__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
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Napoleon stood at the window of his temporary quarters within the Twins, the ancestral seat of House Frey. The Riverlands stretched out before him, a tapestry of winding rivers and dense forests, now tinged with the hues of early autumn. The air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.
A sharp rap at the door pulled him from his reverie. Turning, he saw one of his aides enter, a sealed parchment in hand.
"A raven has arrived, sire. From Henri in King's Landing."
Napoleon took the missive, breaking the seal with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the elegant script, absorbing the contents swiftly. A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Emperor,
The press is operational. Our first pamphlets will be in circulation within the fortnight. The city stirs, whispers traveling faster than the gold cloaks can silence them. There is hunger, both in bellies and in hearts.
I have made connection to Lady Sansa Stark. She trusts me, though not completely. She is clever, but lonely. Her misery makes her easy to reach… easier still to guide. I will continue to draw information from her without suspicion.
King's Landing prepares for the marriage of King Joffrey and Lady Margaery Tyrell. The celebration will bring the high lords into one place— ripe for opportunity, though not without danger. I have already eliminated a few tongues that threatened to speak too freely of my presence. Their silence was regrettable, but necessary.
Awaiting further orders.
—Henri Moreau
Napoleon's fingers traced the edge of the letter, a flicker of satisfaction curling through him.
Henri, mon garçon… you are proving yourself, piece by piece.
The boy was moving faster than expected — a whisper in the shadows of the Red Keep. The connection to Sansa was a fortunate stroke, one that could yield valuable secrets if played carefully. The girl had the blood of wolves but the heart of a bird — caged, frightened… and desperate for a friendly hand.
Henri knew how to be gentle. How to make someone trust him.
Napoleon smiled faintly, folding the letter.
The marriage would be the key. The great houses gathering in one place — Tyrell, Lannister, Martell, and the remnants of Baratheon — all under one roof. A crack waiting to split if pressed just right.
He crossed the room to the table, dipping his quill into the inkwell. His hand moved in sharp, decisive strokes.
Henri,
Continue with the girl. Earn her trust, but do not waste it. If she whispers secrets, carry them straight to me. Watch Littlefinger — he circles her like a vulture. Do not let him have her.
The marriage will be our window. Listen for what the Tyrells plan — the Reach is strong, but their loyalties are not yet sworn. If an accident should befall King Joffrey during the feast…
Napoleon paused, the quill hovering.
…so be it.
He sealed the letter with black wax, the imperial eagle pressed deep into the warm pool.
The old world was crumbling, stone by stone. Soon, there would be room to build something new.
All he needed were men like Henri to pry open the cracks.
Napoleon stood in the dimly lit hall of the Twins, the ancient stronghold of House Frey. The air was thick with the scent of burning logs and the murmur of hushed conversations. Before him sat Robb Stark, the King in the North, flanked by his mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, and a retinue of bannermen whose stern faces bore the weight of recent hardships.
Robb's voice broke the silence, edged with frustration. "Jaime Lannister has escaped our custody. Without him, we have no leverage to exchange for my sister Sansa, still held captive in King's Landing."
Napoleon's gaze remained steady. "Your Grace, my agents within King's Landing are well-placed. Retrieving Lady Sansa is within our capabilities."
Lady Catelyn leaned forward, hope flickering in her eyes. "You can bring my daughter back to us?"
He nodded. "Indeed. However, such an endeavor requires mutual commitment."
Robb's brow furrowed. "What is it you propose, Emperor?"
Napoleon clasped his hands behind his back. "Recognize me as the Emperor of Westeros. In return, you shall remain King in the North, governing under a constitution that upholds the Napoleonic Code—a legal framework that ensures civil liberties and equality before the law."
Murmurs rippled through the Northern lords. Lady Catelyn's eyes narrowed with cautious consideration. Robb's voice was measured. "You ask us to accept foreign laws and acknowledge your dominion, yet promise autonomy. How does this benefit the North?"
Napoleon met his gaze. "The Napoleonic Code has unified diverse lands under principles of justice and order. By adopting it, the North would strengthen its governance and stand resilient against external threats."
A tall bannerman with graying hair spoke up. "And what of Winterfell, taken by the Greyjoys?"
Napoleon's expression hardened. "We shall reclaim Winterfell, expelling the Greyjoy usurpers. Subsequently, we will advance upon the Lannisters, seizing King's Landing and the Westerlands."
