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Robb Stark
King of the North
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The night was cold beneath the towering trees of the Riverlands. The distant sounds of men tending to horses and sharpening steel echoed through the camp. The faint orange glow of campfires flickered across the dark forest, illuminating faces worn by war and marching.
Robb Stark stood inside his war tent, eyes fixed on the map of Westeros stretched across the wooden table. Small carved markers dotted the landscape—direwolves for his forces, lions for the Lannisters, and roses for the Reach. But it was the tri-colored eagle of Napoleon resting on the Arbor, Oldtown, and Horn Hill that drew his gaze.
The south had changed.
Footsteps crunched outside before Edmure Tully stepped into the tent, followed by Rickard Karstark. Both men bore the weariness of the long campaign—faces hollow, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of war.
"My lord," Edmure began, breaking the silence. "A raven arrived from Riverrun... the rumors are true."
Robb's blue eyes flicked toward him, sharp and expectant.
"Mace Tyrell is dead," Edmure continued, voice low. "The Lannister-Tyrell host was shattered at Horn Hill. Napoleon routed them."
Robb's fingers curled into a fist. He had half-expected the news—but hearing it confirmed left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"So it wasn't just talk," he muttered. "One man... breaking the Reach in a matter of months."
Karstark scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest. "It's those weapons. Fire-spitting sticks. No honor in them."
"No honor," Edmure shot back, "but they kill all the same."
Robb's gaze remained fixed on the map. Napoleon's advance was no trick of rumor. He had taken the Arbor, Oldtown, and now carved deep into the Reach. Lord after lord bent the knee or was left buried in their fields.
A man like that...
A man like that could end wars.
"What else did the raven say?" Robb asked.
Edmure shifted uncomfortably. "They say he rules Oldtown and the Arbor with... laws."
Robb's brow furrowed.
"Laws?"
Edmure nodded. "They call it the Napoleonic Code. Common folk are given rights—protection under the law. Thieves punished swiftly. Even highborn men must answer to it."
Karstark scowled. "A code that binds lords like peasants? The Reach must be full of fools to accept such a thing."
But Robb's mind was already turning.
Not fools... desperate men.
He had seen what war did to the smallfolk—how they starved, how they died in the mud while lords played their games. If Napoleon offered them safety, bread, and justice... why would they not follow him?
"Do they hate him?" Robb asked quietly.
Edmure blinked. "Who?"
"The people." Robb's blue eyes flicked up. "Do they curse his name?"
Edmure hesitated. "No... they cheer him."
Robb's heart sank. He glanced back at the map—the eagle of Napoleon perched where no foreign conqueror had ever ruled.
A beacon in the south.
"They cheer him because he gives them something we've forgotten," Robb muttered.
Karstark snorted. "And what's that?"
Robb's eyes were cold.
"Order."
A heavy silence hung between them.
His father had always said the North was different—honorable, free, proud. But the south bled, crushed beneath gold cloaks and greedy lords. Smallfolk didn't care whose banner flew over their heads—only who would let them eat in peace.
Napoleon understood that.
He was offering something new.
A world built not on banners... but on laws.
"What is he doing?" Robb murmured to himself. "He's not just conquering—he's building."
Edmure shifted. "You sound like you admire him."
Robb's blue eyes flicked toward his uncle.
"I admire any man who fights for more than his own crown."
Karstark's lip curled. "He's a foreigner. He knows nothing of Westeros."
Robb's fingers tapped against the table.
"Neither did Aegon when he landed at Dragonstone."
That silenced them.
The carved eagle stared up at him from the map. Robb could almost see the shape of it—the bones of something greater rising in the south while the old houses clawed at each other for scraps.
He clenched his fist.
Napoleon was not playing the game of thrones.
He was rewriting the rules.
"If he wins," Robb said quietly, "he won't stop at the Reach."
Karstark snorted. "Let him march north then. He'll find wolves waiting for him."
Robb said nothing, but his mind wandered.
Would they?
Would the North rise against him...
...or follow him?
He looked back at the map, eyes flicking between the carved direwolf and the tri-colored eagle.
Everything was changing.
Perhaps the true danger was not Napoleon's muskets or his cannons...
...but the ideas he carried with him.
Robb's voice was steady.
"Send ravens to the Twins and Riverrun. Tell them what's happened in the Reach... and tell them to watch the south."
