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NAPOLEON
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The morning sun cast long shadows over the sprawling gardens of Highgarden, its golden light warming the marble terraces and the ivy-clad towers. The scent of blooming roses still lingered in the air, but the castle was no longer a place of idle beauty. The Reach had changed—his Reach.
Napoleon stood on the balcony of the High Tower, overlooking the bustling courtyard below. Columns of young recruits marched in tight formations, muskets shouldered, blue coats buttoned to the neck. Their faces were fresh—some barely old enough to shave—but their eyes held something the Reach had not seen in generations.
Purpose.
They were the Highgarden Corps—his second professional corps from the conquered lands. Alongside them, the Oldtown Corps drilled under the sharp eyes of French sergeants, muskets snapping into position with the cold precision of men learning to fight in a new way.
Napoleon watched them in silence, hands clasped behind his back. He could hear the cadence of the drills—the steady bark of orders in French, echoed by Reachmen in halting accents. These were not the proud knights of Westeros—no gilded plate or fluttering banners. These were soldiers of the Republic now—men born to the plow and the vineyard, marching to the rhythm of a new age.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"Sire."
Marshal Duhesme's voice was gruff, the strain of the campaign weighing heavy on his shoulders. The man had fought well at Horn Hill, but the price had been high.
Napoleon did not turn.
"The Reach will rise against us if we leave it untended. The old lords still linger in their manors, waiting for their chance."
Duhesme nodded. "What would you have me do, sire?"
Napoleon's eyes remained fixed on the recruits below.
"You will remain here. As military governor of the Reach."
Duhesme stiffened slightly but said nothing. The weight of the task was clear.
"I am leaving for Riverrun," Napoleon continued. "The North watches us now. Robb Stark is no simple boy king—he is a man who listens. Perhaps the only man in this country who sees what is broken." His gaze flicked toward the horizon. "If I can speak with him... perhaps there is another future to be written."
Duhesme shifted his stance. "And if he refuses, sire?"
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
"Then he will kneel with the rest."
He turned at last, his piercing blue gaze settling on Duhesme.
"You will rule with a steady hand. The old lords will obey, or they will be removed. The law is our sword now—not the musket alone." His voice was low, firm. "The Napoleonic Code will govern this land. Trial by combat—gone. The right of lords to steal from their peasants—gone. Every man will have the right to own land. The church will not dictate the courts. Do you understand?"
Duhesme's brow furrowed. The weight of it was heavier than any battlefield command.
"I understand, sire."
Napoleon's eyes hardened. "Good. The Maester of Highgarden has sworn himself to our cause. He will oversee the civil courts, under your authority. Let him think he holds power—the people will see who truly governs."
A breeze stirred through the balcony, carrying with it the faint scent of crushed roses.
Napoleon's gaze swept across the castle one final time.
"We are not conquerors, Duhesme. We are builders. But only the strong can build."
By midday, the orders were written—sealed in tricolor wax and dispatched across the Reach.
The garrisons of Oldtown, Highgarden, and the Arbor would remain under French command. The new councils—half maesters, half commoners—would oversee the reforms. Serjeants of the Highgarden Corps were given authority to settle disputes, enforce taxes, and protect the harvest.
The old knights grumbled behind closed doors, but the smallfolk... the smallfolk watched.
In the gardens of Highgarden, women whispered of laws that would grant them inheritance. In the markets of Oldtown, bakers and masons spoke of wages fixed by decree—not by the whims of lordly masters. Even the maesters bent their heads lower in council, forced to share their rule with cobblers and farmers.
The old world was dying in the Reach.
And it was his hands that strangled it.
On the third day, Napoleon stood before the assembled troops in the courtyard.
The Highgarden Corps lined in neat ranks—green cloaks over blue coats, muskets resting at their shoulders. The fleur-de-lis stitched alongside the golden rose.
Napoleon's black bicorne cast a shadow over his eyes as he paced before them.
"You were born in a land of lords," he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Born to bow, to kneel—to serve men who claim their blood is worth more than yours."
He stopped, eyes flicking along the line.
"But no man is born to rule. No man is born to obey."
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
"You march beneath a new standard now. You fight not for lords, but for laws. Not for family names, but for your own names. The day will come when the Reach will call you traitors. But history... will call you citizens."
The silence hung heavy in the courtyard.
Then—one voice.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
It was a Reachman voice.
Another followed.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
The chant spread like wildfire.
