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NAPOLEON
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The ruined throne room of the Red Keep stood in eerie silence. The wind howled through the shattered stained-glass windows, bringing with it the salty sting of Blackwater Bay. The remnants of the Iron Throne sat in a melted heap—a relic of a bygone era, reduced to nothing but warped metal and twisted swords.
In its place, at the head of the chamber, stood a plain wooden chair.
A seat for a ruler, not a king.
Napoleon sat upon it, his hands clasped, his sharp gaze sweeping across the assembled nobles, merchants, guildmasters, and maesters of King's Landing. The city's so-called elite, shifting nervously in their finery, their eyes darting between one another like rats trapped in a sinking ship.
They were afraid.
And rightly so.
He had seen their kind before. In France.
The men of Versailles had thought themselves untouchable, secure in their estates and palaces, even as the streets of Paris boiled over with the cries of the hungry. And then the starving masses had come, roaring for blood, carrying pikes and torches.
Napoleon had marched through those streets as a young artillery officer, watching from the sidelines as the revolution devoured its own creators. He had seen the guillotine claim the heads of those who had once feasted while their people starved.
King's Landing was no different.
The people were hungry. The docks and grain stores had been looted or burned during the siege. Already, the streets festered with desperation. A starving city was a powder keg, and these men standing before him—the lords and merchants of the capital—were sitting on top of it.
Maester Orwyle, an elderly man wrapped in pale grey robes, stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"Your Imperial Majesty," he began, voice careful, measured. "King's Landing is... suffering."
Napoleon said nothing. He let the man talk.
"The siege, the fires, the looting," Orwyle continued. "The grain stores were burned. The docks were pillaged. The people are starving."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber. A stout merchant with a scarred face wrung his hands.
"Without food, the streets will turn to chaos, sire. We've already seen fights over scraps. A hungry city is a dangerous one."
Napoleon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face unreadable.
He had seen hungry cities before.
The riots of Paris. The uprisings in Italy. The frozen desperation of Moscow, where starving men had eaten their horses, then their own dead.
But none of those had been his cities.
And King's Landing was now his.
He would not let it burn itself to the ground.
"King's Landing will be fed," he declared, his voice firm, absolute.
The room stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Ravens will be sent to the Reach—grain and livestock will be brought in. The capital will have its bread."
The merchant hesitated. "But, sire, that will take—"
"Two weeks," Napoleon interrupted. "Perhaps less. In the meantime, the army's rations will be shared. No man, woman, or child in this city will starve while I rule it."
A fed man was an obedient man.
A starving man became a revolutionary.
He had learned that lesson well.
The assembled lords blinked in surprise. They had expected something else.
The Lannisters would have tightened their grip, hoarded food for their own, let the rest starve.
The Targaryens would have answered with fire and blood, making the city suffer for its rebellion.
But Napoleon fed his people.
Because when a man was fed, clothed, and safe, he would not risk all of it for a dream of the past.
Another of his officers stepped forward, a major in the dark blue of the Imperial Army, saluting sharply.
"Sire," he began, "our scouts report that the Stormlands are in disarray. With Stannis Baratheon at the Wall, the lords who remain have fractured. Some fight for control, others have turned to banditry."
Napoleon's fingers tapped against the armrest of the wooden chair.
The Stormlands were rudderless—leaderless, fractured.
A lawless land. An open wound.
And wounds had to be sutured, before they festered.
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"Ravens will be sent," he said. "Every lord of the Stormlands will be given a choice—submit to Imperial rule, or be crushed beneath it."
The chamber fell silent.
The old way of ruling would have meant war—long, slow, bloody.
Napoleon did not wage old wars.
His campaigns were swift, efficient.
The Stormlands would belong to him before a single shot was fired.
The meeting ended soon after, the nobles and merchants filing out in hushed conversation.
They did not yet love him.
But they feared him.
And that was enough.
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Napoleon rode through the broken streets of King's Landing, his grey greatcoat trailing behind him like a storm cloud. His bicorne sat low over his brow, shadowing sharp features carved by war and ambition. The city still smelled of ash and death, the acrid sting of burnt wood and the sickly-sweet rot of unburied corpses clinging to the air. Beneath it all was something else—the stench of desperation.
