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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
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The wind cut across the snow-covered plain like a razor of ice, howling through the distant trees. Winterfell loomed in the distance, its gray walls half-shrouded in mist, standing like a slumbering beast beneath the pale northern sun. The air reeked of burning wood, cold steel, and the faint scent of horses, mingling with the occasional whiff of cigar smoke from the French camp.
Johnny Beaumont stood at the edge of the encampment, his gloved fingers idly tracing the scarred grip of his sword as he watched the horizon. The red banners of House Bolton fluttered like bloodstained sheets, stretching far and wide. Their army, a vast ocean of bodies, 50,000 strong, had taken the field, an overwhelming force of infantry and cavalry.
He had seen such sights before—Russia, 1812. The endless snow, the bone-deep chill, the feeling of standing before an army too vast to defeat. Then, he had been a captain of the Young Guard, a mere cog in the Emperor's grand design. Now, he was a general of the Arbor Corps, and the weight of thousands of lives rested on his shoulders.
Back then, in Russia, the enemy had been the cold, the hunger, the relentless skirmishes that bled them dry. Here, it was different—this was a battle they could win.
But they had to be smarter, faster, deadlier.
Beaumont exhaled, a thin stream of smoke curling from his lips, before turning on his heel and making his way to the command tent.
Inside the tent, the warmth of a brazier did little to fight the cold that seeped through the fabric walls. The glow cast long shadows on the faces of those gathered around the war table, their breath misting in the frigid air.
Duhesme stood opposite him, his sharp eyes scanning the map, tracing the battlefield with a leather-gloved finger.
Robb Stark stood beside his mother, his jaw clenched, his blue eyes like frozen steel. Catelyn Stark, wrapped in a heavy cloak, watched with a quiet intensity, her hands folded tightly before her.
Arya sat at the edge of the tent, her eyes darting between the men, restless, eager, her fingers twitching as if she longed to hold a weapon. Sansa sat beside her, silent, expression unreadable, her hands clasped together, as if trying to steady herself.
Henri Moreau leaned against the side of the table, his young face calm but his eyes sharp as a hawk's. He had been listening, calculating. He was good at that.
Beaumont's voice cut through the tension.
"The Boltons have come to bury us under sheer numbers." He tapped the map. "50,000 men. Their cavalry is their hammer. They mean to break us in one decisive charge."
Duhesme nodded, his fingers tightening over the hilt of his sword. "They expect us to fight like fools. They think we'll stretch our lines, try to hold a wide front."
Robb exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "If we fight them head-on, we lose."
Beaumont smirked, flicking the ash from his cigar onto the frost-rimed floor. "Then we won't fight them head-on."
Duhesme pressed the tip of a dagger against the map, marking their position.
"We turn their numbers against them," he said. "We make them bleed for every step forward."
He traced a line through the forest to the west."We set traps—deep trenches, sharpened stakes, hidden ditches to break their charge. The Boltons rely on their cavalry. If we slow them, we take away their greatest advantage."
Beaumont gestured to the open ground before them. "Our first line will be a feint—light infantry, dragoons. We let them think they're pushing us back. Once they commit, we fall back to the second line."
Duhesme pointed at the hills behind their position. "And that is where we hold. Our artillery will be hidden there, out of sight."
Henri leaned forward. "The moment the Boltons are locked in combat, we unleash hell."
Beaumont grinned, his teeth flashing white against the cold. "Grapeshot. At close range."
Robb stared at the map, nodding. "A slaughter."
Catelyn frowned. "And if they do not charge blindly?"
Duhesme's gaze darkened. "Then we make them."
Henri tapped the eastern ridges. "If they hesitate, we send dragoons to harass their flanks, force them into our kill zone."
Beaumont crushed the ember of his cigar against the table, eyes glinting. "We don't just hold the line. We break them."
Robb straightened, his hand tightening around his sword. He looked to his mother, then at his sisters. Sansa's gaze met his, unreadable. Arya's fists clenched. She wanted to fight.