Napoleon's heart quickened.
These were not his countrymen.
But they would be his army.
The next morning, the columns marched north—four thousand French veterans with their tricolor banners snapping in the wind, and five hundred Reachmen recruits marching in perfect step beside them.
Napoleon rode at the head, his coat heavy on his shoulders, his sword hanging at his hip.
Highgarden dwindled behind them, its towers gleaming in the morning light.
He had left Duhesme with the Reach—but the Reach was not conquered.
Not yet.
The old lords still plotted in their halls. The Tyrells clung to their power in King's Landing. But he had planted something deeper than fear in this land.
An idea.
He would meet Robb Stark as an emperor—not a king.
For kings ruled men.
But emperors built nations.
The journey north stretched beneath gray skies, the winds colder with each passing mile. The columns of French soldiers wound along the narrow dirt roads like a steel river, their blue coats darkened by dust, muskets slung across their shoulders. The Reach was far behind now—the warm lands of wine and roses—and ahead lay the North, a colder, grimmer country.
Napoleon rode at the head of the column, his black bicorne tilted low, casting a shadow over his eyes. His cloak billowed behind him, fastened by a golden eagle clasp. The road was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the steady tramp of boots on hard-packed earth.
He was deep in thought—calculating.
Horn Hill had cost him more men than he would have liked. Nearly a thousand Frenchmen buried beneath the soil of the Reach. The Highgarden Corps marched now among his veterans—raw recruits, but eager. If the North welcomed him, they would be the first seeds of something greater. If the North refused... well, he would need more than diplomacy.
The column rounded a bend in the road.
Then, movement.
Figures emerged from the treeline ahead—riders clad in cloaks of grey and brown. They wore no shining armor, but their chainmail was well-worn, their swords resting easy at their hips. The direwolf of House Stark flapped on their banners.
Napoleon raised a hand, signaling his men to halt.
The French infantry snapped to attention, muskets lifted, bayonets fixed.
The riders fanned out, blocking the road. There were eight of them—Northmen, by the hard lines in their faces, the way their hands never strayed far from their hilts.
One of them—a grizzled man with a scar across his cheek—spurred his horse forward.
"You march far from home, strangers," the Northman called, his voice rough.
Napoleon's fingers tightened on his reins. He rode a few paces forward, his gaze locked on the man.
"I am Napoleon Bonaparte."
He spoke the name simply, as if it needed no explanation.
For a moment, there was only silence.
The Northmen glanced at one another—uncertain, wary.
Napoleon's blue eyes burned beneath the shadow of his hat.
"You've heard of me."
Scar Cheek's lips parted slightly—he had, they all had. Rumors of the conquest in the south had traveled faster than the ravens. The Arbor. Oldtown. Horn Hill. They had heard the name Napoleon whispered by firesides like a ghost from across the Narrow Sea.
Scar Cheek's fingers twitched on his reins.
"We heard you were marching on King's Landing... not riding into the North."
Napoleon's lips curved faintly.
"I march where I am needed."
Another pause.
Finally, Scar Cheek's eyes narrowed.
"You seek the Young Wolf."
"I do."
The Northmen shifted in their saddles, uneasy.
Napoleon could see it in their eyes—the flicker of doubt, the uncertainty. They did not know whether he came as a friend or a conqueror. The Reach had not been given the choice.
A younger Northman rode forward—a lad no older than twenty.
"If you're him..." The lad's brow furrowed. "Where's your crown?"
A faint smile touched Napoleon's lips.
"I wear no crown."
The Northmen muttered among themselves, shifting.
Scar Cheek's eyes flicked to the column behind him—the rows of disciplined soldiers, the polished muskets, the tricolor banners. This was no band of mercenaries.
"We'll take you to the Twins," he said at last, voice tight. "Lord Stark will want to see you... if you're really who you say you are."
Napoleon gave a slight nod.
"Lead on."
The road stretched long beneath the North's gray sky. The French column marched in silence, flanked now by the Northmen riders. The sharp chill of the riverlands crept into their bones.
By nightfall, the crossroads appeared—a weathered old inn squatting at the fork of the Green Fork and the Kingsroad.
The Crossroads Inn.
Napoleon's gaze swept the inn as they approached—the sagging roof, the smoke curling from the chimney. A place that had seen its share of soldiers over the years.
Scar Cheek dismounted, beckoning Napoleon forward.
"We'll rest here for the night."
