__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Highgarden, The Reach
The sun dipped low over the sprawling gardens of Highgarden, casting golden hues across the verdant landscape. Within the castle's grand hall, a gathering of formidable figures convened to chart the course of Westeros's future. Napoleon Bonaparte, the self-styled Emperor of the Reach, stood at the head of a massive oak table, his presence commanding the attention of all.
To his right sat Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, his countenance a blend of determination and the weight of recent sorrows. Beside him was his mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, her eyes reflecting both grief and steely resolve. Arya and Sansa Stark were also present, their recent reunion a bittersweet balm to their wounded hearts. Opposite them, General Johnny Beaumont and Marshal Duhesme, stalwart commanders of Napoleon's forces, awaited their leader's words.
A hush fell as a messenger, travel-worn and breathless, entered the chamber. He knelt before Napoleon, presenting a sealed parchment.
"Speak," Napoleon commanded, his voice edged with impatience.
"Sire, the Boltons have seized control of the North," the messenger reported. "Lord Stannis Baratheon holds position at Castle Black."
A murmur rippled through the assembly. Robb's fists clenched, anger flashing in his eyes.
"The Boltons will pay for their treachery," Robb vowed, his voice a low growl.
Napoleon raised a hand, calling for silence. His sharp mind was already weaving strategies, drawing upon his vast military acumen.
"Our path is clear," he began, his gaze sweeping across those gathered. "We must strike at the heart of our enemies with precision and unwavering resolve."
He gestured to a detailed map of Westeros spread across the table. His finger traced a line from Highgarden to King's Landing.
"King's Landing is our first objective. By capturing the capital, we not only dethrone the Lannisters but also send a resounding message to all of Westeros."
General Beaumont leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "The city's defenses are formidable, sire. A direct assault could lead to significant losses."
Napoleon nodded, acknowledging the concern.
"Indeed. However, we shall employ a strategy of feints and diversions. Our forces will simulate attacks on multiple fronts, sowing confusion among the defenders. Meanwhile, a select corps will infiltrate the city through lesser-known passages, opening the gates from within."
Marshal Duhesme stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And the Westerlands?"
"Once King's Landing falls, the Westerlands will be isolated," Napoleon explained. "We shall then execute a pincer movement, with forces advancing from the Riverlands and the Reach, effectively squeezing the Lannister strongholds into submission."
Robb's gaze remained fixed on the map, his thoughts clearly on his homeland.
"And the North?" he asked, his voice tinged with urgency.
"Patience, Lord Stark," Napoleon counseled. "With the South secured, we can redirect our full might to liberate the North. We shall coordinate with Lord Stannis at Castle Black, leveraging his position to reclaim Winterfell and oust the Boltons."
Lady Catelyn's eyes shimmered with hope. "Can it truly be done?"
"With unity and resolve, my lady," Napoleon affirmed. "Together, we shall reshape the destiny of Westeros."
As the council delved deeper into strategic discussions, a soft chime echoed through the hall, signaling the arrival of a new guest. The doors swung open to reveal a cloaked figure, flanked by guards.
Sansa's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. "Arya?"
The figure lowered her hood, revealing Arya's familiar face, a mixture of relief and defiance etched upon it.
"Sansa," she replied, her voice trembling.
In an instant, the Stark sisters closed the distance between them, embracing tightly. Tears flowed freely as Robb and Catelyn joined them, the family reunited against the backdrop of impending war.
Napoleon observed the scene, allowing them a moment of solace. He understood the power of unity, of bonds forged in adversity. It was this very unity that would propel them to victory.
"Let this reunion be our strength," he declared, his voice resonating through the hall. "Together, we shall reclaim what has been lost and build a new era for Westeros."
The warmth of the Stark reunion still lingered in the air, but the weight of war and politics soon settled over the hall once more. The maps remained unfurled across the great oak table, stained by wine and wax, marked by the grim lines of conquest yet to come. Napoleon stood at the head, his hands clasped behind his back, dark eyes fixed on the distant horizon beyond the tall windows — a commander already seeing the shape of tomorrow.
