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NAPOLEON
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Napoleon Bonaparte sat at his grand mahogany desk in the solar of the Red Keep, the candlelight casting flickering shadows over the maps of Westeros spread before him. The scent of parchment, wax, and faint traces of gunpowder hung in the air, a silent testament to the world he was reshaping. Below, the city murmured—a distant chorus of merchants hawking their wares, the restless shuffle of guards on patrol, and the ever-present whispers of intrigue that slithered through the streets of King's Landing.
Across from him, Tyrion Lannister reclined in a high-backed chair, swirling a goblet of Arbor wine in his hand, watching the Emperor with the lazy amusement of a man who had long since learned to hide the sharpest edges of his wit beneath a veneer of indifference. "You look troubled, Your Majesty. Conquering Westeros not as satisfying as you had hoped?"
Napoleon ignored him. His mind was already marching forward, maneuvering invisible armies across the chessboard of Westerosi politics.
A knock at the door interrupted the quiet tension.
"Enter," Napoleon commanded.
A courier stepped in, clad in the dark blue and gold of the Imperial Army. He saluted sharply before extending a sealed scroll. The wax bore the sigil of the Arbor Corps—Johnny Beaumont's mark.
"A raven from Winterfell, Sire."
Napoleon took the letter and broke the seal, his sharp eyes scanning the contents with practiced speed. Winterfell was his. The Boltons were no more. The banners of House Stark and France now flew side by side over the North. A small, fleeting smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
Tyrion, ever perceptive, leaned forward. "Ah. Good news, I take it? The kind that calls for a second bottle?"
Napoleon set the letter down, already thinking ahead. The North was secured. The war was over. Now came the real challenge—ruling.
He met Tyrion's gaze. "Summon my generals. We return to King's Landing."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "So soon? And here I thought you enjoyed a good campaign." He took a sip of wine. "If you ask me, there's something poetic about watching Lannister men freeze to death in the snow."
Napoleon exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering. "Wars are not won in the snow, Lannister. They are won in halls such as these." He tapped a gloved finger against the letter. "The Starks will not be left to rule in isolation. Robb Stark and his bannermen are to be summoned south—to King's Landing."
Tyrion chuckled. "You mean to invite a pack of wolves into your den? How ambitious." He studied Napoleon for a moment, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Tell me, are they guests… or hostages?"
Napoleon smirked, turning away toward the fire. "That depends entirely on them."
He clasped his hands behind his back, the golden epaulettes on his uniform gleaming in the firelight. "I will be crowned Emperor of Westeros in the Great Sept of Baelor. And the North will be there to witness it."
Tyrion let out an appreciative whistle. "A coronation, is it? You must forgive my skepticism, but I was under the impression you had already crowned yourself the moment you stormed this delightful cesspit."
Napoleon turned, his sharp gaze locking onto Tyrion's. "A title without order is meaningless."
He moved back to the desk, unrolling a parchment detailing the structure of his new government.
The Future of Westeros
He gestured to the parchment. "Three parliamentary assemblies will be formed. The Council of State, which will draft bills and guide governance. The Tribunate, which will debate those bills but not vote. The Legislative Assembly, which will pass the laws based on the Tribunate's debates." His gaze darkened. "And the Conservative Senate, equal to these assemblies, will safeguard the stability of the state."
Tyrion's amusement faded, replaced by something sharper. "A clever illusion of democracy… while ensuring all power remains in your hands."
Napoleon inclined his head. "Call it what you will. But Westeros needs order. A future beyond the endless cycle of warlords and kings."
He allowed a small pause before continuing.
"I have already built a small model of this system in the Arbor, where Lady Desmera heads the Tribunate, Maester Harold leads the Council of State, and General Duhesme presides over the Legislative Assembly. A test, if you will."
Tyrion hummed in thought. "A clever trial run… though I suspect the true purpose of this 'experiment' was to see if your hand-picked choices would obey your will."
Napoleon smiled faintly. "Obedience is useful, but stability is paramount." He tapped the parchment. "The Arbor's system was a beginning, but it is too narrow. Westeros is not a single province—it is a continent. If this is to work, the Council, the Tribunate, and the Assembly must represent the whole of Westeros. Lords and commoners alike."
Tyrion arched a brow. "You're proposing that the lords surrender some of their authority to a gathering of—what? Merchants? Scholars? Sellswords?" He chuckled. "The nobility will fight this."