Napoleon signaled for the column to halt. The French soldiers broke ranks, moving with drilled efficiency to set up camp along the roadside. Campfires flickered to life in the gathering dusk.
Inside the inn, the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted meat and stale ale. The few patrons inside fell into hushed silence as the Northmen led Napoleon in. Every eye turned to him—the smallfolk watching from behind tankards and bowls of stew.
He could feel their stares, their whispers—Frenchman... conqueror... butcher.
Napoleon crossed the threshold with the measured grace of a man long accustomed to commanding rooms. His gloved hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping the inn like a general surveying a battlefield.
He approached the hearth and stood before the flames.
One by one, the whispers faded into silence.
Napoleon's shadow flickered long against the stone walls.
A serving girl passed with a jug of ale, eyes wide.
"Is it true?" she whispered. "You're him... the emperor?"
Napoleon's gaze flicked toward her.
"I am what they call me."
Her eyes darted down, cheeks flushing.
The Northmen watched him from their table. They were trying to puzzle him out—this foreign conqueror who spoke softly and carried revolutions on his back.
One of them leaned forward, voice low.
"They say you give lands to peasants in the south. That you've made laws... for women."
Napoleon's brow arched slightly.
"I have made laws for men—whatever their station."
A quiet murmur passed through the inn.
Scar Cheek's eyes narrowed across the table.
"And what would a soldier know of laws?"
Napoleon's gaze settled on him.
"I know that laws can change the world," he said softly. "Steel wins battles. Laws win nations."
The fire crackled.
For a moment, no one spoke.
In that small, dim inn, among the rough men of the North, the weight of those words settled like a stone.
Napoleon could feel it—the crack in their doubt.
He turned back to the fire, letting the silence speak for him.
By dawn, the column was moving again—escorted now by the Northmen riders.
Napoleon rode at the head, the cold wind biting at his face.
They would reach the Twins by nightfall.
And then... Riverrun.
The Young Wolf awaited.
Napoleon's mind already worked at the puzzle of the North—how to speak to Robb Stark, how to bend him without breaking him.
He had conquered cities.
Now he would conquer hearts.
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The pale light of dawn spilled through the cracks in the Crossroads Inn's shutters, casting long streaks of gold across the rough wooden floor. The smell of damp earth lingered in the air. Outside, the French column stirred, preparing for the long march ahead. Horses snorted in the cold, their breath steaming in the early light. The Northmen escort made ready as well, sharpening swords and checking saddles.
Napoleon sat at the worn table near the hearth, breaking his fast with hard bread, cheese, and a cup of watered wine. He ate slowly, his blue eyes flicking toward the common room as the smallfolk began to stir.
The inn was quieter in the morning—no whispers, only the crackling fire and the soft clatter of bowls. Yet there was something in the air... something tense.
Napoleon felt it before he saw them.
A group entered through the front door—a large man looming like a shadow, his face half-hidden beneath a dented steel helm. The stink of sweat and blood followed him in. Behind him trailed three others—a man in greasy leather, a girl in boy's rags, and a thin lad with a frightened look.
The Mountain.
Gregor Clegane.
Napoleon's fingers stilled on his cup.
He had heard of this one—the butcher of the Riverlands. His name had carried even across the Narrow Sea, wrapped in whispers of slaughter.
The Mountain loomed at the bar, ordering bread and ale in a voice like grinding stone. His small band kept close, casting glances at the room.
The girl moved like a shadow—small, dirty, her face hidden beneath her hood. Yet her eyes flicked quick, sharp, scanning the room like a wolf pup sniffing for danger.
Napoleon's gaze settled on her for only a breath—but he noticed.
He always noticed.
His eyes flicked back to the Mountain, assessing. The man was a beast—a brute. No discipline. No mind for tactics. A sword to be pointed, nothing more.
Napoleon leaned back, breaking another piece of bread.
Gregor Clegane turned, his dark eyes sweeping the room. They lingered on the French uniforms. Suspicion flickered across his scarred face.
One of the Northmen escorts leaned closer to Napoleon.
"That's Clegane... Lannister dog."
Napoleon didn't answer.
He knew the type—men who killed because they liked it. There were many like him in the old armies of Europe. Men who thought brute strength was power.
They were always the easiest to break.
The girl in the hood slid into a corner near the fire. Her eyes darted to the bread on Napoleon's plate. Hunger flickered there, quick as a spark.
Napoleon noticed that too.
