Meanwhile, in Napoleon's office at the Tuileries Palace.
"I can't believe I lost all our holdings in Germany," Napoleon muttered. His voice was flat, drained. He stood over the large campaign table, palms pressed against the edge, staring down at the maps littered with pins, scraps of paper, and hastily written notes marking enemy movements. Entire regions shaded blue months ago were now marked red.
Berthier, his Chief-of-Staff, remained beside him. He looked just as exhausted.
"The Kingdom of Denmark was invaded by Norwegian forces under Bernadotte," Berthier said, keeping his tone calm despite the strain in his eyes. "That was our last reliable ally on the continent."
Napoleon's jaw tightened, but he didn't look up.
"They've formally joined the coalition," Berthier continued. "And our troops in the Netherlands are retreating in disarray. Enemy forces are advancing faster than expected."
"The Confederation of the Rhine?" Napoleon asked quietly.
"Collapsed, Sire," Berthier answered. "Most states have defected. The rest have submitted to coalition authority."
Napoleon's shoulders stiffened. The words hit him like a physical blow. Those German states had once marched at his side, extending French influence across central Europe. Now they abandoned him without hesitation.
"And Bavaria?" Napoleon pressed.
"Joined the coalition, Sire. Days after Leipzig."
Napoleon exhaled slowly through his nose. His eyes remained glued to the table. "Of course they did," he murmured bitterly. "Traitors… all of them."
But the anger didn't last. It dulled quickly into a weary acceptance.
Berthier didn't move. He waited.
Napoleon finally spoke again. "Our supply lines?"
"Strained," Berthier replied. "What remains of the army is regrouping, but numbers are—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Far below what we need to hold the eastern frontier."
"How far below?"
"Less than half of what you requested for a defensive campaign."
Napoleon shut his eyes. He knew the truth already. He just didn't want to hear it said aloud.
"And the conscripts?" he asked.
"We are training them as fast as possible," Berthier said. "But most have never seen battle. They lack equipment, horses, officers… everything is stretched. Even the arsenals in Paris and Lyon are struggling to keep pace."
Napoleon rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had once commanded the greatest army Europe had ever seen. Now he was scraping together scraps—boys barely old enough to carry muskets, men pulled from garrisons with no campaign experience, veterans too injured or worn to fight another season.
Coalition armies, meanwhile, were fresh, united, and supported by nearly every major power on the continent.
This was not the France of Austerlitz.
This was not the army of Wagram.
This was the empire after Russia—bleeding from a wound that refused to close.
"There must be a way to stop them," Napoleon muttered. "There must."
Berthier hesitated. "Sire… Austria has renewed its diplomatic channels. Metternich sent another message through our ambassador. They are—" He paused. "They are hinting at negotiations again."
Napoleon opened his eyes.
Berthier continued quietly, "It may be the last opportunity for a favorable peace."
Napoleon didn't answer.
He simply stared at the map—France alone in the center, surrounded on all sides.
For the first time in years, doubt flickered visibly across his expression.
"Sire?" Berthier prompted gently.
Napoleon inhaled, then exhaled through clenched teeth. "Tell me," he said. "What exactly is Austria offering?"
Berthier swallowed. "A proposal similar to the one they discussed before Leipzig. A rollback of borders, but France remains intact. You remain Emperor. They are willing to negotiate to prevent further bloodshed. I'm sure our enemies is as tired as well with this war. The Russians are too far away from home. Their supply lines are stretched thin. They've lost thousands to cold, hunger, and disease. The Prussians struggle to fund their own mobilization. Even the Austrians are weary. This war has dragged on for too long. If there is a moment when the coalition prefers negotiation over annihilation… it is now."
"But still, giving up the territory in Italy, the Illyrian Provinces, Holland, the German states…" Napoleon's voice thinned. "Everything I built—everything we bled for."
He didn't raise his head. He stared at the inked borders on the map as if they mocked him. Pride and exhaustion warred silently behind his eyes.
Berthier didn't soften the blow. "It is better to surrender land than the throne, Sire. Better to yield borders than lose France itself."
"No, we can still turn this thing around. If we win the defense, we would get favorable peace terms, and then—"
Napoleon stopped himself mid-sentence, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him. It was the same spark he had before every campaign. The spark of a man who believed, truly believed, that sheer willpower could bend the world back into his hands.