Napoleon met his gaze, unflinching. "Let them."
Tyrion chuckled, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Tell me, are you determined to civilize these people, or merely entertain yourself watching them resist?"
Napoleon exhaled, turning back to the map. "The old world is dying. They can either take part in the new one or be crushed beneath it."
Tyrion leaned forward, fingers steepled. "And the Starks? What role do they play in your grand vision?"
Napoleon's smirk returned. "Wolves know strength when they see it. As we discussed, Robb Stark will be offered a seat in the new order. He will be the symbolic king of the North." He folded his arms. "But I will leave the governance to the people, they will vote."
Tyrion let out a low whistle. "You truly believe the boy will embrace your new world?"
Napoleon's gaze did not waver. "He will. Or he will be swept aside."
The Emperor's Command
A moment of silence stretched between them. Then Napoleon turned to his aide.
"Send the raven to Winterfell. General Beaumont, Duhesme, and the Expeditionary army including Robb Stark and his bannermen are to ride south. The Empire awaits them."
The aide bowed and exited. Tyrion lifted his goblet, his expression unreadable.
"To the Emperor, Westeros and to us all" he said, his voice both amused and wary.
Napoleon said nothing. His mind was already moving toward the battles yet to come
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Napoleon Bonaparte stood atop the highest balcony of the Red Keep, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over his city—for that was what it had become. The cold morning air carried the scent of damp stone and the distant aroma of freshly baked bread from the lower districts. A far cry from the stench that had once defined King's Landing.
The rising sun bathed the city in hues of gold and crimson, its light reflecting off the newly paved main avenues, no longer choked by filth and refuse but now widened and structured under his design. From the heights of the keep, he could see the order his laws had imposed on the chaos that once ruled here.
Food had been his first priority. The grain silos were filled from newly requisitioned farmlands in the Reach, and the Tyrells, eager to maintain favor, ensured steady shipments. The bakeries, once shuttered due to shortages, now produced thousands of loaves daily under the management of civilian committees—another of his revolutionary concepts introduced to Westeros. The people called it the "Emperor's Bread," and with it came loyalty.
Below, Napoleon watched as grain stores were unloaded from imperial supply wagons, their contents swiftly distributed to the bakeries and public kitchens that now fed the starving masses. No longer did beggars fight over scraps; no child in King's Landing went to bed hungry. The relief efforts—directed by the Council of State—had brought stability to the people. And stability brought loyalty.
A voice behind him stirred the silence.
"Quite the view, isn't it?"
Tyrion Lannister stepped forward, his usual goblet absent for once. He followed Napoleon's gaze out over the city before exhaling deeply. "Hard to believe this is still King's Landing. The last time I stood here, the streets smelled of piss, and men died in gutters over a loaf of bread."
Napoleon said nothing at first, only taking in the sight of his capital. The old King's Landing had been a city of despair, ruled by corruption and apathy. Now, it was being rebuilt, brick by brick, into something worthy of an empire.
Napoleon finally spoke. "A man who is fed does not rebel. A man who has a roof over his head does not take up arms. The war for this city was won with cannons, but the war to rule it is won with bread."
Tyrion smirked. "A fine strategy. The people sing your praises now, but give them a month without food, and you'll hear quite a different tune."
Napoleon turned slightly, the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. "Then I will not give them the opportunity."
His gaze shifted to the newly established courts, where judges educated in the Napoleonic Code now heard cases in an orderly system of law, replacing the arbitrary decrees of kings and their sycophants. Justice was no longer the plaything of the powerful but a system that applied to all men equally.
"No more trial by combat," Napoleon muttered. "No more judgments based on bribes or noble birth. Here, a man is innocent until proven guilty. Here, the law is the same for a commoner as it is for a lord."
Tyrion chuckled. "An amusing thought. If your code had been in place sooner, I might never have been forced to let a sellsword fight a Mountain on my behalf."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "And would you prefer the old ways?"
Tyrion sighed dramatically. "Hardly. I rather enjoy living in a city where justice isn't left to the gods or the whims of a drunken king."
Beyond the city walls, in the distance, Napoleon could see the framework of a new military barracks, where former sellswords, displaced peasants, and trained soldiers alike were drilled into the first professional standing army in Westerosi history. No longer would war be left to lords calling banners of untrained farmers and knights playing at strategy. The Imperial Army was being built. The Empire of Westeros was taking shape.
