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Cersei Lannister
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The White Queen Marches
The dead did not breathe.
The dead did not sing.
And yet their march beat like a drum beneath the snow — not with sound, but with weight.
Boots of brittle bone cracked frozen roots. Rusted swords scraped across the ice. Shields thudded in uneven rhythm as lifeless limbs moved in unison.
Above, the wind howled through the trees, but it was not wind. It was something older. A whisper in a dead tongue. A prayer that had forgotten how to beg.
At the head of that silent army rode Cersei Lannister.
Not the lion of Lannisport. Not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
What sat astride the beast of bone and antler was something far older — a monarch sculpted by frost and crowned in death.
Her mount creaked as it moved, an elk of frozen sinew and jagged bones, its antlers spidered with ice-veins. Its breath was steamless. Its heart long still. But it bent to her hand like a loyal hound.
No stirrups, no reins. She didn't need them. It knew who she was.
Behind her came the legions — not shuffling, not moaning, but marching.
Rows of ancient kings with crowns welded to their skulls. Peasant girls in wedding gowns, veils turned to sheets of frost. A boy no older than five, his hands curled as if still clutching a toy.
They moved without breath, without blink, without fear.
And above them circled things that had once ruled the skies — rotting hawks, blind bats, and a wyvern whose wings shed frozen scales like falling stars. Its eyes were empty sockets that still watched.
Beside her, half-seen through the swirl of the storm, strode the Night King — silent and massive, a phantom cloaked in the gale. His eyes burned like twin cold suns, and yet even he did not walk ahead of her.
She remembered the moment it all ended.
The silence. That was the worst of it.
Not a scream. Not even a breath.
Just a clearing — still and black as obsidian.
No birds. No wind.
Only him.
He offered her no mercy. Only a crown.
It was not gold. Not silver.
It was bone, cracked and jagged, laced with the memory of every ruler who had fallen before their time.
When he placed it on her brow, her past unraveled like thread pulled from velvet.
Tommen. Myrcella. Jaime.
Warm skin. Honeywine laughter. Sunlight through the windows of the Tower of the Hand.
Gone.
Not with cruelty. But with necessity.
The cold didn't pierce her. It claimed her.
It filled her lungs. It slid beneath her skin. It wrapped around her ribs like chains made of moonlight and regret.
Her golden hair dulled to ash, then bleached to silver. Her skin faded to something pearl-smooth, unmarred by time. Her eyes cracked like river ice — green shattering around a ring of frozen gold.
She tried to scream. She wanted to.
But all that came out… was mist.
Then came the voice — not in her ears, but in her marrow.
"You are mine," it said.
"But not like them. You are death with memory. Cold with purpose. A queen, not a wraith."
And when she stood, the White Walkers stepped aside.
Not in obedience.
In acknowledgment.
Now, the Wall shimmered on the horizon — a ghostly wound stretching across the world.
It glowed faintly in the stormlight, like old ice dreaming of the sea.
Cersei did not blink.
She let the wind tug at her cloak — a mantle stitched from ice-webs and ash-dark velvet — and she rode on.
No horn marked her approach. No banners waved.
Only the hush of inevitability.
They passed a hamlet crushed by snow and silence — only the broken beams of rooftops peeking from the drifts.
Once, it might have flown the lion of House Lannister.
Now, it flew nothing.
Not even crows dared circle it.
Cersei raised her hand.
The snow shifted.
And beneath it — fingers, bones, limbs — the dead rose.
A woman with a babe still frozen to her breast.
A sellsword missing half his jaw.
A dog, twisted and black with frostbite, snarling silently.
They took their place in her procession without sound, without thought.
She did not turn.
She did not need to.
They followed because she was.
"You feel it," she said, not loud, not soft — her voice velvet-wrapped iron. The snow did not answer. But it listened.
"Don't you, Bonaparte?"
Her lips barely moved.
