__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mace Tyrell
Lord Paramount of the Reach
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The great hall of Highgarden was tense, its vast stone walls flickering with torchlight as gathered lords and officers murmured among themselves. The golden rose banners of House Tyrell hung proudly, but beneath them, the weight of uncertainty pressed on the men within.
Lord Mace Tyrell, seated at the high table, tapped his fingers against the polished wood. He had been awaiting reports for hours, and his patience was thinning. Beside him, his son, Garlan the Gallant, stood tall and silent, his expression hard. Across from them, Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Harys Swyft, the Lannister envoys, watched with careful eyes.
Then, the doors to the hall swung open, and a scout, his boots caked with mud from the road, strode forward. He dropped to one knee.
"My lord," the scout gasped, catching his breath. "Napoleon has left Brightwater Keep."
The room fell silent.
Mace leaned forward. "Where is he moving?"
"East, my lord. To Horn Hill."
Garlan exhaled sharply through his nose. "How many?"
The scout hesitated. "His personal force numbers only eight thousand, but his other generals—Duhesme, Pierre, and Beaumont—are securing Blackcrown, Honeyholt, and Bandallon. If they succeed, they will converge on Horn Hill together. Altogether, they will muster about sixteen thousand."
Ser Addam Marbrand shifted in his seat, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Sixteen thousand men are still fewer than the forces we have."
Mace grunted, though he felt no relief. "And what of their boom catapults?"
The scout's jaw tightened. "He has brought it. His artillery, or whatever they call it, are already being positioned defensively as his men rest. He's moving fast, but he's also securing his position."
A cold unease settled in the hall.
Garlan stepped forward, his voice steady. "We must not allow him time to fortify."
Marbrand nodded. "He's making a bold push. If he takes Horn Hill, he controls the southern road and aims straight here at Highgarden."
Swyft licked his lips. "And if he digs in, we'll never dislodge him."
Mace took a slow breath, his mind churning. Napoleon's forces were not overwhelming in number, but his speed and tactics made him dangerous. If they waited too long, they would be forced into a costly siege.
He turned to Garlan. "What do you suggest?"
Garlan's answer was immediate. "We march. Now."
Mace hesitated. His instinct told him to wait, to gather more levies, but deep down, he knew they didn't have the time.
Finally, he nodded.
He pushed himself to his feet, his voice echoing across the chamber.
"Summon the banners! We march for Horn Hill at once."
The hall erupted into action. Messengers sprinted through the corridors, the sound of hurried footsteps filling the air. Outside, war horns blared, calling Reachmen and Lannister soldiers to assemble.
Mace turned to Marbrand. "Your men will march with mine."
The Lannister commander gave a firm nod. "We'll be ready within the hour."
As the castle stirred with the preparations of war, Mace Tyrell clenched his jaw, a pit forming in his stomach.
The battle for the Reach had begun.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After the march, the banners of House Tyrell and House Lannister rippled in the wind as Mace Tyrell stood atop a small ridge, gazing at the battlefield below. Horn Hill, the ancestral seat of House Tarly, loomed in the distance, its stone walls standing firm against the approaching storm of war.
On the plains below, Napoleon's army was arrayed in disciplined formations, their lines perfectly aligned, muskets gleaming in the morning light. Mace squinted at them, taking in their strange attire. Unlike his own knights and men-at-arms clad in chainmail and plate, Napoleon's foot soldiers wore no armor—just coats of blue, white, and red, their only protection the discipline of their ranks and the deadly precision of their volleys.
Only the French cavalry had some form of protection—a shining cuirass over their chests, a stark contrast to the fully armored knights of the Reach.
Beside Mace, Garlan Tyrell sat atop his destrier, his expression unreadable. Ser Addam Marbrand of the Lannisters studied the enemy ranks with quiet calculation.
"This Napoleon… He fights unlike any man I've seen," Mace muttered, gripping the reins of his horse.
