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NAPOLEON
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The morning sun gleamed like a golden crown over the Arbor, casting its light upon the harbor of Vinetown, now a hub of French military activity. The once-tranquil docks, where Redwyne merchant ships had set sail with casks of fine wine, were now filled with the bristling steel of a war fleet.
Napoleon stood on the stone pier, watching as his soldiers—eight thousand strong—boarded the refitted ships with mechanical precision. Officers shouted orders, boots thudded against wooden planks, and the sound of iron clashing against iron rang out as cannons were secured into place.
The transformation of the fleet was nothing short of remarkable.
Gone were the unarmed wine galleons, the sleek trade vessels built for carrying barrels of Arbor Gold. Instead, these ships had been refitted into instruments of war—bastions of the Emperor's ambition.
Each ship had been reinforced to hold rows of 32-pounder long guns, their iron muzzles protruding from freshly cut gunports. The decks were widened to accommodate more men, while elevated platforms had been added to serve as musket stations for sharpshooters. French engineers had worked tirelessly, reshaping these vessels into floating fortresses, ready to carry Napoleon's army to Oldtown's doorstep.
And now, the hour had come.
As he turned away from the sight of his embarkation, he saw Lady Desmera approaching, her dark green cloak fluttering in the coastal wind. She carried herself with dignity, but Napoleon could see the weight upon her shoulders. She knew what he was about to ask of her.
"You have something to say to me, Emperor?" she asked, tilting her chin slightly, her voice steady.
He gave a firm nod. "I am entrusting you with the Arbor, Lady Desmera. Do not fail me."
She did not flinch. "You know I will not."
Napoleon studied her for a moment before continuing, "Production of muskets, gunpowder, and bullets must continue without delay. My army will need steady supplies, and I expect you to oversee that personally."
Desmera crossed her arms. "And what of the people? They have grown used to your rule, but this is still a land recovering from war."
"They must work," Napoleon replied simply. "Loyalty is built on prosperity, and prosperity is built on labor. The Arbor will thrive under my empire, but only if its people understand their duty. Your duty."
Desmera met his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"And if House Tyrell marches before you return?"
Napoleon smirked. "Then you will hold. My men here will reinforce you. You are not a soldier, Lady Desmera, but you are a leader. Act like one."
She exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod. "Very well, Emperor."
Napoleon stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. "This empire will not fall. Not in the Arbor. Not in Oldtown. Not anywhere. But it will need men and steel. See to it that the forges burn without rest."
Desmera met his gaze one last time before inclining her head. "New France will have its weapons."
Satisfied, Napoleon turned back toward the flagship—the L'Empereur, a warship now flying the imperial eagle alongside the golden grapes of House Redwyne. His marshals were already aboard, waiting for him.
The first fleet would sail with eight thousand men, a mixture of hardened veterans and newly trained recruits. The rest would follow once the ships returned.
Napoleon took a final look at Vinetown.
This was no longer a foreign land. It was his.
As the war drums sounded, and the imperial banners rippled in the salty breeze, Napoleon stepped aboard his ship, ready to carve his name into Westerosi history.
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The L'Empereur cut through the waves, its hull reinforced, its newly mounted cannons glinting under the midday sun. The wind filled its sails, carrying it and the rest of the fleet deeper into the vast waters of the Whispering Sound. Behind him, the Arbor had long vanished into the horizon; ahead, Oldtown awaited its conqueror.
Napoleon stood at the prow of the ship, arms crossed behind his back, eyes fixed on the endless stretch of water before him. The rhythmic creaking of the vessel, the scent of salt and gunpowder, the distant sound of men singing as they manned their stations—it was all strangely familiar.
He had crossed many seas before. The Mediterranean, the Nile, the frozen waters of Russia, and now Westeros. Every voyage had carried him toward conquest, and every conquest had been tested by fire.
Italy, Egypt, Austerlitz, Moscow.
The Alps, the Pyramids, the Kremlin, and now Oldtown's Hightower.
A smirk ghosted across his lips. "History repeats itself," he muttered under his breath.
There was a time when he had commanded fleets he had no control over, struggling against British naval supremacy. But now, he had a fleet of his own—small, but battle-ready. And this time, he would not make the same mistakes.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots approaching. He turned to see his newly appointed admiral, Mathieu Torran, a grizzled old merchant of the Arbor, now clad in a tailored navy-blue coat with golden epaulettes. His weathered face, burned by years under the sun, bore a hard-earned confidence. This was a man who had spent a lifetime at sea.
