_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
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The morning was thick with mist, curling off the river in ghostly tendrils as Johnny Beaumont surveyed the field. The two towers of the Twins loomed ahead, their stone walls damp with the chill of the dawn. A bridge stretched between them like a spine of an old beast, the only safe passage across the Green Fork for miles.
And soon, it would belong to them.
Beaumont exhaled a stream of cigar smoke and adjusted his coat. Beside him, Duhesme was a picture of calm calculation, his gaze fixed on the castle like a chess player about to make his move. Robb Stark, for all his brooding, looked eager, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword.
"Alright, lads," Beaumont muttered, tapping the map that lay across a makeshift table. "Let's see if these Freys are as dumb as we think they are."
The first part of the plan went smoothly. A messenger rode forward under a white flag, carrying Duhesme's generous offer: surrender, relinquish the Twins, and live under Imperial rule.
The Freys, predictably, squabbled.
Through a spyglass, Beaumont could see them bickering on the bridge, fat old lords with pointed beards wagging their fingers in each other's faces. One of them—probably the new Lord Frey, whoever the hell that was—kept shaking his head, puffing up his chest like a rooster in a henhouse.
"Bloody fools," Duhesme muttered, lowering his own spyglass. "They're wasting time."
"Good," Beaumont said with a grin. "The longer they bicker, the better."
As the sun dipped lower, the second part of the plan was set in motion.
Under the cover of darkness, Robb Stark's hand-picked men and a detachment of French soldiers loaded into boats, silently cutting across the river. The water was black, reflecting the moon like a shard of broken glass. No torches, no sound—just the quiet splash of oars as they drifted toward the western tower.
Beaumont stayed with the main force, waiting for the signal. His fingers twitched around his pistol as he paced. The siege was about to begin.
Then—
BOOM!
The entire fortress came alive.
"Putain de merde!" Duhesme cursed as a flaming barrel of pitch arced over the walls, smashing into the ground near the siege lines. A ballista fired from the southern tower, narrowly missing a group of Imperial gunners.
The Freys had been ready.
Some bastard must have sniffed out the plan. The moment Robb's men tried to scale the western tower, horns blared and the walls were manned with more men than expected. Archers lined the battlements, firing down onto the boats. The river turned into a churning mess of arrows and struggling bodies.
Beaumont clenched his jaw.
"So much for cowards," he muttered.
Duhesme wasted no time. "Artillery, commence bombardment! Infantry, prepare to storm the gate!"
The night erupted in fire.
Cannon blasts tore into the eastern tower, sending chunks of stone flying. French musketeers advanced in tight lines, returning fire at the defenders above. Stark's men who had made it ashore fought tooth and nail at the western walls, grappling with Frey swordsmen trying to push them back into the river.
"Alright, this wasn't part of the plan," Beaumont grumbled, snapping open his pistol. He checked the chamber, then slammed it shut. "So what's Plan B?"
Duhesme's face was grim. "We go in. Hard and fast."
"Now you're speaking my language."
Beaumont led the charge.
They surged forward as another cannonball smashed into the southern gate, weakening it. With a loud crack, the wooden doors buckled. French grenadiers rushed in, hurling explosives through the breach. The courtyard turned into a slaughterhouse of smoke, fire, and screaming men.
Beaumont shot the first man who ran at him—a Frey soldier with wild, desperate eyes. His pistol cracked, the shot hitting the man square in the chest, sending him toppling into the mud.
He drew his saber next, cutting down another poor bastard who barely had time to swing his sword.
Duhesme fought beside him, calm and efficient, his blade moving like a surgeon's scalpel. Around them, the French and Stark soldiers flooded in, overwhelming the Freys in brutal close combat.
The western tower was still holding. Robb's men had gained a foothold but were struggling to take the bridge. If they didn't move fast, the Freys might regroup and cut them off.
Beaumont made a split-second decision.
"Follow me!" he barked, grabbing a musket from a fallen soldier and charging toward the bridge. "Let's go before those bastards get their shit together!"
With Duhesme at his side, he led a small force straight onto the bridge. The Freys saw them coming and met them with a wall of steel.
For a moment, it was chaos. Swords clashed, muskets fired at point-blank range, bodies slammed against the stone parapets.
Beaumont parried a blade, then slammed the stock of his musket into a Frey's face, shattering his nose. Another man lunged at him—he sidestepped, driving his saber into the bastard's gut.
Then—
A warhorn.
A loud, booming sound from the western tower.
