_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The cannons had gone silent.
For two days, the valley trembled beneath the thunder of the French batteries — a ceaseless roar that cracked the heavens and shattered stone. The iron voice of the Empire had battered the walls of King's Landing, hammering at its pride, its legacy — its illusion of permanence.
Now, only smoke lingered. It hung heavy in the cold dawn, curling through the breaches like the breath of something dying.
The city still stood.
But it was bleeding.
Napoleon stood at the crest of the hill, the wind tugging at the grey folds of his greatcoat. His gloved hands were clasped lightly behind his back, fingers interlocked. The bicorne cast a long shadow across his face, but his dark eyes were fixed ahead — scanning the broken walls below.
A surgeon's gaze.
He saw the breaches — jagged wounds along the Gate of the Gods and the River Gate, gaping where the Gribeauval guns had torn through stone. Smoke billowed from the towers, black against the pale light.
The defenders had fought to patch them through the night. He could see the makeshift barricades, the flicker of torches along the walls. Men scurried like ants in the ruins, dragging rubble and broken carts to seal the gaps.
It would not matter.
All cities are the same in the end.
He had seen it at Toulon, when the British ships burned in the harbor. At Acre, when the Turkish mines blackened the sand. At Austerlitz, when the sun broke through the mist to find the frozen lakes choked with corpses.
Every fortress believed itself eternal — until the guns spoke.
The stillness pressed against his skin — that familiar hush before the storm. His heart quickened, though his face remained stone. He could feel the weight of the moment, the shape of victory forming in the air.
The city was already his.
It simply did not know it yet.
Behind him, the army stretched in perfect order — blue coats glinting beneath the frostbitten dawn. The Arbor Corps stood at the vanguard, green facings stark against their blue uniforms. Beaumont's wolves.
Further back, the artillery crews stood idle by their smoking guns — brass barrels still hot from two days of bombardment. The Gribeauval pieces loomed like beasts in the mist, waiting for his signal.
Beside him, General Duhesme lowered his spyglass. His lined face was half-shadowed beneath his shako, but his eyes were steady. He had been with Napoleon since Italy — a hard man, tireless, loyal.
At the foot of the hill, Robb Stark sat astride his courser — his wolfskin cloak dark with frost. His sword rested across his lap, his face pale in the half-light.
He was young.
Too young.
Napoleon's gaze lingered on him for a moment.
Let him lead. Let him bleed. The North must see him fight with his own sword.
A distant crack echoed through the smoke — a musket shot from the walls. The defenders testing the range.
Napoleon's lips twitched.
They were afraid.
His eyes swept the city — tracing the lines of advance, the killing grounds. He saw the plan unfold in his mind, a machine of flesh and steel grinding toward its inevitable conclusion.
Tywin Lannister would not waste men holding the breaches. No. The lion would pull his strength inward — barricade the narrow streets, force the French to bleed for every yard.
It was clever.
It would not be enough.
He could break the city in a day — shell it to ash, sweep through the ruins like a tide of fire and steel. But conquest was not enough. He needed submission. He needed a symbol.
King's Landing would not be destroyed.
It would be remade.
He lifted one gloved hand.
A slow, deliberate gesture.
The drums began.
Low and steady, rolling out across the plain. The sound crawled through the smoke — the heartbeat of the Empire.
"Beaumont... en avant."
The Arbor Corps stepped forward.
A thousand blue-coated grenadiers marched in perfect rhythm, muskets shouldered, bayonets fixed. Beaumont rode at their head — white mustache bristling, sabre bare. His wolves.
Robb Stark rode beside him, grim and pale — the Young Wolf swallowed by the tide of war.
Napoleon's eyes followed them down the slope.
They would be the first to bleed.
He needed the North to see it — to see their boy prince lead from the front, to watch him carve his name in blood.
War made kings.
The first shots snapped through the smoke.
Sharp cracks from the barricades. The French lines marched on, boots thudding in perfect cadence.
