__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Capitaine then promoted to Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
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The air in Redwyne Keep's great hall was still charged with the weight of Napoleon's proclamations. The gathered lords and merchants of the Arbor had dispersed, murmuring about the bold future their conqueror had laid before them. The soldiers, victorious and emboldened, continued their work—fortifying the keep, refitting the ships, and preparing for the next campaign.
Yet amidst the flurry of orders, Captain Johnny Beumont stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited before Napoleon's wooden throne. The flickering torches cast long shadows across the hall, and the Emperor himself studied him with an expression that was both calculating and amused.
Beumont had been in battles before—fighting in Italy, Egypt, Spain—but never had he felt such anticipation.
Napoleon finally leaned forward, resting his elbow on the armrest.
"Beumont," he said, voice smooth as silk, "do you know why you're still standing here?"
Beumont resisted the urge to smirk. "I assume you need someone charming to negotiate with the ladies of the Arbor, sire."
Napoleon snorted. "You'd fail spectacularly."
Duhesme and Durutte chuckled beside him. Even the ever-serious Maester Harrold gave a small smirk before returning to his notes.
Napoleon's expression sharpened. "No, Captain. You are here because you have proven yourself. You have led my men fearlessly, captured ships, and fought with intelligence and tenacity."
Beumont straightened slightly. "It was my duty, sire."
Napoleon nodded. "And I have a new duty for you."
Beumont's brow furrowed slightly.
Napoleon stood, his presence commanding, his voice unshakable.
"From this day forward, you are no longer a captain."
Beumont felt his heart jump in his chest.
"You are now Général de brigade Beumont."
The words slammed into him like a cannon blast.
For a moment, he felt a strange disbelief. He had clawed his way up from a simple soldier in the Revolution, had survived battles that had killed better men than him, and now—Napoleon had made him a general.
A bloody general.
A slow grin crept across his face.
"Well, sire, I suppose that means I'll have to act like a respectable officer now."
Napoleon smirked. "You? Respectable? I doubt it."
More laughter from the gathered officers.
Napoleon stepped closer. His tone became businesslike.
"I am giving you a new command. The Arbor has given us a fresh supply of recruits—young men that can serve the new empire. I want you to form a brigade made out of solely natives. Train them. Discipline them. Make them fight like a Frenchman."
Beumont let out a low whistle. "An entire brigade of green recruits?"
"They won't be green for long," Napoleon said sharply. "And they will fight under your banner."
Beumont straightened and saluted crisply. "Then I'll make soldiers out of them, sire. You have my word."
Napoleon clapped him once on the shoulder, his grip firm.
"See that you do, Général Beumont."
With that, the Emperor turned away, already focused on the greater conquest ahead.
Beumont, however, stood still for a moment longer, feeling the weight of his new title settle onto his shoulders.
General.
It had a nice ring to it.
With a sly grin, he adjusted his uniform and strode out of the hall.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Vinetown was changing.
As Général de brigade Johnny Beumont walked the cobbled streets, the echoes of hammering and saws cutting into wood filled the morning air. The Arbor's capital, once a city of merchants and sailors, was now a garrisoned stronghold of New France. The scent of salt and sawdust mixed with the aroma of bread baking in street-side ovens.
French engineers and laborers worked alongside local craftsmen to repair damaged buildings, reinforce walls, and convert warehouses into barracks. The keep's flag—once the sigil of House Redwyne—now bore the tricolors and the imperial eagle of Napoleon, fluttering against the sea breeze.
Yet despite the reconstruction, the scars of conquest remained.
Many locals watched in uneasy silence as French troops patrolled their streets. Some walked with their heads down, avoiding eye contact with the soldiers in blue coats. Others, mostly young men, stared at them with veiled resentment.
Beumont knew the look. He had seen it a hundred times before—in Italy, in Egypt, in Spain. Conquered people rarely welcomed their conquerors.
Yet this city was no longer under Redwyne rule. It belonged to New France.
And Beumont? He was now its general.
From the nearby square, the steady rhythm of drums rang through the streets as a column of French soldiers marched in formation. Their polished muskets glinted in the morning sun, bayonets fixed, their uniforms crisp despite the dirt roads.
"One, two, three, four!" the drill sergeant barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
The men marched in perfect synchrony, their boots striking the ground in unison, a show of power and discipline.
