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Meargery Tyrell
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The laughter that floated through the marble corridors of the Red Keep was too sweet to be real — the kind of laughter that tasted of honey and venom, that felt like daggers slipped between ribs beneath layers of silk.
Margaery Tyrell knew the sound well. It followed her like a perfume she hadn't chosen to wear.
Her slippers made no noise on the polished stone, her emerald gown trailing behind her in whispers of silk. The scent of roses — her signature — hung in the air like a challenge, defiant and intoxicating. Heads bowed as she passed, but the murmurs always bloomed in her wake like weeds.
Napoleon's whore.
A Tyrell snake, coiled around his bed and his throne.
Will the Emperor crown her… or cast her aside, like so many others?
They didn't dare speak it to her face, of course. Not yet.
She smiled — always smiled — the kind of smile that could draw blood without showing teeth. Serene. Radiant. Untouchable. That was her armor. Let them gossip. Let them hiss in corners. Never show the wound. Never let them smell blood.
But later, alone, beneath the weight of silken banners and the heady aroma of rose oil and candle smoke, she stood before her mirror, her reflection ghostly in the moonlight. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her skirt, nails biting deep, drawing half-moons of red into pale skin.
Whore?
No.
I am a queen without a crown.
And queens are not cast aside.
They watched her now — the lords and ladies of Napoleon's court — with curiosity sharpened by suspicion.
Tyrion Lannister's gaze had changed. Where once he had smiled easily at her jests, now he watched her with the cold patience of a man counting steps on a game board. He had not spoken ill of her, not yet — but his silence was a blade all its own.
Even General Duhesme's greetings were shorter, his deference more stiff. The court was shifting — she could feel it like a storm pressing against stained glass.
Her power did not come from armies or dragons — it came from proximity to the Emperor's ear, from intimacy, from being the woman he sought in the quiet hours, when the weight of crowns and conquest became too much.
But now, with Daenerys's arrival, the air had grown colder. Thicker. The court's allegiance waited to see who would win his heart.
The Inner Garden Court glowed in the late afternoon sun, the light painting the stone paths in hues of gold. Vines climbed marble trellises, and the scent of lemon blossoms and warm earth filled the air.
Margaery moved through it like a swan among hens, dressed in Tyrell green and gold, a veil of gauzy silk fluttering at her shoulders. Her steps were measured, graceful, the gentle rustle of her skirts timed to the rhythm of the wind.
Around her, noblewomen and young lords gathered, sipping chilled Arbor wine, laughing at her wit, their faces turned toward her like flowers seeking the sun.
She asked after their families, their lands — her voice music, her touch light upon arms and hearts. Every moment was a calculation. Every laugh earned, every glance steered.
Secure loyalty. Shape the court's heart around you. Smother Daenerys in charm before she breathes fire.
As she passed a group of ladies near the fountain, their conversation faltered. One — Lady Aelira Rowan — glanced up too slowly, her gaze lingering, her lips parted in a mixture of fear and disdain.
Margaery's smile was like silk drawn tight over steel.
"Lady Aelira," she murmured, tone honey-sweet, "it seems you've misplaced your manners. Staring, I'm told, is impolite."
The girl paled. "I… forgive me, Lady Margaery. I meant no—"
Margaery's eyes softened, but her voice turned cool as ice. "Of course. It's easy to forget oneself… in the presence of greatness."
She left them in a rustle of silk and the scent of roses, her words blooming behind her like thorns. They would remember.
They always did.
That night, moonlight poured through tall windows, casting silver lattices on her bedchamber's floor. Margaery sat before her mirror, brushing her hair in slow, deliberate strokes, each movement a ritual of control.
Daenerys had left the Red Keep — for now. But she would return, and with her, dragons and danger.
The court admired her. Feared her. And Napoleon?
He was impressed. I saw it in his eyes.
Her pulse quickened — not with desire, but with resolve. If he married the dragon queen, everything would change. She would become a footnote, a faded mistress, lost to history's margins.
No. She needed more than desire. She needed devotion.
She rose, letting her gown fall to the floor in a pool of green silk. She chose instead a robe of golden myrrh-hued silk, clinging to her like liquid fire. She lit the candles herself — rose oil, smoke, myrrh, and a trace of amber — the scent a promise and a weapon.