Men and women stood in doorways, their hollow eyes peering from the shadows. Children watched in silence, their cheeks smudged with dirt, their bodies wrapped in rags too thin for the autumn chill. His men moved through the streets, distributing food—hard biscuits, dried meat, whatever they could spare—but it was not enough.
It was never enough.
He had seen these streets before. In Paris. In Cairo. In Moscow.
A city could survive war. It could survive fire. But starvation? Hunger ate at the soul. It bred resentment in the bellies of men, turned loyal subjects into rioters, revolutionaries, traitors.
The capital of Westeros had not yet turned on him. But it would.
Unless he fed them something more than bread.
Unless he gave them something to believe in.
And as he turned a corner, he saw it.
Or rather—her.
Margaery Tyrell moved through the wreckage of King's Landing as if she belonged there.
She did not ride. She walked. Barefoot, among the dirt and ruin, the hem of her gown brushing the filth-stained cobblestones.
She was a vision in deep green and gold, the color of life itself against the grey death around her. Sunlight caught in her curls, turning them into bronze fire, and her smile—soft, effortless—was not one of pity, but of warmth.
And the people loved her for it.
They flocked to her, whispering her name. "Margaery." "My lady." Hands reached for her, not in desperation, but in reverence. A bony child clutched at her skirts, and she knelt without hesitation, placing a gentle hand on his dirt-caked cheek.
Napoleon slowed his horse.
He had seen crowds cheer for emperors, for generals, for conquerors. He had heard them cry his name in triumph, in terror, in prayer.
But this?
This was devotion.
They did not fear her.
They adored her.
She did not give them commands. She gave them comfort.
And hope, Napoleon knew, was far more dangerous than any army.
He studied her, weighing the woman before him.
She was no fool. She played her part too well—the tilt of her head, the softness of her voice, the way her eyes lingered just long enough to make a beggar feel seen. She was not merely kind. She was calculated.
She fed the people hope, just as he fed them bread.
And yet, as he watched, Napoleon could not deny that she was gifted.
Blessed, even.
Not just with beauty—though she had that in excess—but with a presence that could soften walls, melt steel. Her face was not just fair; it was crafted for persuasion, her every expression an unspoken promise.
He had known many women—queens, empresses, lovers. But none like this.
She could be of use.
A bridge between him and the people. A face for his rule.
And perhaps… something more.
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The wind was cold atop the highest balcony of the Red Keep, carrying the distant murmur of waves crashing against Blackwater Bay. Below him, King's Landing slept uneasily. Fires still smoldered in the slums, and the shadows stretched long in the moonlight, but for the first time since the city had fallen, there was something resembling peace.
Napoleon stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp gaze sweeping over his city.
A month ago, this had been the capital of a dynasty—a city ruled by myths, superstition, and the brittle spine of a decaying nobility. Now, it belonged to him.
But victory was never the end.
It was only the beginning.
His mind was already shaping the next campaign, moving pieces across the vast chessboard of Westeros.
In the North, Beaumont and Duhesme were already on the march, leading Robb Stark and what remained of his bannermen to reclaim their homeland.
The Boltons would not last. They were butchers, not statesmen. Rule through terror had its place, but it could not last without the machinery of state. Their days were numbered.
When Beaumont reached Winterfell, he would do what he did best—turn warriors into governors.
The North would not be ruled by kings and banners anymore. It would be divided into departments, its people bound by law, not blood. Robb Stark would either serve as an administrator under Imperial rule, or he would find himself exiled like the rest of the old world's remnants.
It was the same across Westeros.
The Reach, the Westerlands, Dorne—all of them would be brought into the new order. Their nobility would be disarmed, their armies absorbed, their banners torn down. They could keep their titles, if they wished, but titles meant nothing without power.
And power belonged to him.
By the time Beaumont returned south, marching under the golden eagle of France, the whole of Westeros would be a machine, not a feudal mess—an empire of law, industry, and progress.
And then…
Maybe….. he would turn his gaze beyond the Narrow Sea.
