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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
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The winds atop Castle Black howled like wolves without faces. Beaumont stood at the edge of the eastern rampart, snow clinging to his greatcoat, eyes fixed on the northern sky.
Then came the sound he'd prayed for—and dreaded.
A roar split the dusk like a blade: Drogon.
He emerged from the stormclouds like a comet made of flesh and fire, wings battered but still mighty. On his back—Napoleon and Daenerys.
Beaumont exhaled in relief and heartbreak at once. Viserion was nowhere in sight.
Behind him, Grey Worm stood rigid, lips pressed into a grim line. The soldiers of the Night's Watch stirred below like stirred embers, craning their necks, whispering to one another in awe and fear.
Beaumont turned to Grey Worm. "Tell the yard to clear. Have the maesters ready. And... inform the black brothers we've returned. We've seen what's coming."
Grey Worm gave a tight nod and descended the stairs. Beaumont waited.
Drogon landed hard, claws scraping stone, his fury still boiling off his hide in hissing steam. The impact shook the ramparts. As the beast lowered himself, Napoleon leapt down, steady and cold, while Daenerys half-fell beside him—her posture undone, her composure gone. The look on her face made Beaumont's gut twist.
Viserion was dead. That much was now undeniable.
Beaumont approached, boots crunching across the ice.
"Sire," he said quietly.
Napoleon turned to him. "Get the commanders. Stannis. Melisandre. The Night's Watch captains. Tyrion. We meet in the hall. Now."
Beaumont gave a curt nod and turned to deliver the orders, pausing only once to look back.
Daenerys stood beside Drogon, a hand resting on his neck like she needed his warmth just to remain upright. Snow swirled around her like ashes.
She didn't weep. But something in her had shattered.
The Great Hall of Castle Black
An hour later
The fires roared higher than usual. The hall was thick with smoke and tension. Men stood close to the flames, but none spoke much. The long table at the center had been cleared of its clutter and now bore only maps—crude ones, half-charred and stitched together from bits of old parchment, but detailed enough to show the North, Dragonstone, and King's Landing.
Beaumont stood at Napoleon's right as he entered, Daenerys close beside him, still silent, still not fully returned from wherever grief had taken her.
Stannis Baratheon sat at the far end, armored and unreadable. Beside him, Melisandre watched the pair with crimson-laced eyes, her lips whispering prayers to a god Beaumont did not trust.
Jon Snow stood near the fire, his face unreadable. Tyrion paced like a caged wolf, wine in one hand, nerves in the other.
Napoleon didn't wait for ceremony.
He stepped forward and placed a sealed letter on the table.
"Marshal Ney will receive this by raven within the hour," he said, voice flat and firm. "He is to marshal the army in King's Landing—every able soldier, every horse, every cannon."
"And he's bringing them north?" Tyrion asked.
Napoleon nodded. "Yes. But first, he will stop at Dragonstone. The mines beneath it run deep with dragonglass. Ney will extract what he can, send the raw crystal north... and begin production of ammunition there."
"Cannonballs," Beaumont added, stepping forward. "And bullets. For every musket in the Grand Armée."
Stannis arched a brow. "You intend to use your powder against ice?"
"Ice can be shattered," Napoleon replied. "I've shattered greater things."
There was silence.
Daenerys finally spoke, her voice dry as paper. "I grant permission to mine Dragonstone. It was meant to be the forge of a new world. Let it be that now."
Melisandre's red eyes flicked toward her. "The flames show many paths, Your Grace. But fire must be tempered by steel. This will be costly."
Napoleon turned to her. "So is extinction."
Beaumont leaned in slightly. "Marshal Ney can have supplies organized within a week. We've left enough industry behind in the Crownlands to begin smithing immediately."
"Tell Ney to ration the black powder," Napoleon said. "Valyrian steel and dragonglass will be our edge—but it's the volley that breaks a charge."
Tyrion poured himself more wine. "Let me guess, you've already drawn the battle lines."
Napoleon's fingers tapped the map. "Here. Here. And here." He pointed to the Frostfangs, the Gorge, and the eastern hills that bordered the Haunted Forest. "We use the terrain. The Wall is no longer a defense. It's an anchor. We stretch their advance, thin their ranks, then hammer them with fire and flint."