Robb Stark broke away from his family, his boots heavy against the stone floor as he approached. The Young Wolf's blue eyes were solemn, but there was a flicker of gratitude in them — and something else. Resolve.
Robb Stark knelt.
"Emperor Napoleon," he said, voice steady. "You have given my family back to me. For that, I am in your debt." His hands curled into fists at his knees. "I would swear myself and the North to your service. Let me bend the knee."
A murmur rippled through those gathered — the lords of the Reach, General Beaumont, Marshal Duhesme, and the handful of Stark bannermen who had survived the Twins. Lady Catelyn watched from the edge of the table, her face unreadable but her lips pressed tight. Sansa's breath caught, and Arya shifted on her feet, as if the sight of her brother kneeling made her restless.
Napoleon's dark eyes flicked toward Robb, hard and calculating. Then — he shook his head.
"No."
The word was quiet, but it cut through the room like steel. Robb's brow furrowed in confusion.
"I do not kneel to kings," Napoleon said. "And neither shall you — not to me, nor to any man."
Robb blinked, rising slowly. "Then... what would you have of me?"
Napoleon turned to the map, his gloved finger tracing along the jagged northern border.
"The North will be part of my empire — not as a vassal state bound by oaths and feudal chains, but as a realm governed by law. You shall remain King in the North... in name." His gaze flicked to Robb, sharp as a blade. "A figurehead. The blood of the First Men matters to your people — I will not take that from them. But true power will rest in a governor appointed by my hand — one bound not to the whims of lords, but to the laws of the Empire."
Robb's jaw clenched. His hands curled tighter at his sides. "You would make me a puppet."
"I would make you a symbol."
The words carried weight — heavier than any crown.
Napoleon leaned forward, palms pressing flat against the table. His dark eyes locked on Robb's.
"The old ways are dead, Stark. Feudal lords and blood-soaked oaths — they are chains around this land's neck. I offer you something greater. A new order. The Napoleonic Code." His voice was steady, measured, but there was fire beneath it. "One law for all men, high and low. Property protected. Merit above birth. The weak shielded by justice, not the whims of lords."
Robb's breath was heavy. The ideals hung in the air — alien to Westeros, where swords had always ruled stronger than laws.
"And if I refuse?"
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
"Then the North will rebuild its walls... and rot behind them."
A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the distant birdsong filtering through the windows.
Lady Catelyn stepped forward, her voice low and careful.
"My son has fought to free the North. You ask him to give up his crown in all but name."
"I ask him to build something that will outlive him," Napoleon countered. "A kingdom is only ever a man's pride made stone and mortar. Empires—" He leaned back, hands behind his back again. "Empires can endure."
Robb's blue eyes flicked toward his mother — then to his sisters. To the faces of the men who had followed him through the Whispering Wood, through the Crag, through the blood-soaked halls of the Twins.
His shoulders sagged under the weight of it.
"You offer us peace... but not freedom."
"I offer you order."
A beat passed between them — long and heavy.
Robb's mouth opened, closed. His pride was a living thing in him, bristling against the leash Napoleon offered. But there was something else — the weariness of a boy who had led men to war too young, who had seen his father murdered and his banners torn down.
Slowly, Robb Stark nodded.
"The North will follow your laws."
Napoleon's sharp gaze did not waver.
"And the North will prosper."
It was done.
Napoleon turned to Beaumont and Duhesme.
"The Napoleonic Code will be printed and sent north with the next muster of troops. I want magistrates appointed from among the Northern lords — those who will swear to the law, not the man. They will judge disputes, not hold courts of their own."
Beaumont nodded, his quill already scratching across parchment.
"And Winterfell?" Robb asked quietly.
Napoleon's gaze flicked northward.
"We will drive out the Boltons. But Winterfell will no longer be a seat of feudal power. It will become a capital — the heart of the North's administration. The Governor of the North will reside there... not a lord."