Lady Catelyn's voice was soft but firm. "Many have sought to conquer King's Landing and failed. What makes you certain of success?"
A faint smile touched Napoleon's lips. "Strategic brilliance and unwavering resolve have led me to triumph in numerous campaigns. With the North's strength and my leadership, victory is within our grasp."
The hall fell into contemplative silence. Robb exchanged a glance with his mother, then turned back to Napoleon. "We shall consider your proposal, Emperor. But know this: the North's loyalty is earned, not demanded."
Napoleon inclined his head. "I expect nothing less, Your Grace."
As the meeting adjourned, Napoleon felt the weight of the moment. The North's alliance was crucial for his vision of a unified Westeros under enlightened rule. The game was in motion, and every move counted.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Wedding Undergoes.
The air in the grand hall of the Twins hung heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spilled wine. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, though there was something hollow in the sound. Napoleon sat beside Robb Stark at the high table, his dark eyes flicking over the gathered guests — Frey men filling their cups, the Greatjon roaring with drunken cheer, Lady Catelyn stiff in her seat, eyes darting across the room.
Napoleon's hand rested lightly on the gilded hilt of his sword. His goblet sat untouched before him. The warm glow of the torches could not dispel the chill knotting in his gut.
He glanced toward Robb, the Young Wolf, dressed in the red and grey of House Stark — a crown on his brow, but still a boy behind those tired blue eyes.
"You have loyal men, Your Grace," Napoleon murmured in the Northern tongue. "But this hall is crowded with too many smiling enemies."
Robb's brow furrowed. He leaned in slightly. "Walder Frey is a bitter old man, but he would not dare—"
The music shifted.
Napoleon's breath caught.
The first low notes of The Rains of Castamere spilled into the hall — slow, haunting, each chord like a funeral bell.
Napoleon's hand curled tighter around his sword hilt.
He had heard this song before — a dirge for crushed houses. He glanced toward the galleries above — where Frey men now lined the balconies. Armed men.
Too many.
His heart quickened.
Robb frowned, glancing up at the musicians. "Why are they playing—?"
The doors slammed shut.
Napoleon rose sharply, the scrape of his chair lost in the sudden hush.
Lady Catelyn was faster — she pushed to her feet, her eyes fixed on Roose Bolton at the far table. Her face drained pale.
"The wine…" she whispered.
Roose met her gaze — cold, indifferent — and slid one hand to the chain of mail glinting beneath his cloak.
"Treachery!" Catelyn's voice split the air.
Everything happened at once.
Crossbows snapped from the balconies — quarrels hissing down into the crowd. The Greatjon roared, toppling from his seat with a bolt in his chest. Dacey Mormont fell screaming, blood blooming across her green gown.
Napoleon flipped the heavy wooden table, goblets and platters crashing to the floor. He crouched behind it, drawing his pistol in one swift motion.
Crack!
His first shot took a Frey man in the throat. The soldier pitched forward, clutching his neck.
Robb had his sword drawn, slashing wildly. "Mother!"
Catelyn dove behind the table beside them, her breath ragged, hair falling loose around her pale face.
"We're betrayed!" she gasped.
Bolts thudded into the overturned table, splintering the wood. Around the hall, the slaughter unfolded — Stark men cut down where they sat, knives flashing between ribs, blood pooling across the rushes.
Napoleon's mind worked faster than the panic.
They would all die if they stayed here.
"This way!" he barked, breaking from cover.
He fired again — the pistol's smoke billowing — then tossed the weapon to one of his men, drawing his sword instead.
Steel rang against steel. He moved like a shadow, every motion practiced, every thrust precise. A Frey soldier lunged with a spear — Napoleon sidestepped, slashing his throat in one fluid arc.
"We need the courtyard!" he snapped at Robb. "Your men will follow if they see you still stand."
Robb hesitated — torn between fight and flight — but a bolt buried itself into the table behind him, inches from his mother's head.
"Go, Robb!" Catelyn urged, voice breaking.
With a snarl, Robb followed.
Napoleon led the way, hacking through the press of bodies. His men — those few who had not been cut down in the first volley — fought in a tight knot around him.
Edwyn Frey blocked the door — sword drawn, mouth twisted in a cruel grin.