"Sire," Torran said, offering a respectful nod. "The fleet sails smoothly, but the winds are shifting. We may slow before reaching the coast."
Napoleon nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "You know these waters better than I do, Admiral. How long before we see Oldtown?"
"If the winds hold, by tomorrow afternoon," Torran replied. He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "But if the Tyrells have ships waiting for us… we may be fighting before we land."
Napoleon turned fully to face him. "And what do you think, Admiral? Will they come?"
Torran scratched his graying beard. "The Tyrells have never been a navy power, and Oldtown's fleet is meant to protect trade, not wage war. If they've mustered ships, they'll be cumbersome and slow, carrying soldiers rather than sailors. If it comes to battle, our gunners will tear them apart."
Napoleon smirked. "Then let them come. We'll show them what modern war looks like."
Torran chuckled, his gravelly voice filled with amusement. "You remind me of myself when I was young, Emperor. Always hungry, always moving."
"Then I chose the right man for the job," Napoleon said. He clapped Torran on the shoulder. "Ensure the men are ready. If we land without resistance, we march immediately. If we meet their fleet, we sink it."
"As you command," Torran said, giving a firm nod before turning back toward the deck.
Napoleon exhaled, glancing up at the sails, filled with wind, carrying his destiny forward.
He made his way to the captain's cabin, where Maester Harrold was waiting, standing over a map of the Reach. The old man had become a valuable asset—a mind filled with knowledge of this foreign land.
Napoleon gestured for him to speak.
"What do I need to know about the Tyrell lands?"
Maester Harrold ran a wrinkled finger over the map, tracing the green fields and golden roads of the Reach. "House Tyrell has called its banners, and while their forces are vast, they are divided. The northern half of their army is already engaged against the Starks, ensuring their control of the Riverlands."
Napoleon nodded, pleased. "Which means they cannot bring their full strength to bear against us."
"Indeed," Harrold confirmed. "However, even half of their might is formidable. If they gather at Oldtown, expect at least twenty thousand men, perhaps more."
Napoleon studied the map, his mind already planning. A direct engagement was out of the question—he would not throw his men against superior numbers unless he dictated the terms.
"And the city itself?" he asked.
Harrold's expression darkened. "Oldtown is the wealthiest city in Westeros, save for King's Landing. Its walls are strong, its watchmen trained. But its true power lies in the Hightower, the fortress that looms above it."
Napoleon's fingers drummed against the table. "Then we must strike before they can organize. We land far from Oldtown's walls, establish a foothold, and force them to react. If they come for us in the open, we break them."
He tapped the map, his gaze unwavering.
"We will not take Oldtown by siege. We will take it by maneuver."
The maester looked at him carefully. "You speak as if victory is certain."
Napoleon smirked. "Victory is always certain, Maester. The only question is how long it takes."
The ship rocked slightly with the shifting waves, but Napoleon did not move. He stared at the map of the Reach, his mind already marching across its fields, setting the stage for the greatest battle Westeros had yet seen.
Tomorrow, he would land.
And soon after, the Reach would be his.
The salty breeze carried the scent of the open sea as Napoleon stepped onto the damp sands of the Reach. The first light of dawn cast a golden hue over the coastline, reflecting off the calm, rolling waves. Behind him, the rhythmic creak of wooden hulls and the steady clatter of boots on ramps signaled the organized disembarkation of his 8,000 men.
The beach, untouched and eerily silent, stretched in both directions, with tall dunes and scattered shrubs offering natural cover. It was too easy. No resistance, no scouts, no sign of an enemy force waiting in ambush. Napoleon knew well that an easy landing did not mean an easy war.
The refitted French fleet bobbed gently on the waves behind them, the sleek warships now bearing reinforced hulls and newly mounted bronze cannons. Where once these vessels had been built for trade and transport, they now bristled with firepower, their gun ports ready to unleash destruction on the enemy when the time came.
As soldiers in blue coats formed into disciplined ranks on the shore, hauling crates of supplies and assembling artillery positions, Napoleon turned to his aide-de-camp.
"Pierre," he said, his voice firm but composed, "take a detachment of voltigeurs and scout the inland roads. I want a full report by sundown—enemy movements, villages, the condition of Oldtown's defenses. I want to know what we are marching into."