Tonight, I will not be his comfort. I will be his equal. His obsession. Let Daenerys have her dragons. I will take his heart, his mind… and through them, his Empire.
As she stepped into the hall, the candles flickering behind her, the stone cool beneath her bare feet, her heart was steady. Her smile, practiced to perfection.
Let them call me whore, she thought, eyes gleaming like cut emeralds. Tomorrow, they will call me Empress.
And through the quiet shadows of the Red Keep, the rose moved — poised, lethal — ready to pierce the heart of power.
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The corridors were silent, save for the faint flicker of torches and the soft echo of her bare feet on stone, each step deliberate, each breath measured. Her robe clung to her like mist, gold silk shifting over her skin with every movement, the scent of rose, myrrh, and amber curling in her wake.
At the end of the hall, two Imperial Guards stood before the Emperor's door, their expressions unreadable, trained in stone-faced discipline.
Margaery did not flinch.
"You will let me pass," she said, her voice smooth as honey, edged with steel.
A pause. One of the guards hesitated, eyes flicking down to the robe, then quickly away.
The door opened.
The air inside was warm, smoky with candlelight, the smell of parchment, musk, and steel thick but not unpleasant. Maps sprawled across the long oak desk, marked with ink and small weights, pieces of a world being reshaped.
Napoleon stood by the hearth, dressed in his night uniform, the coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled back to reveal strong forearms streaked with ink and wear. His gloved hand held a glass of dark wine, the other rested on a letter — the seal broken.
He turned as she entered, and his eyes narrowed — not with surprise, but with curiosity.
"Margaery," he said, voice low. "It's late."
She stepped forward slowly, letting the firelight dance along the silk of her robe, her gaze meeting his with unwavering poise.
"Then I've caught you at your most honest," she murmured.
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn't need to.
The room pulsed with tension.
She crossed the room, trailing fingers along the edge of the map-strewn table. Her voice, when it came again, was soft.
"They speak of me in court," she said, almost idly. "They call me your whore."
His jaw tightened. "Do they."
"They wonder if you'll cast me aside now that Daenerys Targaryen graces these halls with her dragons and her fire."
Napoleon took a sip of wine, then set the glass down. His gaze was unreadable, calculating.
"I do not concern myself with gossip."
She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of the fire at his back, close enough to see the flicker of candlelight in his eyes.
"But I do," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because I am not just a comfort to you in the dark. I am a woman who knows what power costs. I know what it takes to hold it — and to keep it."
He watched her. Silent. Still. Dangerous.
Margaery reached for his hand — the bare one, stained with ink and war — and guided it slowly to her waist.
"I do not ask for love," she said. "I ask for recognition. I've stood by you, endured whispers, watched them doubt me. I have given you loyalty, and I will give you more."
She leaned in, her lips a breath from his ear. "Let them call me whore. Tomorrow, let them call me Empress."
For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then he pulled away — not harshly, but with a general's precision.
His eyes held hers. "You would marry me for power."
She smiled faintly. "I would marry you because I understand you. Because I know what it means to build a legacy. Daenerys brings dragons. I bring the court, the nobles, the people. The ones who vote. The ones who follow."
He turned, staring into the fire, hands behind his back.
"You believe you've earned this."
"I know I have."
The silence between them stretched — a thread taut with possibility. Then he spoke, voice calm, deliberate.
"Not yet."
He turned to her, stepping closer, his gaze cold fire. "Prove you are more than their whispers. Show me you can stand in fire without being consumed."
As Margaery stepped back, the air between them crackled with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires. She could feel the weight of his gaze, a mixture of challenge and intrigue.
"Prove you are more than their whispers," he had said, and she felt the challenge settle in her bones."Show me you can stand in fire without being consumed".
Margaery took a breath, her heart racing not with fear, but with fierce determination. She stepped forward again, closing the distance, her robe slipping slightly from her shoulder, revealing a hint of skin."Then let me show you," she whispered, her voice low and sultry, as she reached for him once more.
This time, her fingers lingered on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric.Napoleon's breath hitched, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. The flickering candlelight cast shadows that danced across their faces, illuminating the tension that hung thick in the air.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl, a mixture of desire and caution.