Robb's face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. But he nodded.
Napoleon's empire was already taking shape.
He turned back to the map — to the jagged spine of Westeros, stretching from the Arbor to the Wall.
"King's Landing will fall within the month," he declared. "The Westerlands will follow. And the North—"
He glanced back at Robb.
"The North will be free... even if its lords do not yet know what freedom means."
The council dispersed in murmurs and shifting glances. Robb lingered, his mother's hand resting lightly on his arm. Sansa watched Napoleon with wide blue eyes, as if trying to glimpse the future in him.
Arya simply glared — a wolf's distrust.
Napoleon felt their eyes on him and dismissed them with the smallest of glances.
It did not matter whether they loved him or hated him.
Only that they followed.
That night, in the quiet of his chambers, Napoleon stood alone at the window, looking out over the moonlit gardens. The empire was still only a shadow — but it was there, rising from the ashes of the old world.
There would be no Iron Throne in Napoleon's Westeros.
No kings or queens to squabble over crowns.
No gods to hold men in fear.
Only law.
Only order.
And when all of Westeros was his...
It would not be his name they feared.
It would be what he had built.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sansa Stark
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The gardens of Highgarden shimmered in the dying light, the air thick with the scent of blooming roses. Fountains whispered among the hedgerows, and the last golden rays of the sun bathed the stone paths in warmth. Sansa walked alone, her fingers trailing along the ivy-clad walls, her heart heavy beneath the beauty around her.
She found him by the fountain.
Henri Moreau stood with his back to her, half-hidden in shadow. His dark curls were windswept, his coat still stained from the road, the leather straps of his holster creased from constant wear. He had shaved, but the faint line of stubble shadowed his jaw. His pistols hung at his hips — always close, always ready — like a wolf never fully at rest.
He heard her footsteps.
"You shouldn't walk alone, mademoiselle," Henri murmured without turning.
Sansa paused, folding her hands before her.
"No one will harm me here."
Henri glanced back — his hazel eyes catching hers, sharp and steady.
"No one will touch you... as long as I breathe."
Her heart fluttered at the quiet promise in his voice.
For days now, he had been her shadow. Always watching. Always near. She should have found comfort in the safety he offered — but the weight of his gaze unsettled her. Because it was not duty she saw in Henri Moreau's eyes.
It was something far more dangerous.
Sansa stepped closer, her skirts whispering against the marble stones.
"You never left me... not once."
Henri's eyes flicked away, as if the memory was something he carried alone.
"I couldn't."
His voice was rough — stripped of all the teasing charm he so often wore like armor.
Sansa swallowed, her throat tight.
"I don't remember much of that night," she admitted. "Only the screams... the poison... the way everyone stared at him choking..."
Her breath caught, hands trembling against her skirts.
"...and then you were there."
Henri's jaw clenched.
"I found you in the godswood," he said quietly. "You were frozen... like a statue. I called your name, but you didn't hear me." His hazel eyes flicked back to her — dark and steady. "So I carried you."
Sansa's heart twisted painfully.
She remembered flashes — his arms around her, the cold air biting at her skin. The sound of his voice, low and steady, whispering in her ear to keep her awake. His cloak wrapped around her as they rode through the night, never stopping.
"You carried me... all that way?"
Henri's smile was faint — a crooked, boyish thing — but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I would have carried you to the ends of the earth, mademoiselle."
The words stole the breath from her lungs.
No one had ever said such a thing to her — not Robb, not her father, not any of the knights who had sworn to protect her.
Sansa's heart fluttered painfully.
"Why?"
Henri's gaze locked with hers — sharp and searching.
"Why do you think?"
Sansa's breath caught.
No. He couldn't mean it. He was a liar, a spy — a Frenchman who played at secrets and shadows. He had risked his life to save her... but not for love.
It couldn't be for love.
"You saved me because it was your duty," she whispered. "Because Napoleon ordered you to."
Henri's mouth twitched — not quite a smile.