The machine began to turn.
Napoleon's mind shifted — gears clicking into place.
Pin them at the breaches. Bleed them toward the river. Then break them at the heart.
He could see the whole city laid bare before him — every barricade, every alley, every line of retreat. He would grind them down, piece by piece.
Like Acre. Like Jaffa. Like Moscow.
Geometry.
Fire and iron.
The Gate of the Gods fell by midday.
The Arbor Corps flooded through the breach, muskets crackling, bayonets flashing. The Gold Cloaks fought like cornered dogs — screaming for the king, for the lion.
The French killed them without a word.
Napoleon stood on the hilltop, watching the city break apart beneath him. His dark eyes tracked every motion — the ripples through the columns, the voltigeurs spilling into the alleys.
Then —
Fire.
A sudden flash of green erupted along the River Gate.
Wildfire.
It burst from the barricades in gouts of emerald flame — clinging to flesh, searing through steel. French grenadiers staggered, screaming as the alchemists' flame ate through their coats.
The assault wavered.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
Acre.
The Turkish mines. The desert wind howling through the night.
Fear was a weapon.
But only if you let it be.
His voice cut through the smoke — cold, sharp, unwavering.
"Formez les carrés! Avancez en échelon!"
The columns shifted — seamless, mechanical. The front lines split into squares, muskets bristling outward. The voltigeurs peeled off, slipping into the alleys. The fire burned, but the squares marched on — unbroken, inexorable.
Tyrion Lannister stood at his elbow, his mismatched eyes wide.
"They're walking into the fire."
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly beneath the shadow of his hat.
"They are marching through it."
By afternoon, the city was bleeding from a hundred wounds.
The Sept of Baelor shattered beneath the French guns. The Mud Gate fell beneath grapeshot. The defenders broke in layers — drawn into killing grounds, crushed beneath the weight of the machine.
Every barricade became a grave.
Every square became a hammer.
Napoleon pressed forward, always three steps ahead — his mind moving faster than the battle itself. He could feel the rhythm of it, the city breaking apart beneath his hands.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The gates of the Red Keep groaned as they gave way.
Johnny Beaumont leaned forward in the saddle, his gloved fingers tightening around the reins. The splinters of the shattered portcullis still hung from the hinges, smoke curling through the archway. The cannons had done their work. Two days of relentless bombardment had cracked the Keep's bones — now the wolves were going in for the marrow.
A grin curled beneath his thick white mustache.
"Enfin."
He clicked his tongue, spurring his horse forward into the courtyard. The Arbor Corps followed behind him — green-facings flashing on blue coats, muskets bristling. The best soldiers in Westeros... and not one of them had been born here.
Gunfire echoed through the high walls. Crossbow bolts rained from the parapets.
Beaumont didn't flinch.
The Red Keep — the last lion's den — would fall today.
He had stormed Vienna. Madrid. Rome. He had seen empires bleed out in their own halls. Kings dragged from thrones built higher than this.
The French made war like clockwork — every gear turning, every spring wound tight.
And today, the clock had struck for House Lannister.
A bolt clattered off the stones near his boot. One of his grenadiers cursed as it buried into his thigh. The man stumbled — then straightened, gritting his teeth, still marching forward.
Beaumont's grin widened.
Good lad.
He glanced up at the towers, squinting through the smoke.
The Red Keep was... nice.
For Westeros.
The high walls. The dragon gargoyles. The carvings. All very impressive in their own primitive way.
But he'd seen Versailles under the sun. Walked the marble halls of Schönbrunn.
He ran one gloved hand along the scorched stone.
"Bit small, isn't it?"
His adjutant — a pimply lieutenant named Durand — blinked at him.
"Sir?"
"The Keep." Beaumont gestured around the blood-streaked courtyard. "The Tyrells had bigger estates back in the Arbor."
Durand glanced nervously at the crumbling towers.
"It's... old, sir."