Robb turned back to the French generals, his voice steady.
"Then we hold."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The war tent had emptied, its occupants dispersing into the cold afternoon to prepare for the coming battle. Outside, the French and Northern soldiers moved with quiet efficiency, digging trenches, setting stakes, reinforcing their positions as the scent of smoke and damp earth filled the air.
Johnny Beaumont stood at the edge of the camp, his coat pulled tightly around him, a fresh cigar between his fingers. The sky overhead was a dull gray, the sun struggling to pierce the thick clouds. Snow crunched behind him, and he turned to see Robb Stark approaching.
The young Stark looked tired but resolute, his wolfskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He stopped beside Beaumont, staring at the distant treeline where the Bolton banners rippled in the wind.
For a moment, they stood in silence, watching the preparations unfold.
"You're young for a general," Robb finally said.
Beaumont smirked, exhaling a plume of smoke. "And you were young for a king."
Robb huffed a quiet chuckle. "Fair enough." He glanced at Beaumont. "Did you always want this? To lead men into battle?"
Beaumont thought for a moment, his eyes drifting over the snow-covered field.
"No," he admitted. "I was a soldier, yes, but I never thought I'd be standing here, leading an army in a land so far from home. When I was your age, I was just a captain of the Young Guard, following orders, fighting battles that weren't mine to decide." He tapped the cigar against his boot, knocking off the ash. "But war… war has a way of choosing men, not the other way around."
Robb nodded, his expression pensive. "It does." He let out a slow breath. "After this war… after the Boltons are gone, and the North is free again—what then? What do you plan to do?"
Beaumont smirked. "You're asking if I plan to pack my bags and go home?"
Robb shrugged. "Something like that."
Beaumont took a long drag of his cigar before answering. "I'm not sure. Napoleon's vision… it changes things. Before, I thought I fought for France. Now, I fight for something larger. Maybe I'll stay. Maybe I'll go where the Emperor needs me next or with my wife, Desmera. And you?"
Robb hesitated, his gaze darkening. "I wanted peace once. A home, a family. But I know now that war doesn't end just because I want it to. If I survive this…" he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don't know. The North needs to rebuild, but after everything, I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to put the sword down."
Beaumont studied him for a moment before speaking. "You'll have to, one day. No man can be a warrior forever."
Robb glanced at him. "Even you?"
Beaumont chuckled. "Even me."
Beaumont took another slow drag of his cigar, the tip glowing faintly in the cold air. His gaze drifted beyond the camp, toward the snow-covered horizon. The thought of war never truly ending weighed heavy, but for the first time in a long while, he had something beyond battle to return to.
"Truth be told, if I could choose, I'd like to see the Arbor again," he said, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. "To see my wife, Lady Desmera… and our child."
Robb turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "Your child?"
Beaumont smirked. "By the time this war is over, she may have already given birth." A wistful look crossed his face, one that rarely appeared on the hardened general. "I'd love to see them both, hold my son or daughter in my arms. After all this bloodshed, a part of me wonders if I deserve it… but I hope for it all the same."
Robb studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That's a good dream, Beaumont. A better one than war."
Beaumont exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the cold northern wind. "Yeah," he murmured, "but first, we survive this."
Robb chuckled. "Aye. First, we survive."
Another silence fell between them before Beaumont spoke again, his voice lighter this time.
"What do you think of the Emperor?"
Robb stiffened slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Honestly?"
Beaumont nodded. "Honestly. If it's bad, I won't hold it against you."
Robb exhaled, crossing his arms. "He is… difficult to understand. He conquered my homeland, but he does not act like a conqueror. He took King's Landing, but he does not sit a throne. He speaks of order and unity, but he fights war after war. I don't know what he truly wants."
Beaumont smirked. "Not many do. But I can tell you this—he doesn't fight for a crown. He fights for something bigger, even if most men can't see it yet."