Among them, Beumont spotted potential fresh recruits—young Arbor men. Unlike the weary glances of some citizens, these people held their heads high, observing the step, their faces determined.
Beumont smirked. They would make fine soldiers soon enough.
But he needed more men.
Which was why he was now walking toward Lady Desmera's residence.
A Visit to Lady Desmera
Lady Desmera Redwyne had been given a modest estate near the docks—far from her father's captured keep but comfortable enough for nobility. Beumont approached the entrance, nodding at the two French sentries standing guard.
"Wait here," he told them before knocking.
Moments later, the door opened, and Desmera stood before him, dressed in a flowing burgundy gown—elegant, yet far simpler than the finery she once wore. Her golden-brown hair was loosely tied, and her sharp green eyes met his with guarded curiosity.
"General Beumont," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Beumont smirked. "I need men."
Desmera crossed her arms. "There are plenty of them in your army already."
"Not enough," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The room was sparsely furnished—a table with maps and letters, a few chairs, and a wine bottle resting on the shelf.
Beumont turned to her. "I don't want levies. I want soldiers—men who will serve not because they are forced, but because they will be paid."
Desmera raised an eyebrow. "You mean to raise an Arborian regiment?"
"Exactly," Beumont said. "Your people resent us, but they also fear what comes next. House Tyrell is gathering an army. Napoleon will march soon. This city needs men who will fight for their own future, not just ours."
Desmera studied him for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she walked to the table and picked up a letter.
"There are many second sons, displaced merchants, and sailors who lost their ships in the battle," she mused. "Men who now have nothing and could use coin in their pockets."
Beumont nodded. "They'll have it. Any man who joins will be paid as a proper soldier, not some farmer with a sword."
Desmera tapped her fingers against the parchment, thinking.
"Very well," she said at last. "I can gather men who might be interested. But tell me, Beumont…" Her gaze sharpened. "Are they fighting for France? Or for the Arbor?"
Beumont smirked. "For both."
Desmera gave a small chuckle. "A politician's answer."
"I prefer 'a survivor's answer,'" Beumont corrected, before stepping closer. "You and I both know this war isn't over. If your people want to hold onto anything, they need to pick a side. And frankly, ours is the winning one."
Desmera exhaled. "I'll see what I can do."
Beumont grinned. "That's all I ask, my lady."
He turned, striding toward the door before glancing back at her.
"Oh, and do me a favor," he added, smirking. "Make sure you find fighters, not just drunkards looking for an easy coin."
Desmera gave a wry smile. "I wouldn't waste my time otherwise, General."
With that, Beumont left, stepping back into the streets, where his new army awaited.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One week had passed.
The scars of battle remained, but Vinetown stood restored. The streets, once littered with rubble, had been cleared. Homes repaired, shops reopened, and the harbor bustling once more—this time, under French rule. The war banners of the Redwynes had been removed from the walls, replaced with the eagle of New France.
The Arbor was no longer a mere province of Westeros. It was Napoleon's.
Beumont stood in the grassy fields beyond the city, watching as his new regiment—1,000 strong—trained under the morning sun.
They were a far cry from the battle-hardened veterans of France. Many were young men, barely having wielded a sword before, let alone a musket. But what they lacked in experience, they made up for in resolve.
They were Arborian-born but trained in the French way.
The regiment's uniforms, crafted by local tailors, bore a unique blend of French and Arbor colors—deep blue coats with dark red cuffs, gold buttons glinting in the light. Their shakos, modeled after the French infantry's, bore a golden vine emblem instead of the usual eagle—a mark of their homeland.
Beumont's soldiers, his new soldiers, stood in formation as a French drill instructor shouted orders.
"Tenez la ligne!"
The men leveled their muskets. Their movements were still clumsy, but they were improving.
"Feu!"
A volley of smoke and flame erupted as musket balls tore into the wooden targets.
Some shots went wide, but others hit dead center.
Beumont crossed his arms, nodding. They were learning.
From his side, Lady Desmera watched, arms folded.
"They're getting better," she remarked.
Beumont smirked. "Better isn't good enough. They need to be perfect."
Desmera gave him a sideways glance. "You expect perfection in a week?"
Beumont shrugged. "Napoleon does."
Desmera shook her head. "You French. Always chasing the impossible."
Beumont turned to her, his smirk deepening. "And yet, we always seem to catch it."
Desmera huffed a small laugh, shaking her head.