Pierre saluted sharply, mounted his horse, and rode off with a small company of skirmishers.
By midday, the camp was taking shape. Tents were raised in tight, orderly rows, forming the heart of a temporary fortress. Supply wagons were unloaded, their contents meticulously sorted—gunpowder, rations, musket rounds. French engineers drove wooden stakes into the sand, reinforcing defensive lines in case of a sudden attack.
Above it all, the golden eagle of New France snapped in the sea breeze, proudly displayed on banners hoisted across the encampment.
Napoleon strode through the camp, hands clasped behind his back, his keen eyes scanning the men as they worked. He saw dragoons tending to their horses, artillery crews carefully positioning the first of their cannons, infantry stacking crates of ammunition.
Then, movement on the hills.
A glint of steel.
Napoleon halted, his gaze narrowing as a small contingent of armored knights appeared on a ridge overlooking the camp. Their polished plate armor shimmered under the midday sun, their banners green and gold, adorned with the golden rose of House Tyrell.
The French soldiers, noticing the presence of the knights, tensed—some gripping their muskets, others resting hands on saber hilts. But the Tyrell knights did not charge. Instead, they rode down at a measured pace, their leader at the head, carrying himself with a noble bearing.
Napoleon did not need an introduction.
Garlan Tyrell.
He recognized the man from Maester Harrold's reports—a formidable knight, a true warrior, but not a strategist. Garlan's sword might have earned him respect in tournaments and battlefields, but this war would not be won with honor and chivalry.
Napoleon did not wait for his officers to step forward. He advanced alone, his blue greatcoat catching in the wind, his bicorne casting a shadow over his piercing gaze.
The Tyrell knights halted a few paces away.
Garlan studied him for a long moment before speaking. "You are Napoleon Bonaparte?"
Napoleon inclined his head slightly. "I am."
Garlan's expression remained unreadable. "Then understand this: you are trespassing on lands ruled by my father, Lord Mace Tyrell." His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it lay the weight of authority. "I come with terms. Surrender the Arbor and your army, and you will be allowed to leave Westeros unharmed."
A breeze whispered between them.
Napoleon let the words linger, his expression impassive. Then, a smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
"You wish for me to surrender the Arbor?" he asked, voice light but edged with amusement. "An absurd request, ser, considering that it is already mine."
Murmurs passed through the knights at the sheer audacity of the statement, but Garlan did not falter.
"You have no allies in Westeros," Garlan continued, voice steady. "House Tyrell commands twenty thousand men. You may have seized the Arbor, but you will not take Oldtown. You will not take the Reach. There is no future for you in these lands."
Napoleon remained silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, he took a step forward.
"I have heard those words before," he murmured. His voice was soft, almost thoughtful. "From Austrians. Prussians. Russians. From emperors and kings who once believed themselves invincible."
His eyes met Garlan's.
"And yet here I stand."
A flicker of unease passed over the Tyrell knight's face.
Napoleon's voice hardened. "I will not surrender. I do not fear your numbers. I do not fear your banners. If you wish for war, then war it is."
Garlan's jaw tightened. "So be it."
Without another word, he turned his horse and rode away, his knights following in silence.
Napoleon watched them disappear over the ridge. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned back toward his camp.
Not long after, Pierre returned from his scouting mission.
He dismounted swiftly, his boots kicking up dust as he strode toward Napoleon. "Sire, I bring my report."
Napoleon gestured for him to continue.
"The Tyrells are gathering 20,000 men north of Oldtown. Their forces include levies, household knights, and cavalry. However—they lack artillery."
Napoleon's gaze flickered with interest. "And the terrain?"
Pierre motioned toward a detailed map laid across a wooden table. "Mostly open fields, but these hills overlooking Oldtown—they control the battlefield. If we hold them, they will be forced to attack uphill."
A slow, calculating smile spread across Napoleon's lips.
"Then we will make those hills their grave."
The War Council
Inside the command tent, lanterns flickered against the canvas walls, casting long shadows over the gathered officers. The golden eagle of New France hung behind Napoleon, a silent testament to the empire he was building.
The table before them bore a detailed map of Oldtown and its surroundings.Generals Duhesme, Durutte, Admiral Lucien, Pierre, and Maester Harrold stood around it, their faces grim but attentive.
Napoleon placed his hands on the table. "The Tyrells believe their numbers alone will grant them victory. They expect us to meet them in an open field. We will not give them that pleasure."