Robb frowned. "And what do you believe?"
Beaumont's gaze flickered toward the snowy horizon. "I believe in him. I've seen him turn chaos into order, take shattered lands and make them whole again. He is not a perfect man, but he is a great one."
Robb considered that for a moment before nodding. "Then I hope your belief is not misplaced."
Beaumont grinned. "Time will tell."
Robb tilted his head slightly, studying him. "And what do you think of my family?"
Beaumont raised a brow. "That's a broad question. Your mother? A strong woman. Smarter than most men. Your sister Arya? Wild, fierce. She's got a warrior's heart, no doubt about it." He paused, then smirked. "And Sansa?"
Robb's expression turned unreadable. "Yes. What do you think of her?"
Beaumont exhaled, glancing away. "She's… not what I expected. When I first saw her, I thought she was fragile, delicate—too much a lady for war. But there's steel in her, even if she doesn't know it yet. She's endured much, and yet she stands." He took another drag of his cigar. "I respect that."
Robb nodded, his expression thoughtful. "And my mother?"
Beaumont chuckled. "She reminds me of women back home. The kind that keep men like us from losing ourselves in war."
Robb smirked at that. "She would take that as a compliment."
Beaumont flicked the last of his cigar into the snow, watching the ember die against the frost.
"Well, Stark, if we both survive this, perhaps we'll share a drink and talk about something other than war."
Robb chuckled. "I'd like that, Beaumont."
The two men stood in companionable silence for a moment longer before Robb turned away, heading back toward his camp.
Beaumont watched him go, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful.
"Maybe," he murmured to himself, "we'll both get to see the world after the war."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Henri Moreau
Known for Many Names, Spy for Napoleon
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The wind was sharp, carrying the scent of pine and frost as it swept across the snowy plain. Henri Moreau pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, though the cold barely registered. His breath curled in the air like a ghost as he stood at the edge of the rise, gazing down at Winterfell.
The ancient fortress loomed in the distance, its grey stone walls dusted with snow, standing solemn and unyielding against the encroaching twilight. Fires flickered along the battlements where the Bolton men stood watch, their banners of flayed men swaying in the frigid breeze.
Beside him, Sansa Stark stood quiet, her auburn hair tucked beneath the fur-lined hood of her cloak. She had hardly spoken since they left the war tent, her hands clasped together as she stared at her home—her stolen home.
Henri turned his head slightly, watching her, studying the way the fading light played across her face. She looked so different from the girl he had first met in King's Landing—then, she had been fragile, like a bird trapped in a cage of gold and thorns. But now… now there was steel beneath the soft beauty, a quiet strength that had been forged in fire.
"You'll have it back soon," he murmured, nodding toward Winterfell. "Your home."
Sansa exhaled, her breath white in the air. "It doesn't feel real."
Henri hesitated, then asked, "And when it is? When the battle is won, and the Boltons are gone—what then?"
She turned to him, her blue eyes searching his. "I… I don't know," she admitted. "I used to dream of coming home, but I never imagined it like this. There will be so much to rebuild, so many wounds to mend."
Henri nodded. He understood that feeling—winning a battle was one thing, but rebuilding after the war… that was another entirely.
Sansa glanced back at the castle, then at him. "And you? What will you do when this is over?"
He hesitated, caught off guard by the question. For so long, his life had been war—first in Napoleon's army, then in Westeros. He had never thought much about what lay beyond it.
"I don't know," he admitted with a small, self-deprecating smile. "Perhaps I'll keep fighting. Perhaps I'll finally put down my musket and try to live as a man, not just a soldier." He exhaled, glancing at her. "What do you think I should do?"
Sansa studied him for a long moment, then stepped closer. The cold wind carried the scent of her hair—something faintly floral beneath the crisp northern air.
"I think," she said softly, "that you deserve more than war, Henri."
He swallowed, caught in the warmth of her gaze despite the biting chill around them.