Margaery smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips. "I want to show you that I am more than a pawn in your game. I want to be your queen". With that, she leaned in, capturing his lips with hers.
The kiss was electric, igniting a fire that had been simmering beneath the surface. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, as if he could absorb her essence, her ambition, her very being. The kiss deepened, a clash of wills and desires, as they explored the boundaries of their connection. Margaery's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still, while his hands roamed her back, tracing the delicate curve of her spine.
"Show me," he murmured against her lips, his breath warm and inviting.
Margaery stepped back, her eyes locked onto his, a challenge in her gaze. She turned, leading him toward the desk strewn with maps and letters, the symbols of his power. She leaned over the table, the silk of her robe cascading down her back, exposing the smooth curve of her skin. "Here," she said, her voice a sultry whisper. "Let me show you what I can offer".
Napoleon stepped closer, his hands finding her hips, his fingers brushing against her skin, igniting a trail of fire wherever he touched.
She arched her back, pressing against him, feeling the heat radiate from his body. "Do you see me now?" she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder, her voice thick with desire. "I am not just a comfort in the dark. I am the flame that can light your path".
He responded by pulling her closer, his body pressing against hers, the weight of his desire palpable. "Then let us see if you can withstand the flames," he replied, his voice low and commanding.
With a swift motion, he turned her to face him, their lips crashing together once more. The kiss was fierce, filled with the urgency of their ambitions and the heat of their bodies. Margaery's hands roamed over his chest, feeling the strength beneath the fabric, while his hands explored the curves of her body, tracing the outline of her waist and hips.
As they stumbled back toward the desk, Margaery felt the cool wood against her back, contrasting with the heat of his body. She gasped as he lifted her, setting her atop the table, the maps and letters scattering beneath them."Show me," he urged, his voice a low growl, as he pressed against her, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.
Margaery wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, their bodies moving in a rhythm that echoed the dance of power they both sought. She could feel the tension building, a storm of desire and ambition swirling between them.
"Together," she breathed, her voice thick with passion. "We can conquer everything".
Napoleon's eyes darkened with desire, and he captured her lips again, their kisses growing more urgent, more demanding. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them, entwined in a dance of power and passion.
As they moved together, the fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced around them, a testament to the heat of their connection. In that moment, they were not just a general and a courtesan; they were two forces colliding, each seeking to dominate the other, yet finding a strange harmony in their shared ambition. With every kiss, every touch, they forged a bond that transcended the whispers of the court. Margaery knew that this was not just a moment of passion; it was a declaration of intent, a promise of what was to come.
As they finally broke apart, breathless and entwined, Margaery looked into his eyes, searching for the resolve she had seen before. "Let them call me whore," she murmured against his lips. "I will show you what it means to wield power".
Napoleon's gaze softened, a flicker of admiration breaking through his steely exterior. "Then let us see if you can withstand the flames."
Margaery's heart thudded — not in fear, but in resolve.
She bowed slightly, a rose in bloom. "Then I will."
Let Daenerys have fire. Margaery would take the Empire — one breath, one smile, one blade at a time.
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NAPOLEON
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The fire had died to embers, casting the chamber in shadows and silence. The scent of roses and myrrh still clung to the air, mingling with sweat, smoke, and spent desire. The bedchamber, usually a place of rest, felt claustrophobic now, as if the walls themselves bore witness to what had just transpired.
Margaery slept lightly beside him, or perhaps only feigned it — her golden hair strewn like silk across the pillows, her breathing even. A rose in bloom, victorious.
Napoleon lay still, eyes open, gazing at the canopy above — at nothing — but his mind raced. Not with guilt. Not with regret. With calculation.
He had allowed it. That softness, that momentary surrender. The press of her lips, the heat of her skin, the way her ambition wrapped around him like the silk robe now discarded at the bed's edge.
"Let me be your Empress," she had whispered.
"Let me show you I am more than their whispers."
And he had taken her — there, atop maps and decrees, where the weight of empires was written in ink, now smudged by sweat and skin.
A lapse. A moment of indulgence.
One he would now have to justify — to himself, if no one else.
