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Cersei Lannister
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The Red Keep groaned beneath her feet, its foundations shivering with each thunderous crash of cannon fire. The walls — once steadfast, unyielding — now quivered like a dying beast, the stone floors lurching underfoot as if in their death throes. From high above in Maegor's Holdfast, dust rained down in slow, choking sheets, clinging to her sweat-slick skin, mixing with the blood of a maid who lay crumpled and still by the door — throat opened, eyes wide in a vacant plea. Cersei hadn't even paused when she drove the dagger in. The girl had tried to stop her. She was nothing.
The taste of ash and iron coated her tongue, each breath a struggle through the acrid smoke curling beneath the doors, thick and smothering, seeping into the seams of her gown. The air shimmered with heat, and somewhere in the halls below, screams rose — sharp, human, final. They were not hers. She still stood.
She staggered to the window, hands sticky with blood, and gripped the cold stone sill. Her fingers curled around it, knuckles whitening as she stared into the chaos below. There were no enemy ships in Blackwater Bay, no naval siege — Napoleon needed none. His artillery had encircled the city from the land, battering the outer walls of King's Landing for days. Now smoke belched from the shattered gate, and cannon fire echoed off the hills, drowning even the tolling bells.
From here, she could see Flea Bottom alight, the Sept of Baelor crumbling, its great dome half collapsed. Imperial banners, those hated tricolors, were already rising above the Guildhall, fluttering in the wind like mockery incarnate.
But this was not her fire. Not wildfire, green and glorious. This was foreign fire — Bonaparte's fire — and it consumed everything she once ruled. Her city. Her legacy. Her throne.
A snarl twisted her lips. "This is not how I die," she spat into the smoke, the words sharp, defiant. "Not here. Not by his hand."
Behind her, the Throne Room stood hollow, filled only with smoke and ghosts. The Iron Throne loomed in silence, its blades glinting dully in the half-light. Tywin had vanished to the vaults, still scheming for a path to victory. Jaime had gone to the walls, sword in hand, clinging to some noble death. Fools. The both of them. This was not a battle for swords and honor — it was annihilation.
Cersei turned without looking back, the hem of her gown trailing blood, torn and singed. Her boots squelched through the sticky residue of fear and failure, but her face remained calm, impassive. No time for regret. No room for pity. Only survival.
In the corridor, the air reeked of soot and sweat, and Ser Boros Blount waited, sword trembling, eyes darting like a cornered animal. His once-pristine armor was streaked with ash, dented from fleeing debris. He dropped into a bow the moment he saw her.
"The passage is clear, Your Grace," he stammered. "The guards at the sept have been paid. The— the tunnel's safe."
Cersei said nothing at first, only drew the veil over her golden hair, shrouding herself in the coarse robes of a septa. She no longer looked like a queen — just a shadow fleeing a burning tomb. But her eyes still gleamed with fire.
"I leave behind fools," she murmured, stepping past him into the flickering torchlight. "Let them burn. Let them die. I will return — and they will choke on my name."
The tunnel beneath the Red Keep was a place of ancient damp and rot, carved centuries ago for kings who feared their own people. The air was rank, thick with mildew and the bitter tang of old decay. As they moved, torchlight danced along wet stone, casting long, trembling shadows. The path twisted downward, slick with filth. Her boots slid, and the weight of centuries pressed in on all sides.
Cersei breathed through her mouth, each inhale tainted with mold, and though her limbs burned, she pressed forward. Fear did not drive her — rage did. Rage at Napoleon, at Tyrion, at Jaime, at every coward who deserted her throne.
Power was not in the throne. Power was in survival.
They emerged at last beneath the night sky, the gate creaking open onto Aegon's Hill. The city blazed below, smoke clawing at the stars, and the walls shook with another volley of cannon fire. From here, King's Landing was a ruin of fire and shadow.
Cersei stood at the edge, the wind hot against her face, and gazed down at the wreckage of her crown. Her fingers twitched at her side. And still, she did not weep.
They rode northward under blackened skies, through ash-choked fields and abandoned villages, the world behind them reduced to cinders. Her palms bled from the reins, her thighs raw, but she refused rest. Sleep brought visions — not dreams, no — something more.
In the darkness behind her eyes, ice stretched forever, beneath a sky starless and dead. Frozen corpses littered the plain, familiar faces twisted in agony — Tyrion, Tywin, Jaime, all encased in crystal frost. At the center rose a throne of black ice, and beside it stood a figure — tall, cloaked in shadow and winter, eyes glowing like dying stars. He raised his hand to her.