Tyrion's voice was softer now. "What do you see when you look at it?"
Napoleon remained silent for a moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
"The future."
He turned away from the city, already thinking of the next reform, the next law, the next battle to be fought—not with muskets and steel, but with ideas, policies, and power.
King's Landing was no longer the capital of a decaying monarchy. It was the heart of an empire.
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Weeks after
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had never seen such a gathering. Once a place where kings held court above cowed lords and trembling peasants, it was now transformed into something new, something Westeros had never witnessed before.
Napoleon stood at the top of the dais, arms behind his back, surveying the assembled crowd with an unwavering gaze. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, glinting off the polished marble floor and casting long shadows over the banners of House Bonaparte, House Stark, and the Tricolor of France that now adorned the chamber.
Beneath him, the hall was full to bursting.
Regular townsfolk from King's Landing filled the rear galleries—blacksmiths, cobblers, fishmongers, and scribes, all in their humble garb. In the center, wealthy merchants, scholars, and guildmasters stood with more confidence, their expressions ranging from curiosity to cautious approval. And at the front, mingling uneasily among themselves, sat prominent nobles from all across Westeros—House Stark, House Tyrell, House Martell, and even some reluctant Lannisters—all watching Napoleon with thinly veiled suspicion or weary resignation.
This was the first assembly of its kind, and every class was represented. That had been Napoleon's decree. No man or woman could claim a stake in the Empire if they did not have a voice in its formation.
Napoleon's gaze moved slowly across the crowd, gauging their mood. No jeering. No rebellion. Not today. Only murmurs of anticipation and awe.
A sharp rap from General Duhesme's staff silenced the hall. At the dais, Maester Harold unrolled a scroll. His voice rang out, crisp and formal:
"By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of Westeros and Protector of the Realm, this assembly shall convene to elect, by vote of all classes present, the representatives who shall lead the Council of State, the Tribunate, and the Legislative Assembly for the coming year. Each representative will serve not by right of birth, but by the will of the people and the approval of the Empire."
A hush settled over the hall.
Napoleon stepped forward. His voice, deep and commanding, echoed through the stone.
"This is not the world of your fathers," he began. "Gone are the days when power passed through blood and coin alone. Today, you vote. You choose those who will shape your laws. Your future."
He paused, letting the words settle. Eyes locked on him from every corner of the room.
"In the Arbor, we began this experiment—Lady Desmera leading the Tribunate, Maester Harold the Council of State, and General Duhesme the Legislative Assembly. But Westeros is no province. It is a realm. One that demands voices from the North, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne alike. Voices from every guild and every village. From sword to plow."
His hand swept across the hall, encompassing them all.
"You will choose. And those you choose shall be bound not to me, but to the law."
There was a murmur—a rising current of hope, uncertainty, and curiosity rippling through the crowd.
Napoleon's gaze met Robb Stark's across the room. The Young Wolf stood tall beside his mother and bannermen. His expression was guarded, but there was respect in his eyes, and perhaps—the beginnings of trust.
Napoleon continued.
"This is the beginning. Let it be said that on this day, Westeros changed. From the forge of war, we will create peace. From division, unity. From the ashes of kings… an Empire."
Silence. Then, slowly, applause—first from the common folk, then from merchants, and at last, reluctantly, from a few lords.
Napoleon turned to his officials. "Let the names be put forth. Let them vote."
Ballots, not swords, would shape the day.
As the scribes began their work and the votes were cast, Napoleon stepped back, watching the machinery he had set in motion grind to life. Not flawless—no revolution ever was—but it was his, and it would endure.
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Hours later
The murmur of hundreds of voices filled the Great Hall like the low growl of an approaching storm. Napoleon Bonaparte stood on the raised dais, flanked by imperial guards in polished steel and midnight-blue cloaks. Before him stretched a crowd the likes of which Westeros had never seen gathered in one place—nobles and commoners, merchants and knights, farmers and cityfolk, all come to participate in the final vote of the Empire's founding assemblies.
The Imperial banners hung beside the sigils of prominent houses: the wolf of Stark, the rose of Tyrell, and the lion of Lannister—though the lion now stood beneath the Tricolor of France.