Marbrand nodded. "They do not fear our armor because they know their boomsticks will tear through it."
Mace exhaled, scanning the field. If he sent his men forward in a direct charge, they would be gunned down before they could even reach the French lines.
No. That would be suicide.
He needed to break their lines, disrupt their formations before they could unleash their deadly volleys.
A two-stage assault.
Mace's gaze flickered back to his own army. The Tyrell infantry—20,000 strong—stood in tight ranks, waiting for the order to advance. Behind them, his cavalry—10,000 knights of the Reach and Westerlands—stood at the ready, their warhorses restless.
He nodded to Garlan.
"We march the infantry forward. Make them trade volleys, force the French to expend their ammunition."
Garlan's jaw tightened. He knew the risks, but he also understood the strategy. "And the cavalry?"
Mace's eyes gleamed. "We wait until their infantry charges. Once their lines move forward, we strike."
Marbrand raised a brow. "Clever. But risky."
Mace smirked. "So is fighting Napoleon."
Then he raised his sword high.
"Infantry, advance!"
The horns of the Reach and Westerlands sounded loud and clear, and like a tidal wave, the Tyrell infantry surged forward, marching with shields raised, spears lowered.
The battle had begun.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Napoleon stood atop a small rise near the artillery positions, his hands clasped behind his back as the rhythmic thud of marching boots filled the air. The Arbor Regiment had arrived.
Beaumont's men came dust-covered and weary, yet their movements were disciplined, efficient. They had made the forced march in six hours—not a moment wasted.
Napoleon's sharp gaze flicked over the ragged but determined ranks as they filed into position, their banners snapping in the wind. The tricolor stood proudly among them, a stark contrast against the verdant fields of the Reach.
Beaumont dismounted, his uniform streaked with dirt, but his salute was crisp.
"Sire, we made it in six hours. My men are weary but ready."
Napoleon gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. "Good. The battle is upon us."
Beaumont turned, his keen eyes scanning the distant enemy host. His lips curled into a grim smile.
"They march." He scoffed. "But they won't like what they find."
Napoleon smirked. Mace Tyrell was a fool.
The Reachmen advanced in tight formations, shields raised, their polished armor glinting in the afternoon sun. It was almost laughable.
Napoleon had seen true soldiers, men who could shatter armies with maneuver, with discipline, with firepower. These men? They were medieval relics marching to their slaughter.
Duhesme and Pierre rode up beside him, their horses stamping anxiously.
"They want a battle of attrition," Napoleon said, voice calm but edged with iron certainty. "We will not give them one."
Duhesme arched a brow. "You mean to attack?"
Napoleon's gaze flicked to the approaching Tyrell infantry, their ranks stretching across the rolling green fields. He could see the hesitation in some of their eyes, the doubt creeping in as they neared the unyielding blue ranks of the French.
Napoleon had already won this battle.
He turned sharply, his voice carrying over the camp.
"Prepare for a counter-charge."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mace Tyrell
Lord Paramount of the Reach
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The banners of House Tyrell and its sworn banners fluttered against the wind, the golden roses stark against the emerald green. The sunlight gleamed off armor and polished shields, casting blinding flashes as thousands of Reachmen marched forward in tight formation, their shields raised high.
Mace Tyrell rode at the center of the host, his fingers tightening around the reins as the battlefield stretched before him. Beyond the open field, the French lines stood firm, their soldiers clad in blue coats instead of armor, their ranks eerily still. Unlike his own men, they carried no shields, no shining steel plate—only muskets, their long bayonets like a forest of iron thorns.
Then—a shrill whistle split the air.
A sudden, ear-splitting crack followed.
The first musket volley roared across the battlefield, smoke erupting from the French lines like an explosion of white fog.
Mace's stomach turned as men staggered and fell, some crumpling instantly, others clutching at the red-stained holes punched through their bodies. Shields splintered, shattered by lead, offering no protection against the storm of death.