Beumont turned back to his men. He walked past them, eyeing their posture, their grips, their discipline.
"Hold the line!" he barked. "You are not common levies. You are soldiers. You will fight in formation, not as rabble. You will fire as one. And if you break under pressure, the enemy will slaughter you."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Again!"
The drill instructor called out another command. Another volley of musket fire rang through the air. This time, it was sharper.
Beumont smiled. They were improving.
Desmera stepped beside him, watching the regiment reload. "A month ago, these men would never have imagined themselves soldiers."
"A month ago, I would never have imagined myself a general," Beumont mused.
Desmera arched an eyebrow. "And yet, here you are."
Beumont chuckled. "Here we both are."
They stood together in silence, watching the men continue their drills.
Desmera eventually broke it. "I've seen war before, Johnny. I've seen men march to their deaths for lords who care nothing for them. You're offering them something different, aren't you?"
Beumont glanced at her. "They're not fighting for a lord. They're fighting for something greater."
Desmera studied him for a long moment. "For France?"
"For themselves," Beumont corrected. "For a place in this new world."
Desmera nodded slowly, her green eyes thoughtful.
Beumont turned back to his men and smiled.
They weren't just recruits anymore.
They were his soldiers.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Lady Desmera
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The estate of House Redwyne was no longer a place of comfort. Guards in blue coats with gleaming bayonets stood at every entrance, their presence a reminder of who ruled now.
Lady Desmera walked through the halls of her childhood home, her heart steady despite the storm she knew awaited her.
She had left as a noblewoman. She returned as a traitor.
The guards opened the heavy doors to the great hall. Inside, her father, Paxter Redwyne, sat at the high table, his once-proud posture stiff with resentment. Beside him stood her brother, Horas, his arms crossed, his face twisted in a scowl.
As she entered, her father's gaze bore into her like steel.
"So," he said, his voice low and edged with fury, "my daughter has returned from training French soldiers to kill her own kin."
Desmera stopped before them, keeping her chin high. "I have returned to secure the Arbor's future."
Horas scoffed. "By sleeping with a Frenchman?"
Desmera's cheeks burned, but she refused to look away. "By ensuring our people survive."
Paxter's hand slammed against the table. "Survive?" he spat. "You think bending the knee to a foreigner is survival?" He pushed himself to his feet, his once-commanding presence diminished only by the guards at his door. "You disgrace this house, Desmera. While our banners burn, you stand at his side."
She held her ground. "Because I see the future, Father. And it is not with King Joffrey. Not with the Tyrells. Not with the crumbling lords of Westeros."
Her father's glare hardened. "Then where?"
She took a breath. "With Napoleon."
Horas scoffed again. "You think this little emperor of yours will last? That he will not meet his end, just as every conqueror before him?"
Desmera stepped forward, her eyes ablaze. "Do you even see what he's building? Vinetown thrives again in just a week. The Arbor is secured, not pillaged. He doesn't take—he builds. He governs."
Paxter sneered. "And you have become his willing accomplice."
Desmera's fists clenched. "I have become loyal to the people. To the Arbor itself."
Paxter's eyes narrowed.
"I am not loyal to a king across the sea who sees us as nothing but wine merchants. I am not loyal to the Tyrells, who would rather sacrifice our fleet than protect it. I am loyal to the Arbor. To its people."
She took another step forward, her voice steadier than ever.
"And you should be too."
The room fell silent.
Her father's jaw tightened, his face unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might strike her.
Then, slowly, he sat down again.
His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "You truly believe he will protect us?"
Desmera nodded. "Yes."
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Paxter exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then you are lost to me."
Desmera's breath caught in her throat—but she did not falter.
Her father looked at her, exhaustion settling in his eyes. "But the Arbor still stands. And that… is all that matters."
It was not forgiveness.
But it was not rejection either.
Desmera bowed her head slightly. Then, without another word, she turned and left.
As the doors closed behind her, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She had stood tall. She had chosen her side.
And there was no turning back now.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The wind was gentle as it rolled through the vineyards of House Redwyne, carrying the scent of ripe grapes and the distant salt of the sea. It was a scent Desmera had known her entire life.
She stood at the edge of the estate, her arms crossed, watching as the sun cast golden light over the endless rows of vines.
How different everything had once been.
Before the French came.
Before Napoleon.
Before Johnny Beumont.
She closed her eyes, letting herself remember.