Edmure frowned. "Why?"
Robb's fingers curled around the carved direwolf.
"Because this war might not be decided by swords."
His eyes lingered on the eagle.
"But by laws."
The cold wind stirred the tent flaps. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled in the dark.
Robb Stark listened...
...and wondered if they howled for the old world dying—
—or the new one rising.
The cold wind slipped through the tent flaps, carrying with it the distant howls of wolves. Robb Stark stood still, his blue eyes fixed on the map before him. His mind was far away — south, where the tri-colored eagle flew high over the Reach.
The silence lingered before Edmure cleared his throat.
"There was more in the raven," he said carefully. "Not just the south... the Blackwater."
Robb's gaze flicked up.
Edmure shifted uneasily, casting a glance toward Rickard Karstark.
"Stannis... was defeated."
Robb's heart clenched. He had hoped — perhaps foolishly — that the Baratheon lord might shatter the Lannisters while the North pushed south. But hopes in war were like candles in the wind—flickering and fragile.
"Defeated how?" Robb asked, though he already guessed the answer.
"Wildfire," Edmure muttered, his voice low. "Half his fleet burned. The other half fled. The Tyrells arrived in time to crush what remained on the ground."
Robb exhaled slowly. Another blow. Another door closing.
If Stannis had taken King's Landing, the war would have turned — the Lannisters broken, the Iron Throne ripe for the taking. Now...
Now there was only Casterly Rock and Oldtown — lions and eagles locked in battle while the wolves wandered the Riverlands.
"The Tyrells were supposed to be Stannis's enemies," Karstark growled. "But they bent the knee to the boy king."
Robb's jaw tightened.
"Loyalty means little when crowns are offered."
Edmure's lips pressed together, but his eyes remained fixed on the map — at the broken host Napoleon had crushed at Horn Hill.
"It might not matter anymore," he muttered.
Robb looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean?"
Edmure's hand hovered over the Reach. His fingers traced the line from Oldtown to Horn Hill... to Blackcrown... to Honeyholt...
"If the Tyrells are marching against him, if the Lannisters have sent men to the south — and still he wins..." Edmure's voice trailed off.
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
Napoleon was a foreigner. A stranger to Westeros. But he was bleeding the greatest houses dry — one battle at a time.
Robb's fingers curled around the carved direwolf on the table.
"Aegon came with dragons," he murmured. "Napoleon comes with laws."
Karstark scoffed. "No man conquers with laws."
Robb's eyes flicked toward him.
"No? Then why do the Arbor and Oldtown still stand beneath his banners?"
Karstark fell silent.
Robb turned back to the map, his mind turning. He had heard whispers—Napoleon's reforms, his Napoleonic Code. Laws that bound lords and smallfolk alike. Justice without corruption. Bread for the hungry.
He could feel it—something new stirring in the south. Not just power... but purpose.
A conqueror who built as he conquered.
It was dangerous.
Because men would die for power — but they would fight harder for hope.
"What of King's Landing?" Robb asked quietly.
Edmure shifted.
"Still in Lannister hands. Lord Tywin rules through the boy king... and Queen Cersei."
Robb's lips curled slightly at the name.
Cersei Lannister. The mother of the monster who had killed his father. The woman who schemed behind every golden curtain in the capital.
He imagined her now — pacing in her chambers, her green eyes sharp with suspicion, her hands wrapped around a goblet of Arbor wine while the world burned around her.
"I imagine she's not pleased," Robb muttered.
Karstark snorted.
"They say she's calling for her brother's head."
Robb's brow furrowed.
"Tyrion?"
Edmure nodded.
"After the battle, they say he's been cast aside. No more power. No more command. Cersei wants him dead."
Robb's lips thinned. He had never met Tyrion Lannister — only heard tales of the Imp. Clever. Cunning. The true mind behind the defense of King's Landing.
And now... discarded like a broken tool.
"They eat their own," Robb muttered. "The Lannisters always have."
Karstark grunted. "And they'll do the same to this Napoleon if he marches north."
But Robb wasn't so sure.
Lannisters ruled through fear. Napoleon ruled through order.
One cracked beneath pressure.
The other... endured.
He stared down at the map, heart heavy with the weight of a thousand decisions yet to come. The war had been simple once — vengeance for his father, freedom for the North. But the world was shifting.