"Yes, well... so is the latrine behind my father's house, but no one writes songs about that."
The fighting thickened in the hallways.
French bayonets met Lannister steel in the narrow corridors — the clash of metal ringing through the high ceilings.
Gold Cloaks fired from the balconies, their crossbows snapping down into the press. French voltigeurs sniped them from behind overturned tables, muskets cracking in return.
The Kingsguard stood in the last inner sanctums — white cloaks streaked with soot and blood, longswords flashing in the torchlight. They fought well.
But fighting well never saved anyone from the French.
Beaumont moved at the head of the column — sword in hand, boots crunching on marble.
He paused beneath one of the high archways, glancing up at the dragon carvings curling along the walls. He traced a finger through the dust.
Gaudy... but not bad.
He'd half expected a throne room full of bear pelts and sheep shit.
He almost felt disappointed.
They reached the Throne Room by dusk.
Beaumont kicked open the high doors with a theatrical flourish. His mustache bristled as he stepped into the cavernous hall — the shattered remnants of the great stained glass window smoldering behind the dais.
The Iron Throne loomed at the far end — a blackened tangle of melted swords, half-shadowed in the flickering light.
Beaumont squinted at it.
"...C'est quoi cette merde?"
Durand blinked beside him.
"It's... the Iron Throne, sir."
Beaumont snorted.
"I thought it'd be bigger."
There were only four figures beneath the arches.
Tywin Lannister stood like a statue at the foot of the throne — golden hair streaked silver, his green eyes cold and sharp. His crimson cloak hung heavy across his shoulders, a longsword at his side.
Beside him stood Ser Jaime — his white cloak torn, sword drawn, his handsome face pale but set.
Margaery Tyrell clung to Ser Loras, her green dress stained with ash and blood.
No Cersei.
Smart girl.
Tywin's voice cut through the smoke.
"This city is still the realm's heart. You cannot take it with steel alone."
Beaumont smirked, stepping forward — his boots echoing across the marble.
"I don't need to take it, monsieur. I'm only here to clean out the rats."
Tywin's lip curled.
"You presume to speak for your emperor?"
Beaumont tapped his sword against his boot.
"I presume to speak for the man who has your city by the throat."
Jaime shifted beside his father — sword in hand, green eyes burning.
Beaumont's pistol was already cocked.
"No, no, mon petit lion." He waggled the barrel. "Stay where you are."
His blue eyes flicked back to Tywin.
"I hear you always pay your debts, Lannister."
Tywin's face was stone.
"What would you have?"
Beaumont's grin sharpened.
"Your life."
The pistol cracked.
The shot echoed through the hall.
Tywin staggered — clutching his chest — then slumped against the Iron Throne. His blood streaked the blackened blades, pooling across the marble floor.
The old lion... dead in his own den.
Beaumont twirled the smoking pistol, blowing at the barrel.
"Vive l'Empire."
Jaime's sword clattered to the floor. Loras lowered his blade.
Margaery stood frozen, her brown eyes wide.
Beaumont tipped his hat to her with a grin.
"Don't worry, madame. We French have a certain... fondness for queens."
By nightfall, the Tricolor flew from the ramparts of the Red Keep.
The last Lannister ships fled down the Blackwater — only to be torn apart by French cannons along the shore. The flames bloomed red and gold against the dark river.
The last gasp of House Lannister.
Beaumont watched the wrecks burn from the throne room windows, sipping from a stolen goblet of Arbor wine.
He walked to the Iron Throne — ran one finger along the jagged metal.
Rust and power.
He had seen better in Vienna. In Madrid.
The Lannisters had built their kingdom on gold and fear — but neither stopped the French.
He turned away from the throne.
"Burn it," he said.
Durand blinked.
"Sir?"
"You heard me." Beaumont spat on the marble. "It's ugly."
They lit the throne that night.
The Iron Throne melted in the same fire that had forged it — the black swords running like molten slag across the marble floor.