"Fire dies. Ice endures. Come north. Claim your crown."
She jolted awake each time, skin clammy, heart hammering. And yet… the dreams returned. Again and again.
Her men urged her west, toward Lannisport, toward safety. But her gaze was fixed northward. Each day, the call grew stronger, pulling at her bones. The Westerlands would never accept her now. But death… death obeyed no lords. No emperors.
One morning, beneath a sky heavy with fog, she stood beside Ser Boros, staring into the gray dawn.
"We ride north," she said, voice raw. "Let the world think I died with the city."
Boros hesitated. "North, Your Grace? To Winterfell?"
Her lips curled in a smile, cold and strange. "No. Beyond. To where death waits."
She rode alone by the time she reached the edge of the Haunted Forest, snow falling in whispers, the trees black against a silver sky. Her breath came in misty clouds, her limbs numb, but she did not turn back.
She no longer needed sleep to feel him.
The King of Ice called to her.
Her heart beat slower now, each pulse like a drum in deep frost, each breath shards of winter air. She had no fear — only purpose. Each step brought her closer to the crown that waited beyond life.
Night pressed heavy over the Riverlands, thick clouds veiling the moon and smothering the stars in shadow. Cersei lay beneath a threadbare cloak near the dying embers of a campfire, the chill of damp earth seeping into her bones. Her fingers, blistered and raw from the reins, clenched around the hilt of a dagger, though her hand no longer trembled from exhaustion — only from the cold that crept deeper each night.
Her eyelids sagged, lashes crusted with grit. She fought sleep, but it dragged her under like a current, slow and suffocating.
She stood alone in a frozen world.
The air was still and sharp, each breath cutting her lungs like broken glass. Snow swirled around her, not gentle but razor-fine, stinging her skin, blinding her. The sky above was black and endless, a void that devoured sound. Her footsteps cracked across the ice, the sound echoing into the emptiness, swallowed by the silence.
Before her, the landscape stretched flat and lifeless — a sea of frozen corpses, their faces locked in agony, eyes wide beneath glassy sheets of frost. She recognized them, every one: Jaime, Tywin, Tommen, Myrcella, Tyrion — mouths open in screams, but no sound emerged.
Her breath hitched. She turned, panic rising — and froze.
A throne of black ice stood behind her, jagged and vast, its sharp spires piercing the sky like spears. Shadows clung to it, alive, coiling.
And from the darkness stepped a figure — tall, draped in frozen mist, his form barely human, his skin pale as moonlight, and eyes glowing blue, cold and ancient. The air tightened, and her heartbeat stilled.
He did not speak — his mouth never moved — but the voice slid into her mind like the edge of a blade, smooth, irresistible, final.
"Fire dies. Ice endures."
Her lips parted, but her voice was gone, stolen by the cold.
"You are forsaken. Come north. Claim your crown."
He extended his hand — long, bone-white fingers tipped in black frost, palm up, expectant.
Cersei stepped forward, her legs numb, disobedient. The closer she drew, the heavier her limbs became. Her knees buckled. She reached for him — not out of need, but because she could not stop.
The moment her fingers brushed his —
She gasped awake.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her breath tore from her throat in a ragged cry. The fire was dead, reduced to cold ashes, and the air was wrong — too still, too silent, and the cold wasn't natural. It was biting, unnatural, not the chill of night, but of something ancient.
She tried to sit up — and froze.
A figure stood at the edge of the camp, barely a shadow against the dark. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw it clearly — tall, gaunt, its flesh translucent and pale, its armor glimmering with frost, the blade at its side forged from ice.
Its eyes — burning blue — locked onto hers.
Her blood ran cold, her limbs rooted in place. The dagger slipped from her hand.
The White Walker stepped forward, slow and silent, each movement smooth as death, its breath curling in the air like mist over a grave.
It said nothing, but she felt it — like in the dream — the pull, the command.
"Come."
Her body rose before her mind could resist. Her feet moved of their own accord.
The forest around her fell away, the world reduced to ice and breath, the night stretching forever.
Somewhere beyond, he waited — the King of Ice — and she walked toward him, a queen no longer of fire and flesh, but of frost and death.
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Her breath came in shallow bursts, each exhale turning to mist, each inhale slicing into her lungs like icy blades. The White Walker led her without a word, gliding over the forest floor with unnatural grace, while Cersei stumbled behind, her legs numb from cold and confusion. Her cloak dragged, heavy with frost, and the world seemed quieter with every step, as if even the wind dared not speak in the presence of this thing.