"You, with your cannons and constitutions. Your bread for the hungry. Your courts and codes."
She looked to the sky.
"I know the lie you built your empire on."
And then, her eyes narrowed — pale gold fractured with frost.
"But peace dies in winter."
The Night King was beside her, his gaze unfathomable. A god carved from stillness.
She turned to him.
"What will you have me do?"
He did not speak.
He only raised a hand.
South.
To the Wall.
To the Empire.
To her.
"Break them."
So she would.
Not with dragons. Not with fire.
But with the slow, unrelenting weight of certainty.
Let them crown their foreign general. Let them gather dragons and kings and broken queens. Let them write their histories and carve their thrones.
None of it would matter.
Because winter did not argue.
It erased.
Cersei Lannister was no longer fire and fury.
She was ice and memory.
Will made manifest.
The White Queen.
And with every step she took,
the world forgot warmth.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NAPOLEON
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The Wall rose before him like the grave marker of the world.
Not merely a barrier. A monument. A promise etched in ice and hubris — older than empires, older than kingdoms, older than the memory of man. It cleaved the horizon like a blade driven into the bones of the realm, its face wrapped in storm and shadow, glimmering like frozen judgment beneath the gray and dying sky.
Snow hurled itself sideways, shrieking through the wind like a chorus of ghosts. Even Drogon, great beast that he was, faltered in his glide — wings buffeted, tail lashing. His growl rumbled through Napoleon's bones, deeper than cannon thunder.
The Emperor leaned forward in the saddle behind Daenerys, his gauntleted hands gripping tight. Her silver braid whipped against his cheek like threads of starfire. She was stone still, eyes narrowed, posture unflinching. A woman sculpted for thrones and forged for war.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
The Wall loomed larger. Like it had been waiting.
Behind them, Rhaegal and Viserion followed in formation — shadows with wings. Their riders clung tight to the leather straps: Jon Snow, pale and resolute; Tyrion, muttering beneath his breath; Beaumont, face half-frozen, eyes scanning the tundra like a seasoned hunter; and Grey Worm, ever-silent, one hand never far from his blade.
Below, Castle Black emerged from the curtain of ice — a weatherworn carcass of stone and timber. It looked as though the world had tried to forget it. Half-buried in snowdrift, wrapped in silence, but still defiant. A wound that refused to close.
Oil shimmered in trenches. Fires spat angry light into the blizzard. Men moved like ghosts along the ramparts — sharpening spears, loading arrows, dragging dead trees to brace the gate.
Even from above, Napoleon saw it clearly.
This was a garrison of desperation. No army. Just what remained.
Drogon shrieked as he descended. Men below ducked in terror. Horns wailed — one long note stretched taut with panic — before the bowstrings eased and the archers dropped their weapons.
Recognition. Not of peace. Of fire.
The dragon landed like a falling mountain, and the ground shook beneath him. Snow burst into the air like ash from a ruined city. Napoleon dropped from the saddle, landing in a crouch, boots crunching ice.
The cold here was not just biting — it was devouring. It didn't numb. It hunted. It sought the blood beneath the skin.
He straightened, sweeping his long coat behind him, gaze locked forward. Even now — even here — he moved like the world was watching.
A gaunt man with a scraggly beard and hollow eyes approached at a brisk limp. His voice cracked like dry leather.
"Your Grace," he said to Daenerys.
He turned, eyes flicking over Napoleon's posture, his sword, his silence.
"Emperor."
Napoleon inclined his head. "Lord Commander Tollett, I presume. You summoned dragon and empire to the ends of the earth. Let us hope your cause is worthy of frost and fire."
Tollett didn't flinch. "This isn't a war," he said. "It's the reckoning." He turned sharply. "Inside. Now."
They moved quickly — through narrow tunnels lined with frost, past black banners that snapped like brittle cloth, past men who stepped aside without being told. Not out of fear.
Out of recognition.
"They look at you like they've seen a ghost," Beaumont murmured at his side.