Screams followed.
"Hold the line!" Garlan's voice cut through the panic.
The Reachmen pressed forward, stepping over the wounded, over the dead, trying to close the distance.
Another sharp whistle, then—another volley.
More men collapsed. Some were hurled backward as bullets tore into their chests, others stumbled forward, gurgling as blood bubbled from their throats.
Mace's jaw clenched, his knuckles white against the reins.
His men fired back, muskets cracking in uneven volleys, but it was undisciplined, scattered. They weren't like the French, whose shots came like clockwork, a relentless tide of smoke and thunder.
And then, Napoleon moved.
Mace saw him, a small figure atop a dark stallion, his expression calm, almost detached. His lips moved briefly, a simple command passed to his aides.
A moment later, a new cry rose from the French lines.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
Grenadiers surged forward, their tall bearskin hats standing above the ranks, muskets slung as they hurled small, black spheres into the advancing Reachmen.
Then—hell erupted.
The grenades exploded in a deadly chain of fire and shrapnel, ripping through the tightly packed infantry.
Bodies were flung like ragdolls. Men were torn apart mid-step, limbs and blood spraying across the grass.
Mace's horse reared back as a fireball burst ahead, the heat licking his face.
The line was wavering. Cracking.
Then, Napoleon raised his hand.
"Charge."
The French infantry surged forward, bayonets lowered, their drums beating a relentless rhythm of death.
Mace's pulse pounded.
His infantry was faltering—but this battle was not yet lost.
He wheeled his horse, voice booming across the battlefield.
"Knights of the Reach! Ride them down!"
A thunderous roar erupted from behind him.
10,000 cavalry burst forward, lances lowered, the ground quaking beneath their charge.
The French infantry should have broken—but they didn't.
Mace gritted his teeth.
They were waiting for this.
Napoleon turned sharply in his saddle, his voice like a whip crack.
"Infantry, form squares! Hold your fire!"
Perfectly drilled, the French soldiers shifted instantly, their ranks closing into impenetrable squares of bayonets, muskets leveled outward.
The cavalry thundered closer, closer, the wind howling, hooves pounding.
Mace's own heartbeat matched the gallop.
Closer.
Then—
"Fire!"
A deafening volley tore through the knights.
The first rank of cavalry collapsed, horses shrieking as they tumbled, crashed, trampled their own riders.
Lances snapped, shields dented, men were hurled from saddles, their armor useless against the storm of musket balls.
But still, the charge pressed forward, some knights smashing into the bristling bayonets, the French lines buckling but holding fast.
Mace pushed onward, sword raised high.
The battle was not over.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The French lines held firm as the Reachmen infantry advanced across the field, their shields gleaming, banners fluttering in the wind. Napoleon watched impassively, standing near his artillery.
Then, the first volley was unleashed.
A roar of musket fire rolled across the battlefield, thick smoke billowing as lead shot tore through the enemy ranks. Hundreds fell where they stood, shields splintering, armor crumpling under the sheer force of impact.
And yet, the Reachmen pressed on.
"Fools," Napoleon muttered.
Another thunderous volley erupted. More bodies collapsed, their comrades stepping over the dead, pushing forward with sheer stubbornness. Their own musket fire cracked back, but it was undisciplined, scattered—nothing compared to the machine-like precision of French drill.
Still, the Tyrell men were closing the distance.
Napoleon's hand shot up.
"Grenadiers, forward!"
The French Grenadiers surged ahead, their heavy boots pounding against the trampled grass. With practiced efficiency, they lit their grenades and hurled them into the enemy ranks.
Explosions erupted, men and earth alike tossed into the air, the screams of the wounded piercing through the battlefield haze.
Then, Napoleon saw it.
The Reachmen wavered.
His eyes flashed with triumph.
"Now," he commanded. "Send in the line infantry. Bayonets. We end this."