She should have fled, should have screamed, should have drawn her dagger — but her body no longer obeyed reason. It obeyed the pull, the compulsion born in her dreams, now a living force in the figure ahead of her.
The trees closed in, black fingers stretching overhead. The snow fell thicker, swirling in eddies that glittered like shattered glass. Her limbs ached, her fingers raw and stiff, but her mind burned — a blaze of memory and fury. Bonaparte. Tyrion. Jaime. Tywin. Their faces flared in her mind, and with each name came the sharp, clean burn of hatred.
And yet — she felt none of it now. Only cold clarity, like the dream.
The ground sloped downward, and soon they emerged into a clearing where no birds sang, no life dared to exist. In the center stood a monolith of black ice, its surface etched with runes older than kings, older than thrones. Atop a rise beyond, flanked by two more White Walkers, stood a figure that made the forest itself seem to recoil.
Cersei stopped.
Her heart didn't pound — it shuddered, a slow throb in her chest, as if her body was already forgetting how to live.
The Night King stood motionless, crowned in a circlet of frost, his eyes pale blue fire, fixed on her. He did not move, and yet his presence wrapped around her, cold and vast, pressing against her thoughts. It wasn't a voice, but a command she felt in her blood.
Kneel.
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed into the snow, not from weakness, but inevitability. Around her, the forest fell utterly silent. Her breath rasped in her throat, her knees freezing, her gaze never leaving his.
He stepped forward — slowly, deliberately, each movement heavy with power. As he approached, the snowstorm thickened, spinning around them like a vortex, and the world outside the clearing vanished. Only him. Only her.
Cersei's lips parted, but no words came. There was no fear. Not truly. Only a strange, numbing acceptance, like the moment before a knife pierced flesh — inevitable, irreversible.
The Night King stopped before her, eyes burning into hers. In his hand he held not a sword, but a crown — jagged, dark, rimmed with frost, forged from ice and bone. He raised it.
Not a question.
An offering.
Her fingers moved of their own accord, reaching for it.
As they closed around the cold metal, the storm ceased, and in the silence that followed, Cersei Lannister felt nothing — no fire, no fear, no past.
Only the cold.
And it welcomed her.
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Daenerys Targaryen
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The winds howled around Dragonstone's high towers, bringing with them the brine-stink of the Narrow Sea and the distant cry of gulls circling the cliffs like carrion birds. In the castle's ancient war room, Daenerys Targaryen stood before the war table of Westeros, her palms flat against its rough, cold surface. The carved ridges of the land pressed against her skin like scars.
Around her, loyal faces waited. Grey Worm, rigid in his polished armor, eyes sharp and unreadable. Missandei, poised, scrolls in hand, her voice the soft anchor in turbulent seas. Jorah Mormont, silent but watchful, standing at her flank like the shadow of her past. Beside him, Daario Naharis, lounging with a blade in hand, his smirk barely concealing the tension in his eyes.
The air inside the hall was heavy — with salt, smoke, and expectation.
Daenerys broke the silence first. Her voice was calm, but beneath it pulsed something hot, coiled — not rage, not yet — calculation.
"Westeros has a new ruler," she said, scanning the faces gathered. "But not a king. A general. A foreigner."
Missandei unrolled a parchment. "Napoleon Bonaparte. Of the land called France. He has declared himself Emperor of Westeros. He holds King's Landing. His armies occupy **the Reach, the Westerlands, even the North bends the knee. He commands loyalty through law and bread. The people call him... liberator."
A beat of silence followed. Then Daario chuckled, leaning against a pillar. "They called your brother king too. He died with molten gold for a crown."
Daenerys didn't flinch. "This Bonaparte isn't my brother. He's clever. And ruthless."
Jorah stepped forward. "Reports say he has codified laws, fed the poor, and punished lords who resist. There's no chaos. No infighting. He rules through structure, not terror."
Daenerys's brow furrowed. "Then he's more dangerous than any king."
Missandei's voice lowered. "He is advised by Tyrion Lannister. Known for cunning. A son of Tywin Lannister."
Daenerys looked up sharply. "A Lannister stands at his side?"
Jorah nodded. "The Lannister who sacked King's Landing — and lives to serve the man who now wears its crown."
Daenerys's lips parted, not with anger, but wariness. She had never met this Tyrion. But she knew what Lannisters were. Gold, betrayal, fire.
