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Tyrion Lannister
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The hall of the Red Keep loomed around Tyrion Lannister, its high ceilings casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. Flickering torchlight licked at the golden pillars, but no warmth reached him. Shackles bound his wrists, the cold iron biting into his skin. He stood alone at the center of the room, a thousand eyes boring into him — some curious, others hungry. Most of them eager to see him fall.
His father sat above on the raised dais, flanked by Mace Tyrell and Oberyn Martell. The lion of Lannister carved into the wood behind him seemed to snarl down at his son. Tywin's face was carved from stone — cold, impassive, without a trace of pity.
They were all here for his head.
Tyrion shifted on his feet, the chains at his wrists rattling softly. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck beneath his collar. He hated how small he must look to them — smaller than he already was.
Varys was the first witness.
His soft voice carried through the hall, recounting the feast, the poisoned wine, the way King Joffrey had choked and died. The Spider's words were precise, measured — like a man laying out pieces on a cyvasse board.
Tyrion stood still, biting back every retort burning on his tongue. He had expected this — expected Varys to play his part. The eunuch always played both sides, and right now the wind was blowing toward the crown.
"Thank you, Lord Varys," Tywin said smoothly. His cold gaze flicked toward Tyrion. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Tyrion's fingers curled into fists around the chains.
"Nothing your spies haven't already told you, Father."
A few scattered chuckles broke out in the gallery — nervous laughter quickly stifled beneath Tywin's stare.
Witness after witness came forward. They spoke of his hatred for Joffrey, the threats he had made at the feast, how he had been the one to hand the king the cup of wine.
Every word stacked heavier against him.
He could feel the noose tightening with each testimony.
Then they called Shae.
Tyrion's heart stopped.
The doors creaked open, and she walked into the hall — the woman he had loved, the woman he had begged to leave the city for her own safety. Her dark eyes flicked toward him once, and there was nothing in them.
Nothing.
She took her place before the judges, her hands folded primly in front of her.
"Do you swear by the gods that your testimony will be true?" the septon asked.
"I swear it."
Her voice was steady. No tremor. No doubt.
Tyrion's stomach twisted.
"My lord," she began, her gaze fixed on Tywin, not sparing Tyrion even a glance. "Tyrion Lannister is a violent man. He stole me from Lady Sansa's service... forced me to his bed."
Tyrion flinched as if she'd struck him.
"Liar," he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone to hear.
But Shae went on, her voice steady and cruel.
"He made me call him 'my lion.' He promised to protect me... but when Lady Sansa fled the city, he threatened to kill me if I ever spoke of what I knew."
A ripple ran through the crowd.
Tyrion's breath came short. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Shae, please—" His voice cracked, barely louder than a whisper.
She ignored him.
"He said I was his property," she finished coldly, her eyes still fixed straight ahead.
A long silence stretched in the hall.
Tyrion could feel every eye upon him, burning through his skin. The betrayal twisted inside him, sharper than any blade.
His father watched from the high seat — unmoved. His face might as well have been carved from the same stone as the walls.
Tywin turned his gaze down.
"Do you wish to confess?" he asked.
Tyrion's throat burned.
Confess? To what? To hating Joffrey? To being a dwarf?
He glanced at Shae again, searching her face — searching for some flicker of the woman he had once held in his arms. But there was nothing.
They had broken her.
Or maybe... maybe she had never loved him at all.
The weight of it crushed him — heavier than the chains around his wrists.
"I wish to confess," he said at last.
Gasps rippled through the gallery.
Tywin leaned forward slightly.
"You wish to confess?"
Tyrion's breath caught in his chest. The words clawed their way up his throat — years of anger, of bitterness, of hatred.
"I am guilty..." he said slowly, letting the words hang.
The hall fell deathly silent.
"... of being a dwarf."
Another ripple through the crowd — laughter from some, murmurs from others.
Tywin's mouth tightened.
"You're not on trial for being a dwarf."
"Oh, yes I am," Tyrion snapped, his voice rising. His heart pounded in his ears. "I've been on trial for that my entire life!"
He could feel the rage boiling up inside him, years of humiliation and hatred bursting free.