The noble gatherings in the great hall, filled with the rich laughter of lords and ladies sipping Arbor Gold. The harvest festivals, when the workers sang songs as they plucked the finest grapes that would soon become the most coveted wine in Westeros. The life she had lived was one of quiet privilege, where power was held in fine silks and the unspoken respect of lesser houses.
But beneath all of that... there had been stagnation.
Her father had ruled not as a leader, but as a merchant-king, his only concern the price of wine in King's Landing and the favor of the Tyrells. Her brother, Horas, had been restless, eager for glory but blind to the changes coming beyond their shores. And she—she had been nothing but a daughter to be wed off, a piece to be played in the great game of houses.
She had felt it, even then—the slow decay of their power.
Their fleet, mighty as it was, had never known true war. Their men were loyal, but untested. Their influence was grand, but fragile. The Arbor had been living in a dream, protected only by the belief that the world would never change.
And then came the gunfire, the drums, the marching ranks of blue and gold.
The French had shattered that illusion.
Now, as she looked out over the vineyards, she saw something new.
Where once there had been lazy peace, now there was purpose.
Vinetown had changed. Soldiers marched in perfect formations, their muskets gleaming in the sun. The shipyards were alive with labor, refitting the captured fleet for war. And in the streets, order had taken root. Merchants returned to their trade, craftsmen thrived, and the people—while wary—began to understand.
This was not destruction.
It was rebirth.
She exhaled, brushing her fingers over a nearby vine, feeling the life within it.
House Redwyne had once ruled the Arbor through tradition and trade. But that time was over.
She had placed her faith in Johnny Beumont, in Napoleon, in the future they were building.
Her father saw submission.
She saw salvation.
Her gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the sails of their captured fleet rested in the harbor.
"The world has changed," she whispered to herself.
And this time, she would not be left behind.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Next Day
The great hall of Redwyne Keep no longer smelled of feasts or spilled wine. It smelled of paper, ink, and ambition.
Where once lords and knights had gathered to drink and boast, today the hall was filled with soldiers, statesmen, and merchants. French officers stood in their polished blue coats, their golden epaulettes glinting in the candlelight. Beside them were the Arbor's magistrates, ship captains, and landowners—uncertain men in fine clothes, shifting under the weight of change.
At the head of the hall, Napoleon Bonaparte sat upon the wooden throne.
Desmera stood among the gathered men, watching him, studying him. There was no excess in the way he carried himself, no pompous display of jewels or golden embroidery like the lords of Westeros. His uniform was practical, his stance firm, his voice as precise as the edge of a blade.
He had called this gathering to shape the new government of the Arbor.
"This is no longer the realm of lords and their heirs," Napoleon declared, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled men. "This is New France. And New France will be ruled by laws, not by birthright."
A murmur ran through the hall, half awe, half apprehension.
Napoleon gestured to the row of empty chairs before him.
"We will govern with structure and discipline. The Arbor will not crumble under the weight of feuding houses or the whims of kings. We will build a foundation that will last for generations."
Desmera's breath caught as Napoleon's gaze fell upon her.
"Lady Desmera Redwyne," he called.
She stepped forward, keeping her head high despite the pressure of a hundred eyes upon her.
"You will serve as the leader of the Tribunate," Napoleon continued. "It will be your duty to debate and refine the laws before they reach the Assembly. You are young, but you understand the pulse of the Arbor better than most. And I have seen your mind at work. You will serve me well."
Desmera could feel the weight of her father's gaze, even in his absence. If he had been here, still free, he would have been furious.
But this was her choice. Her future.
She bowed slightly, her voice steady. "I will not disappoint, Emperor."
Napoleon gave a small nod before turning to Maester Harrold.
"You will lead the Council of State, the body that drafts our laws and decrees. You are a scholar, and your wisdom will be useful in shaping the legal framework of New France."
The maester, standing with his hands clasped, gave a solemn nod. "I accept the responsibility, my lord."
Napoleon then looked to his generals.
"Marshal Duhesme, you will preside over the Legislative Assembly. Your men have fought and bled for this land, and you will ensure that our laws remain practical, enforceable, and aligned with the needs of both the army and the people of the Arbor."
Duhesme saluted sharply. "It will be done, sire."
Napoleon's gaze swept the room once more.
"The Conservative Senate will be composed of those who have demonstrated loyalty and competence. Many of you here will sit upon it in time, but for now, I will oversee its function personally."