"And what of the Pale Queen?" asked Jon, his voice low.
Daenerys flinched at the name.
Napoleon looked at her, then back to Jon. "She is more than myth. She commands as a general does. She does not shamble. She leads."
Stannis crossed his arms. "The undead now follow queens? I find that difficult to accept."
"They kneel to her," Beaumont said, recalling the image all too vividly. "We saw it. An army of thousands falling to one knee in perfect silence. Not to a Night King. To her."
Melisandre tilted her head. "Then the Great Other has given her dominion. She is no longer mortal."
"No," said Napoleon. "But she was."
That sent murmurs down the table.
"She knew we watched," Daenerys said suddenly. Her voice had steadied, but only barely. "She turned her head before the spear flew. She saw us. Not as prey. As rivals."
Jon looked down. "We cannot kill her with fire."
"We don't have to," Napoleon replied. "We just have to break her army."
Stannis frowned. "And if that fails?"
Napoleon didn't blink. "Then we burn the North before we let it fall."
Tyrion choked on his wine.
Silence hung heavy until Daenerys spoke again. "We will not burn the North."
Napoleon's jaw flexed, but he nodded once. "Then we hold it."
He turned to Beaumont. "Ready the message. Ney is to march by the Kingsroad. Stop at Dragonstone. Mine. Forge. Arm the infantry. I want the first line of powder-loaded cannonballs on the ships within ten days."
Beaumont bowed. "It will be done."
Napoleon then stepped around the table and stared into the fire.
"We lost a dragon today," he said. "And if we do nothing, we'll lose the realm next."
The flames danced, casting his shadow tall across the blackened stone.
"But I do not lose wars," he finished. "Not to ice. Not to kings. And certainly not to ghosts."
Later that night
The storm had passed, but the wind hadn't lost its teeth.
Beaumont stood alone in the rookery tower, where the air bit like a blade and the shadows clung thick to the stone. Beyond the arrow-slit windows, the night stretched black and vast, broken only by the low flicker of lanterns far below in the courtyard. Castle Black groaned under the weight of winter's breath.
He dipped the quill again, ink thick and slow, like blood pooling from a wound. His hands—roughened by war, still stained with the scent of dragonhide and powder—shook just slightly as he signed his name.
Desmera, my love,
If this raven reaches you, know first that I am alive. I stood beside the Emperor himself today, beside Queen Daenerys, and I saw death take flight. The Pale Queen commands the dead, and they march not only on the Wall, but upon the living heart of the realm. I do not know what lies beyond tomorrow, only that we may not see its end.
He paused.
Outside, a raven stirred on its perch, its wings rustling like old parchment. The smell of soot and cold feathers mingled with the wax of the candle burning at his side. The wax dripped slowly, tracing a path like the hourglass of the gods.
He continued writing, slower now. More careful. As if the words themselves could carry the weight he bore.
If I do not return to our estate in the Arbor, I want you to remember one thing above all else—I love you. From the first time I heard your laughter among the lemon groves, I knew I'd never want another world but the one with you in it.
He swallowed, lips dry as ash.
Tell our daughter—tell our little girl—that her father fought for a future where she could run barefoot in summer, without fear of snow or shadow. Tell her she has my eyes, but your strength.
His throat caught.
I dreamt of her, Des. Just last night. Curled beside you, with one of your ribbons in her hand. I don't know how she's grown now. What color her hair has taken. What name you've whispered in her ear when the nights were long. Gods forgive me for not being there.
The wind howled, high and hollow, like the cry of a dying horn.
But I will come back. I swear it. By fire and frost, by steel and star, I will return to you. And if I fall… if my sword lies still in the snow, I'll still find my way back.
One way or another.
He signed the last words with fingers numb from cold.
Forever yours,
Johnny.
He sealed it in wax—his family's crest pressed firm and deep—then tied the parchment to the leg of the black-feathered raven. The creature blinked at him with intelligent eyes, cocking its head as if it, too, understood the finality of the message.