"He'll betray his Emperor," Daario said, idly spinning his dagger. "He betrayed his own house."
Daenerys shook her head slowly. "Perhaps. But men like that... they serve power. Not people. We won't count on betrayal. We'll build something he can't advise against."
She turned to the war table, eyes fixed on the Stormlands, the Riverlands, Dorne. "Westeros bent the knee to him out of fear — or necessity. But the Empire is new. The foundations are fresh. A flame applied in the right place can bring it down."
Grey Worm spoke, voice hard. "We strike now. Burn his camps. Cut his roads. Show the people fire."
"No," Daenerys said. "Not yet." Her gaze was far, distant, as if she saw the cities from above — from dragonback. "If we come as conquerors, they will remember his bread. His order. But if we come as liberators, with fire only for tyrants... then they'll remember the queen who brought freedom."
Jorah's lips pressed into a line. "Many lords resent his rule. Especially in Dorne, the Stormlands. If we gain them, we can divide his empire."
Daenerys nodded. "I want envoys sent south. Let the people hear I have come to claim my birthright — not with chains, but with justice." She stepped forward, her hand brushing the carved crown of Dragonstone. "We will strike, but not out of fury. Out of purpose."
Daario grinned. "So we play the fox before the dragon?"
She met his gaze. "No. We play both."
As storm clouds gathered outside, and waves crashed against the cliffs, Daenerys Targaryen's voice rose — not with anger, but with resolve.
"Let Napoleon build his Empire. Let him sit on his stolen throne. I am Daenerys Stormborn, the last dragon, and I will not be denied."
Her council bowed. The war for Westeros — a war of fire and empire — had begun.
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NAPOLEON
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The morning sun bled gold across the stone walls of the Red Keep, casting long shadows over the polished floor of Napoleon's solar. The warmth of the rising day did little to chase away the chill of calculation that crept through his veins. Standing before the wide window that overlooked the waking city, Napoleon clasped his hands behind his back, his uniform jacket hanging open, the tricolor sash at his waist slightly askew. He had not yet dressed for court. Today, the Emperor of Westeros was a general again — watching, waiting, weighing every move.
Behind him, Margaery Tyrell stirred in their bed, the silk sheets rustling as she rose, wrapping herself in a robe the color of ivy. Her presence was a fragrance in the room — rose oil and ambition.
A soft knock at the door drew his attention. He turned sharply. "Enter."
It was Tyrion Lannister. He stepped in, his eyes wide, breath tight with urgency. In his gloved hands, a sealed scroll. He bowed, offering it.
"Sire. A raven from Dragonstone."
Napoleon's pulse quickened, though his face betrayed nothing. He took the scroll and broke the seal cleanly. The script was neat, foreign in form — unmistakably Essosi.
Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, has landed upon the shores of her ancestral seat, Dragonstone. She comes not to shatter the peace, but to restore the realm. She offers a parley — to speak of thrones and futures.
A beat of silence followed.
"She wastes no time," Napoleon murmured.
Margaery, now at his side, reached for a goblet of wine but did not drink. "She means to test you."
Napoleon nodded slowly. His mind spun — not with fear, but curiosity. What does she want?
She came with dragons, yes — but did she truly seek war? No queen sends a raven for parley if she believes she can win with fire alone. He had learned long ago that the greatest conquerors often wanted validation, not simply victory.
She does not know Westeros as it is now. She expects chaos, division…
But he had brought order. He had fed the people, built courts, and replaced chaos with law and loyalty.
He turned to Margaery, eyes sharp. "What is her intention?"
Margaery tilted her head, thoughtful. "To claim what was stolen from her ancestors. To be crowned in the city you rule."
Napoleon's jaw tensed. He stepped to the map spread on his desk, fingers tracing from Dragonstone to King's Landing. The distance was short, but the gulf between them — fire and order — was vast.
"She seeks legitimacy," he said. "Not destruction. She wants to be queen — to rule, not ruin."
Margaery smiled faintly, watching him. "Then you must decide how much of your throne you're willing to give."
He looked up, amused. "Give?" he repeated.
Her smile deepened, and she approached, brushing her fingers lightly along his arm. "Of course, I only meant—"
"To decide for the Emperor," he said softly, cutting her off, his tone mild — but beneath it, iron.
Margaery froze, bowing her head, just a moment, before offering a flawless curtsy. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. The habit of queens who once ruled beside… lesser men."