His finger traced the hills north of Oldtown.
"We will seize this high ground and position our artillery here. Their cavalry will be useless if they must charge uphill into musket fire. We will shatter their morale before the battle even begins."
Duhesme frowned. "But their 20,000 men? Even with the terrain, we are outnumbered more than two to one."
Napoleon's smirk returned.
"We do not need to defeat all 20,000. We must break them." His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "And once their confidence is shattered… the Reach will be ours."
Silence followed. Then, one by one, his officers nodded.
Tomorrow, they would march.
And soon, Oldtown would fall.
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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
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The air inside Napoleon's command tent was thick with the scent of wax and ink, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the map-strewn table. The rhythmic drumming of the distant surf outside was a faint backdrop to the quiet murmur of strategy being woven.
Beaumont stood rigid, his uniform still stained with the dust of the march, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Across the table, Napoleon studied the map with the same intense gaze he had used on a battlefield, his gloved hand tracing over the high ground northeast of Oldtown.
"Beaumont, your regiment will move tonight." The words came crisp, measured. Napoleon tapped the parchment where the hills rolled toward the city's outskirts. "You will take the high ground, fortify it, and have our guns in place before dawn."
The candlelight flickered in his sharp eyes as he looked up. "This will be our hammer. When the Tyrells advance, we will break them against it."
Beaumont nodded, his heart already pounding with the weight of the task.
"The engineering corps will accompany you. I want stakes, trenches, and earthworks in place before the sun rises." Napoleon's fingers curled into a fist. "Do not fail me."
Beaumont's boots clicked together in a sharp salute. "It will be done, sire."
Napoleon held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the map, already weaving the next strand of his campaign. The moment was dismissed, but Beaumont could feel the weight of it pressing against his shoulders as he stepped outside into the cold night air.
The March to the Hills
The column moved as one, boots pressing into damp earth, the night swallowing their presence as they climbed the gentle slopes. Beaumont rode at the head, his stallion's breath fogging in the cool air. The newly raised Arbor regiment marched behind him—no longer farmers, no longer merchants, but soldiers.
The moonlight caught the glint of bayonets fixed atop muskets, the quiet shuffle of supplies and artillery wheels muffled beneath thick tarps. The engineers followed in their wake, tools strapped across their backs, carts laden with wood and iron creaking as they made the climb.
Then came the faint tremor through the ground.
Beaumont's fingers tightened around the reins, his eyes snapping to the ridgeline ahead. A scout came galloping down the slope, his breath sharp, urgency written across his dust-streaked face.
"Sir! Enemy riders—knights—forty strong. Charging straight for us!"
A flash of silver against the moonlight—lances lowered, the armored figures of Tyrell knights surged over the crest of the hill. The sound of their approach came all at once—hooves thundering, steel rattling, war cries slicing through the night.
Beaumont didn't hesitate.
"Form squares!" His voice cracked through the cold air like a musket shot. "Fix bayonets! Hold!"
The Charge
The regiment moved like clockwork. Lines snapped into formation, each man wheeling into place with drilled precision. Boots slammed against the earth as the first ranks knelt, bayonets gleaming in the moonlight, muskets braced against shoulders. Behind them, the second line stood ready, flintlocks cocked, barrels aimed forward.
The knights bore down on them, their banners snapping in the wind.
The ground trembled beneath their charge.
Beaumont waited, muscles coiled, the moment stretching like a drawn bowstring.
Not yet.
The armored figures surged closer, their voices echoing across the hillside. The whites of the horses' eyes flashed in the gloom, iron hooves pounding the earth like a war drum.
Not yet.
The lances lowered, their polished tips gleaming inches above the earth, aimed to shatter flesh and bone.
"Fire!"
The muskets erupted in unison, the dark hillside flashing with bursts of orange flame. Gunpowder thickened the air in an instant, acrid and heavy. The lead storm tore into the charging knights, cutting men from their saddles, sending horses screaming into the dirt. Armor dented and cracked under the impact, bodies crumpled beneath the volley.
But still, some came on.
Beaumont saw the gaps in the square, the knights who had survived the first firestorm now closing the distance.
"Hold the line!"
Then, from the flanks—the dragoons struck.
The mounted French riders surged from the darkness, sabers flashing in deadly arcs. The Tyrell knights, scattered and struggling, found themselves suddenly flanked. A pistol shot rang out as a dragoon put a bullet clean through a knight's visor, sending him crashing lifelessly from his saddle.