Berthier didn't match that spark.
Instead, he dragged a hand slowly down his face.
"Sire…" Berthier murmured, palm resting briefly over his eyes. "We said the same before Lützen. And Bautzen. And Dresden. And Leipzig. Every time we chase the hope of a decisive blow. But the army we have now—" He breathed out through his nose. "Sire, these boys cannot win a defensive campaign against the entire continent."
Napoleon's head snapped up. "They are French. They can fight."
"I know they can," Berthier replied quietly. "But they are not the men of Austerlitz. They are not the veterans of Jena or Friedland. They are children. They reload too slowly. They break formation under cavalry charges. They crumble when artillery fire lasts too long. They haven't even learned how to march for two days straight."
Napoleon's glare sharpened. "We will train them."
"There is no time," Berthier said bluntly.
"I HATE IT WHEN YOU KEPT TELLING ME THAT MY HANDS ARE TIED!" Napoleon snapped, his voice could be heard outside.
Berthier didn't react. He had weathered storms from Napoleon before. But even he felt the weight of that shout—raw frustration from a man who had run out of miracles.
Then came a soft knock.
Napoleon and Berthier both turned.
The knock came again, followed by a voice muffled through the door.
"Sire… forgive the interruption."
Napoleon's brow tightened. "Enter."
The door creaked open.
Standing in the doorway was Madame de Montesquiou, the governess—arms wrapped carefully around a small child with soft brown curls and bright blue eyes.
Napoleon II.
Alfred.
He rested against her shoulder, half-awake, blinking curiously at the two men inside the room. A thin blanket covered his back. His tiny hand clutched the edge of the fabric, knuckles pale.
Madame de Montesquiou stepped in only halfway, head bowed in apology.
"Dada…dada."
"Sire," she spoke gently, "His Majesty, the King of Rome, always says the word Dada as if he wanted to see you…"
"Dada! Dada!" Napoleon II extended his arms forward, trying to reach Napoleon, signalling that he wanted to be with him.
"Montesquiou, you know that I'm busy here right?"
Madame de Montesquiou lowered her head further. "My deepest apologies, Sire, but he—"
"Dada!" Alfred reached out again, little arms trembling with effort.
Napoleon's jaw clenched. "This is not the time. Take him back to the nursery."
She stepped back, adjusting her grip to turn around.
Alfred refused to yield, if he were not to be able to speak with him now, there won't be any chance. The last meeting of them would be when Napoleon said farewell to defend France from the invasion of the coalition forces. And that is January 25th.
He burst into a loud, sudden cry.
A raw, desperate sound that filled the entire study.
"DAA—DAAA!"
He arched in her arms, twisting toward Napoleon with surprising force for a toddler. Tiny legs kicked against her skirt. His arms stretched out again, shaking, fingers opening and closing as if grabbing for his father from across the room.
Napoleon froze.
Berthier glanced sideways, unsure whether to speak, move, or hold his breath.
Madame de Montesquiou tried rocking the child. "Your Majesty, hush now, hush—"
Alfred only cried louder, face red, tears streaking down his cheeks.
"DADA! DAAA—AAH!"
Madame flinched as the struggling grew more frantic. "Sire, I truly am sorry—maybe if I bring him outside he will—"
"He won't," Berthier whispered under his breath, almost inaudible.
Napoleon inhaled sharply.
"Montesquiou," he said.
She stopped.
"Do not bring the boy in here again without my permission."
She swallowed. "Yes, Sire."
"Now hand him to me."
Her eyes widened—she hadn't expected that. But she stepped forward at once, lifting Alfred carefully toward him.
The crying halted for a heartbeat—just long enough for the little boy to recognize whose arms he was entering.
Napoleon took him, awkward at first, then steadier as the boy clung to his coat.
Alfred buried his face into Napoleon's chest, small hands gripping tightly. His crying softened into hiccups, then quiet sniffling, like a storm easing once it found shelter.
Madame de Montesquiou bowed, relieved and shaken.
"I think I need a moment with my son,"
"I'll leave Sire," Berthier said as he bowed his head before leaving the room. So does Napoleon's caretaker.
With the two of them alone in the room now, Napoleon looked his son in the face, and a smile flickered across his mouth.
"Dada? I'm here now, so stop crying."