A gust of wind stirred his coat, and for a brief moment, Napoleon closed his eyes.
His thoughts drifted—not to the future, but to the past.
To him.
To the son he had left behind.
The boy would be… what? Seven? Eight? A child, growing up in a world where his father was a ghost.
Had he been told of his name?
Did he know who his father was?
Would he ever?
A sharp breath left him, annoyed at his own weakness.
No. The past was dead.
He was here, in this world, and he would not waste his second life chasing the shadows of his first.
But one thing remained true.
He had built an empire.
Now, he needed someone to inherit the name Bonaparte.
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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
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The army stretched for miles along the banks of the Green Fork, its banners rippling beneath a cold autumn wind. Thousands of men—**Imperial veterans in blue coats, Stark bannermen in their dull northern mail, and Arbor troops in green—**marched under the same banner now. Not the wolf, not the dragon, but the eagle.
Night had fallen when they made camp. Fires burned across the rolling fields, a thousand flickering lights reflected in the slow-moving waters of the Trident. The Twins loomed in the distance—two stone behemoths straddling the river, still untouched by war.
For now.
In the largest tent, a map lay sprawled across a wooden table, its edges pinned by knives and pistols. Around it stood the architects of the coming siege.
Johnny Beaumont, dressed in his battered blue coat, leaned forward, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. His Arbor Corps grenadiers were seasoned men, but he had never liked sieges. Too slow. Too methodical. Give him a cavalry charge, a mad dash of bayonets, and he would be happy.
Across from him, General Duhesme, an old warhorse with a face lined like cracked leather, studied the map with narrowed eyes. He was a soldier's soldier—practical, brutal, relentless. The kind of man who could march his men through hell and back without losing a step.
And beside them, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, his cloak dusted with travel, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He had learned much in the past months—how to maneuver, how to think beyond honor and rage—but he was still young. Still learning.
And now, they stood on the precipice of war.
The Strategy
Duhesme's finger stabbed down onto the map, tracing the river's course.
"We must take the Twins. There's no avoiding it. If we march past without securing the bridges, the Freys will attack our rear the moment we cross into the Neck."
Robb's jaw tightened. He had fought in these lands before. The Freys had been his allies once, before the Red Wedding had shattered the North. Now they were no better than brigands, holding their castle like rats in a nest.
"How many men do they have?" Beaumont asked, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
"A few thousand at most," Duhesme replied. "Enough to hold the walls, but they're not soldiers. They're Freys." His mouth twisted in distaste. "And Freys are cowards."
Beaumont grinned. "I like cowards. They break fast."
"But the Twins are defensible," Robb said, his voice level. "Two castles, two towers. A bridge between them. Even if we have cannons, we'd have to hit both sides at once."
Duhesme nodded. "Which means we have two options: a direct assault, or a trick."
Beaumont flicked the ash from his cigar. "I like tricks."
Robb leaned in. "What kind of trick?"
Duhesme gave a thin smile. "We send a messenger under a white flag. We offer terms. Make it seem as if we wish to negotiate their surrender. While they waste time arguing amongst themselves, we send a detachment across the river in small boats under the cover of night. They climb the walls from the west, seize one tower." He tapped the map again. "The moment they give the signal, the artillery opens fire, and the main force storms the gates."
Beaumont's grin widened. A dirty trick. A French trick.
"I can lead the boats," Robb said without hesitation. "My men know the rivers."
Duhesme shook his head. "No. You're too valuable. If this goes wrong, we need you leading the main force."
Robb bristled, but Beaumont clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Stark. You'll get your blood."
He turned back to the map, tapping a finger against the bridge. "The moment we take one side, the other will fold. Freys don't fight to the death—they fight until they see a better deal. And when we take their keep, I say we give them a deal."
Robb frowned. "Which is?"
"We let them live… but take their name." Beaumont grinned, wicked and sharp. "No more House Frey. No more Lord of the Crossing. We burn their banners, seize their lands, and turn the Twins into an Imperial fortress. No feudal lord. Just a garrison and a governor."