Silence followed his words.
Some of the Arbor's merchants and captains exchanged glances, still wary of the changes happening before them.
Napoleon leaned forward, his gloved hands resting on the arms of the throne. His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the command in it.
"This is not a discussion," he said. "This is the new reality."
The murmurs died at once.
Desmera's pulse quickened as she looked around. These men—lords and merchants who had once scoffed at her opinions—were now silent before her new Emperor.
She had grown up believing her fate was to be bartered away in marriage.
Now, she held the power to shape laws.
She turned back to Napoleon and met his gaze. He had given her the future her father never would.
And she would not waste it.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The field outside Vinetown was filled with thousands of people. Soldiers in blue coats and polished boots stood in rigid formations, their bayonets gleaming under the afternoon sun. The merchants, the shipwrights, the vintners, and the dock workers—all the common folk of the Arbor—stood in clusters, whispering among themselves.
Above them, banners of France and the Arbor intertwined, fluttering in the salt-tinged wind.
Napoleon stood upon a raised wooden platform, flanked by his generals and marshals. Captain—no, General—Johnny Beumont stood at his side, his new brigade of Arbor-born soldiers lined up before him. Beside them, Lady Desmera, Maester Harrold, and the newly appointed statesmen of the Arbor watched in tense silence.
Napoleon let his gaze sweep over the crowd.
He had given speeches to soldiers before—before Austerlitz, before Jena, before the Pyramids. But this was different. This was not just an army. These were the people who would either embrace his rule—or resist it.
He took a step forward and raised his hand.
The murmuring ceased.
The world became silent.
Then, he spoke.
"People of the Arbor, citizens of New France—hear me!"
His voice, strong and unwavering, carried across the field.
"You stand at the edge of history. Behind you lies the world as it was— a world where power was hoarded by lords who ruled by birthright, where you had no voice in your own destiny. A world where you lived and toiled for another man's wealth, where justice was not dictated by law, but by the whims of a few."
He let the words settle, watching the recognition in their faces. Some nodded. Others clenched their fists.
"That world is gone. Today, a new order rises—not one of kings and crowns, but of law and liberty!"
A murmur spread through the crowd, but Napoleon continued, his voice sharp as steel.
"From this day forth, no man will be above the law. No noble, no merchant, no soldier shall hold power by mere birthright. Justice shall be measured not by lineage, but by reason. By the sweat of your brow, you shall own what you earn. By the strength of your will, you shall rise as far as your ambition allows!"
A cheer erupted from the commoners, cautious but growing. The soldiers listened, their discipline holding them silent, but Napoleon could see it in their eyes—the fire of belief.
"Under my rule, you will not be subjects. You will be citizens. And with citizenship, you shall have rights—the right to own land, the right to speak your mind, the right to be judged fairly. No more shall you be dragged before lords and condemned without trial. No more shall you be taxed without reason. You shall have a voice. A government that represents you—not a distant king who does not know your name!"
The crowd began to stir. The merchants whispered among themselves. The workers straightened their backs. The soldiers shifted, glancing at one another.
They were listening.
Napoleon stepped to the very edge of the platform, his hands behind his back.
"Some of you may fear this change. Some of you may doubt. I do not ask for blind trust. I ask only that you look around you and ask yourselves—is the world I offer not greater than the one you have known?"
He turned his gaze toward the Arbor's former nobles, men who stood apart, uncertain and wary.
"To those who once held power—I do not seek to destroy you. I seek to elevate you. Serve this new order, and you shall be remembered as the architects of a new age, not the remnants of a broken past."
Then, his voice hardened, his tone as unyielding as iron.
"But make no mistake—this new world will be built with or without you. Stand in my way, and you will be swept aside, just as House Redwyne was."
A heavy silence.
Then, a voice rang out—"Vive l'Empereur!"
A soldier. Then another. Then another.
The cheer spread through the ranks, cascading like wildfire. More and more voices joined—merchants, dock workers, even former nobles who saw the tide turning.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
"Vive Napoléon!"
Napoleon let the cry ring across the field before raising a hand. The cheers faded.
He took a deep breath, then spoke his final decree.
"Tomorrow, I set sail for Oldtown. The Tyrells muster their banners, seeking to crush what we have built. But we shall not wait for them to come to us. We will bring the fire to them!"
Murmurs of surprise. Anticipation. Excitement.