No more kings.
No more thrones.
Only the Empire.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The great doors of the Throne Room creaked open.
Napoleon stepped through.
The air was heavy with smoke and death — the last breath of a city that had fought and lost. The tall windows were shattered, the moonlight spilling through broken glass. Blood pooled across the marble. The stench of burnt flesh still clung to the scorched stones.
His boots echoed with each step, polished leather tapping against marble streaked with ash. The hall stretched before him — vaulted ceilings, high pillars, dragon gargoyles glaring down from their perches.
It was grand — in the way primitive things could sometimes be grand.
But it was old.
A tomb of kings.
His dark eyes swept the wreckage.
At the far end, the Iron Throne loomed — black, jagged, crooked. A twisted mass of melted swords — the seat where conquerors and cowards alike had ruled for centuries. The room seemed to tilt around it, as if the whole castle had been built only to glorify that broken heap of steel.
He had stood in thronerooms across Europe — from the palaces of Vienna to the Kremlin halls of Moscow. He had sat beneath golden domes and painted ceilings, where sunlight spilled through stained glass and angels watched from the heights.
But here...
The heart of Westeros was a pile of rusted swords.
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly beneath the shadow of his bicorne.
Appropriate.
Johnny Beaumont stood to one side, arms folded across his green-frocked chest, his mustache bristling with satisfaction. Tyrion Lannister lingered behind him, soot-streaked and silent — his mismatched eyes flicking between the corpse of Tywin sprawled against the throne and the small French officer who now claimed his father's city.
Only two prisoners remained beneath the high pillars.
The girl...
And the knight.
Napoleon's eyes fixed on them as he strode forward.
The girl was young — no older than twenty — her hair curling in soft chestnut waves over the torn green silk of her dress. She stood tall despite the ruin around her, her brown eyes wide but steady. The beauty was there, even behind the blood and grime — the kind that could topple kingdoms if paired with the right ambition.
Beside her stood the knight — Ser Loras Tyrell, sword-brother to the dead king. His white cloak was scorched, his golden curls tangled, but there was pride still in the tilt of his chin.
Napoleon stopped before them.
The girl swallowed — a flicker of fear breaking through her poise.
Good. They should fear.
He clasped his hands lightly behind his back, fingers interlocked at the small of his spine.
"Your names?"
His Westerosi was smooth — tinged only faintly with the rhythm of his native Corsican tongue.
The girl opened her mouth — but it was Ser Loras who answered first.
"Loras Tyrell."
"And I am Margaery Tyrell," the girl said quickly, her voice soft but clear.
Tyrell.
The last flower of the Reach.
Napoleon's black eyes flicked between them — weighing, measuring.
If he had been a man of this land, he would have cut their throats and salted the earth beneath them. That was how these nobles waged their wars — blood for blood, name for name.
But he was not of this land.
He turned to Beaumont.
"Strip them."
Beaumont's mustache twitched.
"I'd be delighted, sir, but perhaps not in front of the men."
Napoleon's mouth barely twitched.
"Their titles, Johnny."
Beaumont's grin faded, replaced by a wolfish glint in his blue eyes.
"Aye, sir."
Napoleon looked back at the Tyrells.
"You are no longer Lord or Lady. Your House is broken. Your lands are mine."
Loras stiffened — his hand shifting toward the sword at his hip. But Margaery's slender fingers curled around his wrist, holding him still.
Her brown eyes locked onto Napoleon's — searching him, testing him.
"And what will become of us?"
Her voice was steady.
Napoleon studied her — the fire in her eyes, the soft tremor beneath her composure.
Ambition.
He had seen women like her before — in Paris, in Milan, in Cairo. Women who could sway courts with a glance... or burn them to the ground.
He tilted his head slightly.
"You will live."
Margaery's eyes flicked in surprise — just for an instant — before she masked it.
Loras's jaw clenched beside her.
"A mercy, then."
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly.
"No."