Without a word, he tore off a chunk of bread and set it lightly on the edge of the table.
The girl's eyes flicked to it, then to him.
A heartbeat passed.
Then she snatched the bread and turned away, quick as a cat.
Napoleon allowed himself the faintest smile.
The Mountain's gruff voice rumbled through the room.
"Who are they?"
One of the Northmen rose stiffly. "Travelers."
Gregor's black eyes narrowed. His gaze fixed on Napoleon's uniform—the fine blue coat, the gold epaulettes, the cocked hat resting on the table beside him.
"Travelers," he repeated, voice heavy with suspicion.
Napoleon's eyes lifted, cold and steady.
"Is there a problem, messieur?"
The Mountain's lip curled beneath his helm at the foreign tongue.
Napoleon's voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.
"If not, finish your breakfast."
Gregor's hand twitched near his sword.
For a long moment, the air hung heavy.
The thin boy with him—Lommy, the Northmen had called him—looked between them, his face pale.
Napoleon remained perfectly still.
He had faced down the eyes of kings and emperors before. He would not be intimidated by a dog.
Finally, the Mountain snorted and turned back to the bar.
The tension slowly unwound.
Napoleon's eyes flicked once more to the girl.
She was watching him now.
There was something... hard in her stare—far older than her years.
For a moment, he wondered if she would speak. But then she slipped back into the shadows, as if she had never been there.
By midday, the French column was ready to depart. The horses stood saddled, the wagons creaked, and the men tightened their packs.
Napoleon emerged from the inn, fastening his cloak against the cold wind. His officers awaited him, horses already mounted.
Before he climbed into the saddle, he glanced back.
The girl was watching from the doorway, half-hidden behind a pillar.
Napoleon's eyes lingered on her.
There was something in her—something he had seen before.
Hunger. Wrath. Purpose.
He had seen those eyes in Corsica... in the streets of Paris... in every revolution that ever burned across the world.
He did not know her name.
But he knew she would be dangerous.
He gave her the smallest nod—a gesture only she would notice.
She blinked.
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Napoleon stood by his horse as the column stirred, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and rustle of uniforms filling the morning air. His sharp blue eyes flicked toward the girl lingering by the doorway of the Crossroads Inn — small, cloaked, yet watching everything with a cold intensity that did not belong to a child.
Eyes like that could burn a city... or build an empire.
He had seen such eyes before — in the starving boys who followed him through the ruins of Toulon, in the ragged conscripts who bled for him in Italy. Hunger. Fire. Purpose.
His gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer.
"Bring the girl," Napoleon said quietly.
Lefebvre, mounted beside him, blinked as if he had misheard.
"Sire?"
Napoleon's voice did not rise, but there was steel beneath it.
"The girl in the hood. Bring her along."
Lefebvre glanced at the girl — all dirt and bones — then back at his general.
"She's just a beggar, Sire. A filthy little—"
Napoleon's eyes cut to him, sharp as a drawn saber.
"No child with eyes like that is ever just a beggar."
Lefebvre stiffened, then dismounted with a curt nod. Two Chasseurs followed.
Napoleon watched them approach the girl, but his mind was already turning. He did not know what had driven this girl to the road — war, hunger, loss. Perhaps all three. But he had always believed there were two kinds of souls in the world — those shaped by suffering... and those sharpened by it.
He would see which one she was.
Arya saw the soldiers coming long before they reached her. Small fingers twitched beneath her cloak, wrapping around the worn hilt of Needle.
She did not run.
Good.
Napoleon's mouth curved — faint, approving.
The captain spoke first, fumbling through broken Westerosi. "The General wishes to speak with you."
"I don't want to talk to your bloody general," the girl snapped.
No fear in her voice — only defiance.
Napoleon nudged his horse forward, his gloved hands resting lightly behind his back.
"You do not know who I am," he said, his Common Tongue soft but precise.
"I don't care who you are."
Napoleon's smile flickered — a thin blade glinting beneath the surface.
"Perhaps you should."
Her gray eyes flicked toward him at last, uncertain.
He watched her — the way she stood, how her hand never left her sword. Not a wolf yet... but something close. A pup with too many names rattling in her head.
"You move like a wolf," Napoleon murmured. "But I see the fear behind your teeth."
Her small jaw clenched. The blade beneath her cloak shifted — half a heartbeat from drawing.
"You don't trust men in uniforms," Napoleon continued, his voice lowering. "You don't trust anyone."