"I did not kill Joffrey... but I wish that I had!" His voice echoed off the stone walls. "Watching your vicious bastard die gave me more relief than a thousand lying whores!"
The hall erupted — gasps, shouts, the scrape of chairs as lords and ladies leaned forward.
Tyrion's chest heaved. He glared up at his father, his breath ragged.
"I will not give my life for Joffrey's murder... and I know I'll get no justice here. So I will let the gods decide my fate." He straightened, chains clinking as he lifted his chin.
"I demand a trial by combat."
A hush fell over the hall — heavy and absolute.
Tywin's face barely flickered.
"So be it," he said coldly.
The guards seized Tyrion by the arms and dragged him away.
His legs buckled beneath him, but he forced himself to stand tall, head high as they led him from the hall.
He would not let them see him break.
Not yet.
But as they shoved him into the darkness of the black cells, the last thing he saw was Shae — turning away without a backward glance.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Alone.
Again.
The stink of mildew clung to the damp stone walls, the air thick with rot and the faint metallic tang of rusted iron. Tyrion sat on the narrow cot, his legs swinging over the edge, boots barely brushing the cold floor. The flickering torchlight outside his cell painted long shadows across the walls — a prison for a kinslayer, a king-slayer.
A rattle of keys echoed down the hall. Tyrion's sharp ears caught the nervous shuffle of feet before he saw the figure beyond the bars.
Podrick Payne.
The boy stood stiff and awkward, clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle beneath one arm. His round face glistened with sweat despite the chill.
"M-My lord," Pod said, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Tyrion smirked, though the effort felt hollow.
"Podrick Payne, my gallant squire. Come to free me, have you?"
Pod shifted from foot to foot, glancing over his shoulder down the darkened corridor.
"I... I brought you food."
He fumbled with the bundle, unwrapping a crust of bread and a small wedge of cheese. Tyrion's stomach twisted at the sight — not from hunger, but from the boy's trembling hands.
"They're watching you, aren't they?" Tyrion asked quietly.
Pod nodded, setting the food through the iron bars. His eyes flicked up, wide and uncertain.
"They... they offered me a knighthood, my lord. If I testified against you."
Tyrion froze, his fingers curling around the stale bread. For a moment, he only stared — not at the food, but at the boy.
"They think you can be bought?" His voice was soft, laced with bitter amusement.
Pod swallowed hard.
"I told them... I told them I'd never betray you, my lord."
A strange warmth flickered in Tyrion's chest — brief, fleeting, almost painful.
"Foolish boy," he murmured. "You should have taken the offer."
Pod's face reddened.
"I wouldn't."
Tyrion's smirk faded.
"No... I don't suppose you would."
He glanced down at the bread in his hands, weighing it as if it were some rare treasure.
"You're too good for this world, Podrick Payne. And far too good for me."
Pod's mouth opened as if to protest, but Tyrion cut him off.
"You mustn't come again. They'll turn the screws harder next time. I don't need a witness who can't be bought — I need a squire who knows when to run."
Pod's face twisted, the boy's heart warring against his orders.
"But... who's going to bring you food? Who's going to—"
"Live."
The word was sharper than Tyrion meant, slicing through the damp air like the edge of a knife.
Pod fell silent.
"Go," Tyrion said softly. "Forget you ever served me."
Pod stood there a moment longer, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Finally, with one last miserable nod, he turned and stumbled back into the shadows.
Tyrion listened to his footsteps fade, until only the drip of water and the distant scurry of rats remained.
He stared down at the bread in his hands.
It tasted like ashes in his mouth.
In the dimly lit confines of the black cells, the air hung heavy with moisture and despair. Tyrion Lannister sat on a cold stone bench, his shackled hands resting on his knees. The distant echoes of footsteps approached, growing louder until a familiar figure emerged from the shadows.
"Jaime."
The Kingslayer stood before his brother's cell, his golden hand glinting in the torchlight.
"Tyrion."
A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words and shared memories.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Tyrion finally said, his voice tinged with weary amusement.
"I had to come," Jaime replied, his gaze steady. "To see how you were."
"How do I look?"
Jaime's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Like shit."
Tyrion chuckled, a dry sound devoid of real mirth. "Accurate."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"Cersei wants you dead," Jaime said quietly. "She won't rest until it happens."