Napoleon's eyes swept the crowd, trained to read men as he did battlefields. He saw curiosity in the eyes of the peasants, doubt among the minor lords, and quiet calculation in the merchants and guild leaders. Change had come, whether they welcomed it or not.
At the base of the dais, Maester Harold, draped in his official robes, raised a scroll and cleared his throat. The hall silenced.
"The votes have been tallied," he announced. His voice echoed across the chamber. "By decree of His Imperial Majesty, and the will of the people of Westeros, the following appointments are hereby recognized and ratified for the governing bodies of the Empire."
Napoleon's hands remained behind his back, his expression inscrutable—a mask forged from years of war and command. But within, a spark of satisfaction flickered. The machine was assembling.
Maester Harold unrolled the parchment. "For the Council of State, which shall draft the laws and guide the governance of the Empire—Maester Harold of the Citadel has been elected by majority vote."
Polite applause. Napoleon noted the relief on Harold's face—a man of knowledge, not power, but loyal to order and respected across all classes. He would preserve stability without ambition. Perfect.
"For the Tribunate, charged with debating the laws in the name of the people—Lady Desmera Beaumont of House Redwyne."
The applause swelled, genuine this time, particularly among the merchants and urban citizens. Desmera stepped forward with a confident grace, the symbol of the Arbor and the Tricolor pinned to her breast. Her noble roots and public charm made her the ideal face of the Empire's revolutionary spirit. Charismatic, ambitious—and loyal to Johnny Beaumont, and by extension, to Napoleon himself.
"For the Legislative Assembly, which shall review and vote upon laws—General Duhesme, commander of the Imperial Legion."
A more restrained applause, mostly from soldiers and commoners. Napoleon's gaze shifted to Duhesme, whose eyes burned with military precision. There would be no debate under his leadership—only efficiency. The laws Napoleon envisioned would not rot in endless discussion. They would be enacted.
Maester Harold paused now, and the hall seemed to tense. Even the air grew still. This was the most controversial appointment—the head of the Conservative Senate, guardian of the old order, and balance against reform.
"For the Conservative Senate, the body charged with safeguarding the stability of the Empire… by the will of the people and the approval of the Emperor… Tyrion Lannister."
Silence.
Then murmurs. Shock. Surprise. Applause—hesitant from the nobles, boisterous from the commoners.
Napoleon's gaze locked on Tyrion, who stepped forward with a half-smile and wine goblet in hand. His eyes met the Emperor's, and for a moment, there was a shared understanding—one chess master to another.
Tyrion gave a subtle bow, the light catching the silver pin of the Senate at his shoulder.
Napoleon allowed himself the barest nod. Tyrion was dangerous, but necessary. A noble name to placate the lords, a sharp mind to stabilize the Senate, and a loyal critic who would challenge him just enough to keep his empire honest. Control through inclusion. That was the strategy.
The hall erupted in applause, louder this time—the people cheering, the nobles begrudgingly clapping, and Napoleon standing still, the center of it all.
His mind, always moving, assessed the board. The votes were done. The Empire's foundations were laid.
And now, with law, order, and representation, came legitimacy.
This was no longer conquest.
This was rule.
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During the Night
The air inside the Great Hall was thick with warmth, the scent of spiced meats, and the sweet tang of Arbor wine. The firelight glowed gold against the newly polished stone, reflecting off dozens of banners—Imperial Tricolor, House Stark's direwolf, the rose of Tyrell, and others, fluttering in the gentle breeze from the open doors to the courtyards beyond. Laughter spilled through the chamber, rising like a song above the low hum of string instruments and the steady, rhythmic thump of drums.
Napoleon Bonaparte stepped into the hall, his boots clicking softly on the stone floor. His empire. His people. He inhaled deeply, catching the scent of roasted boar, fresh loaves still steaming from the ovens, and a hint of burned wax from the hundreds of candles lining the hall. It was not the smell of war or blood, but of stability—the fruits of order.
The music shifted, lively now, and Napoleon's eyes followed the sound to a corner of the hall. Johnny Beaumont, the ever-proud general, stood tall beneath one of the arched windows, but his sternness was gone tonight. Instead, he laughed softly as Desmera Beaumont, radiant in emerald silk, stepped into his arms. The faint sound of a baby's coo broke through the noise, and Napoleon's gaze dropped to the infant nestled in her arms.
"Henri wanted to join the celebration," Desmera said, her voice low but full of joy, her eyes alight like a woman who had everything.
