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NAPOLEON
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The Siege of King's Landing
Third Person Limited — Napoleon POV
The first pale light of dawn bled over the Blackwater, casting the distant walls of King's Landing in a cold, copper glow. The morning air was still — heavy with the promise of blood.
The emmissaries returned at sunrise, their cloaks stained with dust from the long ride back. Napoleon stood at the edge of the siege camp, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the distant towers of the Red Keep. The gilded domes of the Great Sept shimmered faintly in the half-light — a false beauty hiding rot beneath.
The messenger dismounted and dropped to one knee. His face was pale.
"They refuse, Sire."
Napoleon's sharp blue eyes flicked toward him.
"Who commands them?"
"Tywin Lannister holds the city in the boy king's name. Ser Jaime commands the Kingsguard. They have sixty thousand men — Lannister soldiers, Gold Cloaks, what's left of the Tyrell bannermen." The rider swallowed hard. "Every gate is barred. The walls are manned."
Napoleon's face remained a mask. He had expected nothing less.
Tywin Lannister.
A lion grown old but still sharp of tooth. He had crossed such men before — men who believed their name alone could hold back the tide of history. Men who ruled through fear, through gold, through the weight of their blood.
He had broken every one of them.
King's Landing would be no different.
Napoleon's gaze swept toward the city — the tangled sprawl of towers and hovels, domes and gutters. The pulse of Westeros. The seat of kings.
Soon, it would be his.
He turned back to the messenger, his voice cold and clipped.
"Return to your regiment. The bombardment begins."
The first cannon split the dawn.
A thunderous boom rolled across the hills, shaking the earth beneath their feet. The shot arced high, black against the pale sky, before smashing into the outer wall by the Mud Gate. Stone exploded outward, showering the riverbank below.
A second gun fired. Then a third.
By the tenth shot, the air was thick with smoke.
Napoleon watched in silence from the ridge as the batteries roared — twenty-four-pounders, howitzers, mortars — vomiting death into the sleeping city. Each gun spoke in cold rhythm, pounding the walls methodically, as if the stone itself could be ground into surrender.
He could see movement along the battlements — tiny figures scurrying like ants, shifting ballistae into place. They would return fire soon. It would not matter.
Walls could be rebuilt. Flesh could not.
In the command pavilion, the air was thick with smoke and the bitter scent of black powder. Napoleon stood at the head of the map table, flanked by his marshals.
Marshal Duhesme leaned heavily on his cane, powder burns streaked across his uniform from overseeing the guns. General Johnny Beaumont lounged at the far end of the table, fingers tapping against his belt, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Marshal Ney stood like a statue, arms folded across his chest.
Henri Moreau lingered in the shadows — silent, watchful, his hazel eyes flicking between the map and the men.
Napoleon traced a gloved finger along the parchment.
"The Mud Gate will fall first." His voice was calm, precise. "The King's Gate by tomorrow. The Lion Gate will hold the longest — they will expect us to strike the north wall, closest to the Red Keep."
His finger moved south, toward the river.
"But the docks will be their lifeline. Duhesme — your corps will seize the Blackwater wharves. Nothing in, nothing out."
Duhesme nodded stiffly.
"Marshal Ney — your men will sweep the south bank, cutting the Roseroad."
Ney grunted his assent.
Napoleon's cold gaze flicked to Johnny Beaumont.
"General Beaumont… your Arbor Corps will encircle the Lion Gate from the west. I want your sharpshooters on every rooftop and hill within range. Show the Lannisters what the men of the Arbor have learned."
Johnny's smirk widened.
"Aye, Sire. We'll pick their teeth from their mouths."
Napoleon's thin smile flickered — gone as quickly as it came.
He straightened, his gaze sweeping the room.
"This city will fall. But it will not fall to fire and rape." His voice hardened. "There will be no looting. No slaughter of the innocent. Those who surrender will be spared. Those who resist will be crushed."
His blue eyes glinted like steel.
"We are not butchers. We are liberators."
The word hung heavy in the air.
Duhesme's scarred face remained impassive. Ney gave a curt nod. Beaumont's smirk faded. Only Henri's gaze lingered on Napoleon — sharp, searching.
Napoleon met it for a single heartbeat.
He would remember that.
"Go," he said at last. "King's Landing awaits."
The bombardment raged on as the sun climbed higher, turning the morning sky to pale gold.
From his hilltop, Napoleon watched the walls crack and crumble beneath the relentless thunder of his guns. Smoke coiled from the Mud Gate. The bells of the Sept began to ring — slow and mournful.
The people of King's Landing would know what was coming.