"Nothing new there," Tyrion replied, shrugging. "Our dear sister has always had a flair for dramatics."
"Father has agreed to a trial," Jaime continued, ignoring the jest. "But the outcome..."
"Is predetermined," Tyrion finished for him. "I'm to be the sacrificial dwarf, appeasing the gods and the masses."
Jaime's jaw tightened. "I won't let that happen."
"And how do you propose to stop it?" Tyrion asked, arching an eyebrow. "Challenge Father to a duel? Appeal to Cersei's nonexistent mercy?"
"There might be another way," Jaime said, lowering his voice. "News has reached the city. Napoleon is marching toward King's Landing with twenty thousand men."
Tyrion's eyes widened. "Napoleon? Here?"
"Yes."
Tyrion leaned back against the damp wall, processing the information. "Well, that complicates things."
"Father is preparing for a siege," Jaime continued. "The trial may be delayed."
"Delayed," Tyrion mused. "Not canceled."
"It gives us time," Jaime insisted. "Time to find a way to save you."
"Or time for Napoleon to breach the walls and put us all to the sword," Tyrion countered. "Not exactly comforting."
"It's a chance," Jaime said firmly. "And I'll take any chance to keep you alive."
Tyrion studied his brother's face, seeing the determination etched into his features. "I appreciate the sentiment, Jaime. Truly. But we've both seen how these games play out."
"Then we'll change the game," Jaime replied, gripping the bars tightly. "Together."
For the first time in days, Tyrion felt a flicker of hope. "Together, then."
Jaime nodded, releasing the bars. "I'll return soon. Stay strong, brother."
As Jaime's footsteps faded into the darkness, Tyrion allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "Stay strong," he muttered to himself. "Easier said than done."
But with Napoleon's unexpected arrival and Jaime's unwavering support, perhaps there was a glimmer of hope in the shadows of his cell.
The oppressive silence of the black cells was broken only by the distant drip of water seeping through the stone walls. Tyrion sat on the cold floor, his back against the damp stone, contemplating the series of events that had led him to this dismal fate.
The faint sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing steadily louder. Tyrion's keen ears recognized the soft, measured tread. He looked up as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows beyond the iron bars.
"Lord Varys, to what do I owe the honor?" Tyrion's voice dripped with sarcasm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
Varys offered a thin smile, his hands clasped within the voluminous sleeves of his robes. "I thought you might be in need of some company, my lord."
"Company, yes. Freedom, preferably." Tyrion pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested. "Have you come to deliver good news?"
Varys tilted his head, his expression inscrutable. "That depends on your perspective."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Spare me the riddles, Varys."
Varys stepped closer to the bars, lowering his voice. "The trial may be delayed. Napoleon marches toward King's Landing with twenty thousand men."
Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. "Napoleon? Here?"
Varys nodded. "Indeed. And he is not the only one. Daenerys Targaryen's dragons have grown to formidable sizes. She also has thousands of Unsullied and if she had enough ships, she'll sail back here."
Tyrion's mind raced, weighing the implications. "So, we have a conqueror from another world and the Mother of Dragons both eyeing the Iron Throne."
"Precisely."
"And where do you suggest I fit into this grand game?"
Varys's gaze was steady. "You have a choice, my lord. Flee to Essos and live out your days in obscurity, or align yourself with a rising power and Alternatively, Daenerys seeks to reclaim her birthright and has a need of advisors who understand the intricacies of Westerosi politics. Though you should also consider Napoleon who values intellect and strategy; he could use someone of your talents.. And one more thought, Napoleon want to change westeros like the change he did on the Reach"
Tyrion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Serve a foreign conqueror or a Targaryen queen with dragons. Not the choices I envisioned for myself."
"Life is full of unexpected paths, my lord."
Tyrion met Varys's gaze, searching for any hint of deceit. Finding none, he sighed. "If I were to consider these options, how would I escape this cell?"
Varys's lips curved into a faint smile. "Leave that to me. When the time comes, a path will be made clear."
"And you, Varys? Where do your loyalties lie?"
The spymaster's expression remained serene. "I serve the realm, as always."
Tyrion chuckled softly. "Of course you do."
As Varys turned to leave, Tyrion called after him. "Varys."