"If it were only duty, I would have left you in the godswood."
Sansa's heart began to pound.
She opened her mouth — but no words came.
Henri took a slow step forward, his boots crunching softly on the gravel.
"I stayed because I couldn't leave you," he murmured. "Not because of crowns. Not because of kings."
His voice dipped lower.
"But because of you."
The world seemed to fall away around them — the garden, the war, the weight of everything they had both lost.
It was just him.
Henri Moreau.
The liar with the kind eyes.
Sansa's heart hammered against her ribs.
"You never asked for anything," she whispered. "Not my claim... not my name..."
Henri's smile faded — that crooked grin slipping away, leaving something raw and unguarded beneath.
"I didn't want your name." His hazel eyes flicked down to her trembling hands. "I wanted you."
Sansa's breath caught — sharp, aching.
No one had ever wanted her before — not like this.
Joffrey had wanted a pretty bird in a gilded cage. Littlefinger had wanted a mirror of her mother. Tyrion had wanted a claim to Winterfell.
But Henri...
Henri wanted the girl who had knelt beneath the godswood tree with blood on her hands and fear in her heart.
"You deserve more than duty," he murmured. "More than cages and crowns."
His fingers brushed against her knuckles — warm and calloused, the touch so soft it made her ache.
"I see you, Sansa Stark."
Her heart splintered open.
No one had ever seen her.
Not the wolf. Not the broken girl beneath the silks.
Only him.
Henri's thumb traced slowly over her fingers — a breath of warmth against the cold that had lived inside her for so long.
"I stayed for you," he whispered. "I'd stay until the world burned if you'd ask it."
Sansa's breath shuddered.
Her fingers curled into the lapel of his coat — barely a touch, but enough to draw him closer.
"Did you ever want to kiss me?" she whispered.
Henri's breath caught.
He gave a soft, breathless laugh — not mocking, but disbelieving.
"Since the moment I saw you in the godswood."
Sansa's pulse quickened.
"Then why haven't you?"
Henri's smile flickered — faint and sad.
"Because you're not mine to take."
Sansa's heart ached at the gentleness in his voice — at the restraint in those clever, killing hands.
"You saved my life," she whispered. "Does that not make me yours?"
Henri's breath caught — his hazel eyes flicking to her lips.
His fingers skimmed her jaw, rough and warm.
"If you're mine... I will never let you go."
Sansa's heart thundered.
"Then don't."
Henri's lips found hers — soft, careful — like he was afraid she might break.
But Sansa leaned into him, her fingers curling in his coat, pulling him closer.
It was not her first kiss.
But it was the first that ever belonged to her.
When they finally broke apart, Henri's forehead rested against hers, both of them breathless.
"You are the bravest woman I've ever known," he whispered.
Sansa's heart ached.
"And you... are the only man who's ever seen me."
Henri's smile flickered — small, boyish, full of something fragile and unspoken.
"I would follow you to the ends of the earth, mademoiselle."
Sansa's fingers traced the scar along his jaw.
"Then follow me."
Henri's smile curved.
"With pleasure."
He kissed her again — deeper this time, without fear.
The little bird had found her wolf.
And the liar... had found something worth living for.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sun hung low over Highgarden, casting long golden streaks across the sprawling fields beyond the castle walls. The scent of blooming roses lingered in the warm air, but the gardens seemed quieter than before — as if the whole Reach was holding its breath.
Johnny Beaumont stood atop a small hill overlooking the encampment, a cigar clamped between his teeth. His sharp blue eyes swept over the long lines of tents and the glint of polished muskets stacked in neat pyramids. The Arbor Corps. His Arbor Corps.
"Not bad, Johnny boy... not bloody bad," he muttered to himself, the smoke curling from his lips.
They were more than just vineyard hands and poachers now — they were soldiers. Nearly five thousand men mustered beneath the green banners of the Arbor, drilled and hardened in the Emperor's wars. His own little army carved out of this strange new world.