"And if I wanted to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "If I wanted to see what life in the North could be… with you?"
Sansa's lips parted slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes. A flush of pink colored her cheeks—not from the cold this time. She looked down for a moment, as if considering, before meeting his gaze again.
"Then I think I would not mind that at all."
Henri felt something shift in his chest—something warm, something real. He reached for her hand, hesitating only briefly before taking it in his own. Her fingers were cool but steady, wrapping gently around his.
For the first time in a long while, Henri Moreau thought that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth fighting for beyond the battlefield.
The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable but charged with something unspoken. Henri could feel the warmth of Sansa's hand in his own, even through their gloves, a stark contrast to the cold air biting at their faces.
Then—
"Are you two going to kiss, or should I come back later?"
Henri startled slightly, instinctively releasing Sansa's hand as a sharp, teasing voice cut through the moment. He turned to see Arya Stark standing a few paces away, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. The hood of her cloak was down, and the wind tousled her dark hair, making her look even more mischievous.
Sansa let out a quiet sigh, though Henri didn't miss the faint color deepening on her cheeks. "Arya."
"What?" Arya grinned, stepping closer. "I mean, it was all very dramatic—standing together in the cold, looking out at Winterfell like some tragic love story."
Henri chuckled, shaking his head. "You have an excellent sense of timing, Arya."
"I know." She smirked. "It's a gift."
Sansa rolled her eyes but said nothing, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
Henri exhaled, his breath visible in the frigid air. "Since you're here, I suppose I should ask you the same question I asked your sister."
Arya raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"What will you do when this is over? When Winterfell is yours again?"
Arya tilted her head slightly, considering. For a moment, the usual fire in her expression dimmed, replaced by something deeper—thoughtful, uncertain.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't want to sit around in a castle, if that's what you're asking."
Henri chuckled. "I had a feeling."
Arya smirked. "I want to find my brothers—Bran and Rickon. If they're alive, I have to know."
A shadow crossed Sansa's face, but she said nothing. Henri nodded. He had heard of the younger Stark boys, lost when the Boltons took the castle. It was a cruel thing, for a family already torn apart by war.
"And if you find them?" Henri pressed gently.
Arya shrugged. "Then maybe I'll go see the world. I don't want to be stuck in one place. I want to see what's beyond the North, beyond Westeros. Maybe Essos, maybe somewhere farther. There has to be more than this."
Henri studied her, admiring the determination in her voice. "You have a traveler's heart."
Arya smirked. "And you? Are you going to stay here forever, making eyes at my sister?"
Sansa shot her a glare, but Henri only laughed. "I suppose that depends." He glanced at Sansa, catching her gaze for a fleeting moment before looking back at Arya. "Would that bother you?"
Arya snorted. "As long as you don't bore her to death, I don't care."
Sansa huffed. "I think that's quite enough from you."
Arya grinned. "Fine, fine. I'll leave you lovebirds to your brooding."
With that, she turned and strode off, kicking at the snow as she went.
Henri watched her go, amusement flickering in his eyes before turning back to Sansa.
"She's quite something."
Sansa exhaled. "You have no idea."
They stood in silence again, the moment between them not quite lost, only shifted. Below, Winterfell remained in the hands of the enemy, but for now—for this moment—it belonged to them.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste Duhesme
Napoleon's Marshall
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The cold bit deep. Even beneath layers of wool and fur, it sank into Duhesme's bones, the kind of cold that never truly left a man. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stood outside his tent, staring at the white-blanketed fields stretching before him. In the distance, Winterfell's gray towers loomed, its ancient walls dark against the pale sky.
Duhesme had never thought about what came after.
From the moment he had woken in this strange world, he had fought. For the Emperor. For France. For victory. Always forward, never stopping to think of himself. But now, with war on the horizon once more, something had changed.