Napoleon shot forward.
Edwyn's blade darted — too slow.
Napoleon's sword plunged into his gut, driving deep to the hilt.
He wrenched it free without breaking stride.
They burst into the courtyard beneath the cold stars, breath steaming in the night air.
The massacre raged behind them — screams carrying on the wind.
Napoleon's gaze snapped to the stables.
"We ride!" he ordered.
Horses stamped and whinnied, startled by the bloodshed. Napoleon flung open the nearest stall, seizing the bridle of a black destrier.
Robb was close behind, dragging Catelyn into the saddle before mounting his own horse.
Napoleon's men gathered what survivors they could — less than twenty souls from three hundred guests.
More Freys spilled into the courtyard — torches in hand, blades bared.
"Go!" Napoleon roared.
He drew his pistol again — the last shot loaded in the barrel — and fired.
A Frey man crumpled.
Another lunged from the shadows — dagger raised.
Napoleon turned — too slow this time.
The blade flashed toward his throat.
His heart kicked.
Gunpowder smoke still clung to his fingers.
With a snarl, Napoleon swung the empty pistol like a club, cracking the butt across the man's temple. The Frey staggered, and Napoleon plunged his sword into his chest.
"You dog!" he hissed in French.
The man gurgled and collapsed.
Napoleon wiped his blade clean on the corpse's cloak.
He mounted his horse without another word.
They rode hard into the night — hooves pounding against cold earth, the fires of the Twins shrinking behind them.
No one spoke.
Robb rode at the head — blood on his face, his mother's arms wrapped tight around his waist.
Napoleon kept pace beside him, pistol still clenched in his hand.
He glanced once over his shoulder — back toward the towers — where Walder Frey's betrayal still played out beneath the flickering torches.
The King in the North had come to wed his uncle's daughter.
He left with his life and little else.
Napoleon turned back to the road ahead.
He could feel Robb's eyes flick toward him in the dark — the silent question hanging between them.
What now?
Napoleon's fingers tightened on the reins.
Now there would be no peace.
Now there would be war and Napoleon is mad.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The night stretched endless over the Riverlands, thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood. The fires of the Twins still flickered behind them, staining the sky red. Hooves splashed through the shallow waters of the Green Fork as what remained of the Northern host slipped away beneath the moon.
Napoleon rode at the head of the column, his face hard as carved stone beneath the brim of his bicorne hat. His green eyes burned beneath the shadows, fixed on the dark road ahead. The stink of slaughter clung to his coat, mingling with sweat and gunpowder. His blood still simmered beneath his skin — not with fear, but with cold, calculating rage.
The Freys would pay.
He glanced at Robb Stark, riding silent at his side — a king without a kingdom, stripped of banners and men. Grief weighed heavy on the boy's shoulders. The Greatjon, Dacey Mormont, Wendel Manderly… all dead. What little remained of the Northern host was scattered across the Riverlands, leaderless and broken.
A massacre.
Napoleon's hands curled around his reins, leather creaking beneath his grip. He had seen massacres before — at Acre, at Jaffa — but this… this was not war. This was treachery.
Robb's voice broke the silence, hoarse and low.
"I have nothing left." His blue eyes stayed fixed on the road, hollow with grief. "No army… no bannermen… not even Sansa to trade."
Napoleon's gaze flicked toward him, sharp as a dagger.
"You have your name," he said coldly. "And the North, if you are wise enough to keep it."
Robb's jaw clenched.
"And if I bend the knee to you… what would I be then?"
Napoleon leaned slightly in the saddle, his voice low.
"You would still be King in the North… but not as your forefathers were. A sovereign under the law — under my law."
Robb's brow furrowed.
"The Napoleonic Code."
Napoleon nodded, the moonlight glinting off the buttons of his coat.
"A kingdom governed by reason. By justice. The old ways are breaking, Stark. Westeros will break with them — whether by my hand or another's."
Catelyn rode behind them, her face pale in the moonlight. Her red hair hung loose around her shoulders, streaked with blood. She turned her sharp, grief-stricken eyes on Napoleon.
"And what would the North gain from this… empire of yours?"
Napoleon's gaze never wavered.
"Survival. Order. A future where no child is slaughtered beneath a guest's roof. A world where the highborn and the lowborn are equal beneath the law." His voice hardened. "Or would you rather cling to old oaths and watch your people starve?"