Beaumont carried the bird to the open window. The wind slapped his face, sharp and raw. The sky was obsidian, smeared with the silver hush of stars, and the sea of snow below looked as if the world had been turned upside down.
"Go to her," he whispered.
He released the raven.
Its wings burst wide—thunder-soft—and the bird vanished into the dark, a flicker of life hurtling southward across a dying world.
Beaumont lingered in the window, the cold sinking past his bones. The scent of old parchment and wax still clung to his tunic. Far in the distance, the wind carried the howling of wolves—or something darker—and the rustle of banners preparing for war.
He closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, he could smell the sea again—the Arbor's breeze thick with salt and summer flowers. He could almost hear Desmera's laughter beneath the lemon trees, feel the softness of a baby's breath against his chest.
Then the wind changed.
And he turned from the window, one hand brushing the hilt of his sword.
The world was ending.
But he had a promise to keep.
And Johnny Beaumont never broke his word.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Field Marshal Michel Ney
Marshal of the 1st Armee
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The city stirred under the weight of a new sun, its light spilling through the long windows of the Grand Council Chamber in molten gold. From where he stood at the table's edge, Marshal Michel Ney could hear the rhythm of a waking capital: the clang of a smith's hammer echoing from the Street of Steel, the creak of carts grinding uphill, the dull bark of soldiers drilling in the garrison yard. King's Landing was alive.
But the letter in his hand chilled him more than the Wall ever could.
The seal was unmistakable: the gilded eagle of the Emperor, pressed into crimson wax. Still warm. The raven had barely arrived.
Jean-Baptiste Duhesme stood across the chamber, brushing ash from his shoulders as he flipped through a ledger on food rationing in the poorer wards. He hadn't noticed Ney go still.
With a crack, Ney broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
Marshal Ney,
What we face in the North is no rebellion. It is the undoing of life itself. I have seen them — not wildlings, not men, but the dead.
They walk in silence. They follow a queen of ice and shadow. Viserion is dead.
Prepare the capital. Secure order.
Ride to Dragonstone. I suspect the truth lies there. There is mention in old records of something called dragonglass.
Ask the maesters. Mine it, forge it, arm our men with it.
We make war in earnest.
— Napoleon
The letter nearly slipped from Ney's hand.
"Gods help us," he muttered.
Duhesme looked up. "What is it?"
Ney didn't answer. He walked to the hearth, staring into the low flames as if they might explain what he'd just read.
"Michel?" Duhesme pressed, concern in his voice now.
Ney turned slowly, and his tone was clipped, military. "A message from the Emperor. He's seen something. Something unnatural. He speaks of… the dead. Not metaphorically — literally. Risen corpses. An army of them."
Duhesme blinked. "Surely he's mistaken. Delirious. What army could survive death?"
"None that I've heard of," Ney said grimly. "But he's seen it. And he claims a dragon fell in the fighting. Viserion."
Duhesme paled, lips parting. "One of the dragons is dead?"
Before Ney could reply, a soft rustle broke the silence — faint, like the movement of fabric against stone.
His eyes snapped toward the nearest column — a marble alcove draped in half-shadow, where the tapestry stirred slightly in the morning breeze.
But he saw nothing. Heard nothing more.
Unbeknownst to him, behind the tapestry, Margaery Tyrell stood perfectly still, her heart pounding beneath green velvet, her fingers curled tight around the folds of her dress. She didn't know why she had paused here — curiosity, perhaps. Instinct.
Now she understood. She was listening to history change.
Back in the chamber, Ney set the letter down carefully.
"There's more," he said. "He mentions a substance. Dragonglass. Says it might be the key. That it could be forged into weapons. I've never heard of it."
Duhesme frowned. "Nor I. Is it a type of steel?"
"I don't know. But Napoleon wants us to ride to Dragonstone — he thinks the answer lies there."
"We've charted Dragonstone," Duhesme said, already unfolding a naval map on the table. "It's volcanic. Old seat of House Targaryen. No real importance these days. A fortress, some mines, long abandoned."
Ney nodded. "Then we reopen them."