Perhaps it was this land—the Reach, warm and fertile, had called to him more than he'd expected. A manor of his own, nestled among the vineyards, with rolling hills and golden fields stretching far beyond sight. A place to rest. A place to finally live.
He exhaled, breath curling in the frigid air. But first, one last battle.
A horn blew in the distance, deep and resonant, shaking him from his thoughts. The Boltons were moving.
Midday – The Battle Begins
The battlefield stretched wide, a frozen wasteland between the two armies. On the far side, the Bolton banners whipped violently in the wind, thousands of men clad in red and black standing in disciplined ranks. Their cavalry—the true hammer of their force—formed up on the flanks, destriers stamping impatiently in the snow.
50,000 strong.
The French stood opposite them, a mere 18,000. No natural defenses. No walls. No rivers to anchor their lines. Just discipline, steel, and firepower.
Duhesme rode to the front, his horse snorting, breath misting in the chill air. He raised his spyglass. The Bolton cavalry was shifting. Good. That meant they were growing impatient.
Beaumont rode up beside him, cigar clenched between his teeth, a smirk playing at his lips. "They'll come soon. They think they can end this in one charge."
Duhesme snapped his spyglass shut. "Then let them try."
The signal was given.
French drummers began their steady rhythm. The first line of skirmishers—light infantry and dragoons—moved forward, forming up just as planned. It was a fragile line, meant to look weak. Meant to invite attack.
Then, from the Bolton side, another horn.
The ground began to tremble.
A wall of cavalry thundered forward, lances lowered, banners streaming. The charge was a monstrous thing, hooves pounding against the snow, sending up plumes of white mist as thousands of riders surged toward the French front.
Duhesme barely moved.
Closer.
The French front held their ground, muskets raised, fingers tight on the triggers. The drummers did not falter. The ranks did not waver.
Closer.
Then—
"Fire!"
The first volley erupted. A wall of smoke and lead tore into the charging cavalry. Horses screamed. Men tumbled, bodies flung like ragdolls as musket balls punched through armor and flesh.
But it wasn't enough to stop them. The Boltons kept coming, trampling their own dead beneath iron-shod hooves.
"Fall back!"
Just as planned. The first line broke, men retreating in a controlled withdrawal toward the second position. The Boltons, sensing weakness, pressed harder, believing victory was within reach.
Then they hit the traps.
Horses reared, impaled on hidden stakes. Riders pitched forward as trenches swallowed them whole. Screams filled the air as the once-glorious charge dissolved into chaos.
And then—
"Now!"
The French artillery opened fire.
From the concealed positions on the hills, the cannons roared to life, sending waves of grapeshot into the tangled mass of men and beasts. The effect was devastating. Bolton cavalry was ripped apart at close range, bodies torn to shreds by the hail of iron.
The charge had turned into a massacre.
The Turning Point
From his position, Duhesme watched as the battlefield transformed. What had been a powerful advance only moments ago was now a confused, bleeding mess. Horses, riderless and panicked, galloped wildly.
Behind him, Robb Stark, sword in hand, exhaled. "It's working."
Duhesme gave a tight nod. "It's not over yet."
The Bolton infantry was still advancing. 40,000 strong, a tide of men in red cloaks, shields raised, pikes gleaming under the winter sun.
"Form up!"
The second French line locked shields. Bayonets gleamed. Muskets leveled. This would be the true test.
The Bolton infantry crashed into them, a wave of flesh and steel. The French line buckled but did not break. Muskets fired at near point-blank range. Blood stained the snow.
Henri Moreau, his pistol smoking, cut down a man with his saber before wheeling his horse back toward the reserves. "They're committing everything!"
Duhesme gritted his teeth. "Then so do we."
A new horn sounded—this one French.
The reserves surged forward. Beaumont led the charge, his cavalry crashing into the exposed Bolton flanks like a hammer, sabers flashing. The enemy's formation wavered.
Duhesme raised his sword. "Push!"