Napoleon allowed her the grace of retreat. He did not scold her — he did not need to. Her words had slipped, revealing ambition, but he welcomed ambition — so long as it knew its place.
Later, seated at his desk, the ink drying on his reply, Napoleon reread his own words, each one chosen with precision.
To Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Dragonstone,
I acknowledge your arrival and invite you to King's Landing for terms of peace.
I offer you rule over Dragonstone — as mayor in service to the Empire, elected by the people you claim to protect.
If you seek power, earn it as I did — not through fire, but through the will of Westeros.
Let us speak, not as rivals, but leaders.
– Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of Westeros
He sealed it with his sigil — the eagle and the lion, bound beneath the tricolor.
Standing, he looked once more out the window, the city alive with his order, his creation.
"She wants a crown," he murmured to himself. "Let's see if she has the courage to win it by law… not blood."
And with that, he summoned his envoy. The letter would fly to Dragonstone by raven's wing. The first move had been made.
Let Daenerys now choose — parley or war. Either way, the Empire would endure. And Napoleon would remain its architect.
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Daenerys Targaryen
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The wind screamed off the cliffs of Dragonstone, flinging salt and spray against the black stone walls like arrows. High atop the Stone Drum, Daenerys stood alone at the balcony, Drogon's silhouette circling in the sky above, his cry lost in the storm. The sea below roiled, dark and endless, as if the world itself churned in anticipation.
Her cloak whipped around her shoulders, heavy with moisture, but her thoughts were heavier still.
He knew she had come.
A sharp knock echoed against the chamber door behind her.
"Enter," she called, not turning.
Grey Worm stepped in, stiff and silent, followed by Missandei, clutching a scroll sealed in red wax. The Imperial sigil — an eagle clutching a lion — gleamed against the parchment.
Missandei's eyes were dark with unease. "A raven from King's Landing. From Napoleon Bonaparte."
Daenerys took the letter without a word. Her fingers, callused from battle and flight, broke the seal easily. The parchment crackled in the wind as her eyes flicked across the words, consuming each line in silence.
By the time she reached the final sentence, her jaw was clenched tight, breath steady, but slow — controlled fury.
She read it aloud, voice calm, clear — like a blade before the strike.
"I offer you rule over Dragonstone — as mayor in service to the Empire, elected by the people you claim to protect. If you seek power, earn it as I did — not through fire, but through the will of Westeros."
A beat of silence. Even the storm seemed to hush.
"Mayor," she repeated, the word a curse in her mouth. "I am the blood of the dragon. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He offers me a… post. Like a merchant. A clerk."
Grey Worm's hand rested on his sword hilt. "We fly to King's Landing. We end him."
Daenerys didn't respond immediately. She walked slowly to the war table, her boots echoing on the stone. Her fingers traced the carved lands of Westeros. Her eyes settled on King's Landing, the heart of her birthright, now occupied by a man who claimed it through law and bread.
"He believes he has won the people," she said softly. "He believes his laws, his loaves of bread, mean more than bloodlines… more than dragons."
Missandei's voice was hesitant. "Many may believe him. He feeds them. He does not burn them."
Daenerys's gaze snapped to her — not anger, but something sharper. Wounded pride. Realization.
"I came to free Westeros," she said. "He claims he already has."
She let the scroll fall to the table, the wind lifting it like a dead thing.
"He wants me to earn power through voting. Through titles handed out by councils."
Grey Worm stepped forward. "We do not vote. We conquer."
Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "He's daring me to burn. To prove him right."
Silence settled again. The sea crashed below. Drogon's cry echoed once more.
Daenerys lifted her chin. "We answer. Not with fire. Not yet. I will meet him. Hear his terms — in person."
Missandei blinked, surprised. "Your Grace?"
"If he wants a war of words… I will speak with him. Let the people see who I am. Let him see me, not his caricature."
Her hand clenched into a fist. "Let him understand. I am not his mayor. I am the dragon."
The fire in the brazier leapt higher, wind howling through the chamber.
And somewhere in King's Landing, a letter was already being penned — Daenerys's answer, not in ash, but in challenge.
Let us meet, Emperor. Let us see if your order can withstand a dragon's gaze.
The game of thrones had begun again — but this time, law and fire would clash, and only one ruler would emerge from the storm.
The queen takes flight
The sky burned with dawnfire, streaks of gold and crimson blazing across the horizon as Daenerys stood at the cliff's edge, the sea crashing far below like a drumbeat of war. The wind howled around her, tugging at her cloak, whipping silver hair across her face. She did not flinch.