Duhesme hesitated. "But what are we fighting? What are they?"
"I don't know," Ney said. "But the Emperor has never sounded like this before. Not even on the eve of Austerlitz."
He crossed the room in three strides. "Summon Maester Lenwin. Quietly. Ask him about dragonglass. Tell him nothing else."
Duhesme nodded and left with haste.
The sunlight crept farther into the chamber, catching on the war maps spread across the central table. Ney reached for a quill and began writing.
To the Master Smiths of Dragonstone,
You are hereby commanded to prepare all forges for immediate inspection. Mining is to resume at once. Await further orders regarding material known as dragonglass.
Work under Imperial protection. Discretion required.
— Marshal Michel Ney, Prince of the Empire
He sanded and sealed the letter, watching the wax cool like hard blood.
Behind the column, Margaery's breath trembled.
Dead armies. Dragonfire failing. A new queen wrapped in frost. This was no longer a game of courts or marriage or conquest.
Something else moved in the North.
And as always, Margaery would move with it.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Margaery Tyrell
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The corridor beyond the Grand Council Chamber was cold, though sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows and kissed the marble with gold. Margaery moved like smoke between columns, the hem of her emerald gown trailing in silence. Her breath, slow and tight, misted in the still air as her heart thundered beneath her bodice.
They didn't see her.
They never did.
And so, they spoke freely — about the letter, about "dragonglass," about "the dead."
The dead? she thought, pausing behind a fluted pillar, one hand pressed flat to the stone as if to steady the world. What madness is this?
Marshal Ney's voice still rang in her ears. "They move with a queen cloaked in frost." Something ancient stirred at the edges of her memory — whispers from Oldtown septas about White Walkers and cursed queens. She had dismissed such tales before, when they belonged to childhood and fear. But Napoleon had seen it. Felt it. And a dragon had died for it.
A shiver danced down her spine, not from the chill, but from something else.
Dread.
No — not dread. Frustration.
In all the talk of death and duty, her name had not even been whispered. Not once. As if she were air. A comfort. A body. A distraction. Never a piece on the board.
She glided into her solar and closed the door gently behind her. Inside, sunlight filtered through pale green curtains, painting the chamber with the colors of spring. But she felt no warmth.
Crossing to the mirror, she stared at her reflection — eyes like polished jade, lips touched with rose. The picture of poise. Of beauty. Of irrelevance.
I will not fade into silk and softness while the world burns.
She paced. Her fingers clenched. Her thoughts darted like birds in a snare.
Daenerys Targaryen had dragons and war. Margaery had wit and silk — but wit meant nothing against frost-bitten corpses. Silk could not parry death. And charm would not survive winter.
Still…
Charm could sway hearts. Words could bind allies. Power was not always forged in fire — sometimes, it bloomed in gardens, in secrets, in influence.
"I must be more," she whispered aloud, as if daring herself to believe it. "I must do more."
She turned to her writing desk, every movement sharp with purpose now. She would speak to the Septons — offer relief to the slums. She would gather the noblewomen, turn gossip into loyalty, whisper strength into frightened wives. If the dead were coming, let the people see her not as a harlot in the Emperor's bed, but as the rose that grew from the grave of fear.
She would build schools for the orphaned. Kitchens for the hungry. Speak in the square beneath the Red Keep.
Let Daenerys have her dragons.
Margaery would have the city.
And when Napoleon returned — if he returned — he would find the realm in order, the people loyal, and her name not forgotten, but spoken in reverence.
She sat and took up her quill. The ink bled like determination across the parchment.
Let them call me a whore.
Let them.
But when the corpses march from the snow and frost eats the world, it will be my voice they remember — calm, clear, and commanding — calling them to light.
The drill yard behind Maegor's Holdfast reeked of sulfur, sweat, and scorched powder. Black smoke clung low to the air like a warning, curling around the cracked stone walls as if even the Red Keep itself was wary of what stirred within. One thousand men — all that remained — lined the yard in uneven formations, their muskets hoisted with shaky discipline beneath the unforgiving sun. Every veteran fit to march had gone north with Marshal Ney. What remained were the dregs and the desperate: wounded regulars, conscripted city watch, and green boys whose shoulders buckled beneath the weight of their Charleville rifles.