The eunuch paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"Thank you."
Varys inclined his head before disappearing into the shadows, leaving Tyrion alone with his thoughts and the weight of a decision that could shape the future of Westeros.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
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The sun hung high over the Reach, casting long golden rays over the sprawling fields that flanked the Roseroad. The air was warm, the scent of blooming flowers carried by a gentle breeze — a fine day for marching. Napoleon rode at the head of his Grande Armée, his sharp eyes scanning the endless horizon.
They had been on the road for weeks, advancing steadily from Highgarden, the heart of his empire. The campaign had been near bloodless — not for lack of enemies, but because none dared stand against him. Bitterbridge had opened its gates without a fight, its garrison surrendering with barely a word. Tumbleton followed soon after, the few hedge knights who lingered swearing loyalty to the Emperor before the day was done. Every village and hamlet they passed along the Roseroad welcomed them with fear and curiosity in equal measure.
"Another town taken without a single shot, sire," murmured General Duhesme, riding at his side.
Napoleon's face remained impassive. "It is not conquest by force that wins hearts, General — it is conquest by law."
His mind flicked to the new decrees already spreading through the Reach. The Napoleonic Code had begun to take root in Highgarden — justice swift, equal, and incorruptible. Property rights, contracts, and laws were written and posted in every settlement they passed. Peasants whispered of the Emperor's strange laws, but more and more began to see the sense in them. Here was no feudal lord demanding endless tithes, but a ruler who promised order, prosperity — a world made anew.
The road stretched out ahead, winding through fields of golden wheat and dense green woods. Along the column, his men marched in disciplined ranks — twenty thousand strong. The banners of the eagle and the green of House Bonaparte flapped in the breeze alongside the wolf of Stark. Behind them, the creaking of thousands of supply wagons rumbled across the dusty road — food, powder, shot, and spare muskets.
Logistics — the true art of war.
Napoleon had spent countless hours at Highgarden organizing the supply lines. Every village they passed was inventoried — grain seized, but always paid for with coin or promissory notes. Bakers were drafted to bake bread for the army, smiths ordered to repair weapons. Every man knew where he would sleep, when he would march, and where his next meal would come from. There would be no starving in the Reach as there had been in Russia.
At midday, the army halted at a small stream, where the men refilled their canteens and watered the horses. The sun shimmered off breastplates and the polished barrels of muskets stacked in neat pyramids. Napoleon dismounted, boots crunching on the dry earth, and walked among the men.
"How far to the Blackwater, Duhesme?" he asked.
"Three days, sire. Perhaps less, if the weather holds."
Napoleon nodded. The gods themselves seemed to favor this march. The skies had been clear since they left Highgarden, the warm spring winds at their backs.
As he passed, the soldiers straightened, their eyes flicking toward him with something that almost looked like reverence. He could feel the weight of their faith pressing against him — twenty thousand men who would follow him to the ends of this world or any other.
He stopped beside a group of Arbor Corps soldiers — Beaumont's men. They were cleaning their long rifles, the distinctive barrel grooves of their rifled muskets glinting in the sun. Sharp-eyed men, deadly from two hundred paces. Their green coats set them apart, along with the feathered caps they wore — veterans of the Reach campaign, now Napoleon's elite sharpshooters.
"You fight for the new world, messieurs," he said to them in the tongue of his homeland. "The world we are building together."
"Vive l'Empereur!" one of them shouted, fist raised.
"Vive l'Empereur!" the others echoed, voices ringing through the warm air.
The cry spread down the column, rippling like wildfire. Thousands of voices joined the chant, filling the Roseroad with the sound of devotion.
Napoleon stood at the center of it, his hands clasped behind his back. He let the sound wash over him, his heart steady. This was not the blinded worship of a king's subjects — it was something greater. These men followed him not out of fear, but because they believed in what he could build.
A republic crowned by glory. An empire of laws.
Duhesme rode up beside him, watching the men cheer. "They're ready to die for you, sire."
Napoleon's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the Roseroad curved toward the Blackwater and the gates of King's Landing beyond.
"Then they shall live for me, General."
He turned back to his horse, mounting with a fluid motion.
"Sound the advance."