He leaned in — his dark eyes pinning them both.
"A calculation."
He turned away from them, striding toward the throne.
His boots echoed through the shattered hall.
The Iron Throne loomed above him — a jagged silhouette against the pale light.
He stood before it... then slowly, deliberately, ascended the dais.
The weight of history pressed around him — a thousand years of kings and conquerors. He could feel it seeping from the walls... from the cold steel beneath his gloves as he ran his fingers along the twisted swords.
All this blood... for this?
He sat.
The metal dug into his back — the blades sharp beneath the thin wool of his grey coat. The whole structure leaned slightly to one side, as if ready to collapse beneath its own weight.
Uncomfortable. Unstable.
He shifted — feeling the prickle of iron pressing into his spine.
What kind of fool built a kingdom on something that cut its own master?
He stood.
Without a word, he stepped down from the throne.
Tyrion's voice broke the silence.
"The throne is yours now. The symbol of the Seven Kingdoms."
Napoleon's black eyes flicked toward him.
"A symbol?"
He glanced back at the jagged heap of blades.
"It's a chair."
Tyrion's brow furrowed — unsure whether he was being mocked.
"A chair men have died for."
Napoleon's mouth curled.
"Then they died for nothing."
He turned sharply.
"Beaumont."
The brigadier snapped to attention.
"Sir?"
"Bring the cannons inside."
The men murmured — uncertain, glancing to one another. Tyrion's mismatched eyes widened.
"Inside? But... the throne—"
Napoleon's gaze cut through him like a knife.
"A symbol, you said."
Tyrion fell silent.
It took four guns to haul the Gribeauval cannons up the marble steps. The bronze barrels gleamed beneath the flickering torches — the same guns that had battered the city walls now wheeled into the heart of its power.
Napoleon stood at the foot of the dais — hands clasped behind his back, face carved from stone.
The first cannon fired.
The Iron Throne shuddered beneath the blast. Metal shrieked as the topmost blades shattered, crashing to the floor in molten fragments.
The second shot struck lower — shearing through the blackened swords, splitting the throne down the middle.
By the third shot, the Iron Throne was little more than a twisted heap of slag.
Napoleon turned to the stunned faces behind him.
"There will be no throne."
His voice cut through the silence — cold, unwavering.
"There will be no kings."
He swept his gaze over the hall — over the bloodied nobles, the shattered pillars, the broken symbols of centuries past.
"This land will not be ruled by names or swords... but by laws. By merit."
He looked at Margaery Tyrell.
"By those who serve the people."
Margaery's brown eyes flicked toward the wreckage of the throne — then back to him.
For the first time, there was something like admiration behind the fear.
Her lips parted slightly — but she caught herself, lowering her gaze.
Napoleon's black eyes lingered on her for a long moment.
Dangerous woman.
He would have to keep her close.
The throne was still smoldering behind him when he stepped forward.
"Write this down."
Durand fumbled for his satchel, ink and parchment at the ready.
Napoleon's dark eyes swept the ruined hall.
"The Empire of Westeros is born."
He turned back to Margaery.
"And every flower... blooms anew in spring."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The bells of the Sept of Baelor had long fallen silent.
For the first time in centuries, King's Landing was still.
Only the black smoke curling from the broken towers remained as a testament to the siege. The bodies had been stripped from the streets, the blood washed into the gutters. The Red Keep stood battered but unbowed — its spires dark against the grey sky.
From the shattered balconies of Maegor's Holdfast, the banners of House Lannister had been torn down and trampled into the mud. In their place, the tricolor flew. Blue. White. Red.
Westeros had fallen.
Now came the harder task — to rebuild it.
They gathered in the Great Hall — what little remained of the nobility.
Lords from the Reach, the Vale, the Riverlands. Lesser knights and courtiers from the Stormlands. Few dared speak, fewer still dared look Napoleon in the eye. Those who had once ruled by birthright now stood stripped of their titles — prisoners of a world they no longer understood.