Stannis had fallen. The south was in flames. The wolves were running out of time.
And in the shadows... Napoleon built.
If he did not march north, Robb knew what would happen.
The North would march south — and find a kingdom remade.
"Watch him," Robb said at last, voice low. "Send more ravens. I want to know how he rules... how he fights... what he wants."
Karstark frowned.
"What does it matter? He's half a world away."
Robb's eyes remained fixed on the tri-colored eagle perched over Oldtown.
"No," he murmured.
"He's closer than you think."
The cold wind stirred the tent flaps again. Somewhere in the dark, the wolves howled louder — not for the dead...
...but for the living.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was a day after the victory at Horn Hill.
Dawn broke over Horn Hill, casting its pale light across the blood-soaked fields. The air still carried the iron scent of death. Crows circled overhead, their black wings flicking through the sky. In the distance, the broken banners of Tyrell and Lannister lay twisted among the corpses — green, gold, and crimson stained with mud and dried blood.
Napoleon stood atop a small rise overlooking the battlefield. His hands rested behind his back, fingers clasped tightly. His grey coat was stiff with dust, but his hat sat square on his head — the mark of the living among the dead.
Victory.
Another battle won. Another step toward the crown.
Yet his heart felt heavy.
He had buried many men in Italy. Egypt. Austerlitz. Jena. Men who had followed him across continents, fighting for a dream of glory. He had buried Frenchmen in every corner of Europe — and now... they lay beneath Westerosi soil.
His eyes swept over the fields where the bodies were gathered — French and Reachmen alike. His soldiers worked in silence, digging graves in long lines, sweat glistening on their sunburnt faces. The wounded were carried on makeshift stretchers, the moans of pain carried on the morning breeze.
Napoleon took a slow breath. He knew what had to be done.
"Pierre."
General Pierre stepped forward, his blue coat still streaked with powder burns from the day before. He saluted briskly.
"Sire?"
Napoleon's gaze remained fixed on the dead.
"We bury them. All of them — French, Reachmen, Lannisters alike. Every man who fell yesterday will have a grave."
Pierre's brow furrowed. "Even the enemy, Sire?"
Napoleon's sharp eyes flicked toward him.
"We are not butchers, General. The world watches. Let them see how France treats even her enemies."
Pierre bowed his head.
"As you command."
Napoleon turned back to the rise, his eyes narrowing against the sunlight.
"There will be a ceremony," he added, voice low. "I want both faiths honored — the God of the Seven... and the old gods of the North."
Pierre blinked in surprise.
Napoleon's mind was already turning. Westeros was a land bound by traditions — fractured, divided by centuries of blood and faith. To rule it, he would need more than muskets and bayonets.
He would need their hearts.
"Let them see that we are not here to destroy their gods... but to give them laws," Napoleon murmured.
Pierre nodded slowly, scribbling the orders onto a scrap of parchment.
"And the wounded, Sire?"
Napoleon's gaze shifted toward the makeshift hospital tents, where surgeons worked tirelessly — sawing off limbs, binding wounds.
"Send them back to Oldtown," he said softly. "Every man who can no longer march will be cared for there — French or Westerosi alike."
Pierre's brow furrowed.
"The road is long, Sire... they might not all survive the journey."
Napoleon's jaw clenched.
"Better to die on the road to healing... than rot on the battlefield."
Pierre nodded again, folding the parchment and hurrying off to deliver the orders.
The sun climbed higher as the ceremony began.
French chaplains in black robes stood at one end of the field, murmuring prayers to the Christian God. On the other side, a weathered septon from the Reach knelt before a crude altar, chanting soft hymns to the Seven. And further still, a Northern soldier — one of the few Robb Stark's men who had bent the knee — carved a wooden heart into a tree, whispering prayers to the old gods.
Napoleon stood in the center, silent.
A conqueror with no gods of his own.
His men watched him — some with reverence, others with curiosity. They had followed him across worlds, but in Westeros... even victory felt foreign.
He could feel it in their eyes — the doubt, the weariness. They had crossed oceans, marched through unfamiliar lands. Many wondered what they fought for now.
But he knew.
They fought for France — for the Empire reborn.
Napoleon's fingers curled into fists behind his back.
If he was to forge an empire here, he would need more than victories. He would need something greater — something that would outlast him.