The drums began again, rolling down the line. The banners snapped in the wind, and the army began to march once more — toward the beating heart of Westeros.
By the time the towers of King's Landing rose on the horizon, the sun would be setting behind them — and with it, the age of feudal lords.
It was time to tear down the old world.
It was time to crown the new.
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The sun dipped low behind the distant hills as Napoleon's army spilled across the fields outside King's Landing. The golden light bathed the sprawling siege camp as tents rose in neat rows, and wagons circled into supply depots. The air buzzed with purpose — the quiet, controlled chaos of an army preparing for war.
From the hill where his command tent stood, Napoleon surveyed the city. King's Landing stretched out before him — a patchwork of red roofs and white stone walls rising along the Blackwater. The walls themselves were formidable, weathered by centuries but still standing strong. The Mud Gate faced the river, the Iron Gate to the north, and the great King's Gate along the Roseroad.
His dark eyes traced the defenses, lips pressed in a thin line. The city was larger than any he had conquered before — more sprawling than Moscow, more chaotic than Cairo. But walls were only as strong as the men who defended them.
Every city had its weakness. He would find it.
Johnny Beaumont stood beside him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked into his green coat. His Arbor Corps had already begun setting up their long rifles on nearby ridges — their sharpshooters the eyes of the army. Duhesme directed the artillery crews, placing the reach made-bronze cannons, Gribeauval guns, mostly 12 and 8 pounders in a wide arc around the walls, their barrels glinting in the dying light.
"How long will it take to encircle the city?" Napoleon asked, his voice calm, measured.
"By dawn, sire," Duhesme replied. "We'll have batteries on three sides. Only the sea remains open."
Napoleon's eyes flicked toward the Blackwater. A few Lannister ships bobbed in the bay, but the Tyrell fleet that once guarded the city was gone.
"If they flee by sea, let them," he said coldly. "The rats will drown with their city."
Beaumont gave a dry chuckle.
Napoleon ignored him, already turning back to the map spread across the campaign table. His gloved finger traced the city's defenses — the outer walls, the gates, the towers. He could almost see the battle unfold in his mind.
Bombardment first — a storm of cannonballs from dawn until dusk. The walls would crack. Morale would break. Then the assault — infantry pressing from three sides, squeezing the defenders into the heart of the city. No more sackings. No more slaughter. He would take King's Landing as he had taken Milan, Cairo, and Vienna — by force and law combined.
But before the bloodshed, he would offer them a chance.
He straightened, brushing dust from his dark green coat.
"Prepare an emissary," he said. "I will give them until sunrise to surrender. After that—" his eyes hardened, "—we make them remember this day for a thousand years."
Beaumont smirked. "Any particular message, sire?"
Napoleon's gaze remained fixed on the city.
"Tell them the old world ends tonight."
By torchlight, the printing press whirred and clanked beneath a canvas awning at the edge of the camp. The pressmen worked with ink-stained fingers, setting type by the flickering light. They were the remnants of Henri's operation — the secret press that had churned out seditious pamphlets in the depths of King's Landing before he fled with Sansa.
Now, they worked for an empire.
Napoleon paced before them, dictating in low, measured tones.
"To the People of King's Landing," the broadside would read.
"I am Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the West. I come not as a conqueror, but as a liberator. The laws of the old world have bound you in chains — I will break them. The Lannisters have bled you dry — I will feed you. The wolves of the North are my allies — the dragons of the East are my friends. Surrender your city, and you shall know justice. Resist, and you shall know fire."
He watched the words take shape in metal and ink, the pressmen moving with quiet precision.
Propaganda was as much a weapon as gunpowder — perhaps more. By morning, thousands of broadsides would be nailed to every gate, scattered through the streets by hidden hands within the city.
Napoleon turned to Beaumont.
"Have your sharpshooters escort the pressmen to the gates tonight. Any man who interferes — shoot."
Beaumont's smirk faded. He nodded.
Napoleon stepped back, folding his hands behind his back.
The cannons were loaded. The broadsides would spread. The emissary would ride at dawn.
Tomorrow, the old world would burn.
And from its ashes, a new empire would rise.