Her fingers tightened on the hilt.
"You are right not to trust," he said. "This world has been cruel to you. It will be cruel again."
The words hung between them.
He saw the flicker in her eyes — that flinch only the broken carried.
He had her now.
"But I have seen what happens to wolves who wander alone."
Arya's breath caught, just for a second.
Napoleon stepped closer — slow, deliberate.
"You want vengeance," he said quietly.
The girl's fingers twitched.
"You want justice," he pressed. "You have names you whisper to yourself at night... names of men who need killing."
Her eyes snapped to him then — wide, startled.
He smiled — small, knowing.
"I know because I once carried names of my own," he said. "Men who tried to bury me in the dirt. But I did not kill them with hatred."
He leaned down slightly, his voice a blade wrapped in silk.
"I killed them with discipline. With purpose."
The banner of France snapped behind him — the golden eagle glinting in the pale morning light.
"I can teach you," Napoleon whispered. "I can show you how to make your vengeance... a blade sharper than any sword."
Arya's throat bobbed.
Her heart told her to run.
Her mind — that cold, clever mind — was listening.
Napoleon straightened.
"Come with me," he said simply. "Or stay here... and be a stray forever."
Silence stretched between them.
For a long moment, the girl did not move.
Then—
"I'll go if they go too." She flicked her head toward the two boys by the stables — a smith's apprentice and a fat baker's boy.
Napoleon's gaze flicked toward them, then back to her.
Loyalty.
He respected that.
He admired it.
"So be it," he said.
The Mountain had been watching from the shadows — a beast in rusted armor.
Napoleon barely spared him a glance.
Gregor Clegane had killed hundreds of men — butchered them, broken them — but he had never seen a pistol fired in anger.
When the shot cracked through the morning air, his hand froze on his sword.
The French column did not flinch.
Napoleon's gaze settled on him — cold, dispassionate.
Men like him ruled by fear.
But fear only works on those who have not yet seen death.
"Your choice, messieur," Napoleon said softly.
For a long moment, the Mountain stood motionless, breath rasping beneath his helm.
Then — slowly — his sword belt dropped into the mud.
By the time they departed, the company had grown.
Gregor Clegane rode in shackles at the rear.
The smith's apprentice and the baker's boy huddled in the wagon.
And Arya rode beside Napoleon on a small pony, silent and watchful — her sharp eyes flicking toward him when she thought he wasn't looking.
Napoleon said nothing.
He knew better than to cage a wolf.
He would let her watch.
Let her wonder.
Let her hunger.
By the time they reached the Twins, she would either run... or she would understand what she could become.
His eyes flicked toward her once more.
For the briefest moment, Arya met his gaze — a flicker of something uncertain, something still burning beneath the dirt.
Napoleon gave the faintest nod.
Arya looked away quickly.
But he had seen it.
He knew the look.
He had seen it in Corsica. In Paris. In Italy.
He had seen it in his own reflection.
La victoire est à nous.
The convoy wound its way along the dusty road, the clatter of hooves and creak of wagons filling the still morning air. The Crossroads Inn had long faded behind them, swallowed by the rolling hills and thinning trees. The Riverlands stretched out ahead — gray, wet, and broken by war.
Napoleon rode at the head of the column, his gray stallion stepping lightly along the dirt path. His eyes flicked from the road to the horizon, always calculating — always moving three steps ahead.
Beside him, on a small brown pony, Arya rode in silence.
She had not spoken since they left the inn.
Not to the Frenchmen.
Not to the boys.
Not even to the Hound, who sat shackled and sullen at the rear.
But Napoleon could feel her eyes on him — flicking toward him in quick, sharp glances when she thought he wasn't looking.
Watching.
Measuring.
He let the silence stretch between them — long and heavy — until the road curved along the edge of a shallow stream.
Only then did he speak.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?"
Arya's head snapped toward him — startled.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then—
"Arry."
A lie.
Napoleon's mouth curved faintly.
"You are not a good liar," he said softly.
Her small fingers curled tighter around the reins. "I'm not a liar."
"You are many things," he murmured. "But not that."
Arya's gray eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"
Napoleon glanced at her sidelong.
Because names are power.
Because names shape the world.
But he did not say that.
Instead, he shrugged lightly.
"Because a wolf without a name is only a stray."
Arya's lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
Her eyes flicked away — to the muddy road, to the column of blue-coated soldiers winding ahead.