Beaumont turned just in time to see a banner fall—a Frey banner, ripped from the battlements.
A moment later, Robb Stark and his men poured onto the bridge from the other side.
The Freys broke.
Just as Duhesme predicted, they weren't fighters. The moment they saw the battle turning, they dropped their weapons and fled. Some tried to escape back into the towers, but the French were already inside. A few brave ones made a final stand, but it was hopeless.
It was over.
Beaumont exhaled, wiping blood from his face as he surveyed the battlefield. Smoke still curled in the air, the stench of gunpowder thick in his lungs.
Duhesme clapped him on the back. "Not exactly as planned," he admitted.
Beaumont laughed, taking a deep drag from his cigar. "When do plans ever go as planned?"
Robb Stark approached, blood on his tunic but a victorious gleam in his eye. "The Twins are ours."
Beaumont grinned. "Good. Now let's make sure no bastard calls themselves 'Lord Frey' ever again."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The battlefield was silent now.
The screams had faded. The clash of steel, the roar of cannons, the desperate cries of dying men—all gone. In their place was the quiet, grim work that always came after battle. The dead lay in the mud, some sprawled where they had fallen, others half-buried under rubble from the blasted walls. Crows had already begun to gather, black shapes circling in the pale morning sky.
Beaumont took a slow drag from his cigar, standing near the ruined gates of the eastern tower. His uniform was streaked with dirt and blood—not all of it his own. Smoke still curled from the shattered battlements, the last remnants of the battle clinging stubbornly to the air.
Behind him, Duhesme directed the men, barking orders in his crisp, measured tone. The dead were being separated—Imperials on one side, Freys on the other. Stark men worked beside the French, dragging corpses into orderly rows. It was ugly work, but necessary.
Beaumont exhaled smoke through his nose, watching as one of the younger French soldiers covered a fallen comrade with a tattered cloak. The boy's hands were shaking. He was barely more than a teenager, his face pale beneath the grime. Beaumont had seen that look before—too many times.
He knelt beside him. "What's your name, kid?"
The soldier blinked up at him. "Étienne, sir."
"First battle?"
A nod.
Beaumont reached into his coat and pulled out a cigar. He held it out, and after a moment's hesitation, Étienne took it with uncertain fingers.
"Take a breath," Beaumont said. "You did good today. Just remember—every man on this field had a choice. The Freys chose wrong. You didn't."
Étienne swallowed hard, nodding. Beaumont patted him on the shoulder before standing. The boy would get used to it. Or he wouldn't. That was war.
Duhesme approached, brushing dirt from his gloves. "The prisoners are secured. Most of them surrendered as expected. The surviving Frey officers are in chains. What do you want done with them?"
Beaumont flicked the ash from his cigar, watching as a group of captured Freys were herded toward the central courtyard. They looked miserable—some defiant, most terrified. The battle had beaten whatever pride they had out of them.
"Send the smallfolk home," Beaumont said. "They were just following orders."
"And the lords?"
Beaumont studied them for a long moment.
The Freys had caused enough damage to the North, to Robb Stark's people. And they had made the mistake of resisting Imperial rule.
But slaughtering them all was wasteful. And Napoleon did not waste.
He smirked. "Let's put them to use. Offer them a deal—they renounce the Frey name and swear loyalty to the Empire. If they refuse…" He shrugged. "Well, we'll need more cannon fodder for the front lines eventually."
Duhesme nodded approvingly. "Practical."
Beaumont took one last look at the field before heading toward the command tent. Inside, the maps were still spread out over the table, marked with ink and ash. The road to Winterfell lay ahead, cutting through the Neck like a scar.
He dipped a quill in ink and began to write.
To His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon I, Emperor of Westeros and Protector of the Realm,
The Twins have fallen. The Freys are broken, their fortress is ours. We will rest for a day to reorganize and tend to the wounded. After that, we march north.
Winterfell will be under your banner soon.
Your General,
Johnny Beaumont
Beaumont sealed the letter with the Imperial sigil and handed it off to a waiting courier.
"Get this to King's Landing," he ordered. "Send a raven."
As the courier went to call his ravens, Beaumont stepped back outside. The wind carried the scent of blood and gunpowder, mingled with the crisp bite of the river air.
The battle was won.
But the war for the North had just begun.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
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The sun had barely begun to rise over King's Landing when Napoleon woke.
