had always spoken of duty to family and name—yet Napoleon marched with muskets and laws, not banners and birthrights.
Robb traced his finger across the Reach on the map, the borders of Napoleon's domain stretching wider by the month.
"What kind of man builds kingdoms from nothing?" Robb murmured.
"A man who has seen the old ways break," Talisa said softly.
Robb's hand froze. The words echoed something within him—something he could not quite grasp.
He glanced at her, seeing the sharpness in her eyes. She had seen it too—the rot in the old world. The lords clinging to titles while the common folk bled beneath their banners.
He straightened, his jaw setting.
"I must meet him."
Talisa's breath caught. "You trust him?"
"No," Robb said. "But if half of what I've heard is true... he might be the only man in Westeros who hates the old ways as much as I do."
The next morning, the solar filled with the murmur of voices.
Robb stood at the head of the table, flanked by his bannermen—Edmure Tully, Galbart Glover, and Brynden Tully—the Blackfish. Maps and dispatches cluttered the table, alongside Napoleon's letter, folded and sealed once more.
The air was tense, the men eyeing the foreign sigil as if it might rise and strike at any moment.
"So, the Emperor of the Reach wishes to parley," the Blackfish grunted, arms crossed over his chest. His weathered face was skeptical. "What's the Reach to us?"
Robb leaned forward, palms flat against the table.
"It's not just the Reach. He's offered reforms—laws that protect the smallfolk... courts that judge highborn and commoner alike. His armies fight with discipline—no pillaging, no sacking. He's changed everything from Oldtown to Highgarden in months. And he did it without being born to power."
Glover snorted. "No man rules without blood on his hands. Even this one."
Robb's gaze hardened. "Aye, he spilled blood. But he's building something new, while the rest of us are still clinging to the ruins of the old world."
There was a silence. The candlelight flickered across tired, weathered faces. None could deny how the war had dragged them all down—years of slaughter with nothing gained.
"And what would he want from the North?" Edmure asked carefully.
Robb's fingers tightened on the map.
"An ally, perhaps... or simply a man who would listen."
He glanced around the table, reading the doubt in their eyes.
"I'll ride to meet him myself," Robb declared. "With Talisa at my side."
The Blackfish stiffened. "That's madness. You're risking your own head for a parley with a foreign conqueror?"
Robb's gaze was steady.
"I'm risking it for something better. The North bleeds while the South squabbles for crowns. If there's a man breaking the old world... I want to know if he's worth following."
That night, as the fires burned low in the hearth, Robb sat alone by the window. Talisa rested in bed, her dark hair splayed across the pillows.
The distant howl of wolves echoed through the riverlands.
Robb's eyes drifted back to the letter on the table.
Break the old world... or not at all.
He wondered if this Napoleon had written those words for him alone.