"The ships are ready, their cannons armed, their sails waiting for the wind! I will not force you to follow me. But I promise you this—those who march beside me will not march as conquerors, but as liberators! Oldtown is the heart of the Reach, the gate to the south! And if we take it, we do not just hold the Arbor—we hold Westeros in our hands!"
This time, the roar of voices was deafening.
Men pounded their chests, women clutched their children, and soldiers raised their muskets in salute.
Napoleon turned, his eyes sweeping across the faces below. He saw Johnny Beumont, standing proud among his new brigade. He saw Desmera Redwyne, watching him with an intensity that matched his own ambition. He saw Maester Harrold, nodding solemnly, understanding the weight of this moment.
A new world was being forged.
And Napoleon was at its center.
He stepped back, turning to his marshals.
"We sail at dawn."
The Night Before the Storm
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The war room of Redwyne Keep was lit by flickering candlelight, the shadows of men stretching across the walls like specters of war. A large map of Westeros was spread out over the wooden table, weighted down by musket rounds and empty goblets of wine. The air smelled of salt, wax, and smoke, the very scent of conquest.
Napoleon stood at the head of the table, his gloved hands resting on the map, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. Across from him stood his most trusted men—Generals Duhesme, Durutte, and Beumont, each now dressed in their full uniforms. Maester Harrold stood beside them, his scholarly gaze betraying no emotion as he prepared to deliver his report.
The room was silent, save for the distant crash of waves beyond the keep.
Napoleon finally spoke.
"What news, Maester?"
Harrold cleared his throat, shifting the old scrolls in his hands. His voice was steady, though the words he spoke carried an undeniable weight.
"House Tyrell has fully allied with the Lannisters," he said. "Their combined forces number close to fifty thousand men—Tyrell bannermen, Lannister knights, and sellswords from the Free Cities."
The mood in the room tensed. Napoleon saw Beumont's jaw tighten, Duhesme's brow furrow, Durutte's lips press into a thin line.
Napoleon, however, remained unmoved.
"Fifty thousand?" he repeated, his tone more intrigued than troubled.
Harrold nodded. "Yes, my lord. A force that size is unmatched in the Reach. However—" he unrolled another scroll, his voice shifting, "—their forces are divided. The Starks are marching south. Robb Stark has already won several victories against the Lannisters, forcing them to pull their strength northward. That means the Reach is vulnerable."
Napoleon smiled. "As I expected. Tywin Lannister cannot fight two wars at once. And Mace Tyrell, for all his wealth, is not a military genius. He is a banquet lord, not a battlefield commander."
Beumont exhaled through his nose. "That still leaves Oldtown heavily defended. The city is massive, and if they prepare, we could be fighting a siege for months."
Napoleon shook his head. "We will not give them time to prepare."
The men leaned in as he continued, his voice taking on its familiar sharpness, each word carrying the weight of command.
"Here is how we will defeat them."
He pointed to a stretch of coastline west of Oldtown, away from the city walls and its watchtowers.
"We will not land directly at Oldtown. That would be foolish. Their harbor defenses are strong, and their fleet, while diminished, still has the advantage if we try to force our way in."
His hand drifted further down the coast, stopping at a wide, unguarded beach.
"We land here, at the Whispering Shore. It is open, undefended, and provides easy access inland. From there, we establish our camp and begin reconnaissance. Our goal is simple—Oldtown must fall before the Tyrells can muster reinforcements."
Durutte scratched his chin. "A swift attack, then. But how do we break the city's defenses?"
Napoleon's smile grew. "We don't attack the walls head-on. We outthink them."
He tapped Oldtown's harbor on the map.
"Their strength is their port and supply lines. We sever those, and they wither. We will take key outposts outside the city first—bridges, roads, supply caches. We will strike at their ability to sustain themselves before we strike at their walls. The people will not starve overnight, but they will feel the noose tightening."
Duhesme nodded. "And when they are weakened, we strike?"
Napoleon met his gaze. "No. We offer them a choice. Surrender, or face the full might of France."
The room was silent for a moment. The plan was bold—aggressive, yet strategic. It played to Napoleon's strengths, turning the enemy's own city into a trap.
Beumont finally spoke. "And if they refuse?"
Napoleon's gaze turned cold. "Then we crush them."
A slow nod passed through the men. It was a familiar tactic—Napoleon had used it across Europe. Deny the enemy supplies. Force their hand. Strike when they were weakest.