The French infantry roared, stepping forward in disciplined ranks, driving the Boltons back. The trap had worked. Their numbers, once an overwhelming strength, now worked against them as they found themselves surrounded, trapped between musket fire, bayonets, and cannon shot.
The slaughter was total.
Victory
By sunset, the battlefield belonged to the French and the North.
The Bolton army, what remained of it, was in full retreat, broken beyond repair. Thousands lay dead, the snow soaked in red. Winterfell, once so distant, now loomed before them, its gates still closed, but the battle already won.
Duhesme sat atop his horse, watching the fleeing remnants disappear into the horizon.
It was over.
Robb Stark, blood splattered but still standing, approached him. "We did it."
Duhesme nodded, glancing back at the carnage. "Yes. We did."
For the first time since arriving in this world, he allowed himself to wonder.
Maybe, just maybe, after all this, he would build that manor in the Reach.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
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The sky above Winterfell was a heavy mass of steel-gray clouds, swallowing the weak midday sun. Snowflakes, soft and weightless, drifted through the air, melting upon the heat of men's breath, only to land and vanish in the trampled, blood-stained frost. The scent of gunpowder and damp earth filled the cold wind, mixing with the distant, acrid sting of burning wood.
Before them, Winterfell loomed. Black stone walls coated in frost, iron gates standing stubbornly against the coming storm. Smoke curled from its chimneys, a mockery of warmth and safety. Beaumont tightened his grip on the reins of his warhorse, the leather cold beneath his gloved fingers. The beast shifted beneath him, sensing the tension in the air.
Today, Winterfell would be reclaimed.
The ground rumbled as the artillery crews positioned the last cannons, their iron barrels glistening with frost. The French dragoons checked their carbines, the click of flint and steel sharp against the frozen silence. Northmen tightened their grips on sword hilts, their breaths fogging in the bitter air. Their eyes were alight with something beyond vengeance—this was home.
Beaumont lifted his saber, its polished steel gleaming even beneath the overcast sky. His voice rang through the ranks, cutting through the howling wind.
"Remember this—Winterfell is not the enemy. The Boltons are. We do not sack, we do not burn. We are liberators, not butchers!"
A roar of agreement rolled across the field, boots shifting in the snow as men steeled themselves.
Then—
"Fire!"
The world erupted.
The Charge
The cannons spat fire and thunder.
The first shot slammed into Winterfell's gate with a teeth-rattling crash. Wood splintered. Iron hinges groaned. Another blast—then another. A chorus of destruction echoed through the valley, reverberating off the walls like the gods themselves had joined the siege.
Then, with a final, tortured wail—
The gates of Winterfell collapsed.
"Advance!" Beaumont bellowed, spurring his horse forward.
The French and Northmen surged through the shattered entrance, a human flood bursting its dam. Hooves churned the frozen ground, boots crushed the snow beneath them, muskets raised, blades drawn.
Inside, the stench of unwashed men and damp stone filled the air, mixing with the thick tang of smoke and sweat. Chaos exploded in every direction.
The Bolton levies—peasants, farmers forced into service—stood frozen, spears trembling in their hands. Their wide eyes darted from the charging wave of steel and gunpowder to the corpses already littering the courtyard.
Then, like snow before an avalanche, they broke.
Some threw down their weapons and fell to their knees, hands raised, pleading. Others turned and ran, their boots skidding on ice, slipping, falling, scrambling toward the inner keep like frightened animals.
Beaumont barely spared them a glance. These were not soldiers. These were men who had been given a choice—fight for their masters, or die for them. They had chosen neither.
The real battle was ahead.
The Last Stand
The Bolton knights stood waiting before the Great Keep, a dark wall of steel and blood-red cloaks. Their swords gleamed dully in the pale light, their visors down, their posture rigid. These men would not run. They would die before they surrendered.
Their commander, clad in heavy plate and crimson surcoat, lifted his sword and bellowed, "Hold the keep! Kill them all!"