With a deafening cry of "Vive l'Empereur!", the French infantry surged forward, bayonets gleaming, their march swift and unstoppable.
The Reachmen broke, their formation collapsing into chaos, men throwing down their weapons, others fleeing for their lives.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed as he watched them falter.
This is over.
Then, a horn blared.
A new sound filled the battlefield—a deep, rumbling thunder that shook the very earth.
Napoleon's head snapped toward the horizon.
Cavalry.
The Reach knights had been waiting.
They came like a tidal wave, thousands of hooves pounding against the soil, their armor gleaming like a sea of steel. Lances lowered, they surged forward in a devastating charge.
Napoleon's eyes widened.
"Cavalry, form squares! NOW!"
The French infantry snapped into action, their drilled discipline taking over. Square formations locked in place, bayonets bristling outward like a hedgehog's spines.
The knights crashed into them with earth-shaking force.
Some horses reared back in terror, impaling themselves on bayonets, their riders toppling to the ground. Others broke through, slashing wildly, their swords cutting down Frenchmen as they pushed deeper into the formation.
The tight squares wavered.
Then, they broke.
The French lines collapsed inward, the Tyrell cavalry cutting through like a scythe, lances impaling men, swords hacking through blue-coated soldiers.
Napoleon's calm mask shattered for a brief moment.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
"Fall back!" Napoleon bellowed. "To the second line! Rally!"
The retreat began, orderly at first, but quickly turning into a desperate struggle as knights rode down fleeing men, spears piercing backs, hooves trampling the wounded.
Napoleon's jaw clenched as he spurred his horse back, his officers scrambling to regroup the shattered forces.
The battle was not lost, but this—this was a setback.
His mind raced, calculating.
Mace Tyrell had outplayed him.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mace Tyrell
Lord Paramount of the Reach
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The roar of victory swelled across the battlefield as thousands of Reach and Lannister knights surged forward, their steel-clad bodies crashing into the enemy ranks like an unstoppable tide.
The French lines shattered before them.
Mace Tyrell rode at the head of his cavalry, his gold-and-green cloak whipping in the wind as he watched the enemy fall back in chaos.
"For Highgarden! For the Reach!" Garlan's voice boomed behind him.
And then—
The chant rose from thousands of voices, shaking the very earth:
"Casterly Rock! Highgarden! Casterly Rock! Highgarden!"
The Lannister banners flapped proudly beside the golden roses of the Reach as the enemy fell back, broken.
Mace grinned, his heart pounding. This was it.
"Press them!" he shouted, his voice raw with triumph. "Do not let them reform! Ride them down!"
His knights surged forward, their lances piercing the retreating Frenchmen, swords rising and falling as they cut through the blue-coated ranks.
He could smell the blood, hear the cries of dying men, feel the weight of victory pressing into his chest.
The French were breaking.
They were—
A deep, terrible thunder split the air.
Mace's blood ran cold.
A horrifying explosion erupted within his ranks, the force of it lifting knights and horses into the air, ripping limbs from bodies, shattering steel as if it were paper.
A second blast.
Then a third.
Grapeshot.
The once unstoppable wave of Tyrell and Lannister cavalrybuckled in an instant, the front ranks obliterated, men and mounts alike crushed into mangled heaps.
Mace yanked the reins of his horse, his ears ringing from the explosions.
Where once he saw his victorious knights pushing deep into French lines, now he saw shattered bodies, headless corpses, horses screaming as they thrashed on the ground.
The momentum was gone.
The charge had been broken.
His triumph turned to horror as he saw Napoleon's cannons reloading, the artillerymen moving with machine-like precision.
"Fall back!" Mace roared. "FALL BACK!"
But it was too late.
Another devastating volley of grapeshot ripped through the field, tearing his retreating cavalry to bloody ribbons.
His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged.
They had been winning.