Beaumont chuckled, resting his forehead against hers, one hand supporting the child. "He'll grow up in a Westeros without war," he murmured. "We made that happen."
Napoleon felt a flicker in his chest—a strange, unfamiliar thing. Pride? Relief? He wasn't sure, but he turned away before it lingered too long.
He passed through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation, laughter, the clatter of mugs on wooden tables. The din of peace, he thought, louder than any battlefield.
By a stone pillar near the edge, Henri Moreau leaned with an easy grin, his dark curls untamed, his Imperial blue coat loosened at the collar. Opposite him, Sansa Stark, dressed simply but with a quiet elegance, held a goblet of wine, dodging the flirtatious jabs of a young knight.
"You were supposed to go easy on him, mademoiselle," Henri teased, his accent wrapping the words in warmth.
Sansa laughed, tipping her glass toward him. "I'm not one to spare bruised egos, Sergeant."
Their eyes met, the air between them alive with something tender, and as their fingers brushed, Napoleon saw how naturally she folded into this new world—into Henri's world.
He moved on, pausing as a deep bellow of laughter drew his attention to a rowdy table where Duhesme raised a tankard high.
"To the men who follow orders, even when their commander's half-mad!"
A roar of agreement erupted, and the general slammed his mug down, foam spilling onto the table. The clamor of toasts and clashing mugs echoed, and for once, Duhesme's perpetual scowl melted into pure amusement.
"Tonight we drink," Duhesme growled, voice thick with wine and satisfaction, "tomorrow we train the Reach lords to march in time."
Napoleon allowed himself a rare smirk before drifting toward the open balcony, where Robb Stark stood with his mother. The night breeze carried the scent of the Blackwater, mixed with the smoke of bonfires in the courtyards.
"I never thought we'd see this day," Robb murmured, arms crossed over his chest. "A free North, peace with the South, and laws written by the people."
Catelyn placed a hand on her son's arm, her expression softer than Napoleon had ever seen. "Your father would be proud. You've given your people a future."
Napoleon lingered only a moment. Robb's eyes, like his father's, always looked toward the horizon—a man not yet finished.
From deeper inside the hall, the sound of raucous laughter drew his eye to Tyrion Lannister, perched like a king among merchants and sellswords, a goblet in one hand, his wit in the other.
"…And then I told the dragon queen her fire couldn't melt my wit," Tyrion said, grinning. "She disagreed—sent me home without eyebrows."
Napoleon caught the ripple of laughter, saw the way Tyrion's eyes never truly lost focus, even as he drank. Sharp. Dangerous. Useful. Napoleon respected that.
"Let's hope the Empire lasts longer than my last wager," Tyrion finished, raising his cup. "To the Emperor!"
A chorus echoed back, "To the Emperor!"
Napoleon's gaze hardened, not out of offense, but because he understood the weight of every toast. It was not loyalty they offered tonight—it was expectation.
"Your Majesty," a voice like silk interrupted.
He turned to find Margaery Tyrell, eyes bright with mischief and calculation, her gown shimmering like liquid gold under the candlelight.
"You've reshaped Westeros in a matter of months," she said, stepping beside him. "But what comes next?"
"Sustainability," Napoleon answered without hesitation. "A house is not strong until its walls endure the storm."
She leaned in slightly, her perfume floral and intoxicating, her voice low. "And when the storm comes, will you trust us to help hold those walls?"
His eyes searched hers, steady. "Trust is earned. But you have a talent for survival, Lady Margaery."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "And you have a talent for power."
Later That Night
The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet now, the roar of the feast fading behind thick stone walls. Napoleon's boots echoed against the cold floor as he reached his chambers. Fatigue tugged at the edge of his mind, but it was not unwelcome. It was the fatigue of success, of labor finished.
He entered, loosening his coat, candlelight flickering across the maps strewn on his desk, plans for tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
A soft knock.
He turned, frowning slightly. "Yes?"
The door creaked open. Margaery Tyrell stood in the threshold, her hair unbound, her expression unreadable.
"I thought emperors never rest," she said.
Napoleon studied her for a moment, his voice quiet but firm. "Even emperors require alliances."
She stepped into the room, the door closing behind her. Power met ambition, not in war, but in the quiet of night—a different kind of campaign.