He could almost see them now — crammed into their hovels, clutching their children, whispering prayers to gods who would not answer.
They had seen conquerors before. Aerys. Robert. Joffrey.
But none like him.
Napoleon's gloved fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword.
This was not conquest. This was revolution.
When the gates fell — when the red banners of France hung from the towers — King's Landing would not rise again as a kingdom.
It would rise as something new.
An empire.
He turned to one of his aides.
"Summon the printing press crews we left behind in the city."
The young officer blinked, uncertain.
"Sire?"
Napoleon's smile was razor-thin.
"I will dictate the first proclamations myself."
By nightfall, the first breaches would open.
By week's end, the lion's banners would burn.
When the Red Keep finally fell, the bells of King's Landing would ring not for the boy king…
But for the Emperor.
Vive l'Empereur.
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Tyrion Lannister
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The predawn darkness of King's Landing was shattered by the deafening roar of cannons. Tyrion Lannister stood in his chambers, feeling the tremors beneath his feet as the city's ancient walls crumbled under the relentless bombardment. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and the distant cries of soldiers and civilians alike filled the air.
He had anticipated many threats to the capital, but the arrival of Napoleon Bonaparte and his formidable artillery was beyond even his most pessimistic calculations. The man had carved a path of conquest across Europe, and now his ambitions had brought him to Westeros. The Lannister forces, though numerous, seemed ill-prepared against such modern warfare.
A soft rustle drew Tyrion's attention. From the shadows emerged Varys, the Master of Whisperers, his usual calm demeanor betrayed by the tightness around his eyes.
"The walls won't hold much longer," Varys murmured, his voice barely audible over the cacophony outside.
Tyrion nodded, his mind racing. The politics of Westeros had always been a dangerous game, but this was a new board with unfamiliar pieces. He had no love for his sister Cersei's rule, and the smallfolk would bear the brunt of the impending slaughter.
"We need to leave," Tyrion said, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders.
Varys tilted his head, studying him. "And go where, my lord?"
"To Napoleon."
The Spider's eyes widened slightly, the only indication of his surprise. "You believe he would welcome us?"
Tyrion let out a bitter chuckle. "Welcome? Perhaps not. But he is a man of reason. He values intellect and strategy. We can offer him insights into Westeros, its politics, its people."
Varys considered this, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Aligning with a foreign conqueror is a dangerous gambit."
"As opposed to staying here and being buried under the rubble?" Tyrion retorted. "Napoleon's reputation precedes him. He is not known for unnecessary cruelty. If we present ourselves as valuable assets, we might secure not just our survival, but a place in the new order."
The Master of Whisperers sighed, a rare display of resignation. "Very well. I trust your judgment."
They moved swiftly through the Red Keep's hidden passages, Varys leading the way with his intimate knowledge of the castle's secrets. The sounds of battle grew louder, the scent of smoke and blood thickening the air.
As they approached a concealed exit near the city's edge, Tyrion paused, glancing back at the towering spires of the castle. Memories flashed before him—moments of triumph, of despair, of love and betrayal. He shook his head, dispelling the reverie.
"A new game begins," he muttered to himself.
Varys looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. "Pardon?"
Tyrion managed a wry smile. "Just contemplating the future."
Together, they slipped into the night, leaving behind a city on the brink of transformation, their fates now intertwined with the ambitions of a foreign emperor.
The road beyond the walls of King's Landing stretched into the open fields, where the dawn's first light cast long shadows over the smoking horizon. Tyrion Lannister rode in silence, his weary eyes fixed on the distant lines of the French encampment. The thunder of cannons had ceased for the moment, leaving only the faint crackle of distant fires behind them. Each step of his mule carried him farther from the city he had once thought of as his home — a home now crumbling beneath the weight of war.
Varys rode beside him, cloaked in shadow as always. His soft, measured breaths betrayed little of the fear that gnawed at Tyrion's own heart. But then, the Spider had always been good at masking his thoughts.
The camp loomed ahead, sprawling across the fields in neat, disciplined lines. Rows upon rows of white canvas tents stretched beneath the pale sky, with smoke rising from cookfires. But it was not the size of the camp that struck Tyrion first — it was the men.
No shining plate. No banners of ancient houses. No gold lions or prancing stags. The soldiers of the Grand Armée wore simple blue coats, their buttons dull brass, their tricorn hats or shakos tilted low. Muskets slung across their shoulders, sabres sheathed at their sides. They moved with purpose — erecting earthworks, sharpening bayonets, cleaning cannons. Even at rest, there was an air of order and efficiency about them that was utterly foreign to Westerosi eyes.