Silence stretched between them.
Robb stared down at his reins, his knuckles white.
"We need time," he said finally. "My men need rest. Weapons… food… a place to gather what's left."
Napoleon's eyes narrowed. The boy was close — so close — to seeing the truth.
"Come with me to the Reach," he said softly. "To Highgarden. My men will shelter yours. My forges will arm them. Your banners will rise again — stronger than before."
Robb's head snapped toward him, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
"And what would your price be?"
Napoleon's lips curled faintly.
"Loyalty."
Robb's mouth tightened, but he did not refuse.
He was learning.
Napoleon reined in his horse, turning toward one of his aides who rode just behind him. From within his coat, he pulled three small scrolls of parchment, the wax seals unbroken.
To Beaumont at the Arbor, he wrote:
Muster the Arbor Corps. March at once to Highgarden with every musket, every barrel of powder. Leave a garrison to guard the island — the Arbor is now the first state of the Empire.
Another raven to Duhesme at Highgarden:
Mobilize the Grande Armée of the Reach. Ten thousand men, prepared for war. Await my arrival.
And the last, to Henri in King's Landing:
The girl. Now. Do what must be done. The empire's future is in your hands.
He pressed his signet ring into the molten wax, sealing each letter with the emblem of the imperial eagle.
The ravens flapped into the night, black wings vanishing into the dark.
Napoleon watched them go, his breath curling in the cold air. His mind was already turning ahead — to the armies gathering beneath his banners, to the fires that would sweep across Westeros.
To vengeance.
He glanced back at the Freys' distant towers, still burning beneath the stars.
"You will kneel," he murmured to the dark. "Every one of you. Or you will burn."
Catelyn Stark crossed herself at the sound of his voice, as if hearing her son's death sentence spoken aloud.
But Robb only stared into the night — his young face hardening beneath the weight of his crown.
The old world had died in that feast hall.
What rose from its ashes would be something new — something far more dangerous.
An empire.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
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Golden light spilled through the silk curtains of his chamber, casting soft shadows across the carved oak bed. The gentle sway of the Arbor's vineyards rustled against the window, the salty breeze from the nearby sea slipping through the open slit.
Johnny Beaumont stirred, his arm draped protectively over Desmera's rising belly. Her breathing was soft and even, still lost in sleep. The sight of her — golden curls tangled over the pillow, the faintest smile on her lips — stirred something warm in him, something he never thought he'd have in this lifetime.
His wife. His child.
A Redwyne no longer. Now, she was Desmera Beaumont — lady of the Arbor, carrying the future of his line within her.
Johnny leaned close, pressing a kiss against her temple. She stirred faintly but did not wake.
A sharp knock broke the peace.
Johnny sighed, swinging his legs from the bed, his bare feet meeting cool stone. He pulled on his breeches and shirt, tying the laces quickly before cracking the door open. A young messenger stood waiting — sweat on his brow despite the cool morning.
"A raven from Riverrun, my lord. From the Emperor."
Johnny's brow furrowed as he took the scroll, breaking the wax seal with his thumb. His eyes flicked over the words — the ciphered code unmistakably Napoleon's hand.
Gather your men. The traitors have shown their true colors. The wolves bleed at the Twins, and the lions will smell blood. Return to Highgarden with all haste — the Arbor Corps marches at dawn.
Johnny glanced back at the bed, where Desmera slept on, oblivious to the storm rising beyond these peaceful shores.
War called him once more.
He clutched the letters tightly, forcing down the bitter taste in his mouth. The Arbor had been his refuge — the first true home he'd ever known. Leaving it, leaving her, felt like peeling off his own skin.
But duty bound him tighter than love.
Desmera stirred at last, blue eyes flickering open.
"Johnny?"
His heart twisted. He crossed the room, kneeling beside the bed and brushing her hair from her face.
"I have to leave," he whispered.
Her eyes darkened, flicking to the letters in his hand. She was no fool — she had always known this day would come.
"Napoleon?"
Johnny nodded.
Her hand slid over her belly protectively.
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
Desmera's breath hitched, but she masked it well — better than most lords he'd fought beside.
"You'll come back to us?"
Johnny swallowed hard, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
"Nothing in this world could keep me away."