The brief, furious clash lasted seconds.
Then the Tyrell forces broke.
The remaining knights wheeled their horses around and fled into the night, banners trailing behind them. The few who had fallen and survived lay in the grass, groaning, defeated.
Beaumont let out a slow breath, scanning the field.
Not a single square had broken.
His men stood firm, their faces grimed with sweat, smoke, and determination.
The High Ground Secured
The work began immediately. The engineers moved with practiced efficiency, digging trenches, driving stakes into the earth, securing cannon placements. Beaumont oversaw it all, striding along the ridgeline as men heaved barrels of gunpowder into position, their hands blackened with sweat and soot.
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, turning the sky a deep shade of crimson. From his vantage point, Beaumont could see the golden banners of the Reach fluttering beyond the fields, their forces stirring, the muster outside Oldtown growing like a tide preparing to crash.
But they had taken the high ground.
The dawn mist still clung to the hills as General Beaumont stood at the crest, peering down at the land stretching before him. Below, in the soft morning light, Napoleon's 6,000 men had arrived, their marching columns moving with practiced discipline across the terrain. The rhythmic thud of boots against the damp earth, the creak of leather, the metallic rattle of muskets—all blended into the steady hum of an army preparing for war.
Beaumont exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the morning chill. He turned his gaze to his own men—the Arbor regiment, 1,000 strong, standing in formation further down the slope. Their freshly tailored uniforms—a fusion of French military precision and Arborian flair—stood out against the rough countryside. Though green and gold had once been the dominant colors of this land, today, the golden eagle insignia of New France gleamed on their shakos.
Above them, along the ridge, the artillery crews worked tirelessly. The French engineers, assisted by Arbor-born laborers, adjusted cannon placements, dug fortifications, and stockpiled ammunition. Further behind, cavalry units—dragoons mounted on well-bred Arborian horses—stood at the ready, sabers gleaming in the early light.
Beaumont's eyes then shifted toward the enemy.
Beyond the rolling fields, the Tyrell army gathered in the distance. Thousands of men, a sea of green and gold banners, their formations still incomplete as more forces streamed in from Oldtown. A force at least 20,000 strong. Beaumont felt the weight of the numbers, but not the fear. He had seen what discipline and firepower could do against reckless charges.
A distant sound made him turn sharply.Hoofbeats. Fast and hard.
From the west, a small group of knights—no more than thirty—emerged from the trees, riding with deadly intent. Their polished plate gleamed, their lances aimed like needles against the morning sky. Charging straight for the Arbor regiment.
"Form square!" Beaumont bellowed.
Drummers immediately took up the call—rapid, pounding beats sending the trained men into motion.
The Arbor soldiers pivoted with drilled precision, snapping into a tight square formation. Front ranks knelt, muskets braced against the ground, bayonets like a forest of steel. Second and third ranks stood behind, weapons leveled, waiting for the order.
The knights thundered closer, their war cries piercing the morning air. Beaumont watched their polished armor glint like stars in the rising sun, but he felt no doubt.
He drew his saber.
"Hold… Hold… FIRE!"
A shattering volley erupted.
The front rank's muskets spewed smoke and flame, lead balls punching through plate and flesh alike. Several knights crumpled, their horses shrieking as they collapsed, throwing riders to the ground.
But the charge did not stop.
More knights surged forward, trampling over the fallen, determined to break the formation.
Beaumont's eyes flicked toward the ridge—the dragoons were moving.
With perfect timing, the cavalry descended, sabers flashing.
The French dragoons crashed into the exposed flank of the remaining knights, cutting through them with brutal efficiency. A knight tried to wheel his horse around, only for a dragoon to drive a saber clean through his throat. Another was ripped from the saddle, his armor clattering as he hit the dirt.
Within moments, it was over.
The few surviving knights fled in a desperate retreat, their charge broken, their pride shattered.
Beaumont surveyed the field, his heart still pounding, but his face calm. His men had held. The square formation had worked perfectly. The drills, the discipline—it had all come together in that moment.
A sharp wind carried the scent of gunpowder and blood as he turned toward his officers.
"Reform ranks. Hold position," he ordered. "This was only the first."
As the dragoons trotted back, their commander saluted.
Beaumont gave a nod, then turned his gaze back toward the distant banners of Oldtown.
The real battle had yet to begin.