Napoleon didn't respond.
Beaumont smirked. "Perhaps to them, you are one."
"I've been called worse," Napoleon said. "By men who bled slower than these."
They reached the hall — the beating heart of the last defense of the living.
It was crude. Ancient stone, drafty as a tomb, candles fluttering low, hearths barely awake. The smell was battle-fatigue and burnt broth. A long oaken table stood in the center, weighed down by maps and daggers, scrolls and soot-stained cups.
Tyrion was already at the hearth, hands splayed to the flames.
"You don't send ravens to queens and emperors," he said dryly, "unless the sky is on fire."
Tollett shook his head. "It's not fire that's coming."
He unrolled a map across the table. Charcoal marks crisscrossed the north — scattered clusters of dots, all encircled in pale blue.
"The Night King has entered the Haunted Forest. He's not wandering. He's advancing. Straight south. Faster than our scouts thought possible."
"How many?" Jon asked.
Tollett's eyes were bloodshot. "We stopped counting after fifty thousand. Our last rider made it back with frost in his lungs. Died in his sleep. The others…" He let the silence hang.
Daenerys stepped beside the map, eyes narrow. "This is more than hunger."
"It's something else," Tollett said. "They're marching in lines. Flanking. Coordinated. And there's a second leader."
Napoleon's eyes sharpened. "Describe this second."
"A woman," Tollett said slowly. "Tall. Pale. Hair like moonlight. Eyes like… gold trapped in ice."
Beaumont stiffened. "A White Walker?"
"No," Tollett said. "She doesn't look dead. She doesn't look alive either. She doesn't command them with shrieks or magic. She just… moves. And they move with her."
"The Pale Queen," Tyrion muttered.
"She doesn't speak," Tollett said. "But when she moves, they march. They follow her."
Napoleon felt it again — that instinct, colder than the room.
Control. Command. Discipline.
She was not just a symbol. She was a general.
"She is not their queen," Daenerys said, voice clipped. "The Night King has no heir. No equal."
"Unless he made one," Tyrion mused.
Napoleon's hands pressed into the edge of the table.
"She might be no one," he said. "Or worse — someone we once knew."
Beaumont met his eye. "If she is Cersei…"
Napoleon didn't blink. "Cersei Lannister died beneath Red Keep rubble."
"Are you sure?" Beaumont asked quietly.
Napoleon said nothing.
He stared at the map, the formations. Not myth. Not chaos.
Strategy.
"Either way," he said finally, "this is no mindless tide. It's a military campaign."
A voice rose from the shadows. Timid. Certain.
"We can still fight them." Samwell Tarly stepped forward, face pale but resolute. In his hand, a shard of glinting black — dragonglass.
"This kills them," he said. "So does Valyrian steel. And fire. We don't have much of the second. But the first… lies beneath Dragonstone." he looked at Daenerys.
She nodded.
Napoleon studied the shard. It shimmered like ink frozen in a crystal.
"How much?"
"Tons," Sam said. "Veins run through the mountain. It was once the heart of Valyria's fire."
Jon leaned forward. "We need to mine it. Forge blades. Arm every hand."
"And the dragons?" Tyrion asked.
"They are fire given wing," Daenerys said. "They can burn wights by the hundreds."
Napoleon stood straight. "And yet, you ask my Empire to bleed for a war built on whispers and shadows."
Jon faced him. "You saw them."
"I saw snow," Napoleon said. "I saw fear. I do not draft legions for fear. I move for proof."
Beaumont stepped beside him. "And what if this Pale Queen is more than a figurehead?"
"Then she's the sharpest blade in their arsenal," Napoleon murmured. "And we dull it first."
Daenerys stepped to the window. Stormlight danced across her face, her expression carved from something older than fire.
"I will not send my children blind into night," she said. "I'll fly north. Drogon and I will see it ourselves. If this Pale Queen exists, we will find her."