He Shifted, Sitting Upright
The sheets fell from his chest, cool air brushing over old scars, reminders of Austerlitz, Toulon, Marengo. He had been forged in war, not in pleasure. He had not come to this world to lose himself in the arms of ambitious women — but to build something eternal.
And yet…
There was something about her — the way she never begged, never wept, never cowered. She offered herself as equal, not possession.
He admired that.
But admiration was not trust. And he knew well the price of trusting those who wanted something in return.
He Poured Himself Wine
The goblet was heavy, cold in his hand. The wine tasted sharp, bitter, grounding. He drank it in silence, eyes flicking toward the open window where King's Landing slumbered beneath moonlight, unaware that its Emperor could not sleep.
Margaery Tyrell…
She understood courts, alliances, public perception. She knew how to smile at enemies, how to bleed them dry without drawing a blade.
And yet… Daenerys Targaryen brought dragons, fire, the loyalty of Essos, and the respect of the people.
Where Margaery wove intrigue, Daenerys commanded fear.
Both dangerous. Both desirable.
His Fist Closed Around the Goblet
He didn't need a queen. He needed stability. He needed the future.
"Prove to me you can stand in fire without being consumed."
He had said it to Margaery — not to wound her pride, but because it was the truth.
And now he would watch. Would she use this night as leverage, or would she cement her place with more than whispers and silk?
He rose, stepping from the bed, dressing quietly. The armor of day would return. The uniform, the epaulettes, the imperial mask.
She stirred behind him but did not speak. She knew better.
He glanced back once — not tenderly, not cruelly — simply with the weight of a man who had seen empires rise and fall… often because of moments like this.
No more indulgence.
Only action. Only order.
And as he stepped into the corridor, the scent of roses fading behind him, Napoleon Bonaparte — Emperor of Westeros — walked alone, already thinking of the next move, the next threat… and the future only he would shape.
The rhythmic stomp of boots echoed through the stone corridors of the Red Keep as Napoleon stood on the highest balcony, watching his Imperial Guard drill with mechanical precision. Officers barked clipped commands, formations shifted with ruthless efficiency—men who had once crushed the armies of Europe now moved like a well-oiled machine in this foreign land.
Yet, despite the disciplined spectacle below, Napoleon felt a whisper of unease.
Something was coming.
The northern wind carried with it the sharp bite of winter, an omen of unseen forces stirring beyond his empire's reach. He had learned to trust such instincts, and today was no different.
In the throne room below, an audience awaited him.
The great doors groaned open. Conversations stilled. Courtiers turned their heads as a trio entered the hall.
At the front strode a man clad in black furs, his armor dulled from travel, his eyes dark with the weight of burdens Napoleon recognized. A red-haired woman walked beside him, sharp-eyed and poised despite the halls of power surrounding her. And to the other side, a massive man with a wild beard, carrying himself like a warrior who had lived through hell.
Tyrion Lannister leaned forward slightly in his seat, his sharp gaze flicking over the newcomers with curiosity. Daenerys, standing at Napoleon's right, folded her arms, her violet eyes narrowing. Nearby, General Duhemse and Colonel Beaumont exchanged glances but said nothing. The court, however, murmured with a mixture of intrigue and disdain.
The man in black stopped a dozen paces from the dais, shadows from the torches casting long lines across his face. He did not bow.
"I have come to speak with the so called Emperor," he declared, his voice carrying through the hall. His gaze flicked briefly to Daenerys before settling on Napoleon. "Are you the man who commands these Army of men who quickly conquered almost all of Westeros?"
A ripple of unease spread among the assembled nobles. His tone was direct—almost challenging.
Napoleon's lips twitched in amusement. He had met many kings, many rulers. Some strutted, others postured. But this man had the stance of a soldier, not a courtier.
"I am," Napoleon answered, stepping forward. His sharp eyes swept over the stranger's frame, taking note of the wear in his armor, the exhaustion in his stance. A man who had fought, a man who had bled. "And you are?"
The man met his gaze evenly.
"Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
The murmurs in the hall turned to outright whispers.
Tyrion chuckled softly. "Ah. It's you again"
Jon's expression did not waver.
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Then why have you come?"