Harrold exhaled, adjusting his robes. "It is a brilliant plan, my lord. And Lady Desmera?"
Napoleon looked up. "She will not sail with us. She will remain here and govern in my absence."
A few exchanged glances. Beumont remained still, but Napoleon could sense the unspoken tension.
"She has proven herself useful," Napoleon continued. "The people trust her. She knows the Arbor and its politics. That makes her valuable. The Arbor must remain stable while we march south. She will oversee the Tribunate, ensuring the laws are carried out. I trust her to maintain order."
Beumont gave the slightest nod, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Napoleon knew the man was protective of her. He did not miss such things.
Napoleon then turned back to the group.
"You have your orders. We sail at first light."
The men straightened, their expressions firm. They understood. The campaign for Oldtown had begun.
As they began to leave, Napoleon remained behind, staring at the map.
Fifty thousand men.
A mighty force, but divided. Distracted.
And he, Napoleon Bonaparte, was the master of defeating divided foes.
A smirk played at his lips.
Tomorrow, the Age of Kings would face the Age of New France.
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Lady Desmera
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The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic crash of waves against the distant shore. Vinetown, once scarred by war, now breathed with a fragile peace—the kind that came before another storm.
Lady Desmera walked through the dimly lit streets, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill. The town had changed in a mere week. Where once there had been wreckage, now stood repaired homes and bustling workshops. The French soldiers, no longer looters, were now part of the town's daily life, marching in drills, standing guard, and mingling with the Arborfolk. The banners of New France fluttered proudly on rooftops.
And tomorrow, Napoleon would sail to war once more.
Her steps quickened as she neared Johnny's home—a modest estate given to him after his promotion. It was strange, she thought, how fast he had risen. Just weeks ago, he had been a captain, a foreigner in her homeland. Now, he was a Général de brigade, a leader of men, a man whom Napoleon himself trusted.
A man she had given herself to.
She reached his door and knocked softly.
A moment later, it creaked open, revealing Johnny Beumont, dressed simply in a linen shirt, his jacket undone. His golden-brown hair was slightly disheveled, and the candlelight from within cast warm shadows across his sharp features. His blue eyes softened at the sight of her.
"Desmera," he said, his voice quieter than usual.
"You're still awake," she replied, stepping inside.
"I couldn't sleep," he admitted, closing the door behind her. "Too much on my mind."
She removed her cloak, draping it over a chair. The room smelled of wine, musk, and the faint trace of gunpowder—a soldier's home, despite its elegance.
"You're leaving at dawn," she said, turning to him.
Johnny nodded. "The ships are ready. My men are ready. We'll land, set camp, and wait for Napoleon's command. If all goes well, Oldtown will be ours before the month is done."
Desmera folded her arms, watching him. "And what if all doesn't go well?"
Johnny exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Then we fight."
She hated how simply he said it. How easily men accepted death.
He sat on the edge of the wooden table, studying her. "You'll have your hands full too. Governing the Arbor while we're gone won't be easy."
"I know," she said. "But it's what I must do."
Johnny smirked. "Never thought I'd see the day a Redwyne governs in the name of France."
"Never thought I'd see the day a Frenchman commanded my homeland," she countered, stepping closer. "Yet here we are."
A silence stretched between them.
Desmera felt the weight of it—the uncertainty of tomorrow, the knowledge that he might not return.
She had spent nights in his arms, but he had never asked her to be his.
Never promised anything beyond the moment.
She didn't want to say it outright, but she let her hands rest on his chest, her fingers tracing slow patterns over his shirt. A silent question. A plea.
Would he ever ask?
Johnny noticed. His blue eyes flickered with understanding. His hands rested on her waist, warm and steady.
"Desmera," he murmured, "Are you trying to tell me something?"
She looked up at him, searching his face. "I just… want to know what I am to you."
Johnny held her gaze for a long moment before he exhaled. "If I come back alive from Oldtown," he said slowly, "I'll marry you."
Her breath caught.
"Is that what you want?" he asked.
She swallowed, her heart pounding.
"Yes," she whispered.
He smiled. "Then it's settled."
Before she could say another word, he pulled her into a kiss—slow, deep, and filled with promises unspoken.
She melted against him, fingers tangling in his hair as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward the bed. The world outside faded. There was no war, no French conquest, no uncertain future.
Just them.
And for tonight, that was enough.