And now—
They were dying.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The smoke of battle curled thick in the air, the stench of gunpowder mixing with the metallic tang of spilled blood. The echoes of grapeshot devastation still rang in Napoleon's ears as he watched the slaughtered cavalry crumble into chaos.
But his men were still disordered, their retreat moments ago leaving them scattered, their formation fractured. Some clung to their muskets, others had taken cover among the fallen. The Tyrell-Lannister infantry—though bloodied—still pressed forward through the carnage.
Napoleon saw it. The hesitation, the faltering steps, the wavering discipline among his own troops. He needed them back in line—and he needed them now.
Without hesitation, Napoleon snatched a fallen tricolor from the ground, the fabric still bright despite the mud and blood that clung to it. He rode forward, standing tall in the saddle, the French flag snapping violently in the wind as he raised it high.
"Regroupez-vous! Back to the lines!"
His voice boomed across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos like a cannon blast.
The soldiers looked up, their emperor standing amidst the wreckage, the flag of France held high.
They answered.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
One by one, the men rushed back into formation, their boots pounding against the earth as they closed ranks, their muskets reloading with trained precision. The French line reformed, its bristling bayonets glinting in the afternoon sun.
Napoleon's eyes burned with fire.
Now. Now he would break them.
He pointed his sword forward.
"Fix bayonets! March! Fire at will!"
A chorus of steel rang out as bayonets locked onto muskets, the French line surging forward in methodical, unrelenting steps.
The crack of musket fire erupted, not in single volleys but in rolling waves, each rank firing before stepping aside to reload while the next rank took their shot.
The Tyrell-Lannister infantry buckled, men falling in droves, their shields useless against the storm of lead.
Still, the enemy fought.
Napoleon's gaze flicked across the battlefield. The enemy was committed to engagement—but their flanks were vulnerable.
This was his moment.
He turned to his cavalry officers.
"Hussars, Lancers, Dragoons—with me!"
The thunder of hooves echoed across the field as Napoleon led his cavalry in a sweeping flank, his riders cutting across the battlefield in a wide arc, moving with deadly precision.
The Tyrell-Lannister forces never saw them coming.
The shock of the charge crashed into their exposed side, the Lancers impaling men through chainmail, the Dragoons cutting down officers with sabers, the Hussars slashing into retreating lines with ruthless efficiency.
The enemy's formation unraveled.
Then—
A sharp crack from a French sharpshooter's rifle.
Napoleon's eyes snapped toward the sound just in time to see Mace Tyrell's body jerk violently back.
A dark hole had appeared in the center of his forehead.
For a brief moment, his horse galloped on, his lifeless body still in the saddle before it slumped sideways, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.
The Tyrell-Lannister army saw their lord fall—and in that moment, they broke completely.
A deafening cry of terror swept through their ranks.
"Lord Tyrell is dead! RUN!"
Panic consumed them. Thousands of men dropped their weapons, some fleeing outright, others throwing down their banners as the French forces surged forward, cutting down the stragglers in the rout.
Napoleon reined in his horse, the tricolor still clutched in his grip, watching as his army crushed the last remnants of the enemy.
The battle was won.
And the Reach belonged to him.
The sound of war had faded.
What remained was chaos and flight—the once-mighty host of Tyrell and Lannister now a broken tide, their men fleeing in every direction, some throwing aside their weapons, others simply running with nothing but their lives.
Napoleon sat astride his warhorse, the tricolor still gripped in his hand, his coat and boots smeared with mud and blood. Around him, the battlefield lay strewn with bodies, both French and Reachmen, their fallen forms a grim testament to the cost of victory.
His men had fought hard.
And they had paid for it.
In the distance, through the smoke and retreating banners, Napoleon's sharp eyes caught movement—a group of Reachmen carrying something. Not weapons. A body.
Mace Tyrell.
His bannermen clutched his lifeless form, hoisting him over a horse as they hurried away, their faces stricken with grief but determined to take their fallen lord with them.