Jon took a breath. "Because war is coming. Not a war for crowns or thrones—but for survival itself."
The weight in his voice silenced the murmurs. Even Duhemse and Beaumont straightened, sensing something beyond mere politics.
Napoleon swirled the goblet in his hand. "Survival?"
Jon took a step forward. "The dead are coming."
A chill passed through the hall. Some scoffed, others exchanged wary glances. But among them, there were a few—Daenerys, Tyrion, and the battle-hardened French officers—who did not dismiss him outright.
Napoleon's expression remained unreadable. "You came all this way to tell me ghost stories?"
Jon's voice was firm. "They are not stories. Beyond the Wall, there is an army that does not tire, does not feel, does not stop. They march for all of us, no matter what banners we fly."
The hall remained still.
Tyrion took that moment to step forward, brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. "Before you dismiss this as madness, allow me to share a tale of my own."
Napoleon glanced at him, intrigued.
Tyrion smirked. "You see, I had the rare pleasure of traveling beyond the Wall. I had been given the delightful choice between rotting in a dungeon or seeing the farthest reaches of the world in the company of the Night's Watch. Naturally, I chose the latter."
He took a slow sip of his wine before continuing. "The journey was… enlightening. Cold, bleak, and filled with enough men who smelled worse than any battlefield I imagine you've marched through." He nodded toward Jon. "But they were good men. Hard men. And when we reached the Wall, I saw it for what it was—not just an old ruin, but a line between life and death."
Napoleon frowned. "You saw these creatures?"
Tyrion exhaled. "I did not. But I met men who had. Men who had seen their brothers die and rise again with blue eyes and no souls." He glanced at Jon. "And I believe them."
Jon nodded. "I have fought them myself. I lost men. Good men. We barely escaped with our lives."
Napoleon studied him. "And you expect me to send my armies into the unknown based on your word?"
Tyrion gestured at Daenerys. "You believe in dragons, do you not?"
Napoleon's eyes flicked to Daenerys, then back to Tyrion.
"The world is not as you knew it, Emperor," Tyrion continued. "You have seen things you once thought impossible. Why should this be any different?"
Napoleon was silent for a moment. His fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword.
Maester Orwyle cleared his throat. "The Night's Watch has records of such events. If the dead truly walk again, then this is no mere northern problem. It is a war against annihilation."
Napoleon's mind whirred, processing the implications. He had dismissed legends before—walking corpses, ice demons. Such things did not exist.
And yet…
Before he could speak, Colonel Beaumont muttered, "If this is true, then even the Emperor's legions would be tested."
Jon turned to him. "Your soldiers are disciplined, strong. But against the dead, discipline will not matter. They do not break, they do not retreat. They only grow."
Beaumont exchanged a look with Duhemse, both men suddenly more interested.
Napoleon's sharp blue gaze returned to Jon. "You ask much of me."
"I ask you to see," Jon said. "Come north. See the Wall. See what I have seen."
Before he could decide, Daenerys spoke again, her voice stronger now. "If these creatures are real, we cannot wait for them to come to us." She turned to Napoleon. "Let us see the truth for ourselves."
Napoleon studied her, intrigued.
"I will take Drogon beyond the Wall," Daenerys continued. "If there is truly an army of the dead, I will see them from the skies. If you wish to know the truth, come with me."
Napoleon exhaled slowly. He looked back at Jon, then to Daenerys. His lips curled into a small, sharp smile.
"I have never been one to cower behind castle walls," he said. "If there is a war coming, I would see the battlefield with my own eyes." His gaze hardened. "I will go north."
A hush fell over the court. Even Daenerys seemed momentarily surprised.
Jon Snow nodded. "Then you will see what I have seen."
Napoleon's smirk lingered, but his eyes gleamed with something else—determination.
"Good," he said. "Then let us see if death itself can stand against an Emperor."
The war had yet to begin, but the first step had been taken.
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The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across Napoleon's chamber as he methodically packed his belongings. The wooden trunk before him was already half-full—his navy-blue coat, meticulously folded; the gold-embroidered bicorne hat that had accompanied him in a hundred battles; a pair of sturdy leather gloves. His hands moved with practiced precision, but his mind was elsewhere.