Duhesme nodded approvingly. This was how the Empire worked. No unnecessary massacres, no pointless blood feuds—just restructuring.
Robb hesitated for a moment, but then he exhaled, nodding. He was learning.
Beaumont slapped the table. "Then it's settled. Tomorrow, we take the Twins."
Outside the Tent
The night was cold, but the camp was alive with quiet energy. Soldiers gathered around fires, sharpening bayonets, cleaning muskets, murmuring in low voices about the battle to come.
Robb walked through the rows of tents, his thoughts heavy. Beside him, Beaumont strode easily, his hands in his coat pockets.
"You're getting good at this, Stark," Beaumont mused.
"At what?"
"At war." Beaumont flicked his cigar away, watching the ember vanish into the dark. "You don't flinch at the idea of tricking an enemy anymore. You don't bristle when we talk about replacing lords with governors. You're learning."
Robb looked ahead, his blue eyes unreadable.
"I just want my home back."
Beaumont chuckled. "Aye. And you'll have it. But a home's no good if you don't know how to keep it."
The Young Wolf said nothing.
But in his silence, he was thinking.
And that was progress.
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The candle burned low in the brass holder, its flickering light casting shadows across the tent's canvas walls. Outside, the camp was alive with muffled sounds—the distant murmur of soldiers, the crackle of fires, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at his forge. The army was preparing for war.
Yet, within these four cloth walls, Duhesme's mind was far from the battlefield.
Seated at a wooden table, he ran a calloused hand down his face. He was a soldier, a veteran of a hundred campaigns, but tonight, his thoughts were not on strategy or siege weapons.
Tonight, they were on Desmera.
His wife. His love. The woman he had left behind in the Arbor, carrying his child.
He exhaled slowly, reaching for the parchment before him. The ink was still fresh, the words carefully written—a soldier's hand, rough but steady.
To My Dearest Desmera,
I write to you from the Riverlands, where we march to reclaim the North. The nights grow colder, and soon the land will be gripped by winter, but my thoughts remain warm with the memory of you.
How are you, my love? How is our child?
I wish I could be there with you, to see you, to hold you—to place my hand upon your belly and feel the life we created. It torments me to be so far, knowing you bear the burden of this alone. I swear to you, once this war is over, I will return to your side.
Tell me, do you feel the baby kick? Have the maesters treated you well? Do you long for me as I long for you?
The war will not last forever, my love. I will make sure of it. When I return, we will not speak of battles or sieges. No, we will sit beneath the Arbor's vineyards, beneath the same golden sun that shone upon our wedding day, and we will dream of a future where our child knows only peace.
Until then, my heart belongs to you, as it always has.
With all my love,
Johnny Beaumont
Duhesme read the words once more, his fingers lingering over the parchment as if he could somehow touch her through it.
He imagined her in the Arbor—the warm breeze stirring her golden hair, her hands resting on the gentle swell of her belly. Their child growing within her.
A child who would have a world to inherit.
He had fought many wars. He had served Napoleon, France, the Empire. But for the first time, he fought for something truly his own.
He sealed the letter carefully, pressing his signet ring into the wax. Then, rising, he stepped out into the cold night air, where a waiting soldier held a raven.
"See that this reaches Lady Desmera in the Arbor," he ordered.
The soldier saluted, and the raven took flight—carrying his heart with it.
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Henri Moreau
Known for Many Names, Spy for Napoleon
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The world was a harsh, unyielding place, and Henri had long since learned to harden himself against it. Love was a luxury he could not afford—a distraction, a vulnerability, a chain that bound men to their doom. He had seen it too many times: men who faltered in battle because their hearts were tethered to someone far away, men who died with a lover's name on their lips. He had vowed never to be one of them.
And yet—here he was.
Sansa Stark had been a girl of courtly graces and fragile dreams when they first met in King's Landing. A songbird in a gilded cage, untouched by the world's cruelty. But war had a way of reshaping people, and Sansa had been no exception. She had learned to shoot, to clean a musket, to survive. Yet, through it all, she had not lost herself.
She was still kind. Still gentle.