Desmera leaned forward, pressing her lips to his — salt and honey, soft and lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were fierce, glinting with that old Arbor pride.
"Then go, Johnny Beaumont," she whispered. "Go win your war."
He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in one last time before rising.
By nightfall, the Arbor Corps would sail.
Henri Moreau
Known for Many Names, Spy for Napoleon
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The scent of ink and hot metal clung thick in the air. The steady rhythm of the press echoed through the small workshop tucked beneath a forgotten warehouse near the Mud Gate — a heartbeat hidden beneath the filth and noise of King's Landing.
Henri Moreau leaned over the press, sleeves rolled up, dark curls clinging to his brow. His fingers were stained black, smudges of ink across his knuckles as he inspected the fresh pages sliding out — a pamphlet written in the Common Tongue.
"Liberty and Law — The Emperor's Creed"
He skimmed the lines — carefully chosen words condemning the corruption of the Crown, the greed of the Lannisters, the rot beneath the gold cloaks. It was dangerous work, but the people of King's Landing were hungry — not just for bread, but for something else.
Hope.
The press clanked, hissing as one of the gears caught. Henri swore under his breath, moving to fix it — but the creak of the door made him freeze.
His hand slipped to the pistol tucked beneath his coat.
A boy stepped through — no older than twelve — thin, with soot on his face. One of his runners from Flea Bottom. He carried a small leather pouch.
"A raven came, ser," the boy mumbled. "From the south."
Henri's heart quickened.
He tossed the boy a copper and took the pouch, breaking the seal with his thumb. The ciphered words unfolded beneath his eyes.
The Red Wedding. Betrayal. The wolves broken. The Emperor marches to Highgarden. The Arbor Corps sails north.
Extract the girl. Meet in Highgarden.
Henri's breath stilled.
Sansa.
He folded the letter carefully, slipping it into his breast pocket. His green eyes flicked toward the small window, where the hazy light of King's Landing filtered through grime-streaked glass.
He had known this day would come.
They had spent weeks circling each other — him wrapped in lies, her peeling him apart with every glance. The little bird had sharp eyes beneath all that silk and sorrow. He had tried to keep her at a distance, tried to remember she was just another pawn on the board — leverage to be moved, not a girl to be cherished.
But somehow... she had slipped past his defenses.
Her laugh. Her pistol. That kiss on his cheek.
Merde.
He crushed the letter in his fist, forcing the softness from his mind.
Henri Moreau was a spy first — a soldier second. Whatever tenderness lingered between them would burn away the moment the escape began.
He turned back to the press, shouting orders to the men.
"Shut it down! Pack the type. We move everything by nightfall — north warehouse, by the Hook."
A murmur of protest rippled through the workers, but Henri's glare silenced them.
The printing press had served its purpose. Soon, the streets would be flooded with pamphlets — whispered promises of liberty. Let the gold cloaks try to snuff it out. The fire had already caught.
By tomorrow, Henri Moreau would be gone — and with him, Sansa Stark.
He tugged on his coat, buttoning it to the throat. His hand brushed the loaded pistol at his hip, the same one he had given her weeks ago — the one she now carried hidden beneath her skirts.
A wolf, he had called her once.
It was time to set her free.
Henri slipped out into the crowded streets, the Emperor's orders burning against his chest.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sun hung golden and high above the gardens of the Red Keep, bathing the royal feast in warm light. Music floated through the air — soft, lilting strings — as golden lions and red roses adorned every table. The finest Arbor Gold filled the cups, and the scent of roasted boar and honeyed pigeon wafted through the air. Laughter rippled across the crowd, but beneath it all was the brittle edge of something false — something waiting to break.
Henri Rivers stood at the far edge of the feast beneath the shade of a marble arch, half-hidden in the crowd of servants and lesser men. His sharp green eyes flicked across the gathered faces — searching, calculating. His coat was fine, but plain. Another minor merchant, no one worth a second glance.
It had been a grand affair — the marriage of King Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell — and all the power of Westeros was gathered beneath one sunlit sky. The groom sat at the high table, golden crown gleaming, wine in hand, the cruel curve of his smile fixed firmly in place.
Henri hated him.
He'd met many men like Joffrey before — petty tyrants in fine coats, drunk on power they'd never earned. The kind who liked to make others dance for their amusement.
And Joffrey was amused.