Before her, the dragons stirred.
Drogon, black as midnight, crouched upon the stone, his wings half-unfurled, the edges glowing red as sunlight caught the webbing. Smoke curled from his nostrils, each exhale sending tremors through the earth beneath her boots. Beside him, Rhaegal's green-scaled body twisted, golden eyes gleaming like molten metal. Viserion, pale and cold, let out a low, rattling growl, his talons gouging deep furrows in the ground.
Power incarnate. Flame made flesh. Her children. Her strength.
Behind her, Jorah Mormont approached, armor gleaming, his expression grim but loyal. At his side, Grey Worm, silent as stone, his hand never far from his blade. Missandei stood just behind, a cloak wrapped tightly around her against the sea's chill, but her gaze held fire.
Daenerys did not speak. She simply stepped forward, the sea wind billowing her cloak like wings of smoke, her eyes locked on King's Landing far to the west, beyond hills and forests. Bonaparte's city. Her father's city. Hers by blood.
"Mount," she commanded.
Grey Worm moved to Rhaegal, Jorah hesitated only a heartbeat before moving toward Viserion's side, though his eyes never left her. Missandei stood back, watching — her role not in battle, but in words, in truth, in the voice of the Queen.
Daenerys approached Drogon, placing a hand against his neck. Heat radiated from his scales, pulsing with life, with fire waiting to be unleashed. Drogon lowered his massive head, and she climbed, settling into the saddle crafted in Astapor so many years ago — a queen born in exile, now returning with fire at her heels.
A single word passed her lips — "Dracarys."
Drogon reared back, letting out a deafening roar that shook the very skies. From his throat came a torrent of flame, arching over the cliff, setting the air ablaze.
Rhaegal joined him, wings spreading wide, screeching into the sky. Viserion followed, his flame colder, tinged with blue at the edges.
The three dragons took flight, wings beating like thunder, and the earth trembled beneath them.
As they rose into the sky, Daenerys looked down at **Dragonstone — her ancient seat — now empty of purpose. Ahead lay the Empire, and the man who dared offer her chains dressed as peace.
She would meet him. She would speak. But first, Westeros would see her shadow in the sky, and remember what it meant to have dragons over their heads.
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NAPOLEON
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The sky rumbled long before the sound reached the marble steps of the Red Keep. Napoleon stood atop the Imperial platform, carved from Westerosi stone and flanked by Imperial eagles, eyes turned upward to the distant roar that grew louder with every heartbeat.
Around him stood Robb Stark, stern and silent in northern leathers; General Duhesme, his hand twitching near his saber; Johnny Beaumont, expression unreadable but tense. Tyrion Lannister sipped wine with uneasy calm, while Margaery Tyrell watched the horizon, her fingers curling tight around her gown.
And then—the dragons came.
Three shadows split the sky, descending from the blazing noonday sun, wings wide as ships, their scales catching light like molten metal. The largest — black as night, with eyes like burning coals — led the descent, a scream like thunder tearing through the heavens. The other two — green and gold, pale and cold — followed, circling the Red Keep like death's heralds.
The courtyard erupted in chaos.
Imperial Guards braced, muskets and rifles rising, artillery groaning into position on the walls. Old Guard veterans, men who had marched through Europe's wars, now trembled, eyes wide with fear.
"Hold!" Duhesme barked, voice hoarse. "Hold the line!"
The dragons swooped lower, wings cracking the air. A blast of Drogon's breath scorched the sky, fire licking harmlessly above the walls — a warning, not an attack.
Then, rifles cocked. Fingers hovered on triggers.
Napoleon did not move.
The world narrowed — the roar of wings, the crackle of flame, the thunder of hearts pounding in terror.
Then, with deliberate calm, Napoleon raised his gloved hand… and lowered it slowly.
"Stand down," he said, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "No man fires."
Silence. Reluctant, trembling, the rifles lowered. The soldiers exhaled as if freed from a spell.
Drogon landed hard, the earth quaking beneath his weight. Stone cracked. Dust rose. His wings folded like stormclouds collapsing, and atop his back, Daenerys Targaryen dismounted — silver hair blazing in the sunlight, cloak snapping in the wind like a banner of war.
Grey Worm and Jorah followed, descending from Rhaegal and Viserion, weapons sheathed, but eyes locked on the gathered men.
She walked forward alone.