Jon stepped forward. "I'll ride too."
Napoleon studied him.
"You may not come back."
Jon didn't flinch. "Then we'll die knowing."
Beaumont stepped closer. "We should send scouts first. Ground eyes."
"No," Napoleon said. "Too slow. Too mortal. We take the skies. We see the truth ourselves."
He looked to Sam.
"Where should we search?"
Sam pointed on the map. "Follow the river valleys. The Frostfangs. The Gorge. The ruins of the Nightfort. She leads. The dead follow her like dogs to a butcher."
Napoleon turned to Daenerys.
"Fly high. Stay fast. Return with more than tales."
She held his gaze.
"I'll return with truth."
He nodded.
Then to Beaumont: "Ready yourself."
Beaumont blinked. "I'm flying?"
"You wanted a war of legends," Napoleon said. "Now mount one."
Grey Worm stepped beside his queen, already armored, silent as stone.
Tyrion moved aside, murmuring, "Gods help the enemy that sees all five of you coming from the clouds."
Outside, the dragons shrieked.
The gates of Castle Black groaned open.
And five riders — fire, steel, blood, and ice — climbed into the sky, the wind howling beneath their wings.
They flew into the storm.
Toward the Pale Queen.
Toward the truth.
Toward death.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
They rode above a sea of snow and silence, the winds slicing like razors from the north. Drogon's wings beat against the dusk, sending ripples through the gray clouds as if he were tearing the sky open. The sun hung low behind them — not setting, but surrendering — its last rays bleeding across the horizon like a dying wound.
Napoleon kept low behind Daenerys, his fingers curled around the leather of the saddle, his breath frosting between them. Her hair whipped against his cheek, a wild silver banner streaming behind her as if the wind itself bent to her will. She didn't speak. She rarely did while flying. But even in the quiet, there was something shared between them — the sort of silence that soldiers knew.
From the corners of his vision, the other dragons flanked them like sentinels — Rhaegal and Viserion soaring with thunderous grace, each bearing their riders: Jon Snow, Beaumont, and Grey Worm. The flight was not formation, but instinct — a loose column of fire and will, cutting across the sky toward the ghost of a nightmare.
Napoleon broke the stillness first. "This is farther than I thought I'd ever go," he muttered, his voice barely rising over the wind. "The Wall was one thing. But this… this is something else entirely."
Daenerys didn't look back, but he saw her shoulders shift slightly, a subtle nod.
"I never imagined it like this," she said after a moment. Her voice was low, almost pensive. "When I dreamed of Westeros, it was thrones and banners. The Iron Throne… burning slavers, liberating cities. Not frozen winds and marching corpses."
Napoleon allowed himself a dry chuckle. "Conquest never goes as planned."
"No," she said, a little sharper now. "It doesn't."
A silence fell again, stretched thin between them. Then, unexpectedly, Daenerys spoke again — quieter this time, but with something brittle beneath it.
"I was meant to free this realm. That was the dream. Break chains, shatter wheels. I came with dragons, fire, blood. And yet…" She trailed off.
He finished it for her. "And yet you found me here first."
A beat. Then, she nodded. "Yes."
Napoleon let the wind speak for a moment before replying. "Do you regret that?"
Daenerys hesitated, the pause telling. Then: "I don't know. You've changed the game. Before I landed, the lords feared me. Now they kneel to you. You rule not with prophecy or birthright, but precision."
He said nothing. There was a weight to her words that didn't need answer.
"But this war," she went on, eyes narrowing as she scanned the barren world below, "this is different. There's no throne to take here. No crown to wear. Just death coming to take everything that lives."
"Which," Napoleon said, "makes us allies. However unlikely."
Her voice was almost a whisper. "We'll see what survives."
Napoleon studied her in profile. There was strength there, yes — a fire forged in exile — but also something rawer. Disappointment. Not in him, perhaps, but in the world.