Laws. Order. Civilization.
The Napoleonic Code had begun in Oldtown, its pages copied and carried by his officers. But now it would spread — town by town, village by village.
He would give Westeros something no king had ever offered.
Equality. Justice. The rule of law.
He glanced at the graves — French and Westerosi buried side by side beneath the same earth.
A new order built not by blood alone — but by ideas.
When the last prayer was spoken, Napoleon turned to Beaumont and Duhesme, who stood at his side.
"Burn the banners of Tyrell and Lannister," he said coldly. "Raise the tricolor over Horn Hill."
The generals nodded.
"And the army, Sire?" Beaumont asked.
Napoleon's eyes fixed on the road north.
"We march to Highgarden."
Duhesme's eyes widened. "So soon? The men need rest—"
Napoleon's gaze snapped to him.
"They have rested long enough. Every day we delay, the lions sharpen their claws. The Tyrells rally more men. Highgarden must fall before the summer ends."
His voice hardened.
"We will march as we did in Italy... swiftly, without mercy. Take the villages. Take the roads. Take their hearts before they know they've lost."
The generals saluted, their boots snapping together.
Napoleon stepped down from the rise, his black boots crunching through the dry grass.
As he passed the graves, his eyes lingered on the rows of simple wooden crosses — hundreds of them.
Almost a thousand Frenchmen lost.
He clenched his fists.
Too many.
But they would not die in vain.
The road to Highgarden lay ahead — and beyond it, the heart of the Reach.
Napoleon mounted his horse, feeling the weight of the campaign pressing down on his shoulders.
His men followed behind him — weary, wounded... but victorious.
The Empire had crossed the Sea.
Now it would march into the very soul of Westeros.
And not even gods could stop it.
Vive l'Empereur.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
General, Arbor Corps
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The smell of death still lingered in the air — blood, powder, burnt flesh — but it was the silence that gnawed at General Beaumont the most. The sun hung low on the western sky, casting long shadows over the field where hundreds of bodies now lay in pyres, waiting to be swallowed by flame.
Beaumont stood at the edge of the camp, leaning against the half-collapsed stone wall of an old watchtower. His uniform was unbuttoned at the collar, streaked with sweat and dried blood. A cigar rested between his fingers — forgotten, unlit.
His dark eyes stared toward the west — toward the unseen Arbor.
Desmera.
It was a strange feeling, this ache in his chest.
Women had come and gone in his life — courtesans, tavern girls, bored noble wives — none of them lingered in his mind once the night was through. He'd never thought himself capable of wanting anything more than the warmth of a woman's bed and the taste of wine on his tongue.
But now…
Now he missed her.
It had crept up on him like a slow fever. At first, he'd thought it was nothing — a passing fancy, the thrill of having a highborn girl in his sheets. But the longer he marched away from the Arbor, the harder it became to push her from his mind.
He missed the way she looked at him — not with fear or worship like the tavern girls, but with that sharp, measuring gaze that made him feel like he was the one being hunted.
He missed her voice — the way it cut through the air like steel wrapped in silk.
He missed how she never called him General — only Beaumont — like he was a man first, not a soldier.
What the hell had she done to him?
He ran a hand through his tangled hair and scowled at the thought.
"This isn't who you are, old boy," he muttered to himself. "You're not made for hearts and promises."
And yet...
He'd written her twice since they left the Arbor. Short, clumsy letters tucked into the dispatches for Oldtown. He didn't even know if she'd read them — or if she'd even care.
You left her in a city full of Frenchmen with nothing but her wits and a pistol... and you wonder why she's still in your head?
Beaumont exhaled sharply, flicking the unlit cigar away.
"Fucking woman."
He pushed off the wall and started toward the pyres.
The fires had begun to crackle, thin tendrils of smoke rising into the evening sky. The smell was sharp — burning cloth, seared flesh — but he'd smelled worse in Spain.
Frenchmen and Reachmen alike were piled together in the flames, stripped of their uniforms and wrapped in simple cloth. Death made no distinction between enemy and friend.
Beaumont's boots crunched over the dry grass as he joined the small gathering of officers watching the flames. Most stood in silence — heads bowed, hats clutched to their chests. A few whispered prayers.
He said nothing.
Prayers wouldn't bring them back.