Down in the training yards, volleys cracked as lines of infantry practiced firing by rank. The sharp bark of orders echoed through the camp. Closer to the olive groves, the Arbor Sharpshooters drilled in small squads — lean, sun-browned men with rifled muskets slung across their backs. Johnny watched one of them line up a shot, the barrel steady as stone. The crack rang out, and a wooden target splintered clean through.
Johnny grinned around his cigar.
"Those bastards could shoot the wings off a fly... if the fly owed them money."
A year ago, his corps had been little more than a ragged band of volunteers, marching barefoot through the Reach with stolen muskets and half a clue between them. Now they were something else entirely — a force Napoleon could throw into any breach, any ambush. And all of it built from the bones of the Arbor — his first command, his first victory.
His first home.
Funny, how life turned on a coin toss.
A gust of wind carried the scent of olive oil and powder smoke across the camp. He glanced toward the wagons being loaded with barrels — bullets, powder, and kegs of Arbor gold wine stacked alongside crates of uniforms. The Emperor had called, and Johnny Beaumont was bloody well ready to answer.
"General Beaumont!"
Johnny glanced over his shoulder as Lieutenant Davos Flowers climbed the hill, clutching a stack of papers. The lad was barely twenty — one of the first Arbor volunteers from the Reach campaign. Sharp as a blade, if a little too eager.
"Morning, Flowers," Johnny drawled, flicking ash from his cigar. "What's the news? We finally run out of wine?"
"Not yet, sir." Flowers smirked. "Though if you keep drinking at this pace, we might."
Johnny snorted. Cheeky little bastard.
"Give it time."
Flowers handed him the papers — fresh orders from Napoleon, marked with the Imperial eagle. Johnny scanned them quickly.
The plan was in motion.
Tomorrow they'd march — the whole corps pushing east to join the Emperor's armies on the road to King's Landing. Napoleon would break the lion's hold on the Westerlands, sweep into the capital, and tear the Iron Throne from the Lannisters' grip.
Johnny's mouth twitched.
Another kingdom to topple. Another bloody gamble.
He liked their odds.
"Supplies are loaded, sir," Flowers reported. "Two days' rations for every man. Powder and shot accounted for. The sharpshooters want more bullets, though."
Johnny grinned.
"They always want more bullets. Give 'em what they need."
Flowers nodded, scribbling a note. He hesitated a moment.
"And... the special unit, sir?"
Johnny's grin faded.
He glanced back at the shadows beneath the olive trees — where thirty men sat cleaning long-barreled muskets in silence.
The Arbor Sharpshooters. His wolves in the woods.
Johnny had picked them himself — poachers, hunters, and smugglers who knew every hill and grove from the Arbor to the Reach. They fought the French way — spread out, hidden, killing from the shadows. They answered to no captain but him.
"No more than fifty bullets each," Johnny said softly. "They won't need more than that."
Flowers nodded, scribbling the order.
Johnny's gaze swept the camp again, lingering on the green banners snapping in the wind.
It still felt strange sometimes — to hear himself called General. He'd always been Johnny Beaumont, the French fox, the scoundrel with a pair of pistols and a talent for running from trouble.
Now he was a husband.
A father.
A general.
He still wasn't sure how the hell that had happened.
His hand drifted to the gold band on his finger — a little heavier than he'd expected. He thought of Desmera back in her chambers, resting in the cool shade of Highgarden's towers, her belly round with his child. His heart twisted a little at the thought.
She'd made him promise not to leave without saying goodbye.
He hated goodbyes.
"General Beaumont, sir?"
Johnny blinked, shaking off the thought. Flowers was still waiting.
"Anything else, lad?"
Flowers glanced down at his notes.
"Just the men asking... well... they want to know if we're marching under the Arbor's banner or the Emperor's."
Johnny's cigar dangled between his teeth as he considered the question.
"Both," he said finally. "They're the same thing now, aren't they?"
Flowers grinned.
"Aye, sir."
Johnny took one last long drag, then flicked the stub into the dirt.