The chamber was modest—by his standards. The Red Keep had been stripped of its ostentatious Lannister excess. No golden lions, no embroidered banners, no needless trinkets. Just a soldier's room, functional and efficient. His greatcoat hung from the chair, his boots stood polished by the door. A pistol rested within reach on the bedside table.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. Outside, the city stirred. The low hum of voices, the clatter of carts, the occasional call of a merchant. It had been two weeks since he took King's Landing, and already, the scars of war were beginning to heal.
A sharp rap at the door.
"Sire," came the voice of an aide. "A raven has arrived."
Napoleon rose, dressing quickly. When he opened the door, the young courier handed him a sealed letter, the Imperial sigil of his own design stamped in wax. Beaumont.
He broke the seal and read.
The Twins have fallen. The Freys are broken, their fortress is ours. We will rest for a day to reorganize and tend to the wounded. After that, we march north.
Winterfell will be under your banner soon.
A satisfied smirk tugged at Napoleon's lips.
Beaumont had done well. The Freys were pests, and now they were dealt with. The march to Winterfell would be brutal, but he had no doubt in his men. The North would be his soon enough.
He stepped onto the balcony, glancing out at the city. In the harbor, supply ships from the Reach were beginning to dock, their hulls laden with grain and livestock. Wagons were already rolling out from the gates, bound for the poorest districts. The people would eat.
A well-fed city was a loyal city.
But as one problem was solved, another arose.
Another knock at the door.
"Enter," Napoleon said, already expecting more news.
The aide stepped in again, this time with a second raven scroll in hand. "Sire, this arrived from the east."
Napoleon took the letter and read. His smirk faded.
Daenerys Targaryen.
She was coming. Sailing for Westeros at last. Her name had been whispered in the wind for years, but she had been a distant threat, a mere shadow across the sea. Now, she was real. She was coming with ships, with armies, with dragons.
He folded the letter and exhaled.
The war had only just begun.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Council in the Throne Room.
The ruined throne room was colder than usual. The Iron Throne was gone, reduced to melted slag. In its place stood a simple wooden chair. A seat for a ruler—not a king.
Napoleon sat with his fingers steepled, his sharp eyes scanning the faces before him. Tyrion Lannister, ever watchful, leaned back in his chair with a goblet of wine in hand. Varys stood by the shadows, his expression unreadable. Maester Orwyle, old and cautious, clutched his parchment.
And then there was Margaery Tyrell.
She sat gracefully beside her brother Loras, poised and calm, her green eyes studying Napoleon carefully. She had a habit of watching him in silence, as if trying to see through him. Napoleon did not mind. He found it amusing.
He tapped the letter against the table. "Daenerys Targaryen has set sail for Westeros."
That was enough to send a ripple through the room. Even Varys, ever composed, shifted slightly.
Tyrion sighed, swirling his wine. "Well, it was only a matter of time."
"How many men does she bring?" Napoleon asked.
Varys cleared his throat. "A formidable force, Your Majesty. The Unsullied—well-trained, disciplined. The Dothraki—a horde of savages, but deadly in open battle. And then there are her dragons."
Dragons.
Napoleon tapped a finger against the wooden armrest. That complicated things.
Loras Tyrell scowled. "She has no claim to this land. She thinks a name and old blood will win her a throne? We should burn her fleet before it reaches our shores."
Tyrion snorted. "Ah yes, let's anger the dragon queen before we even have a strategy. That will go well."
Napoleon's gaze flickered to Tyrion. "And what would you propose?"
Tyrion set down his goblet. "She will expect hostility. If we attack first, she will see us as another tyrant to overthrow. But if we play this carefully… if we send her a message, an offer, she may hesitate."
"A negotiation?" Loras scoffed. "You mean surrender."
"Not quite," Tyrion said. "We paint her as the aggressor. We offer her something reasonable—perhaps a place in the Empire, a governorship. Something that keeps her contained. If she refuses, then the people will see her for what she is: another invader, no different from the Mad King."
Napoleon leaned forward slightly. "Interesting. But what if she does not hesitate?"
"Then we bleed her out," Varys said quietly. All eyes turned to him. "She is strong now, but if she lands, she will need allies, supplies, stability. Her armies are large, but they do not know this land. If we deny her resources, break her supply lines, make every city a battlefield, she will crumble before she ever reaches the capital."
Napoleon considered this. War was not won in a day. If she landed, she would be at her most vulnerable. A prolonged campaign, where she was constantly harassed, weakened, and forced to fight for every inch… that was something he could work with.
"And the dragons?" Maester Orwyle asked, his voice nervous. "No army can fight fire."