The air thickened as Margaery drifted closer, her gown whispering against the floor like a conspirator. Napoleon's gaze flickered to the door—locked—but she was already there, a rose with thorns hidden in silk. The heat of her body radiated through the scant space between them, her breath warm against the stubble of his jaw.
"Alliances require trust," she murmured, her fingers trailing the edge of his desk, brushing parchment stamped with conquests. A nail caught on the corner of a map, tearing it faintly—a small violence. "And trust requires… intimacy."
He stiffened, the ghost of Josephine's laughter echoing in his mind—warm, bright, a relic of a life before crowns and cannons. His hand twitched toward the sword he'd unbuckled earlier, but Margaery was quicker. She caught his wrist, pressing it to the cold wood of the desk. "You mistake me for a man who trades in whispers," he said, voice roughened by wine and weariness. "I command armies, not bedchambers."
Margaery's smile was a blade sheathed in honey. "Do you?" Her free hand rose to the laces of her gown, deliberate, unhurried. The fabric pooled at her feet, revealing ivory skin gilded by candlelight. Napoleon's breath hitched, his pulse a drumbeat beneath his uniform. She stepped forward, bare now save for the glint of a pendant between her breasts—a golden rose, its edges sharp enough to draw blood.
"You see a queen when you look at me," she said, her lips grazing his ear. Her teeth nipped the lobe, a sting that made him jerk. "But tonight, I am merely a woman… and you are a man who hungers."
His jaw clenched, fingers curling into fists. Josephine's face flashed—her tears when he left for Egypt, her letters unanswered, her absence a hollowed-out ache. Margaery's palm flattened against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart. "You play a dangerous game, mademoiselle."
"All games are dangerous," she breathed. Her other hand slid up his thigh, a conqueror claiming territory, fingers brushing the growing hardness beneath his breeches. "But you've never walked away from a battlefield." Her thumb pressed insistently against the seam of his trousers, circling. "Why start now?"
For a heartbeat, he wavered—torn between memory and desire, between the past and the now. Then her mouth found his, a slow, searing kiss that tasted of power and wine. Napoleon groaned, his resolve crumbling like Austerlitz's snow. He gripped her waist, fingers digging into soft flesh, and for one reckless moment, the world narrowed to her gasp, her heat, the way her nails scored his neck like a brand.
She pushed his coat from his shoulders, the heavy wool thudding to the floor, and her hands roamed the planes of his chest beneath his linen shirt. Her teeth dragged down his throat, leaving a reddening trail as she unbuttoned him with practiced ease. When her lips closed over his collarbone, he hissed, tangling a hand in her hair—too tight, but she only laughed, low and throaty, biting harder.
"Enough," he rasped, catching her wrists as her fingers tugged at his belt. Margaery stilled, her eyes glinting like polished steel. "You fear her ghost will haunt this?"
"I fear nothing," he growled, though the lie hung between them, brittle as ice.
She laughed softly, pulling free to trace the line of his jaw. "Then let her haunt you. Let her see what you've become." Her lips brushed his again, a promise and a threat. "A man who takes what he wants."
The maps fluttered to the floor as he lifted her onto the desk, her legs wrapping around his hips. Candlelight danced over skin and scars as he shoved aside inkwell and parchment, the cold wood biting into Margaery's bare back as Napoleon pinned her wrists above her head. Her gasp dissolved into a laugh, sharp and triumphant, as he claimed her mouth with a kiss that felt like surrender and siege all at once. She arched against him, the golden rose pendant digging into his chest—a thorn neither could escape.
He freed himself from the confines of his breeches, the air cool against his fevered skin, but Margaery's thighs were hotter still as she pulled him closer. Her nails raked down his spine, drawing a ragged curse from his lips. "Is this how you command?" she taunted, her hips rolling against his with deliberate slowness, denying him entry. "Or do you need a map to find your way?"
Napoleon snarled, catching her chin in a grip that bordered on cruel. "You'll learn the cost of mocking an emperor." He thrust into her, sudden and brutal, but Margaery's cry was one of victory, not defeat. Her legs locked around him, heels pressing into the small of his back as if to carve her initials there.
The desk shuddered with their rhythm, quills and seals clattering to the floor. Margaery's breath came in short, biting whispers: "Josephine… does she know how you tremble?" He silenced her with a hand fisted in her hair, wrenching her head back, but she met his glare unflinching. "Does she know how hungry you are?"