Napoleon's gaze never left her. She walked like a queen from myth, every step calculated — not hesitant, not rushed — as if the world itself bent to her pace.
His mind analyzed her — the posture, the eyes (hard, proud, wounded), the smell of ash and salt trailing behind her like a cloak.
Not a conqueror today. A symbol. A threat. An offer.
She stopped before him — five paces away, close enough to see the tight line of her jaw, the flicker of curiosity beneath the fire.
"Emperor," she said, voice smooth as glass, yet laced with steel.
Napoleon inclined his head, eyes sharp. "Your Grace."
A moment passed between them — not silence, but calculation.
Fire met strategy. Blood met law. Dragon met Empire.
Behind Napoleon, Tyrion muttered under his breath, "I've never seen her before. But now I know why they feared her."
Margaery said nothing. Her gaze flicked between Daenerys and Napoleon, reading the currents of power like a game board.
Robb Stark stepped forward slightly, wary. Duhesme's hand never left his hilt. Beaumont remained still, unreadable.
Napoleon took a step forward, eyes unwavering.
"You ride with dragons," he said softly. "You bring flame to a city fed with bread and justice."
Daenerys's lips curved slightly. "A city built on my ancestors' bones. I came to claim what is mine."
Napoleon's smile was thin, cold. "Then let us speak. You came with fire. I offer you peace."
She looked past him, toward the throne behind the walls, then back. Her eyes burned — not with hate, but with the hunger of destiny.
Napoleon gestured toward the hall of the Red Keep.
"Come," he said. "Let us decide the future of Westeros — not with fire. But with words."
And as the dragons watched, two rulers walked into the halls of power, where law and fire would collide, and a realm's fate would be written anew.
The great hall of the Red Keep had been stripped of its gaudy excesses, its walls refitted with banners of the Empire — tricolor flags, eagle sigils, and gleaming marble columns, replacing the old, crumbling stone. The Iron Throne still stood, untouched, but beside it now rose a new seat — crafted from dark wood and steel, built by Napoleon's own artisans. Simple, refined — a throne of law, not blood.
Napoleon sat upon it now, dressed not in the full regalia of state, but in the tailored blues and gold of a general, his sword sheathed at his side. His hands rested lightly on the arms of the chair, fingers drumming softly, not from nerves — from thought.
Daenerys Targaryen entered in silence, flanked by Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm, and Missandei. Her silver hair was braided, her gown of deep crimson trimmed in gold — Targaryen colors that seemed to glow in the light of the stained glass above.
Her dragons did not follow, but their presence lingered — in the heat of her gaze, the curl of smoke on her cloak, and in the low, distant roars echoing from the skies above.
She stopped at the foot of the dais, chin high, shoulders square.
Napoleon stood — a gesture of courtesy, not submission.
"Your Grace," he said, stepping down to greet her. "You honor my hall with your presence."
Daenerys's eyes swept the room, noting the guards, the banners, the repaired stained glass — even the children peering in from the balconies, citizens, not lords, watching history unfold.
"This is not the Red Keep I remember," she said. "It does not feel like… my father's throne."
Napoleon's smile was faint, unreadable. "No. I imagine it does not."
He turned, gesturing with one hand. A servant approached swiftly, offering goblets of Arbor Gold on a silver tray. Napoleon took one and offered it first to Daenerys.
"Wine, Your Grace? It is custom in Westeros to offer hospitality to a guest, even one… with dragons."
She hesitated a moment, then took it. "Courtesy from a conqueror. That is… new."
Napoleon offered goblets to Jorah, Grey Worm, and Missandei, all of whom accepted cautiously — save Grey Worm, who drank nothing.
He led Daenerys to a long table set near the throne. Maps, reports, and grain tallies lay scattered — not battle plans, but reforms. Court records, baker's accounts, judicial rulings.
"You came to reclaim a broken realm," Napoleon said, sitting across from her. "I came to rebuild it. Let me show you."
He nodded toward a parchment. "Crime has dropped. Every child in King's Landing eats daily bread. The law is no longer the whim of lords, but the rule of code. The Napoleonic Code. It protects the weak. Punishes the corrupt. Brings order."
He met her eyes, steady. "I did not come for your throne, Daenerys. I came for the future."
For a long moment, she said nothing. Her fingers turned the goblet slowly, gaze fixed on the records before her — evidence, not promises.
Finally, she spoke, voice softer, but not weak.
"You brought peace," she said. "Not through dragons. Not through birthright. But through… structure."