He could still see them — the young recruits from the Arbor, barely more than boys, who had marched into battle with muskets too heavy for their arms. The veterans from the Grand Army, scarred and hollow-eyed, who had fought under the Emperor since Italy.
Almost a thousand dead.
A thousand brothers.
Beaumont swallowed hard and lit his cigar with a shaky hand.
"Vive l'Empereur," someone whispered.
Beaumont's throat tightened. He took a long drag of smoke, letting it burn deep in his lungs.
They followed us across the sea... and this is where we leave them.
He glanced sideways at the men around him — Pierre, Duhesme, the grizzled captains of the voltigeurs and grenadiers. Their faces were carved from stone, hiding whatever grief gnawed at their hearts.
The Emperor stood apart from them, a dark silhouette against the firelight — watching, calculating. Always calculating.
Beaumont knew the look in Napoleon's eyes. He'd seen it at Marengo, at Austerlitz.
The Emperor mourned his men — but never for too long.
There was always another battle ahead.
Beaumont dragged the cigar from his lips and spat into the dirt.
His heart wasn't made like Napoleon's. He couldn't look at the dead and see nothing but numbers on a ledger.
He'd shared wine with these men. Laughed with them. Buried too many of them.
They would march to Highgarden tomorrow — leaving the graves behind, leaving everything behind.
But Desmera...
Desmera was still out there — holding the Arbor together with her sharp tongue and iron will.
He wondered if she missed him too.
Beaumont took another long drag of smoke, his eyes fixed on the flames.
Maybe...
Maybe he'd write her again tonight.
By the time the pyres burned low, the stars were out — cold and distant.
Beaumont stood alone long after the others had gone, the last embers flickering at his feet.
He thought of the Arbor — of the girl with copper hair and sharp eyes — and wondered if she'd be waiting when this cursed campaign was over.
If he lived long enough to see it through.
Without meaning to, his hand drifted into his coat pocket... where a crumpled scrap of parchment rested.
One of the letters he'd never sent.
He clenched it tight in his fist, then turned back toward the camp.
The fires burned behind him, but his heart was somewhere else.
Somewhere warmer.
Somewhere greener.
Somewhere she was.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
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The morning sun broke over the Reach like molten gold, casting long rays across rolling green hills and fields ripe for harvest. The air was crisp, the sky without a cloud — a perfect day for marching.
Napoleon stood at the head of the column, his grey greatcoat draped over his shoulders, the familiar black bicorne hat casting a shadow across his pale face. His sharp eyes scanned the winding road ahead — a road that would lead them straight to Highgarden.
Behind him, the battered remnants of his Grand Army stretched down the road — nearly 7,000 men now after the losses at Horn Hill. The rest were still under Duhesme, Pierre, and Beaumont, scattered across the Reach securing the conquered towns.
Many of the men still bore bandages under their uniforms. Some leaned on makeshift crutches. Yet they marched all the same — muskets on their shoulders, drums beating a steady rhythm.
Napoleon had buried his dead the night before — a rare moment where the Emperor allowed himself to honor those who followed him into the jaws of death. Now, there was no time for grief.
Only victory.
As they passed through villages and farms along the Mander River, the people stood by the roadside — watching.
Some clutched their children close, whispering prayers to the Seven. Others stood frozen, their faces pale, eyes wide with fear.
But many...
Many stared at him with awe.
Napoleon felt their eyes on him — the weight of their fear and fascination pressing against his back.
He knew what they saw.
Not a man.
A conqueror.
A storm that had swept across the Reach, leaving ashes and broken crowns in its wake.
He had taken the Arbor without spilling a drop of wine. He had stormed Oldtown in a single night. He had crushed the proud knights of the Reach at Horn Hill.
Whispers were already spreading — faster than his armies.
They called him the Lion of Oldtown.
They called him the God from Across the Sea.
They called him the Emperor.
Napoleon said nothing as he rode past them, his face carved from marble. He did not return their stares — only fixed his cold blue gaze straight ahead, as if the world itself would bend to his will.
Let them fear him.
Let them worship him.
It made no difference.
All that mattered was that they obeyed.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of Highgarden.
The castle rose like a jewel from the green hills — its high walls wrapped in ivy, its towers crowned with golden banners. Beyond the castle walls, sprawling gardens stretched as far as the eye could see, blooming with roses of every color.
A paradise — untouched by war.