The boy king lounged lazily, watching as his fools tumbled and capered for him — making sport of Tyrion Lannister, forcing the Imp to serve him wine like a common squire.
"Bow, uncle," Joffrey sneered, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Kneel, if it please you."
Laughter rippled across the tables — high and false.
Henri's jaw clenched. His hand drifted toward the hidden pistol beneath his coat — just for a heartbeat — before he forced it still.
Not yet.
He flicked his gaze toward Sansa Stark. She sat quietly beside Tyrion, her face pale beneath the delicate veil of her hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The little bird, trapped in a cage of gold and thorns.
Tonight, mademoiselle. Tonight you fly.
Henri's heart thudded once, hard in his chest — too hard. He had not expected to care. He was a soldier. A spy. He had lied and killed for Napoleon from Cairo to Madrid. Women were a passing comfort, nothing more.
But Sansa...
He'd watched her — watched how the court picked at her, how they made a game of breaking her. And through it all, she had endured. Quiet. Graceful. Unbroken.
She deserved better.
"You can do better than that, uncle." Joffrey's voice dragged Henri from his thoughts. The king's grin stretched wider. "Perhaps you'd like to pour the wine over your own head."
More laughter — louder now.
Henri's fingers curled tighter against his coat. He could feel the cold weight of the pistol pressing against his ribs. A single shot — one pull of the trigger — and this little monster would never hurt anyone again.
But that was not his mission.
Not yet.
Henri glanced toward the table where Lord Varys sat watching, his face still as glass. The Spider knew something. He always did.
Then... the wine.
It happened slowly at first — the choking, the coughing. Joffrey's smug grin faltered. He pawed at his throat, veins bulging beneath pale skin.
The feast went still.
A single heartbeat.
Then chaos.
The king fell to his knees — clawing at his throat, purple blotches blooming beneath his golden crown.
Screams filled the air.
Henri moved.
He cut through the scattering guests, weaving between overturned chairs and spilled wine. The guards were already closing in, sealing the doors — but he wasn't heading for the gates.
He was heading for Sansa.
She stood frozen beside Tyrion, one hand pressed to her mouth. No one was watching her — not yet.
Henri caught her wrist.
"Come with me."
Sansa's blue eyes snapped toward him — wide and frightened.
"You—"
"No time." His voice was low, urgent. "Trust me, mademoiselle."
She stared at him — breathless, trembling — and for one terrible moment, he thought she would refuse.
Then she nodded.
Henri's heart slammed against his ribs. He wrapped his fingers around hers — warm, delicate — and pulled her into motion.
They slipped between the scattering nobles, through the servants' door at the edge of the garden. The walls of the Red Keep swallowed them whole — narrow stone corridors, cool and dark.
"Where are we going?" Sansa whispered.
"Far from here."
"You knew this would happen." Her voice was sharper now, cutting through the dark.
Henri didn't answer.
He pressed forward — through twisting passages he'd mapped out weeks ago, hidden beneath the bones of the castle. His fingers brushed the pistol at his side, the cool steel steadying him.
Behind them, the bells began to toll.
"They'll come looking for me," Sansa whispered.
"I know."
"They'll call me a traitor."
Henri glanced back — just for a moment.
"Then we'll both be traitors."
Sansa's lips parted — startled.
Gods help him, but he wanted to kiss her.
Not now. Not yet.
He forced himself forward, pulling her deeper into the Keep.
They reached the godswood — pale moonlight spilling through the red leaves of the heart tree. The walls of the castle loomed behind them. Beyond them lay the city... and freedom.
Henri turned to her, breath quick.
"This is your last chance, mademoiselle. If you stay, they will cage you again."
Sansa's breath caught. Her eyes shone in the dark — wide and uncertain.
"And if I go?"
Henri's heart hammered painfully against his ribs.
With me. With Napoleon. With the revolution.
He stepped close — too close.
"You will fly."
Sansa's breath caught.
Slowly — so slowly — her fingers curled around his hand.
"I want to fly."
Henri's throat tightened.
Merde.
He didn't mean to kiss her — not here, not now — but she was so close, the scent of lavender and fear clinging to her skin.
His lips brushed her forehead — just once, quick and fierce.
Then he turned.
"Come."
They slipped into the night together — the wolf's daughter and the emperor's spy — while the bells of King's Landing rang behind them and the old world began to burn.