Napoleon smirked. "No, but armies have fought dragons before."
Tyrion raised a brow. "Do you have a secret weapon we don't know about?"
Napoleon let the silence stretch. No, he had no weapon against dragons. Not yet. But where there was a challenge, there was a solution.
"We will prepare," he finally said. "We will send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen, offering terms. If she refuses, she will face war." His eyes flickered to Loras. "In the meantime, we will begin reinforcing the coasts. I want gunpowder stocked in every fortress to all of the coast of the crownlands. I want the engineer corps to build a specialized cannon for airial targets, I want trenches, I want everything ready. If dragons come, we will meet them with fire of our own."
Napoleon called for one of his old guard, "You, send me Bouldiviere of the engineering corps".
The guard then left for him.
Loras nodded, eager for action. Tyrion sipped his wine, thoughtful. Varys remained unreadable.
And then there was Margaery.
She had not spoken. She merely watched him. Assessing.
Napoleon met her gaze, holding it for a long moment.
Yes. He would need her for what came next.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The chamber was silent for a moment, the weight of Daenerys Targaryen's arrival pressing down upon them like an approaching storm. Napoleon turned his gaze toward Tyrion, fingers tapping idly on the wooden armrest of his chair.
"If she intends to conquer Westeros," he said, his voice measured, "where will she land?"
Tyrion did not hesitate. "Dragonstone."
Napoleon's fingers stopped tapping.
Tyrion leaned forward, placing his goblet on the table. "It was the ancestral seat of House Targaryen before Aegon's conquest. It is defensible, isolated, and within striking distance of King's Landing. If she seeks to establish a foothold, that is where she will begin."
Napoleon nodded. "How well is it defended?"
"Not well," Varys interjected. "Since Stannis Baratheon abandoned it, it has been mostly empty. A few loyalists, perhaps. But the castle itself is a fortress—thick walls, high cliffs, and only one real landing point."
Napoleon exhaled slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. He had fought battles for islands before—Corsica, Malta, Elba. Islands were fortresses by nature, difficult to take but even harder to supply. If Daenerys landed at Dragonstone, she would have a stronghold, but she would also be vulnerable.
Unless she had allies.
"Do the great houses still believe in her claim?" Napoleon asked.
Tyrion chuckled dryly. "That depends. Some will see her as the rightful queen. Others will see her as a foreign invader backed by savages. She will need more than blood to win their support."
Napoleon nodded, then leaned forward. "Then we make her an offer."
Loras scoffed. "An offer? What could we possibly offer her that she would accept?"
Napoleon ignored him and turned back to Tyrion. "What if we let her keep Dragonstone?"
Tyrion raised a brow. "Interesting."
"She wants a place in Westeros, a foothold. If we acknowledge her as the rightful Lady of Dragonstone, she gets that," Napoleon continued. "But in exchange, she renounces her claim to the throne. No war. No conquest. Just a title and a home."
Margaery finally spoke. "You believe she will accept that?"
Napoleon met her gaze. "I believe she is not a fool."
Tyrion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's a calculated risk. If she accepts, we avoid war. If she refuses, then she is the one who casts the first stone, and we can paint her as the aggressor."
Varys inclined his head slightly. "A clever strategy. But if she does refuse, and war comes… are we ready?"
Napoleon smirked. "By the time she arrives, we will be."
He turned to Maester Orwyle. "Send a raven to Dragonstone. Address it to Daenerys Targaryen. When she will probably land, Inform her that I recognize her right to rule Dragonstone as her family's seat. But if she wishes peace, she must renounce her claim to the Iron Throne and swear fealty to the Empire."
Maester Orwyle bowed his head and hurried to prepare the message.
Loras still looked unconvinced. "And if she says no?"
Napoleon rose from his chair, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
"Then she will be just another pretender to a throne that no longer exists."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After the meeting, Napoleon sought solace in the private bathhouse reserved for nobility within the Red Keep. The chamber was adorned with marble columns and intricate mosaics depicting historical conquests, the centerpiece being a vast pool fed by steaming hot springs. He disrobed and descended into the warm waters, the heat easing the tension from his muscles.
As he leaned against the edge, thoughts of his forces advancing north and the impending arrival of Daenerys Targaryen weighed heavily on his mind. The strategic complexities of holding the realm together were immense, and the uncertainty of Daenerys's intentions added to his burden.
The soft echo of footsteps interrupted his contemplation. He turned to see Margaery Tyrell approaching, her silhouette framed by the flickering torchlight. Clad in a flowing robe that clung to her form, she exuded an air of casual elegance.