He strapped his polished flintlock pistol into its holster, feeling the familiar weight of it on his hip. His saber lay on the table, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. For years, these weapons had been enough. But now… now he faced an enemy unlike any he had ever encountered.
This world was changing. Or perhaps, it had always been different, and only now was he beginning to see the full picture.
Dragons existed. He had seen Daenerys soar through the sky on the back of a living, fire-breathing beast—an impossible sight in his old world, yet now a reality. If that were true, then what else?
The so-called White Walkers. Creatures that did not tire, did not bleed, did not break. A force unlike any he had ever faced. Even the mighty Grande Armée would struggle against an enemy that knew no fear, that did not retreat.
A different war demanded a different strategy.
He needed a new weapon.
His fingers paused over the pistol. Fire. Fire had always been man's greatest tool against the unnatural. If these creatures were as they claimed, immune to steel and arrows, then fire would be his answer. If dragons could kill them, could their fire be harnessed? Could he create weapons to wield such destruction?
Napoleon smirked to himself. What an interesting challenge.
A soft rustle of fabric broke his thoughts. He turned to see Margaery Tyrell standing by the window, the soft moonlight illuminating her delicate features. She was watching him, her expression unreadable.
"You're leaving." It wasn't a question.
Napoleon sighed, fastening the buttons on his coat. "Yes."
Margaery stepped closer, trailing a finger along the edge of the table. "So soon? I thought conquering Westeros was your grand ambition."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "A throne means nothing if there is no world left to rule." He met her gaze, his sharp blue eyes serious. "If the threat in the North is real, then this war—this conquest—will not matter."
She tilted her head, studying him. "And do you truly believe it? That there are monsters beyond the Wall?"
Napoleon hesitated for only a moment. "I believe in what I can see." His voice was firm. "I saw dragons. And if I see these creatures, then I will believe them too."
Margaery smirked slightly. "Then why risk yourself? You are the Emperor. Let others go in your place."
Napoleon finished adjusting his coat, then turned fully to her. "Because no battle is won by generals who sit behind walls, giving orders from a throne. I need to understand this enemy if I am to defeat it."
She let out a quiet laugh, folding her arms. "Spoken like a true warrior." Then her smile faded slightly. "But what if this war is different? What if it is something even you cannot win?"
Napoleon stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Every war has a solution. Every enemy has a weakness. I intend to find theirs."
Margaery's eyes searched his. "And if you don't?"
He smirked, reaching for his saber and fastening it to his belt. "Then I shall make one."
Silence lingered between them.
Then, after a moment, Margaery exhaled, her lips curling into that knowing smile of hers. "You always seem so certain, Napoleon. But tell me, what happens if you fail?"
His answer was immediate. "I do not fail."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "I should have known."
Napoleon turned back to his belongings, placing a map into the trunk. He had marked out possible locations—forts, chokepoints, areas where a disciplined army could fight on favorable terrain.
His mind was already forming battle plans. If fire was the answer, he would need oil, Greek fire, something to burn these creatures down. He would need weapons beyond steel and shot. Perhaps the alchemists of this world had their uses after all.
Margaery watched him for a moment, then stepped beside him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Be careful, Emperor. Westeros has swallowed many great men. I would not wish to see you become another."
Napoleon smirked, resting his hand over hers. "I have no intention of being swallowed by anything, my dear."
Then, with one last glance at the flickering candlelight, Napoleon Bonaparte shut the trunk. The first step of his campaign against the dead had begun.
And if death itself stood in his way… then he would teach it fear.
Before Leaving
The chamber was dimly lit, the scent of candle wax mingling with the cold air drifting through the open window. Napoleon sat at his desk, his quill scratching against the parchment with swift, decisive strokes. His mind worked quickly, the words forming as naturally as battle plans.
He had no choice.
Henri Moreau had left Winterfell for love. Napoleon understood that—after all, the young Frenchman had fought, bled, and nearly died in his service. If anyone had earned the right to peace, it was him.
But war did not wait for love.
And Napoleon needed his best spy once more.
He read the letter over, then dipped his quill into ink and continued writing.
To Henri Moreau,
You once served me with loyalty and cunning. You have done more than was ever asked of you, and I have not forgotten.