He drove into her harder, as if to exorcise the name, the memory, the guilt. Margaery's moan curled into his ear, serpentine and sweet. "Yes—fight me," she hissed. "Prove you're more than her ghost." Her teeth sank into his shoulder, drawing blood, and he roared, flipping her onto her knees with a violence that scattered the last of his battle plans.
Her palms braced against the desk, she glanced over her shoulder, hair wild and lips swollen. "Is this how you take a kingdom?" she mocked, but her voice frayed as he gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him. "Or a woman?"
He didn't answer, couldn't—every thrust was a confession. The candle guttered, casting shadows that writhed like specters on the walls. Margaery's fingers clawed at the wood, splintering it, her cries crescendoing as he dragged her to the edge. Yet even as she shattered, her laugh lingered, echoing Josephine's in his darkest dreams.
When release tore through him, it felt like defeat.
He collapsed against her, sweat-slick and shaking, her heartbeat a frantic drum beneath his palm. Margaery turned her head, lips brushing his temple in a parody of tenderness. "Congratulations, Your Majesty," she purred. "You've just allied yourself with Tyrell roses."
But as she slipped from his grasp, gathering her gown like armor, Napoleon stared at the golden pendant left behind on his desk—a rose, its stem coiled around a single strand of her hair. A trophy, or a trap.
And in the silence, Josephine's ghost wept.
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Tyrion Lannister
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The night's chill seeped into the stone corridors of the Red Keep as Tyrion Lannister made his way toward his chambers, a half-empty goblet of Arbor gold in hand, the vintage less sweet than usual, or perhaps it was his thoughts that soured the taste. Behind him, the echo of revelry still clung to the halls, muffled laughter and the distant notes of a harp bleeding through heavy doors. But for Tyrion, the celebration had long ended.
As he reached the small solar attached to his chambers, the fire was still crackling low in the hearth. The warmth did nothing for his mind.
He sank into a worn chair with a grunt, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across the walls, his gaze drawn to them as though they might speak answers he didn't possess. He took a long pull from his goblet, the wine burning down his throat before settling into a dull, familiar warmth in his belly.
Cersei.
Her name coiled like poison in his thoughts. He had not spoken it aloud in weeks, not since Napoleon's forces had claimed King's Landing, driving the Lannister banners down like fallen leaves in the storm. Yet her absence clung to him like smoke. Where was she? Dead? Hiding? Plotting? Cersei did not vanish quietly. She was not made to yield.
"No one's found her body," Tyrion murmured to himself, tracing a finger around the rim of his goblet. "No word from the West. No whispers from the capital. Not even Varys's little birds know."
He clenched his jaw. Cersei's silence was more dangerous than her rage. At least rage could be predicted, channeled, even manipulated. But this absence… this silence from the lioness… it gnawed at his gut.
And what of her children?
Tyrion frowned, shifting in his seat. Tommen and Myrcella, sent away to Dorne before the siege. A political maneuver, yes, but also a retreat, an attempt to protect what little Cersei had left. Had they survived? Were they still being used as pawns by Dorne, or worse—bargaining chips for some foreign queen?
He swirled the wine again, the liquid catching firelight like blood.The last of House Lannister's cubs. And I am here, drinking their legacy into oblivion.
A knock broke his reverie. Tyrion blinked, the sound jarring against the heavy silence.
"Enter," he called, voice gravelly.
The door creaked open, revealing a young Imperial courier, face pale with urgency, a sealed scroll clutched in his hands.
"A message, Lord Tyrion. From the Maester's rookery. A raven has arrived."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his goblet. "Well, don't stand there like a statue in a brothel. Bring it."
The boy stepped forward quickly, handing over the parchment bearing the seal of King's Landing's new council. Tyrion cracked it open with a flick of his thumb, eyes narrowing as he scanned the lines.
The words hit him like a splash of cold water.
Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone.
He sat back, the scroll in one hand, the goblet forgotten in the other. The Dragon Queen.
"So the game begins again," Tyrion muttered, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. "Fire and blood. As if we've not had enough of that."
His mind spun—dragons, unsullied, the queen he once served, the queen he once believed in. And now, she had come home.
Tyrion exhaled slowly, the fire crackling louder now, as though the flames themselves whispered of what was to come.
He leaned forward, tossing back the rest of his wine, and reached for his writing kit. Napoleon needed to hear this at once.
Dragonstone had awakened.