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Jean-Baptiste Duhesme
Napoleon's Marshall
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High Marshal Jean-Baptiste Duhesme stood atop a grassy ridge south of King's Landing, his eyes narrowed beneath the golden light of dawn. The faint salt breeze from Blackwater Bay brushed against his weathered face, but his mind was elsewhere — half on the cannons being hauled into position behind him, half lost in the long road that had brought him here.
The siege had begun.
Already, the army of the Empire of Westeros stretched across the fields — 20,000 strong, with the banners of the Arbor Corps fluttering beside the golden eagle of Napoleon. Soldiers dug earthworks along the rise, while engineers measured distances, positioning the artillery at precise intervals. The field echoed with the creak of wheels, the clink of tools — and the distant murmur of King's Landing waking to find death waiting at its gates.
Duhesme watched it all in silence. He'd overseen a hundred sieges in his life — from Italy to Spain, from Vienna to Moscow. But none of them felt quite like this.
Westeros...
A year ago, he'd never heard the name. Now it was a battlefield like any other — full of fools and kings, swords and fire, betrayal and ambition. It didn't matter if they called it Westeros or France — men bled the same in every language.
His eyes lingered on the city sprawled below — red-roofed, ancient, corrupt to the bone.
"Another Rome," he thought bitterly.
"Another rotting carcass Napoleon means to carve into an empire."
Yet... there was a pride that flickered beneath the bitterness.
Because he'd seen this before.
Europe had laughed at the little Corsican once. They'd mocked him when he crossed the Alps — when he crowned himself Emperor — when he'd broken the kings of the old world one by one.
They were laughing still when Napoleon's ships washed up on Westerosi shores — calling him mad, calling him a conqueror out of place in a land of dragons and magic.
And now here they were.
One year.
One year, and Napoleon had carved his Empire across half this strange continent — from the Arbor to Highgarden, all the way to the gates of King's Landing.
"I was there when he crossed the Alps..." Duhesme mused, his lips curling faintly.
"I am here when he crosses the Blackwater."
Behind him, a cannon's wheel struck a stone, jarring it into place. Duhesme turned, watching as his gunners hauled the bronze beast into its firing position — one of thirty that would soon ring the city.
These weren't the clumsy bombards of Westeros — no dragonfire or alchemist's trickery. These were French guns, the same that had broken the walls of Vienna and Moscow.
He ran a gloved hand along the cold barrel, feeling the steel beneath his fingers.
"The gods of this world are made of fire and blood," he thought.
"Ours are made of powder and shot."
A courier approached — one of Napoleon's aides — bowing low.
"His Majesty requests your report, Marshal."
Duhesme grunted, brushing the soot from his coat. He glanced once more at the distant walls.
"Tomorrow, those walls will fall."
"Tell the Emperor the batteries will be ready by nightfall. The bombardment will begin at dawn."
The courier left, and Duhesme stood alone again — alone with the cannons and the ghosts of a thousand battles.
He thought of his youth — of the revolution, the cold nights in the Alps, the first victories under Bonaparte. He'd been a butcher's son once, destined to die in some nameless French village. But Napoleon had plucked him from the gutter and made him a marshal of empires.
Now he stood on the edge of another empire's birth — older, stranger — but no less inevitable.
"The old gods are dying here, too."
His eyes swept across the siege camp — the long lines of tents, the flickering banners. He could see General Beaumont drilling his Arbor Corps further down the ridge, shouting at his men in that half-drunken drawl. The Arbor boys had come a long way since the Reach — new uniforms, new muskets — but they still carried the wine of their homeland in their veins.
Duhesme allowed himself a rare smirk.
"Vive l'Empereur."
He turned back to the city.
The sun was rising, casting long shadows across the walls of King's Landing.
By this time tomorrow, those walls would tremble beneath the thunder of French guns.
By this time tomorrow, the lions would bleed.
"Fire will do to lions what fire has always done... burn them."
His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. For all the glories of empire, for all Napoleon's dreams of law and liberty, Duhesme had always known the truth:
In the end, there was only war.
"Let the new world be born... on the ruins of the old."
He turned to his men, voice cold and steady.
"Double the powder. I want those guns ready by nightfall."
The gunners snapped to work — their hands black with soot, their eyes burning beneath their shakos.
Above them, the eagle banners stirred in the rising wind.