Napoleon inclined his head. "The people want food. Justice. Stability. They do not need fire, nor blood."
Her gaze sharpened. "And yet you would offer me a mayor's seat. My family ruled for centuries. You offer… a town council?"
Napoleon leaned forward slightly, hands clasped.
"I offer you Dragonstone, your ancestral seat — not as a figurehead, but as a leader. Elected, by your people. Rule them, not by birth, but by choice. Earn their loyalty, not through fire, but through service."
A long pause.
Daenerys studied him — not the man, but the Empire he represented. The quiet strength in his bearing. The order he had wrought from chaos.
In her eyes was a flicker of something he could not quite name — respect, curiosity… and conflict.
"This is not the meeting I expected," she said quietly.
Napoleon smiled faintly. "No. But then, neither of us are what the world expected."
They sat in silence, two rulers, wine untouched between them.
And outside, the dragons circled, the people watched, and Westeros waited — to see if fire would burn, or if order would prevail.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Daenerys Targaryen
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The hall smelled of fresh parchment, spiced wine, and something older — stone steeped in centuries of power. Daenerys sat in silence, fingers tight around the goblet she had not yet tasted. Her gaze drifted to the banners draped along the high walls — eagles, tricolors, symbols of order and conquest. Not a single dragon.
She felt like a ghost in her father's house — the last Targaryen, in a world that no longer trembled at her name.
Across the table, Napoleon watched her — not with hunger, nor pity, but with measured calculation, as though he were studying the contours of the future and deciding whether she fit.
It unsettled her — not because he dismissed her, but because he didn't.
"You've done much," she said finally, voice steady. "You brought peace to a city that has never known it. I've ruled cities, too. I know how hard it is to feed the poor, to calm the chaos. What you've built… it's impressive."
Napoleon inclined his head slightly. Not with pride, not with dismissal — simply acknowledging truth.
Her eyes fell to the parchments spread before her: grain tallies, court rulings, records of councils elected by the people. Order, not fear. Justice, not blood.
She hated it.
Not because it was wrong, but because it was everything she had bled for — and he had done it without dragons.
Her hand clenched around the goblet. "But I didn't cross the world, lose my people, my children, my city — I didn't leave Essos, where I built freedom from chains, to be given a seat on Dragonstone and told to rule at the pleasure of others."
Napoleon did not blink. He simply waited.
She stood, walking slowly toward the high arched windows. King's Landing spread below — cleaner, ordered, vibrant with life. The city no longer stank of rot, but of baked bread and salt air. She heard laughter in the streets, not screams.
This is the peace I dreamed of.
And it wasn't hers.
Her voice dropped low. "I did not come to watch someone else finish what I began. I broke chains. I burned tyrants. I gave Meereen freedom. I carried them on my back, and they called me Mhysa. Mother. I have earned more than a polite offer and an island."
She turned, her eyes burning. "You ask me to rule by vote. I ruled by destiny."
Napoleon stood slowly, no anger in his posture — only stillness, solid as stone.
"Destiny," he said, "is the excuse of the unprepared. You speak of blood. I speak of choice. Westeros has suffered queens who claimed the throne by birth. They do not remember your family kindly."
He approached her, footsteps soft against the polished stone.
"You could fight me," he said, voice calm. "Your dragons could turn this city to ash again. You might win. But you won't build peace from ruin. Not this time. Not here."
Silence pressed between them.
Daenerys looked at him — this man who had conquered not with fear, but structure. Who had done what she had always wanted — given the people peace, safety, hope.
And yet, the weight of her journey, the fire of her past, Essos, the Unsullied, the freed slaves — all of it screamed inside her. She could not surrender that legacy in a single breath.
"I need time," she said quietly. "To consider your offer."
Napoleon didn't answer immediately. Then he gave a slow nod.
"You are welcome in the Red Keep," he said, "and in King's Landing — as long as your dragons bring no fire. Let the people see you as I have — not a conqueror, but a queen who listens."
She watched him, heart still racing.
"Dragonstone remains yours," he continued, "so long as you do not attack the Empire or its people. Let it be your seat — for now. Rule it as you will. And if you seek more, seek it through peace — through the will of Westeros."
Daenerys nodded, once. Not in agreement, but in acknowledgment.
As she turned to leave, the wine still untouched, she felt the weight of every step.
The fire inside her didn't fade — but it waited.
Not yet.
Let him have his Empire.
She would decide, in time, if she would burn it —
—or build something greater.