A single gunshot cracked through the air.
The knight jerked backward as a mist of red burst from his skull. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly on the frozen stone.
Another shot. Another knight fell.
The sharpshooters had found their mark.
One by one, the Bolton knights dropped, their bodies crumpling like broken dolls. The survivors hesitated, their grips faltering, their feet shifting. The sight of their comrades—cut down before they could even swing their blades—sent a ripple of fear through their ranks.
Beaumont seized the moment.
"Press them!" he roared, driving his horse forward.
French bayonets lunged. Northern swords flashed. The clash of steel on steel rang through the air, screams and grunts of pain mingling with the howl of the wind.
The Bolton knights fought like cornered wolves, but they were outnumbered, outflanked, outmatched. A Northern warrior drove his axe into the chest of one. A dragoon thrust his bayonet into another's neck. A third knight staggered back, only to be finished by a quick saber stroke to the throat.
Within minutes, the last of them lay still.
The flayed man of House Bolton, once draped across the ramparts in defiance, was torn down and trampled into the snow.
Winterfell was free.
Victory and Speech
A hush settled over the courtyard, broken only by the labored breaths of the victors. Smoke curled from shattered torches, mingling with the ghostly mist of cold breath.
At the center stood Robb Stark. His sword was slick with blood, his chest rising and falling with the weight of battle. His blue eyes, fierce as the winter sea, swept across the soldiers—French and Northmen alike.
He stepped forward.
His voice, raw but resolute, carried through the ruins of his stolen home.
"This war began with treachery!" His words struck like hammer blows. "My father was slain. My family scattered. My people butchered and broken. But the North did not kneel! We did not bow! We fought! And today, we have won!"
A roar of triumph erupted from the army. Muskets lifted to the sky. Swords clanged against shields. The sound was deafening, an earthquake of victory.
Robb turned, ascending the steps of the Great Keep. A soldier stepped forward, handing him two banners—one a tricolor of blue, white, and red, the other the gray direwolf of House Stark.
He took them both.
Then, lifting them high, he unfurled them in the wind.
The banners snapped and rippled, side by side, as if carried by the breath of the Old Gods themselves.
From the ranks, the French band struck up La Victoire est à Nous. The triumphant, resounding melody soared through the broken gates, through the battered halls of Winterfell, across the North that had suffered and endured.
For the first time in years, Winterfell stood free.
And the North would never kneel again.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Night After the Battle
The fires burned low in the camp beyond Winterfell's walls, casting flickering shadows across the snow-covered ground. The scent of woodsmoke, blood, and the lingering stench of battle hung thick in the air, but for the first time in years, the walls of the Stark stronghold stood untainted by Bolton rule. The dead had been gathered and buried, their frozen graves marked by solemn lines in the earth, and now, in the bitter cold of the northern night, the victors drank to their triumph.
Around a roaring campfire, the survivors of the battle sat together—French officers and Northern lords, soldiers of different worlds bound by war and hardship. The golden glow of the flames reflected in the cups of wine and mead passed between them, their breath misting in the air as laughter and the low murmur of voices mixed with the crackle of burning wood.
Robb Stark sat across from Johnny Beaumont, his face cast in firelight, his armor loosened, the exhaustion of battle weighing on his shoulders. Beside him, Duhesme leaned back, swirling a tin cup of dark Arbor red in his hand, his sharp eyes watching the flames dance. Henri Moreau sat nearby, quiet but content, sipping at his drink as he listened to the others speak.
Robb exhaled slowly, staring at the cup in his hands before lifting his gaze to the French generals. "I won't waste words—I owe you all my thanks." His voice was steady, but there was emotion beneath it, raw and honest. "Without you, without your men, without your Emperor, I would not be sitting here tonight. I would not have my home back."
Beaumont, still in his bloodstained uniform, smirked as he swirled his own drink. "It was a fine fight, Stark. And as for Napoleon, well... he has a habit of toppling usurpers and returning thrones to their rightful owners."