"What do you think of them, my lord?" Varys asked softly.
Tyrion watched a group of soldiers drilling nearby — a mix of young men and weathered veterans. No one barked orders at them. They simply worked in silence, each man knowing his place.
"They look like men," Tyrion murmured. "Not knights. Not lords. Just men."
Varys's pale eyes glinted beneath his hood. "Napoleon's army is not built on noble blood… but on merit. Every man rises by his own skill and courage — not the name he was born to."
Tyrion's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "A dangerous notion in Westeros… but one I've always found appealing."
A gun crew passed them by, their uniforms worn and patched, yet their hands steady as they loaded powder and shot into the black iron barrels. Tyrion glanced at one of the gunners — a boy no older than sixteen, his face smudged with soot, his eyes hard with quiet determination.
Ser Meryn Trant would have called him lowborn filth. Ser Boros Blount would have spat at his feet.
Tyrion saw a soldier.
As they rode deeper into the camp, the sounds of industry filled the air — hammers striking iron, orders called out in rapid French. The smell of black powder hung heavy, mixing with the scent of fresh bread from the field kitchens. Tyrion's sharp eyes caught the details — how each tent was marked, how the supplies were cataloged, how the wounded were tended to without question of rank or birth.
"They will win," he muttered, more to himself than Varys.
The Spider glanced at him. "You sound certain."
Tyrion nodded. "Men who fight for gold or glory will break when the tide turns. But men who fight for something greater… they are not so easily broken."
They passed by a line of soldiers practicing their drills — muskets rising and falling in perfect unison. Tyrion caught snippets of conversation in French — rough banter, laughter — but there was no fear in their eyes. No talk of retreat.
He had seen the armies of Westeros before battle — proud knights wrapped in steel, boasting of the blood they would spill. This was something else entirely.
Discipline. Purpose.
A republic marching to war.
"Vive l'Empereur!" a soldier barked as they passed — the cry echoed down the lines.
Tyrion flinched at the sound. It was not the mindless cheer of men following a banner. It was a prayer. A promise.
A man like Napoleon did not need songs or sigils to command loyalty. He simply demanded it — and his men gave it freely.
Varys slowed his horse. "I believe we are expected."
Tyrion followed his gaze — a group of officers stood beneath a blue-and-white canopy, speaking in low tones. Maps and papers spread across a table. Among them was a familiar figure.
Henri Moreau.
The Frenchman leaned against a gun carriage, his hands tucked into his blue coat. He looked different than the last time Tyrion had seen him in King's Landing — older, harder. The smirk still played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes… those eyes had seen war.
Tyrion guided his mule forward, clearing his throat.
Henri glanced up — and for a moment, the smirk flickered wider.
"Well, well," he drawled in accented Common Tongue. "The Imp of Casterly Rock… come to parley with the Emperor?"
Tyrion slid down from his mule with what little dignity his stunted legs allowed.
"I prefer 'fleeing for my life,' but yes — parley will do."
Henri pushed off the carriage, boots crunching on gravel.
"You're not the first rat to jump from a sinking ship, Lannister. But the Emperor does not make room in his camp for every coward who comes crawling."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "I'm not here to beg for mercy, Moreau. I'm here because I know this city better than any man alive. I know its walls, its tunnels, its secrets. I know how to break it."
Henri's smirk faded.
For a long moment, the two men stared at one another — the dwarf and the spy.
Then, slowly, Henri's grin returned.
"You always were clever… little lion."
He stepped aside, sweeping one arm toward the canopy.
"Come, then. The Emperor will want to hear what you know."
Tyrion swallowed hard, glancing once at the smoking horizon behind him — King's Landing breaking beneath the roar of distant cannons.
He turned back to Henri.
"Vive l'Empereur," he muttered.
Henri's smirk sharpened.
"Welcome to the new world, monsieur."
Tyrion limped beside Henri through the bustling French camp, his mismatched strides muffled by the damp earth. The morning light crept pale and uncertain over the fields, casting long shadows between the rows of tents. Cannon crews loaded powder charges, officers barked orders in sharp French, and somewhere in the distance, the deep boom of artillery echoed across the hills.
Tyrion's sharp eyes drank in every detail — the discipline, the order, the sheer scale of the operation. Napoleon's army was unlike anything Westeros had ever seen. No squabbling banners, no drunken lords swaggering on horseback. Just men. Soldiers. Purpose.
Still, even as he took in the strange new world around him, his thoughts lingered on the past.
On the girl he'd left behind.
His voice broke the quiet.
"Sansa. Is she…?"
Henri's steps slowed — just a fraction, but Tyrion caught it.