Napoleon exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.
He had seen this before.
Jena. Friedland. Wagram. The sight of a defeated enemy retreating, carrying their dead, hoping to salvage some shred of honor in the face of complete defeat. It was always the same. The faces changed, the lands changed—but war itself never changed.
A group of French Dragoons thundered toward him, their horses kicking up dirt and blood-stained grass as they pulled to a halt. Their captain, a hard-faced veteran, saluted.
"Sire! Shall we pursue?"
Napoleon's gaze lingered on the fleeing Reachmen, then shifted to his own army—the men who had fought since Brightwater Keep, who had marched through exhaustion, who had bled for this victory.
They were victorious—but they were not unscathed.
The French dead lay thick among the fallen enemy, their blue coats stained red, their bayonets still clutched in stiff hands. Around him, his surviving soldiers leaned on their muskets, sweat and grime caking their faces, their chests heaving with exhaustion.
He could order the pursuit.
He could end the Tyrell host completely, chase them down like hounds after a wounded stag.
But at what cost?
Napoleon's grip tightened on the reins, his decision already made.
He looked down at the Dragoon captain and spoke with calm certainty:
"We have many fallen today. Almost a thousand Frenchmen. Let them run."
The captain blinked, surprised. "Sire?"
Napoleon's voice remained firm.
"Our men need rest. They have fought enough."
The captain hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. "Oui, Sire." He turned his horse and rode back to inform the others.
Napoleon took one last glance at the battlefield—the dead, the dying, the retreating enemy, and his own exhausted army, standing victorious yet battered.
Then, with a final breath, he turned his horse toward camp.
Tonight, his men would rest.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The firelight flickered against the canvas walls of Napoleon's command tent, casting long shadows as the generals gathered around the central war table. The scent of gunpowder and blood still lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy musk of trampled grass and sweat.
Napoleon stood at the head of the table, his gloved hands resting on the tattered map of the Reach, his gaze sharp, his posture unreadable.
The battle was over.
Now, it was time to assess its cost.
Beaumont, his uniform still dirtied from battle, spoke first, his voice even but heavy.
"Sire, we counted the dead. 970 Frenchmen killed, nearly 3,000 wounded. Most will recover, but some… won't fight again."
Napoleon exhaled slowly. Nearly a thousand gone. Good men, taken by war's cruel hand.
Duhesme took over, his brow furrowed. "As for the enemy, the Tyrell-Lannister host suffered heavily. Over 6,000 dead, mostly infantry. Another 3,000 wounded or captured. But more importantly, their army is shattered."
Pierre leaned forward, tapping the map. "After Mace Tyrell fell, their command structure collapsed. They ran, Sire—fled like frightened deer. Had we pursued, we could have crushed them completely."
Napoleon's eyes flickered to Pierre, but he said nothing. The cost of pursuit had been too great.
Instead, he asked, "Where are they now?"
Duhesme gestured toward the map. "Scattered. Some fled north, back toward Highgarden. Others west, hoping to regroup at Lannisport. But they won't be in any shape to fight for weeks. Perhaps longer."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Napoleon finally spoke, his voice quiet, yet absolute:
"Then we have won."
The words hung in the air.
A victory, yes—but at a cost. A thousand dead Frenchmen lay in the fields beyond, their bodies waiting to be buried. Yet, for all their sacrifice, Napoleon knew—this was only one battle. The war was far from over.
Beaumont's voice broke the silence.
"What are your orders, Sire?"
Napoleon glanced at the map again, his mind already calculating the next move.
"We will rest tonight. Bury our dead. Tend to the wounded. And then—" his eyes gleamed like steel,
"We march on Highgarden."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tyrion Lannister
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
In Kings Landing.
The room smelled of blood and milk of the poppy. The faint glow of the evening sun bled through the high windows, illuminating the darkened chamber where Tyrion Lannister lay half-propped up on a bed of fine silk sheets. His bandaged face itched, his body ached, and his mind—his mind was restless.