But the world is changing.
I have seen dragons with my own eyes. Now, I march north to see if the dead truly rise. If what I hear is true, then all our plans—our ambitions—are meaningless if we do not act.
I require you at the Wall. I will not lie to you; this is not an order given lightly. I know you left to build a life with Lady Stark, and I will not waste your service on politics or conquest.
But this is war. The kind that will not spare Winterfell, no matter how far you try to run.
Meet me at Castle Black. The Empire calls upon you once more.
— Napoleon
Napoleon folded the parchment carefully, then sealed it with his personal sigil—a golden eagle clutching a thunderbolt. He tied the message to the raven's leg, his fingers lingering for a moment.
Henri would hate this.
He would see the letter and know, instantly, that his peace was over. But Napoleon also knew Moreau would come. If there was one thing stronger than love, it was duty—and Moreau had never been one to ignore a battlefield when his skills were needed.
He carried the burden of war, just as Napoleon did.
Napoleon stepped to the window, opening the wooden latch. The raven let out a sharp caw, then flapped its wings and soared into the night sky, vanishing into the dark.
The Emperor exhaled slowly.
One more piece moved into place.
Now, all that remained was the battle ahead.
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The wind howled through the courtyard of the Red Keep as Napoleon tightened the buckles on his greatcoat, the cold already nipping at his exposed skin. He had fought in the harsh Russian winter, but there was something different about this northern chill. It carried a whisper of something unnatural, something unseen.
A challenge unlike any other.
Before him, Daenerys stood beside Drogon, her fingers gently running along the black scales of her great beast. The other two dragons, Rhaegal and Viserion, shifted restlessly, their golden eyes watching the gathered riders with something close to amusement.
Tyrion Lannister adjusted the leather harness wrapped around his waist, muttering under his breath. "I've survived battles, assassins, even an overindulgence of wine… but this? This is where I die."
Jon Snow, standing beside Rhaegal, exhaled through his nose. "Hold on, Lannister." He tugged at the crude rope tying them to the dragon's back. "And don't let go."
Colonel Beaumont, ever the soldier, merely secured himself with a knot and gave a firm nod. "Mon Empereur, are you certain about this?" His expression was neutral, but Napoleon could sense his unease. "Surely there is a more… practical means of transport?"
Napoleon smirked, stepping toward Daenerys and Drogon. "If we are to fight a war of legends, Beaumont, we must first learn to ride them." He placed a gloved hand on Drogon's hide. The beast rumbled, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar touch.
Daenerys turned to him, her violet eyes unreadable. "You are certain you wish to ride with me?"
Napoleon met her gaze and placed his boot into the stirrup-like grooves on Drogon's side. "You are the only one who knows how to control these creatures," he said, gripping the saddle. "The others may need to tie themselves to their dragons… but I will not risk that." His lips curled slightly. "I will hold on to you instead."
For a moment, Daenerys said nothing. Then, she extended a hand, pulling him up behind her. The saddle was narrow, forcing him close, and when Drogon shifted, Napoleon instinctively wrapped his arms around Daenerys' waist. He felt her breath hitch, but she did not protest.
Tyrion, already seated on Viserion behind Beaumont, looked up and sighed. "Of course, he gets to hold on to the pretty queen, and I get the back of a Frenchman."
Beaumont smirked. "Try not to fall, Lannister."
Drogon spread his massive wings, and Napoleon tightened his grip as Daenerys leaned forward, her fingers running along the ridges of the dragon's neck.
She whispered, "Sōvētēs." Fly.
With a powerful lurch, the beasts ascended into the sky. The ground fell away, and Napoleon felt the rush of air blast against his face. The Red Keep became a blur beneath them, the world shrinking as they soared northward.
Napoleon had conquered many lands, but never had he felt so powerless—no horse, no disciplined march of his legions, just the raw, untamed power of a beast older than empires.
The night was cold, the wind biting at his skin, but he barely noticed. His grip on Daenerys was firm, his chin brushing against the silver strands of her hair as the dragon surged forward.
The world was changing.
Napoleon had tamed nations, but now, he rode with dragons.
And soon, he would face the dead.