Tyrion Lannister stood at the front of the hall, arms folded behind his back, his mismatched eyes flicking between the French officers flanking the dais.
Johnny Beaumont leaned lazily against one pillar — one hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, his mustache curling with amusement. Duhesme stood rigid beside him, his scarred face carved from granite.
But it was Napoleon who commanded the room.
He stood alone at the center of the dais — his grey greatcoat draped over his shoulders, his gloved hands clasped lightly behind his back. The black bicorne cast his face in shadow, but his dark eyes swept the hall like a hawk scanning its prey.
He let the silence hang — long enough that the lords began to shift beneath his gaze, eyes flicking nervously toward the ruins of the Iron Throne. Only cold slag remained where the seat of kings had once stood, still scorched from the cannon blasts that had shattered it.
A kingdom without a throne.
A kingdom without a king.
Napoleon's voice cut through the hush — low, steady, absolute.
"There will be no return to the old ways."
The words echoed through the hall — a death knell for centuries of feudal law.
"You called yourselves lords because of your fathers' names." His black eyes swept the room. "You held power by the accident of your birth, while the people beneath you starved and bled."
He stepped forward — his boots echoing against the marble.
"No more."
A murmur rippled through the crowd — uncertain, fearful.
Napoleon's gaze cut through them like a knife.
"The realm will be governed not by blood... but by laws."
His voice rose — cold and sharp, echoing from the broken rafters.
"The Napoleonic Code will be the law of Westeros."
The murmur grew louder now — shocked voices rising from the nobles. Some spluttered in outrage. Others simply stared, unable to grasp what they were hearing.
Napoleon's lips curled faintly.
He had seen it before — in Italy, in Egypt, in every old kingdom that had fallen beneath his heel. The same men, clinging to titles that meant nothing.
Tyrion stepped forward — his sharp eyes flicking toward the French officers before speaking.
"And what... exactly... does this code of yours entail?"
Napoleon's dark gaze settled on him.
"Equality before the law. Freedom of religion. The abolition of feudal privileges. Property rights for all men."
A hush fell.
The old order cracked beneath those few words.
"You will be judged not by the names of your fathers... but by the merit of your deeds."
The nobles paled.
Napoleon's eyes swept the hall — marking the fear, the anger, the silent hatred boiling behind their masks. He welcomed it.
They would learn.
A man cannot fight the future.
Tyrion's mouth twitched — half in shock, half in admiration.
"You realize what you're doing, don't you?"
Napoleon turned toward him, his voice soft.
"I am building a world where a dwarf might sit among giants."
Tyrion blinked — then slowly bowed his head.
"Then perhaps... I chose the right side."
It was done by midday.
The lords were stripped of their titles — those who resisted were marched to the dungeons. Only those who pledged loyalty to the new order were allowed to keep their lands — not as lords, but as administrators beneath the Empire's rule.
By sunset, the first copies of the Napoleonic Code were already being written in the common tongue and High Valyrian.
The moon hung low over King's Landing — a pale crescent cutting through the smoke-hazed sky. The city still smoldered beneath its ruins, but the guns had fallen silent.
Napoleon stood at the long window of the ruined solar, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Below, the waters of the Blackwater Rush glimmered with moonlight, broken only by the hulking shadows of French warships anchored in the bay.
The Empire had come to Westeros — not as conquerors, but as architects.
Now came the true test — to shape the world in his image.
Behind him, the parchment lay waiting on the long oak table.
The Napoleonic Code of Westeros — written in his own hand, transcribed into the flowing script of High Valyrian.
It was law made flesh.
Article I. All men, highborn and low, shall be equal before the law.
Article II. The titles of lordship and nobility are hereby abolished. Only ranks of merit shall be recognized by the state.
Article III. The lands of the realm shall be governed by administrative prefectures, not by birthright.
Article IV. The Faith of the Seven shall be free, but separate from matters of governance.