He had survived the Battle of the Blackwater, but only barely. Ser Mandon Moore's betrayal still haunted him, the moment replaying over and over in his mind like a cruel jest. He had fought, bled, and nearly died defending King's Landing, yet now he was left to rot in this stifling chamber, his father having swept in like a storm and stolen all the glory.
He reached for his cup of wine, only to find it empty.
"Damn it all," Tyrion muttered.
A soft chuckle echoed from the doorway.
"Even near death, you still thirst," came the silky voice of Varys.
Tyrion glanced up, his good eye narrowing. The Spider moved like a wisp of silk, his voluminous robes shifting as he stepped inside, his expression unreadable.
"If you've come to gawk at my wounds, you're too late," Tyrion muttered. "The maesters have already marveled at the ruin of my once-handsome face."
Varys only smiled. "No, my dear Tyrion. I bring… news."
The way he said it made Tyrion sit up a little straighter, ignoring the stab of pain in his ribs. "Well, don't keep me in suspense."
Varys glided forward, settling onto a cushioned chair beside the bed. He steepled his fingers. "It seems the war has shifted… in ways few anticipated."
Tyrion took a slow breath. "Go on."
Varys' smile faded. "Mace Tyrell is dead. His army—obliterated."
For a moment, the words hung in the air, weighty and unreal. Tyrion blinked.
"...What?"
"Mace Tyrell led his forces south to face Napoleon. They were met in battle near Horn Hill." Varys leaned forward, his voice low, deliberate. "It was a slaughter."
Tyrion's mind raced.
House Tyrell had marched to war at his father's behest, their vast armies meant to reinforce Lannister strength. And now, just like that… gone?
"How?" Tyrion demanded. "The Tyrells command the largest host in Westeros. You mean to tell me that some foreign upstart—who wasn't even here a year ago—crushed them?"
Varys tilted his head. "Crushed, routed, and humiliated."
Tyrion exhaled sharply. "Tell me everything."
And so Varys did.
He spoke of Napoleon's arrival at the Arbor, his swift conquest of the isle, the fall of Oldtown, and the march across the Reach. He detailed the battles, each one seemingly more audacious than the last—Brightwater Keep, Horn Hill—each victory building upon the other like a tide that refused to recede.
Tyrion listened intently, his fingers tapping absently on the bed as the weight of the news settled over him.
"Seven hells," he murmured when Varys had finished. "This isn't just some warlord rampaging through the countryside. This is a man who… builds."
Varys nodded. "Precisely."
Tyrion frowned. "What of Oldtown and the Arbor? Are they nothing more than occupied cities?"
Varys chuckled. "That is the most curious part, dear Tyrion. They are not merely occupied. They are changed."
Tyrion's brows furrowed. "Changed how?"
Varys reached into his sleeve and produced a rolled parchment. "I have been collecting reports. It appears our dear Emperor Napoleon does not simply conquer—he governs."
Tyrion unrolled the parchment and scanned the contents. His frown deepened.
He read of the Napoleonic Code—laws written clearly and concisely, ensuring equality before the law for commoners and nobles alike. He read of economic reforms, new trade routes established, the Arbor's wine flowing freely under protected merchant convoys. He read of education mandates, of scholars and maesters forced to teach not just the noble-born, but commoners as well.
Most shockingly, he read of religious restrictions—how Napoleon tolerated faith but refused to bow to the Faith of the Seven, stripping the septons of unchecked power.
Tyrion let out a low whistle.
"This… this is something entirely different." He shook his head. "Lords conquer, take what they please, and rule as they see fit. But this? This is something else."
Varys' eyes gleamed. "Indeed. The Reachmen are used to being ruled by bloodlines, by noble names. But Napoleon does not rule by right of birth—he rules by right of action."
Tyrion leaned back, exhaling. "That makes him dangerous."