She changed the subject. "What do you make of Jon?"
Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Stubborn. Brooding. Entirely too noble for his own good."
Daenerys smiled, faintly. "You don't trust him."
"I trust him to do what he thinks is right. But men like that… they break themselves trying to fix the world."
"And you?"
"I bend the world to suit me," Napoleon replied. "Or I burn it down."
Her smile faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. "He's brave," she said. "And he's seen death — real death. I don't know if I like him yet. But I believe him."
Napoleon glanced at her. "That's rare for you, isn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But maybe that's why it matters."
Ahead, the air grew colder — not just in temperature, but in texture. The light thinned until it barely clung to the earth. Even Drogon's breathing shifted, shallow and sharp. He dipped lower, unbidden. Below, the terrain fell away into a basin of white and shadow.
Napoleon felt it before he saw it. The change in the air. The stillness. Like a battlefield before the first cannon fires.
Daenerys tensed. "There," she said. "Do you see it?"
Napoleon leaned forward. His breath caught.
A tide of bodies stretched across the valley floor — not dozens, not hundreds, but thousands. No torches, no banners, no sound. Just motion. Endless, synchronized motion.
And in the center, towering above the march, a figure walked.
Napoleon's mouth went dry.
The figure moved unlike the others. Tall, straight-backed, graceful in a way that was unnatural. Her hair streamed like ice-white silk in the windless air. Her cloak shimmered like frozen glass. And though the army trudged forward as one, it was clear — they moved because she did.
"They kneel to her," Daenerys whispered.
Below, the wights were dropping to their knees in waves, like grain before the scythe.
Napoleon leaned in closer, his voice low. "She's not a commander. She's something more."
"Is she the Pale Queen?" Daenerys asked.
He said nothing for a long moment. Then, "She's not like the Night King. There's something… human. But wrong."
"Do you think it's Cersei?" she asked.
Napoleon shook his head. "No. Cersei died in the fire. I saw the smoke rise. She would never kneel to anyone, let alone lead the dead."
They hovered in silence, dragons coasting just above a cloudbank, their wings beating softer now — a predator's rhythm. The army below surged like a shadow made flesh. Armor clanked. Bones dragged across frozen ground. No words. No cries.
Just the crunch of a world ending, one frozen footstep at a time.
Daenerys shifted in her saddle. "This is it."
Napoleon exhaled, slow and steady, gaze locked on the woman in the center. She turned her head then — not up, not toward them, but in a way that made the hairs on his arms rise.
Like she sensed them.
Like she knew they watched.
A gust hit them hard. Drogon shuddered beneath them, snarling low.
Napoleon steadied himself, jaw clenched. "We've seen enough."
"We bring this back," Daenerys said. "We show them."
Napoleon gave a short nod, his voice cold as the gale. "Let's move."
She turned Drogon with a single command in Valyrian, the dragon spinning through the air with a thunderous beat of wings. Behind them, Jon pulled Rhaegal into a turn, Beaumont and Grey Worm banking wide on Viserion.
The ice groaned beneath them — a sound sharp and strange, like glass cracking underfoot in a cathedral of silence.
They were pulling away, the dragons wheeling in a slow arc over the fields of the dead, the sky bruised with night, their breath fogging in the wind. Napoleon tightened his grip as Viserion climbed, wings slicing through the air like war-banners caught in gale. Below, the Pale Queen stood unmoving — a ghost wrapped in shadow, commanding legions with a stillness that spoke louder than battle cries.
Then the air screamed.
Not wind. Not wings.
A piercing shriek — sharp as a falcon's cry and heavy with death.
Napoleon turned his head just in time to see it — the ice spear slicing through the clouds, blue as glacier blood, spinning like a thrown javelin hurled by a titan.
"Dany—!"
The spear struck Viserion mid-flight.
The impact was thunder — a crack that tore through the sky, echoing over mountains. The dragon wailed. It wasn't a roar. It was agony — guttural, gutted, deep as the soul of fire being extinguished.