For a long moment, Napoleon thought she would stay silent.
But then — so soft he almost missed it — she whispered:
"Arya."
He inclined his head slightly.
"A beautiful name."
She snorted — a small, bitter sound.
"No, it isn't."
Napoleon's smile flickered.
"Names are what we make of them." His voice was low, thoughtful. "I was born Napoleone Buonaparte — a name no one in France would have remembered. I made them remember it."
Arya's eyes flicked toward him again, uncertain.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Napoleon's gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead.
"North. To the Twins."
"Why?"
"A wolf awaits me there."
Arya's brow furrowed.
"The Young Wolf?"
Napoleon glanced at her, mildly surprised.
"You know of him?"
Arya's small chin lifted.
"He's my brother."
Napoleon's sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly.
A wolf, indeed.
He had suspected there was more to this girl — the way she carried herself, the way she spoke. But this...
Now he saw the Stark in her — the same iron beneath the dirt.
"You are full of secrets, Arya Stark."
She stiffened at the name — as if it had been ripped from some hidden, locked place.
"I didn't say I was—"
Napoleon cut her off with a small, knowing smile.
"No child with eyes like yours is ever just a beggar."
Arya's mouth snapped shut.
For a moment, she looked as if she might spit at him — or bolt — but then her sharp little face hardened.
She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.
Napoleon let the silence hang between them again.
Let her fume. Let her watch. Let her hunger.
He had seen it before — that spark flickering behind the eyes of the young and broken.
It was the same spark that had burned in him once.
Most flames flickered out.
Some... caught fire.
"I asked where we're going," Arya muttered at last.
Napoleon's smile was faint.
"We are going to meet your brother."
"Why?"
Napoleon's gaze stayed on the road.
"Because every wolf needs a teacher"
Arya's brow furrowed, uncertain.
"And what are you going to teach him?"
Napoleon's eyes flicked toward her — cold, sharp, endless.
"How to win… If it will turn out that everything is well"
They rode on in silence.
The wind stirred through the bare trees.
Arya glanced at him once — just once — before looking away.
But Napoleon saw it.
He knew the look.
He had worn it once himself — long ago, on the roads of Corsica.
A hungry little wolf, sniffing at the edge of something greater.
She would not trust him yet.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But wolves always followed the scent of power.
He would let her watch.
Let her wonder.
Let her burn.
By the time they reached the Twins...
He would take her trust.
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The road to the Twins stretched out before Arya Stark, each mile bringing her closer to family she hadn't seen in what felt like lifetimes. She rode in silence beside Napoleon, the foreign general who had plucked her from the Crossroads Inn. Her thoughts churned with memories and questions.
She recalled the terror of being captured by Lannister forces, the cold walls of Harrenhal closing in around her. The screams of the tortured still echoed in her mind. But amidst that darkness, there had been a sliver of hope: Jaqen H'ghar, the enigmatic prisoner she had saved, who had repaid her by granting three deaths. With his help, she had orchestrated a daring escape, freeing northern prisoners and sowing chaos within the fortress.
Now, she found herself under the protection—or perhaps the control—of another enigmatic figure. Napoleon's sharp blue eyes missed nothing, and his presence commanded respect and fear in equal measure. He had spoken to her as an equal, recognizing the fire within her that others had overlooked or dismissed.
But trust did not come easily to Arya Stark. Too many times had she been betrayed or used. What did this foreign general want with her? He spoke of teaching her, of harnessing her desire for vengeance into something more potent. But to what end?
As they neared the Twins, the massive twin castles looming on either side of the river, Arya's heart quickened. Would her brother Robb recognize her after all this time? Would he see the changes in her—the hardness that had settled in her bones?
The column halted, and Arya's eyes scanned the gathering ahead. There stood Robb Stark, taller and more regal than she remembered, his presence commanding yet warm. Beside him were members of House Frey, their expressions ranging from indifferent to openly disdainful.
Arya dismounted, her legs unsteady not from the ride but from the rush of emotions. She felt Napoleon's gaze on her but couldn't meet it. Instead, she focused on her brother, the anchor in the storm of her life.
"Robb," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmurs of the gathered crowd.
Robb's eyes found hers, a flicker of confusion crossing his features before dawning recognition broke through. "Arya?"
In that moment, the weight of her journey, the losses and the pain, all seemed to converge. But standing before her brother, she felt a glimmer of the girl she once was—a girl who had been lost but was now, perhaps, found.