"She is free," the Frenchman answered without looking back.
Tyrion exhaled, the knot in his chest loosening. He hadn't realized how much he'd been holding his breath. Of all the betrayals and indignities he'd suffered in King's Landing, Sansa had been the one burden that weighed heaviest on his conscience.
The child-wife they had shackled to him — frightened, fragile, trapped in a game she never asked to play.
"You don't sound surprised, monsieur," Henri added, glancing sidelong.
"I'm not." Tyrion's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "If there's any justice left in this world, she was always meant to escape that wretched city."
He kept his gaze fixed on the muddy path, voice softer now.
"I never wanted her. Not like that. She was a girl… and far too old for me anyway."
Henri's laugh was low and dry.
"Most men would not be so noble."
"Noble?" Tyrion snorted. "I was many things to Sansa Stark — her husband, her gaoler, her shame. But never noble."
Henri glanced at him, his hazel eyes flicking with quiet amusement.
"And yet… you never touched her."
Tyrion's step faltered — just slightly.
"Only a fool breaks something he cannot mend."
For a moment, neither man spoke — the crackle of campfires and distant cannon fire filling the silence between them.
Henri's eyes softened, his voice quieter.
"She asked about you… when we left King's Landing."
Tyrion's head snapped up.
"She did?"
Henri nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"She was worried. Thought they might kill you for Joffrey's death."
Tyrion's mouth opened, then closed again. He had no clever words for that — no sardonic jape to deflect the ache curling in his chest.
He'd spent so long wrapped in bitterness that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be cared for — even a little.
"That girl…" Tyrion muttered, shaking his head. "Too kind for her own good. Westeros will eat her alive."
Henri's smile flickered — soft, secretive.
"Perhaps… or perhaps she will learn to bite."
Tyrion's sharp eyes caught the way Henri's fingers curled into fists at his sides — the way his voice lingered just a little too long on her name.
Ah.
So that's how it was.
Tyrion's brow arched, his mouth quirking into a crooked grin.
"You care for her."
Henri's step didn't falter, but there was the faintest flicker in his eyes.
"I am a soldier," he said evenly. "I care for my mission."
Tyrion chuckled under his breath.
"And I am the bloody Lord of Casterly Rock. Shall we trade lies all morning, or would you like to try the truth?"
Henri's jaw clenched — but he said nothing.
Tyrion's grin widened.
"I thought as much." His sharp gaze flicked toward the Frenchman, weighing him like a merchant appraising goods. "You're not the first man to look at Sansa Stark like she's something precious. But you might be the first who's willing to bleed for her."
Henri's eyes flicked toward him — hard, guarded.
"She is not yours to speak of."
"No," Tyrion agreed quietly. "She never was."
Henri's gaze lingered on him for a moment — searching, measuring — before his expression smoothed back into that easy, careless mask.
"We should keep moving," he said simply.
Tyrion smiled to himself but said nothing more.
They walked on through the maze of tents, the distant thunder of cannons rolling across the hills.
But the dwarf's mind was already turning — filing away the little cracks he'd glimpsed beneath Henri Moreau's armor.
Another man might have called it love.
Tyrion Lannister called it leverage.
Varys's soft voice broke the silence behind them.
"The world is changing, my lords. Old names… old houses… they may not matter much longer."
Tyrion glanced back at the Spider, then ahead to the sprawling French camp — to the blue-coated soldiers drilling with muskets, to the great black cannons aimed at the gates of King's Landing.
He felt the weight of his father's gold chains still heavy around his neck.
"Good," he muttered.
"Let it burn."
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The French command tent stood at the heart of the encampment — a canvas bastion beneath the cold gray dawn, draped in the tricolor and flanked by blue-coated sentries gripping bayoneted muskets. Tyrion Lannister's legs ached as he limped forward, Varys gliding soundlessly beside him. Henri Moreau led them through the guard posts, the soft jangle of his sabre and pistols filling the quiet.
Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the bitter tang of coffee. Maps sprawled across tables, pinned with iron nails — the death warrant of King's Landing drafted in charcoal lines. Oil lamps hung from the tent poles, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts on the canvas walls.
At the center of it all stood Napoleon Bonaparte.
He was smaller than Tyrion had imagined — barely taller than the Imp himself — but the room seemed to bend around him. His hands were clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the map. He did not pace, did not fidget. He simply stood, still as stone — and somehow, the air grew heavier in his presence.
A man who could break kingdoms without raising his voice.