Duhesme chuckled. "Not always out of kindness, mind you. But in your case, it seems he has chosen wisely."
Robb shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Whatever his reasons, he gave me back Winterfell. And for that, I will not forget." He raised his cup, his blue eyes flashing in the firelight. "To Napoleon."
The others lifted their cups in agreement. "To Napoleon."
They drank, the warmth of the wine cutting through the cold. The flames crackled, and for a moment, the war seemed distant—just men sitting beneath the open sky, sharing a victory hard-earned.
Robb turned to Henri, his expression thoughtful. "And you, Moreau? You saved my sister's life in King's Landing, fought beside me here. I never asked—why do you fight for Napoleon?"
Henri considered the question for a moment before answering, his voice calm. "Because I owe him my life." He glanced at the fire. "And because in a world like this, I would rather stand beside men who change it than those who let it stay the same."
Robb nodded, understanding. "A fair answer."
Beaumont exhaled, leaning back slightly. "And what of you, Stark? You have your home back. The Boltons are dead. What comes next?"
Robb stared into the flames, his fingers tightening around his cup. "The North must heal. We must rebuild. But the war is not over." He looked up at them. "Cersei is still missing, and I will not forget what they have done to my family. I will make sure to find her and make her pay for her crimes"
Beaumont studied him, then smirked. "You sound like Napoleon. Always looking at the next battlefield."
Robb let out a short laugh. "Maybe. But I am no Emperor."
Duhesme took a slow sip of wine. "No. But you are a Stark. And that, my friend, is enough for the North."
The fire burned on, the night cold but the company warm. For now, they drank and spoke as men who had fought together, men who had shed blood side by side. The war was not yet over, but Winterfell was free, and for this one night, that was victory enough.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A Message to the Emperor
Beaumont sat at a rough-hewn table inside a dimly lit command tent, a single candle flickering beside him. The night outside was cold, but the warmth of victory still lingered in the air. Beyond the tent's entrance, the sounds of celebration carried through the camp—laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the distant melody of a violin played by a soldier near the fire.
Despite the triumph, Beaumont's mind remained sharp. War did not end with a single battle. He dipped the quill into the inkwell, his gloved hand steady as he penned the letter to his Emperor.
To His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Bonaparte, King of Westeros and Protector of the Realm,
Winterfell is ours.
After a decisive engagement, the enemy was shattered. The Bolton forces were either slain or captured, their banners torn from the walls. The fortress now flies the Direwolf of House Stark alongside the Tricolor of France. The North is free once more.
The battle unfolded as planned. Our artillery shattered the gates, the enemy cavalry was broken before they could reach us, and the infantry held firm against the Bolton knights. The levies surrendered without a fight, and the so-called lords who swore to the Dreadfort now kneel in chains. The flayed men are no more.
Robb Stark has reclaimed his ancestral home. His people are weary but resolute. He has expressed his gratitude to you, Sire, acknowledging that without the Imperial Army's strength, this day might never have come.
Our forces remain strong, though losses were taken. Winter is harsh, but morale is high. The North remembers those who fought for them, and the men sing songs of victory by the fire.
I await your next command. If the campaign must continue south, the North will not stand alone in its defense. We stand ready.
Glory to France. Victory is ours.
Signed,
General Johnny Beaumont, Commander of the Arbor Corps
Beaumont set the quill down, scanning the letter once more. Satisfied, he folded the parchment and dripped wax onto the seal, pressing his signet ring into the red.
At the entrance of the tent, a young aide-de-camp stood at attention. Beaumont gestured him forward, handing him the message.
"Send this with our fastest raven," Beaumont ordered. "The Emperor must know of our victory."
The aide saluted, tucking the letter safely into a leather pouch before disappearing into the night. Beaumont leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath.
Outside, the stars shone bright over Winterfell. The Direwolf and the Tricolor waved side by side in the northern wind.