"Your Majesty," she greeted, her voice melodic, "I hope I'm not intruding."
Napoleon straightened, masking his surprise. "Lady Margaery, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
She smiled, a delicate curve of her lips. "I often find the baths to be a place of clarity and thought. It seems we share that sentiment."
He gestured to the water. "Join me, if you wish."
With graceful movements, Margaery disrobed, revealing a figure that had captivated many. She slipped into the pool, the water rippling around her. Positioning herself at a respectful distance, she regarded him with keen eyes.
"These are tumultuous times," she began, her tone conversational. "The realm shifts like sand, and one wonders where stability will be found."
Napoleon nodded. "Indeed. Every decision feels like a move in a larger game."
"And you, Sire, are a masterful player," she complimented, her gaze steady. "But even the greatest strategists need allies."
He met her eyes, searching for the intent behind her words. "Are you offering your alliance, Lady Margaery?"
She tilted her head, droplets of water tracing paths down her neck. "I offer my support to those who can bring peace and prosperity to Westeros. My loyalty lies with the future of this land."
Napoleon appreciated her diplomatic response. "And how do you envision that future?"
She moved closer, the distance between them narrowing. "Under strong leadership that understands the needs of its people. A ruler who can balance power with compassion."
He raised an eyebrow. "And you believe I am that ruler?"
Her hand gently touched his arm, a subtle yet intimate gesture. "I believe you have the potential to be."
The warmth of her touch contrasted with the cool calculation in her eyes. "And what role do you see for yourself in this envisioned future?"
Margaery's fingers traced idle patterns on his skin. "I see myself as a partner to greatness. Together, we could unify the realm, bring about an era of unprecedented peace."
Napoleon studied her, recognizing the blend of ambition and allure she wielded so expertly. "Partnerships are built on trust and mutual benefit. What do you seek in return?"
She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "A place beside the throne. Influence to effect change. And perhaps, the ear of a king."
He considered her proposition, aware of the advantages and dangers it presented. "You are a formidable woman, Lady Margaery."
She smiled, a glint of triumph in her eyes. "I am a woman who knows what she wants, Your Majesty."
Their gazes locked, the steam from the bath swirling around them, shrouding their exchange in a veil of intrigue and unspoken promises.
Napoleon watched as Margaery moved closer, the flickering torchlight reflecting off the water's surface. The warmth of the bath surrounded them, but there was a different kind of heat between them now—one woven from words, glances, and the subtle dance of power.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Napoleon spoke, his voice quieter, more measured. "Your father, Lord Mace… I regret his loss."
Margaery's movements stilled, though her expression remained composed.
"He fought for his house, for his cause," Napoleon continued. "War is an ugly thing. Men die. Some deserve it, others do not." His eyes met hers. "I do not take pleasure in unnecessary death."
Margaery's gaze searched his face, as if weighing the sincerity behind his words. Then, she gave a small, sad smile. "My father was a proud man. He believed in the honor of his house. He would not have surrendered."
"No," Napoleon agreed. "And so he fell."
She exhaled softly, tracing a finger through the water. "His sacrifice must not be for nothing," she murmured. "If the old world is to be torn down, let it be replaced by something greater. A realm that is just, strong, and prosperous."
Napoleon studied her, impressed by the steel beneath her words. She did not weep for her father, nor did she demand vengeance. She understood.
"You are unlike the other nobles I have met," he said, watching her reaction closely.
Margaery tilted her head. "Because I do not curse your name?"
"Because you think beyond your grief," he replied. "You see the future, not just the past."
A faint smirk graced her lips. "Perhaps I simply know where the winds are blowing, and I do not intend to be swept away."
Napoleon chuckled. "Wise."
Margaery's hand found his arm again, her fingers light but deliberate. "Tell me, Emperor," she said, her voice softer now, more intimate. "What is your vision for this realm?"
Napoleon leaned back against the edge of the bath, considering his words. "The feudal order is finished. No more lords who bleed the people dry, no more petty kings clinging to thrones built on dust. Law will govern, not bloodlines. The strong will rise by merit, not by birthright."
She nodded slowly. "And you believe Westeros is ready for such a change?"
"They will be," he said with certainty. "Men fear change until they see its benefits. Stability, order, prosperity—these are what I offer."
Margaery studied him for a long moment, then smiled, a knowing smile. "A revolutionary in a conqueror's clothes."