Sulfur clung to the air like mourning cloth, curling thick against the stone walls as if the Red Keep itself recoiled from the noise within. Gunpowder snapped. Shouted orders cracked across the square. The sun was high and unkind, turning every surface into a forge.
Margaery Tyrell stood beneath the shadowed archway, her presence a defiant contrast to the war-grit chaos beyond. Her gown was green — the deep green of summer ivy, catching the wind like a banner — and her skin gleamed with rose oil and resolve. She smelled of gardens and threat.
They didn't see her at first. The soldiers were too busy fumbling with their muskets — long-barreled Charlevilles, clutched in unsteady hands. The formations were crooked, the timing poor. She winced as one boy misfired, the click of his empty hammer sharp and lonely amid the smoke.
Poor things. Barely boys, most of them. The veterans were gone, marched north with Marshal Ney to chase ghosts. These were the leftovers — wounded, raw, and barely trained — tasked with holding a city of half a million.
And Jean-Baptiste Duhesme was losing his patience.
"Reload!" he barked, his French accent slicing the word in half. "Ramrod down — do it again!"
Margaery watched him — the man Napoleon had left in charge of the capital. Sweat clung to his brow, dust to his boots. His voice rasped like a sword dragged across gravel. He snapped a cane against a recruit's boot, muttering something in French she didn't need translated.
He was angry, yes. But underneath that — afraid.
Good. Fear meant he might listen.
She stepped forward, silk trailing behind her like a shadow spun of green light. The moment her foot touched the drill yard, Duhesme noticed.
He turned, frowning. His scowl deepened when he saw her approaching, as if the idea of a lady among the gunfire was a personal insult.
"Lady Margaery," he called, tone clipped. "This is no place for courtiers. Muskets don't care for perfume."
She smiled gently. Let him sneer. Let him underestimate her. It made what came next all the easier.
"And yet your musketeers look like they could use a little grace," she said lightly, stepping closer through the drifting powder smoke. "Or at the very least, bread and bandages."
She extended a scroll, tied in Tyrell green. "A proposal. Relief stations throughout the city. Public kitchens along the Blackwater. Hospitals in the barracks. I've already secured the funds. All I need is your seal."
He didn't take it.
"I could have you arrested for meddling with quartermaster affairs."
She tilted her head. Her voice dropped, velvet over steel.
"And I could leave. Watch the city burn while you train one thousand frightened boys to hold it."
Behind them, a volley fired. Uneven. Limp. The recoil of the muskets echoed off stone like bones snapping.
"Bread will last you longer than bullets, General," she added softly.
Duhesme's jaw worked. His eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?" he asked. "Why parade through powder smoke to fix slums and kitchens? What stake does the Emperor's... consort have in gunpowder and hunger?"
Ah. There it was. The edge of the blade beneath his words.
She didn't blink. Didn't smile.
"Because if I don't act, I become exactly what they say I am. A silk-draped shadow. A decoration for his bed. And shadows fade when the sun moves. I won't fade."
She stepped forward — not with grandeur, but with purpose — until only inches separated them.
"You hold the walls," she said, voice low. "Let me hold the city."
He looked past her then, to the boys who'd fired moments ago — now reloading again with fumbling fingers, sweat running down their backs. He was calculating. Measuring.
And finally — finally — he took the scroll.
"You'll have your chance," he muttered. "If your roses rot, they'll hang you with the thorns."
Margaery smiled, not sweetly, but with teeth behind the bloom.
"Then I'll make certain they bloom sharp."
She turned with a swirl of green silk, walking through powder and sun, the scent of roses trailing behind her like a banner.
Behind her, another volley fired.
This one was straighter. Louder.
And for the first time all morning, it hit its mark.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The halls of the Red Keep whispered in the wake of her steps.
By the time Margaery returned to her chambers, the scent of sweat and smoke still clung to her skin, mingling with rose oil and the warm perfume of silk. She shut the heavy oaken door behind her and leaned against it for a breath — a single moment to shed the mask.