Article V. No man or woman shall be denied property by the accident of their birth.
It was the death of the old world — written in ink.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Napoleon's dark eyes flicked toward it, but he did not turn.
"Entrez."
The door creaked open. He heard the soft rustle of silk — the faint scent of rosewater drifting through the smoke-stained air.
Margaery Tyrell stepped into the room.
She had bathed since the siege — the grime and blood washed from her skin. She wore a gown of pale green silk, high-necked, but thin enough that the candlelight bled through the fabric. Her hair hung loose down her back, curling at the ends.
A widow's gown — though her husband's body had not yet cooled.
Napoleon did not turn, but he felt her gaze settle on him. He could sense it — that careful, measured defiance behind the sweetness.
"You summoned me, Emperor."
Her voice was soft — steady.
He let the silence linger — a small cruelty. He had learned long ago that power was not always in what was said... but in what was withheld.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low — precise.
"You are the last Tyrell."
Margaery's breath caught — just for an instant.
"Would you have me thank you for your mercy?"
Napoleon turned at last. His dark eyes fixed on her — reading every flicker behind those honey-brown irises.
"No," he said softly. "I would have you understand it."
She blinked — just once.
Her mask was nearly perfect, but not quite.
Not to him.
Napoleon stepped forward — slow, deliberate.
"The lords of Westeros ruled by blood. They fattened themselves on the labor of lesser men, hiding behind their banners and their gods."
He paused, close enough to see the faint rise and fall of her breath beneath the silk.
"You were born to play their game." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I am here to end it."
Margaery's lashes fluttered — a delicate gesture, practiced to perfection.
"You think you can build a world without power, Emperor?"
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly.
"I think I can build a world where power belongs to those who earn it."
A long silence stretched between them — taut as a drawn bowstring.
She was testing him.
He knew that game too well.
"You spared me."
Her voice was softer now — almost conspiratorial.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
"I spared you because you are clever."
Margaery tilted her head — a slow, feline motion.
"And clever women... are dangerous."
His mouth curved.
"I have always preferred dangerous women."
Her smile flickered — small, knowing.
A lesser man would have been drawn to that smile. Would have chased it.
Napoleon only watched.
Let her come to you.
He could feel the air shift between them — the game changing shape, neither hunter nor prey but something far more delicate.
A negotiation.
"Would you have me as your prisoner then?"
"No."
His voice was soft — almost gentle.
"You will serve the Empire."
Margaery's breath caught. She masked it well, but he saw it — the flicker behind her eyes.
"And how would I serve... your Empire?"
Napoleon leaned closer — his breath warm against her ear.
"With your mind."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze — those soft brown eyes searching his face. For weakness. For desire.
She found neither.
Only will.
"You would make me a pawn in your new order?"
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly.
"Every queen begins as a pawn, Mademoiselle."
Her breath caught again — sharper this time.
He turned away before she could recover — his hands clasping behind his back once more.
"You are free to go."
He heard her breath falter — just for an instant.
The game was unfinished.
But she would return.
They always did.
The Northern March
At dawn, the orders were sealed.
Marshal Duhesme would lead the French columns north — two thousand men marching beneath the tricolor.
With him rode Johnny Beaumont — already drunk before sunrise, laughing as he swung into the saddle. Henri Moreau stood at his side, quiet and watchful.
The Starks rode with them — Robb at their head, his sword across his back. Catelyn and Arya followed in a battered carriage, bound for Winterfell.
Only Sansa remained behind.
Napoleon watched from the Red Keep as the columns wound north along the Kingsroad — blue coats flashing in the pale morning light. The Empire stretched its hand toward the North.
By winter's end, all of Westeros would kneel.
Tyrion Lannister stood beside him, squinting into the light.
"Do you truly think they will love you, Emperor?"
Napoleon's dark eyes never left the distant banners.
"I do not ask for their love."
He turned — the light catching the sharp lines of his face.
"Only their future."