"Right then. Pass the word. Arbor Corps marches at dawn."
Flowers snapped a salute and jogged back down the hill.
Johnny stayed where he was, watching the sun sink lower behind the hills. The vineyards stretched out beneath him — the land he'd bled for, fought for... earned. His first little corner of the world.
Napoleon was building an empire — but Johnny Beaumont had built something of his own.
A wife.
A child.
An army.
"Not bad for a bloody scoundrel," he muttered to himself.
He glanced down at his pistols, slung low on his hips — the same pair he'd carried all the way from the fields of France to this strange, broken kingdom.
He patted them fondly.
"One more campaign, boys. Then maybe... just maybe... we'll get ourselves a quiet little vineyard by the sea."
He snorted.
Like hell.
With a sigh, Johnny adjusted his tricorn hat and started down the hill.
There was always one more war.
And Johnny Beaumont was damned if he'd miss it.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sun climbed over the horizon, casting a pale gold light across the green fields of the Reach. The earth trembled beneath twenty thousand boots, the ranks of Napoleon's Grande Armée stretching along the rolling hills. Banners snapped in the breeze — the golden sun of the Arbor, the black wolf of Stark, and the eagle of the Empire stitched onto fresh green cloth.
Napoleon sat astride his black courser at the head of the host, his gray greatcoat draped over his shoulders, the red sash of the Emperor vivid across his chest. His bicorne hat cast a shadow over his sharp eyes as they swept across the mass of men gathered before him — his soldiers. His sons.
A thousand Northmen stood to the flank — the last of Robb Stark's bannermen, those who had survived the butcher's feast at the Twins. They were lean, grim men in patched mail and fur cloaks, their eyes hollow with grief. But they stood.
It was a small army — too small for the conquest of a kingdom.
But armies did not win wars.
Men did.
Napoleon's horse shifted beneath him. He leaned forward in the saddle, the leather creaking as he straightened his back.
He had given speeches to greater armies. He had stood before the legions of France at the Pyramids, before the veterans of Austerlitz and Jena. But here — in this strange, broken world — he had been cast among outlaws and exiles, rebels and wolves.
Yet they followed him.
And they would follow him to the gates of hell.
He raised his voice, sharp and clear.
"Soldats!"
The murmur of the ranks stilled.
"You stand on the edge of history. Before you lies the seat of tyranny — a city where gold rules and the people suffer. King's Landing is not the heart of Westeros... it is its sickness. The Lannisters have grown fat while the land bleeds. They are lions in name only — for they hunt not in the wild, but in the darkness, with knives and poison."
His dark eyes swept across the ranks, holding them — binding them.
"We march not to conquer, but to liberate. We march not for thrones, but for laws. We march not for kings... but for men."
A murmur rose — low, uncertain.
He drove on, his voice sharp as steel.
"Look beside you. There is no Reachman or Northman. No lord or commoner. Only soldiers. Only brothers. You are the sons of revolution — of a new order that will sweep away the old."
He leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes burning.
"King's Landing will fall. The Iron Throne will burn. And from its ashes, we will build a new world — a world of laws, not blood. A world where no man kneels unless it is by his own will."
The murmurs grew louder — a restless, rising tide.
"March with me, and your names will be written in the history of this world. March with me, and you will give Westeros what it has never known — liberty, equality... justice."
A ripple passed through the ranks — slow at first, then swelling.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
It was one voice — then a hundred.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
The cry rolled across the hills, fierce and rising.
"VIVE L'EMPEREUR!"
Napoleon's gloved hand curled around the reins, his heart thudding beneath his breast.
They believed.
He could feel it — the old fire stirring beneath the strange sky.
He wheeled his horse around, his greatcoat flaring.
"En avant!"
The drums rolled. The horns sounded.
The army began to march.
Napoleon fixed his gaze eastward — toward the red walls of King's Landing.
He would drag down the Iron Throne brick by brick.
He would break this world... and remake it in his image.