In a world of blood and betrayal, Sansa Stark had not hardened into steel. And perhaps that was why Henri had fallen for her.
He didn't know when it had happened. Perhaps it was the night she steadied his hands as he cleaned his pistol, her touch firm yet tender. Or when she whispered her gratitude after he saved her from the mob in King's Landing, her voice trembling but her eyes steady. Or when she kissed him, soft and uncertain, before the Red Keep fell.
It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he wanted her.
And tonight, he would have her.
The campfires of the French and Stark armies flickered in the distance as Henri led Sansa away from the camp. They moved in silence, their steps light over the frost-kissed grass, the night air sharp and crisp against their skin.
"Where are we going?" Sansa whispered, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity and amusement.
"You'll see," Henri replied, his tone low and warm.
He guided her past the last of the tents and into the open fields beyond. Above them, the sky stretched vast and infinite, a tapestry of black velvet studded with a thousand cold stars. The river shimmered in the moonlight, its surface rippling like liquid silver, while the distant silhouette of the Twins loomed on the horizon. Here, beyond the reach of war and duty, the world was still.
Sansa tilted her head back, her breath visible in the cold air as she gazed at the stars. "It's beautiful," she murmured, her voice soft with wonder.
Henri watched her instead.
She was beautiful—not just in the way poets and lords spoke of beauty, not just in the delicate curve of her lips or the deep, endless blue of her eyes. She was beautiful in the way she carried herself, in the way she had endured the world's cruelty and still found the strength to smile.
"You always find beauty in the world, even after all you've been through," Henri said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Sansa glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Someone has to."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of everything they had endured.
Then Sansa reached for his hand.
Henri let her fingers slide into his, the warmth of her touch seeping into his skin despite the chill of the night. She was cold, her hands trembling slightly, but she held onto him as though he were her anchor.
"I never thanked you properly," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"For what?"
"For everything. For saving me. For teaching me." She smiled faintly, her eyes glimmering in the moonlight. "For being kind when so few have been."
Henri exhaled, running a hand through his dark curls. "I am not a kind man, Sansa."
"You are with me."
The words struck him like a blow, piercing the armor he had built around his heart. He had never sought kindness, never thought himself worthy of it. But Sansa saw him differently. In her eyes, he was not just a soldier or a spy—he was a man.
Henri cupped her face, his thumb brushing gently along her cheek. "You have changed me," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion.
Sansa leaned into his touch, her breath warm against his lips. "Then let me change you more."
And then she kissed him.
It was not like their first kiss, rushed and stolen in the chaos of war. This was different. It was slow, deliberate, filled with the weight of everything they had left unspoken. Henri let himself sink into it, into her, savoring the way her lips moved against his, the way her hands curled into the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer.
When they parted, her cheeks were flushed, her breath uneven. "Henri..."
He didn't let her finish. He kissed her again, harder this time, his hands sliding to her waist as he pulled her against him. He could feel the rapid hammering of her heart against his chest, the heat between them growing with every second.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that this was dangerous. That he was tying himself to her in ways he could not afford. That love was a weakness.
But Henri ignored it.
Because for once, he did not want to be a soldier.
He wanted to be a man.
And he wanted her.
They sank into the soft grass together, the world around them fading into insignificance. The stars above bore witness as Henri's hands traced the curve of her body, as Sansa's fingers tangled in his hair, as their breaths mingled in the cold night air.
Every touch was a revelation, every kiss a promise. Henri's lips trailed down her neck, eliciting a soft gasp from Sansa, her hands tightening on his shoulders. She arched into him, her body trembling with a mixture of desire and vulnerability.
"Henri," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I've never..."
"I know," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll be gentle."
And he was.
Every movement was slow, deliberate, filled with an aching tenderness that left Sansa breathless. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his back as he whispered her name like a prayer. The world fell away, leaving only the two of them, their bodies entwined beneath the vast, starlit sky.
When it was over, they lay together, their breaths mingling in the cold air. Sansa rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. Henri wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as though she might vanish if he let go.
For the first time in his life, Henri felt whole.
And as the stars watched over them, he knew that love was not a weakness.
It was a strength.