Tyrion recognized two figures beside him. General Duhesme, his cuffs still smudged with powder from the morning's bombardment, and Johnny Beaumont, arms crossed over his breastplate, his red coat half-buttoned over his blue uniform — the wine on his breath barely masking the sharp mind behind those sharp eyes.
But it was Robb Stark who caught Tyrion's eye — taller than he remembered, leaner, harder. His mother stood at his side, her red hair streaked with silver now, her green eyes sharp as glass.
All of them turned as Henri led the new arrivals forward.
"Your Majesty," Henri announced. "Tyrion Lannister… and Lord Varys."
Napoleon's dark eyes flicked toward them — weighing, measuring.
The tent seemed to tighten.
Tyrion had stood before kings, lords, and executioners. He had bartered with the worst of men and drunk with the best. But this — this was something else.
He does not see a lord, Tyrion realized. He sees a knife. A tool to be sharpened… or discarded.
Tyrion forced a smile.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing stiffly. "I must say, your cannons have quite the voice. I could hear them singing all the way from the dungeons."
No one laughed.
Napoleon did not blink.
"Why are you here, Lannister?"
Straight to the point, then.
Tyrion's grin flickered.
"Because King's Landing is crumbling… and I would rather not crumble with it."
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
"You are a Lannister. Your house built that city."
"My father built it on fear and gold," Tyrion replied. "You're tearing down the walls. I thought I might help him finish what he started."
Johnny Beaumont snorted under his breath.
"Finally, a Lannister with some self-awareness."
Napoleon's gaze did not waver.
"You expect me to trust you?"
Tyrion's smile was small.
"I expect you to listen."
Silence pressed close.
Even the wind outside seemed to hush.
Napoleon's gaze flicked to Robb Stark.
Robb's blue eyes lingered on Tyrion — cold, cautious.
"He was kind to my sister," the Young Wolf said. "And… he is not his father."
Catelyn's eyes softened — just a fraction.
Napoleon's gaze returned to Tyrion.
"And what would you offer me, monsieur?"
Tyrion's fingers curled tight around the hem of his stained doublet.
"The game," he said softly. "You are about to break the oldest kingdom in Westeros. But breaking is the easy part. When the dust settles, the lords and merchants will crawl from the rubble like rats — smiling, lying, offering their loyalty while they sharpen their knives."
He took a limping step forward.
"I know those men. I was raised among them. I speak their language."
Napoleon's dark eyes bore into him.
"You would betray your own house?"
Tyrion's mouth twitched.
"My house betrayed me first."
He thought of the dungeons. The cold stone. The hollow silence where Jaime's promise had once stood. His father's voice — cold, cruel — pronouncing him guilty before the trial had even begun.
He owed House Lannister nothing.
"I offer you the whispers behind the walls," Tyrion said. "The debts. The alliances. The names of men who will bend the knee… and the ones who will slit your throat the moment you turn your back."
His mismatched eyes flicked to the map spread before Napoleon — to the cracked leather satchel resting on the edge.
"You have cannon. You have steel. You will take this city. But if you want to keep it…" His finger tapped his temple. "…you'll need something sharper."
Duhesme's lips curled in distaste.
"Spies and whispers," he muttered. "A rat's trade."
Napoleon's eyes never left Tyrion.
"And what would you ask in return?"
Tyrion's heart hammered in his chest.
"A place in the new world you're building," he said quietly. "Not as a lord. Not as a Lannister."
His eyes flicked to the blue-coated soldiers standing watch at the tent's edge.
"But as a man."
Another silence stretched — long and knife-edged.
Napoleon studied him — weighing, calculating.
"You seek power."
Tyrion's smile flickered.
"I seek survival."
Napoleon's gaze shifted to Varys.
"What do you say, Lord Spider?"
Varys's soft smile never wavered.
"I say… a man like Tyrion Lannister would be wasted in exile. Or dead."
The Emperor's dark eyes lingered a moment longer.
Then, without breaking his gaze, he reached down — plucked a blue cockade from the edge of the map — and tossed it onto the table.
Tyrion stared at the scrap of cloth.
A soldier's badge.
A place among the Empire.
He glanced back at Napoleon.
"You would have me in your service?"
Napoleon's mouth twitched — the faintest ghost of a smile.
"I would have you prove that merit matters more than birth."
The room seemed to breathe out.
Tyrion's fingers closed around the cockade.
He bowed low.
"Vive l'Empereur."
The words tasted strange on his tongue — but not unpleasant.
The officers echoed the cry.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
Even Robb Stark joined the chorus — grudging, quiet.
Tyrion straightened, heart pounding.
The old world was dying.
The lions were falling.
And for the first time in his life… Tyrion Lannister would help write what rose from the ashes.