Napoleon reined in his horse on a hill overlooking the city, his officers gathering close around him. The smell of lavender and summer blossoms drifted on the breeze.
For a moment, Napoleon simply stared — his sharp eyes flicking across the fortifications, the towers, the surrounding villages.
He had taken greater cities in his time. But none so beautiful as this.
"A shame," he murmured under his breath in French. "I would rather take it whole... than burn it."
General Pierre rode up beside him, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Sire... scouts report the garrison numbers no more than 2,000 men. Mostly green recruits."
Napoleon's lips twitched into a faint smile.
"They will surrender... or they will burn."
He glanced at Captain Berthier, his chief aide.
"Prepare a messenger."
The Message:
By mid-afternoon, the French camp was set along the Mander — cannons positioned on the hills, muskets stacked, tents rising in neat rows.
Napoleon dictated the message himself — each word sharp, deliberate.
To the Commander of Highgarden,
I, Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French and Protector of the South, offer you this chance to surrender your castle and spare your men. The Reach has fallen. Oldtown belongs to me. The Arbor belongs to me. Horn Hill lies in ruin. Your liege lord Mace Tyrell is dead — his army broken beneath my heel.
Resist, and your gardens will burn.
Surrender, and your lives will be spared under the laws of the Napoleonic Code.
You have until nightfall to answer.
Vive l'Empereur.
As the messenger rode toward the castle gates with the white flag raised high, Napoleon watched from the hilltop, his gloved hands folded behind his back.
The silence stretched — only the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the Mander filling the air.
Beaumont rode up beside him, chewing the end of an unlit cigar.
"You think they'll surrender, Sire?"
Napoleon's pale eyes remained fixed on the castle.
"They will."
"And if they don't?"
Napoleon's mouth curved into a thin smile.
"Then tomorrow, I will dine in their rose gardens."
They all surrender in the end.
He had seen it before — in Italy, in Egypt, in Prussia, in Spain. Men with proud names and ancient castles always thought their walls would save them.
But the world belonged to those who knew when to bow before a greater will.
If Highgarden's commander was wise, the gates would open before nightfall.
If not...
Napoleon glanced toward the hills where his artillery sat — black barrels glinting in the sun.
By sunrise, Highgarden would burn.
Yet as he watched the castle in the golden afternoon light, Napoleon felt a strange stillness in his chest — a flicker of something buried deep beneath the cold steel of his heart.
Roses.
He had seen them once before — years ago, in the gardens of Malmaison.
He had walked among them with Josephine — the scent of summer flowers wrapped around her hair.
For a brief moment, the image flashed in his mind — her voice, her laughter — before the weight of the present crushed it beneath the boot heel of memory.
Josephine was long gone.
He was not the man who had walked in those gardens.
Now he was a soldier, a conqueror — a stranger in a foreign land, marching ever forward into the endless future.
The sun sank lower behind the hills.
The messenger still had not returned.
Napoleon stood like a statue, his cold eyes fixed on Highgarden's gates — waiting.
Always waiting.
Behind him, the black cannons sat in perfect silence.
By morning, they would speak for him.
The sun dipped low behind the green hills as the first distant horns echoed from the castle walls.
Napoleon stood on the rise overlooking Highgarden, his hands clasped behind his back — the very image of cold, unyielding authority. His grey greatcoat hung from his shoulders, and the shadow of his bicorne hat cast his face in half-darkness. Behind him, the French banners fluttered in the breeze — tricolors rippling beneath the golden light.
His officers stood at attention — Beaumont, Pierre, Duhesme — their faces grim, muskets stacked neatly in rows. The entire army stood in formation, bayonets fixed, uniforms patched and bloodstained from the campaign. Drums beat slow, measured rhythms.
They had not fired a single shot at Highgarden.
They would not need to.
A column emerged from the castle gates — no more than three hundred men marching down the road with banners of white unfurled. Their armor was dented, cloaks torn, helmets clutched under their arms in surrender.
At the head of the procession rode three figures on horseback.
Napoleon's sharp eyes fixed on them, dissecting every detail.
One was an older knight — heavyset, with a greying beard and a tattered surcoat bearing the golden rose of House Tyrell. His face was hollow with shame, his hands trembling slightly on the reins.
The second was younger, leaner — with a scar down his cheek and eyes that burned with silent fury. A soldier forced to bow against his will.