Varys smirked. "Very."
Silence settled between them. Tyrion fingered the parchment, his mind racing through possibilities.
Napoleon had destroyed one of the strongest armies in Westeros. The Reach lay broken.
But what came next?
"What of Highgarden?" Tyrion asked at last.
Varys' expression darkened. "Highgarden still stands. But for how long… remains to be seen."
Tyrion drummed his fingers against the bed frame. "He will take it. And once he does, the Tyrells are finished."
A thought crept into his mind—what if Napoleon didn't stop there?
Tyrion looked back at the parchment, then at Varys.
"Tell me, Spider… what do you think happens when a man like this has no more enemies in the Reach?"
Varys smiled. "Why, my dear Tyrion… he looks north."
Tyrion let out a low breath, his fingers still drumming against the parchment as Varys' words settled over him.
"He looks north."
It was an unsettling thought. If this Napoleon had swept through the Reach with such terrifying efficiency, what would happen when he turned his attention to King's Landing? To the Iron Throne itself?
Tyrion rubbed his temple, wincing as the pain from his wounds flared up again. "Gods, what a mess."
Varys chuckled softly. "You are only now realizing this?"
Tyrion scowled. "No, but it's rather different when you're the one sitting in the middle of it." He let out a long sigh. "And speaking of messes… I assume my darling sister still wants me dead?"
Varys tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Oh, most fervently."
Tyrion smirked, though there was little humor in it. "I suppose I should be flattered. She never puts this much effort into anything unless it's poisoning someone or bedding her brother."
Varys did not laugh, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Her rage has only grown since your father took your place as Hand. She resents him for it, of course, but her hatred for you burns far hotter."
Tyrion took another sip of wine, grimacing at the taste—it had gone slightly sour. Fitting. "How does she mean to do it? A blade in the dark? A convenient accident? Or will she simply toss me from the Red Keep and call it a day?"
Varys sighed, folding his hands in his lap. "She is… impulsive. She rants about having you killed openly, which forces her to be more discreet when actually planning it." He shook his head. "The problem, my dear Tyrion, is that she has more power now. Your father may hold the real authority, but Cersei has sway over the boy-king, and Joffrey… well, we both know what he is."
Tyrion snorted. "A rabid dog in need of a leash."
Varys raised a delicate brow. "A dog is loyal. Joffrey is… something else entirely."
Tyrion set his cup down with a clink, exhaling through his nose. "How close is she to actually making an attempt?"
Varys hesitated. "Soon."
Tyrion studied him. "And yet, you come to warn me. I wonder why."
Varys smiled thinly. "Because you are still useful."
Tyrion let out a dry chuckle. "What an inspiring sentiment." He tapped his fingers against the bed frame. "So, what shall I do about dear Cersei? I assume the usual options are off the table. I doubt my father would appreciate me having her strangled in her sleep."
Varys gave him a pointed look. "Your father would have you strangled if you so much as considered it."
"Mm. Then what do you suggest?"
Varys leaned forward. "Survive."
Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Brilliant advice. I'll be sure to remember that when I'm choking on poisoned wine."
Varys' smile was fleeting. "You will need allies, my dear Tyrion. More than you have now."
Tyrion arched a brow. "And who, exactly, would be fool enough to align themselves with me?"
Varys gave him a long, meaningful look. "Perhaps the same man who now rules half the Reach."
Silence fell between them.
Tyrion's lips parted slightly, but no words came. For the first time, the thought truly took root—Napoleon. Could he be more than just an enemy to fear? Could he be… an opportunity?
Varys saw the wheels turning in his mind and smiled.
"Think on it, dear Tyrion. The world is changing faster than most can grasp. It would be a shame if you were left behind."
And with that, the Spider rose, his robes whispering against the stone as he glided toward the door.
Tyrion sat in silence long after he was gone, staring at the flickering candlelight, the shadows dancing across his bandaged face.