Viserion's wing buckled. Blood misted the air, hot and steaming in the cold.
"No!" Daenerys screamed.
The dragon flailed, tail whipping, wings folding violently as gravity claimed it. For a moment, Napoleon thought they would fall — crash and die and vanish into the white.
But Viserion fought.
Even dying, he fought.
The beast roared once more — then angled his failing body toward the frozen plain, struggling for control.
Napoleon's heart slammed against his ribs. The saddle straps strained. Dany clutched the reins with trembling fists, tears streaming from wind-burnt cheeks.
"Hold—hold him, Viserion, please—" she cried, her voice breaking. "Please…"
The dragon struck the ice.
But not in ruin.
It landed — barely. Skidded. Slid.
And then collapsed.
Snow exploded in all directions. The ice cracked beneath them, but held. Barely.
Viserion let out a rattled groan, wings twitching as if to rise again — but then, stillness. Blood seeped across the snow like oil from a burning ship.
Daenerys was off the saddle before Napoleon could stop her.
She ran to the dragon's side, stumbling through the snowdrift, falling to her knees beside the great beast. Her hands pressed against his scale. Her voice choked. She whispered to him in Valyrian — words only a mother would speak to a dying child.
"Drogon… Rhaegal…" she sobbed.
A distant cry answered — deep, booming.
Then the air rushed again — heat behind it.
Drogon and Rhaegal descended in fury.
Drogon's roar shattered the quiet, a sound so powerful it made the wind stagger. He landed beside Daenerys, body tensed, flames licking the back of his throat. Rhaegal circled above, eyes glowing like embers behind emerald lenses.
The snow to the north moved.
Wights.
They were coming — drawn by blood, by noise, by scent and suffering.
Dozens at first. Then hundreds.
Then thousands.
Shadows marched toward the wounded dragon.
Napoleon sprinted toward Daenerys. "We have to go. Now."
She didn't move.
Her hand was still on Viserion's neck. The beast's eye flickered — once. And then faded.
Tears burned on her cheeks. Her lips trembled. "He was mine…"
"I know," Napoleon said, voice hardening. "But if we don't leave—"
The shriek of a White Walker pierced the air.
"They'll take you, too."
Daenerys looked up — saw them. Saw the army of frost and bone closing in, shambling over the ridges in waves. And behind them…
The Pale Queen.
Still walking.
Still silent.
Still coming.
Napoleon grabbed Daenerys by the arm — not gently. "You have to live," he snapped. "For him. For the others. For all of them."
She tried to pull free — once. Her eyes were wild. But then she saw the fire in his. Not just command. Not just calculation.
Conviction.
"Drogon!" Napoleon shouted, pointing.
The beast dropped low, wings fanned wide.
Napoleon hauled Daenerys to her feet and half-carried her to the dragon's back. Rhaegal dove, torching a swath of the undead in a blaze of orange heat. Screams echoed — but not human. Not anymore.
"Go!" Napoleon barked.
Drogon leapt into the air as the wights rushed toward the corpse of Viserion. Daenerys looked back once — just once — her scream lost to the wind.
Flames rained behind them as Drogon roared, blasting the charging undead in a wave of wrath.
Below, Viserion lay still — blood on his jaws, frost in his veins.
The Pale Queen stood at the edge of the flames, untouched.
Watching.
Always watching.
The dragons soared higher — over ruin, over silence, over death.
Castle Black shimmered on the horizon, a lighthouse in the storm.
Napoleon clenched the saddle, his arm around Daenerys, her shaking form folded against him.
She didn't cry anymore.
She didn't speak.
But something inside her had changed.
And Napoleon felt it too.
Not just grief.
Rage.
Rage forged in fire and tempered in frost.
Viserion had fallen.
But so had the veil.
This war — this thing rising from the North — it was no longer distant.
It had come for them.
And it would come again.