Her fingers unpinned the gold filigree from her braid. Her emerald gown fell away in silence, pooling at her feet like the last layer of a performance. She stood there, bare to the quiet firelight, heart pounding not from fear, but from anticipation.
She had taken the first step. The city would remember.
But it was not enough.
She crossed the room slowly, her bare feet whispering against the polished stone floor. The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting soft gold over the marble walls and embroidered cushions. Her writing desk waited by the tall window, parchment unfurled, ink pots half-drained. Maps of King's Landing were spread beneath translucent vellum, her notes in careful script. Rations. Trade routes. Guard rotations. Sept donations.
Margaery Tyrell had not been idle.
She reached for a quill but paused.
Strategy was a blade — but some battles needed more than steel. They needed insight. Honesty. A voice beyond her own.
She crossed to the rope hanging by the door and gave it a sharp tug.
Moments later, the door opened, and Mira Forrester stepped inside.
Mira — ever observant, ever quiet — wore a plain woolen gown, her auburn hair braided back in simple Northern fashion. She looked surprised to be summoned at this hour, but her gaze met Margaery's with a steady, familiar warmth.
"My lady?" Mira asked, bowing her head slightly.
Margaery gestured toward the dressing table. "Help me prepare for the council tomorrow. Something strong. Not lovely — powerful."
Mira moved swiftly but gently, gathering comb and pins, salves and subtle rouge. She worked in silence at first, fingers brushing through Margaery's hair with care, but the queen's eyes stayed fixed on the fire.
After a long moment, Margaery spoke, voice low, thoughtful.
"Mira… may I ask you something honest?"
The girl nodded slowly. "Always."
"If you were in my place… beloved by some, whispered about by others… seen not as a leader, but as a symbol — disposable when the winds change… what would you do?"
Mira paused, hands still in her hair.
The flames flickered.
"I would survive," she said softly. "Even if it meant smiling at liars and kneeling to wolves. I'd find the cracks in their armor and slip through them. Quietly. Until one day I wasn't just surviving… I was the one they feared losing."
Margaery turned, eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Spoken like a Northerner."
Mira offered a small smile. "Spoken like a Forrester. We held a small corner of the world once — until it was taken. I learned, after… that dignity means nothing if you're dead. And that sometimes, kindness is the sharpest weapon."
Margaery looked away again, her expression unreadable. The firelight danced along the edge of her jaw, carving gold into her cheekbones.
"I've spent so long being loved," she murmured. "Adored. I knew how to smile, how to charm. I could bend a court with a glance and a tear. But now?" Her voice darkened. "There's a dragon queen in the North. The Emperor's eye is no longer mine alone. The court watches… waiting to see if I stumble."
"You haven't," Mira said quietly. "You've adapted. That's more than most queens could do."
"But adaptation isn't enough anymore," Margaery whispered. "Not when the world itself is changing. I don't just want to keep my place… I want to reshape it. I want to be necessary."
She rose from the stool, silk robe swirling around her ankles. Mira stepped back as Margaery crossed to the desk and unrolled a fresh parchment. Her fingers moved with purpose, pen scratching the first lines of something bold.
A letter? A decree?
It was neither — it was a plan.
"I'm going to open the Tyrell stores in the Reach. Quietly. Gold, grain, medicine. Not for the court, not for the lords — for the city. For the people. I will make them see me as something more than his lover."
She turned back to Mira, green eyes hard with intent.
"If I cannot be his empress by crown… I'll be queen by necessity."
Outside, the wind shifted. Crows stirred atop the Red Keep's ramparts. The long, dark winter moved closer with each passing hour.
But within the chamber, two women stood — one in silk, one in wool — bound not by blood, but by survival.
Mira stepped forward, voice hushed but firm. "Then let me help you, my lady. Whatever you need."
Margaery touched her hand — a gesture rare and real. "I already have what I need."
Then she turned back to the parchment, her eyes narrowing as she shaped the future line by line.
Let Daenerys command dragons. Let the Emperor wield war.
Margaery would win with ink and whispers, with bread and firelight.
She would become something new.
And the city would not just remember her —
It would kneel.