Napoleon smirked. "You disapprove?"
"Not at all," she murmured, drawing even closer, her voice a velvet whisper. "I think revolutionaries are... dangerous. But also irresistible."
Her fingers traced along his forearm, her touch feather-light. "Perhaps I could help you, Sire," she purred. "Help you understand Westeros better. Help you bring this new order to the people in a way they will accept."
Napoleon exhaled through his nose, watching her with sharp eyes. She was playing a game, one he had seen before in courts across Europe. Seduction, influence, power—all wrapped in beauty and charm.
But Margaery Tyrell was not just a courtly schemer. She was something more. She understood the game of power in a way few did.
And that made her dangerous.
And very, very useful.
"You are an intriguing woman, Lady Margaery," he admitted.
She smiled. "I am a woman who sees opportunity when it presents itself."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The water rippled between them, the heat making the air thick, intoxicating.
Then Napoleon smirked. "We shall see, Lady Margaery."
Her smile deepened. "Oh, I think we will."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Days after
The workshop smelled of oil, burnt powder, and hot iron. The rhythmic clang of hammers on metal echoed through the stone walls, and the air was thick with the scent of industry. Napoleon strode through the forge, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the various projects in progress.
Before him stood Jean Bouldiviere, his chief engineer, an aging yet brilliant man whose mind burned with innovation. Beside him, covered in soot and sweat, stood his team of artisans and gunsmiths.
Bouldiviere adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. "Sire, I believe we may have something that will tilt the balance against these so-called dragons."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Show me."
Bouldiviere gestured to the first prototype—a massive cannon, far larger than any field gun, its barrel angled sharply toward the sky.
"This, Sire, is designed to fire at high elevations, using explosive cannonballs. But we had an idea," Bouldiviere said, his eyes gleaming. "With the help of your alchemists, we have discovered that dragon fire can be captured—if we coat our shells with it, the fire itself may act as an incendiary, able to burn even a dragon's thick hide."
Napoleon leaned in, inspecting the cannon with a discerning eye. A weapon designed to fight gods… it was absurd, and yet, entirely necessary.
"And accuracy?" he asked.
"Difficult at long range," Bouldiviere admitted. "But with proper training and calculation, a direct hit would be devastating."
Napoleon nodded, satisfied, and gestured for him to continue.
The second weapon was more familiar, yet still formidable—a rifle, nearly two meters long, thick-barreled and reinforced with steel. Bouldiviere lifted it, the weight making it clear that it was a weapon for specialists, not common infantry.
"This is a rifled firearm, using a special cartridge—one designed to pierce even the toughest dragon scales." He held up the bullet, a long, sharp projectile with a hardened core. "It moves faster than any musket round and can penetrate armor like butter."
Napoleon took the weapon from him, feeling its weight. He could already envision marksmen positioned on rooftops, in towers, in ambush, waiting for a dragon to swoop low before delivering a killing shot.
"And the last?"
Bouldiviere grinned. "Something inspired by the east, Sire." He turned and gestured to a long wooden device. Stacked neatly beside it were rockets, their bodies slender but menacing.
"Fireworks?" Napoleon mused.
"In a sense," Bouldiviere chuckled. "But deadly. These rockets are designed to fly toward their target and explode in midair, creating shrapnel and fire. Enough of them in a barrage… and even a dragon will struggle."
Napoleon exhaled, considering. "Build them all," he ordered. "I want men trained for each weapon. Cannons positioned along the walls, rifles in the hands of my best sharpshooters, and rockets ready to be fired in volleys. If a dragon comes, I want it to bleed."
Bouldiviere grinned. "As you command, Emperor."
A Message from the Stormlands
As Napoleon exited the workshop, a messenger rushed toward him, clutching a sealed parchment.
"Sire, a raven from the Stormlands."
Napoleon took it, breaking the wax seal with a flick of his thumb. His eyes scanned the letter quickly.
Several lords of the Stormlands were willing to bend the knee.
Good. The campaign in the south would not have to be a war of fire and blood.
"Send riders," Napoleon ordered. "Have them swear fealty in person. Any who refuse?" He glanced at the messenger. "Ensure they understand that resistance will only bring ruin."
The man bowed and hurried off.
Another messenger approached, this one bearing a different letter, marked with the sigil of House Martell.
Napoleon unsealed it and read.
The Martells of Dorne had sent word. They were coming to King's Landing.
To see him.
To judge him.
A slow smirk formed on Napoleon's lips.
"Let them come," he murmured.