The third carried the banner of Highgarden. His face was barely more than a boy's, no older than sixteen — his lips pressed into a pale, bloodless line.
They reined in their horses at the foot of the hill where Napoleon waited — the last defenders of the Reach, come to lay down their swords.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then the older knight dismounted, knees creaking as he sank to the earth. His gauntleted hand went to the hilt of his sword.
With slow, deliberate movements — like a man weighed down by the shame of a thousand years — he drew the blade.
Its steel glinted in the dying sunlight.
He kissed the pommel, then laid the sword at Napoleon's feet.
The other two knights followed — one by one, their blades clattering onto the earth.
Napoleon's cold blue gaze swept over them, unreadable. His hands remained clasped behind his back, the imperial figure looming above them like a statue carved from marble.
The older knight's voice broke the silence.
"Lord Commander Ser Jon Fossoway... sworn shield of House Tyrell." His voice was hoarse with humiliation. "I come to offer the surrender of Highgarden... in the name of Lady Olenna and the people of the Reach."
Napoleon said nothing.
Jon Fossoway's eyes flicked upward, desperate to read something — anything — from the conqueror's face.
"We... surrender not out of cowardice, but to spare the smallfolk from suffering. The Reach has had its fill of war. You have broken us."
Napoleon's gaze remained fixed on the kneeling knight — cold, distant, as if he were not a man at all, but something older and far more ruthless.
He had seen this before.
Italy. Egypt. Austerlitz.
The same tired speeches, the same broken men.
They all sound the same in the end.
Finally, Napoleon's voice cut through the silence — soft, measured, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"I accept your surrender... on one condition."
Fossoway's head snapped up, eyes flickering with uncertainty.
"You and your men will be spared under the laws of the Napoleonic Code. But there will be no ransom... no parole. You will swear fealty — not to the Iron Throne, nor House Tyrell, but to me."
The knight's breath caught.
"You would have us turn traitor?"
Napoleon's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"I would have you live."
A heavy silence hung over the field.
The younger knight's fists clenched, his scarred face twisted in barely contained fury. But Fossoway's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of defeat.
The old man bowed his head.
"We will swear."
Napoleon gave the smallest nod.
Yet it was the boy — the one who carried the banner — who finally broke the silence.
"My lord..." His voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "Before we surrendered... Ser Loras Tyrell fled north."
Napoleon's cold gaze flicked toward him.
"Where?"
"King's Landing, my lord... to seek refuge with the king."
There was another long pause — and then the older knight added quietly:
"And Lady Margaery... she has been wed to King Joffrey."
For a moment, Napoleon said nothing.
His expression did not change.
Only his pale blue eyes seemed to sharpen — flickering with some private calculation, some silent game played across the chessboard of his mind.
So...
The Tyrells had bent the knee to the Lannisters.
They had traded their pride for power.
He had expected no less.
When Napoleon finally spoke, his voice was as cold and certain as iron striking stone.
"The roses have turned to thorns."
He glanced at General Pierre.
"Take their names. Disarm the garrison. They will march under French banners from now on."
Pierre saluted sharply.
Napoleon's gaze shifted back to Fossoway, pinning the old knight beneath his pale stare.
"You chose wisely, Ser Jon."
The knight's mouth twitched — half gratitude, half loathing.
Napoleon leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
"But make no mistake... I would have burned your gardens to the roots."
As the knights were led away, Napoleon turned back toward his officers.
His cold eyes swept across the green fields and golden towers of Highgarden — the beating heart of the Reach, laid bare before him.
The sun was setting.
By morning, the banner of France would fly from its walls.
Napoleon's hands folded behind his back once more.
He felt nothing.
No triumph.
No satisfaction.
Only the endless march forward.
Another kingdom. Another conquest. Another name carved beneath his own.
Yet somewhere, deep beneath the marble shell of his heart, a flicker of memory stirred.
Malmaison.
Roses blooming beneath summer skies.
Josephine's laughter drifting through the gardens.
He crushed the thought beneath his heel.
Josephine was gone.
The Emperor remained.
Without another word, Napoleon turned his horse toward the gates of Highgarden — leading his army forward beneath the setting sun.
The people of the Reach watched in silence as the conqueror rode through their gardens.
And in the golden evening light, as the first tricolors were raised above the castle walls —
the roses began to fall.