To read early:
Chapter 2: "The Learning Eaglet"
Chapter 3: "Franz the Archer"
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w w w . p a t r(e)on (slash) MonsieurLAH
Enjoy reading!
AN: There is so much and yet so little to say about Napoleon the Second, he who was born in Paris in 1811 during the apogee of the French Empire and died in 1832 from tuberculosis in Vienna. To give you a quick summary of his short life, he was raised in his grand-father's court, the Emperor of Austria, Francis II. Who later granted him the title of Duke of Reichstadt Described as a bookworm, Napoleon II was fascinated by his father and read multiple times The Memorial of Saint Helena, in which Napoleon I actually speaks to him. After a full education in letters, sciences, economy and military strategy, he served in the Austrian military. In 1830, people in France, Belgium, Netherlands and Poland started chanting for him, the simple mention of his name was a subject of panic in many European courts.
According to Friedrich von Gentz, a Prussian politician who died a few months before the Eaglet (and was known to have been one of Napoleon I's politician opponents):
"Little Napoleon is an object of disorder and fear for most European cabinets. One must have heard the conversations of recent years to know to what extent the name of this child irritated and frightened even the most able ministers and to be aware of all that they invented and proposed to at least make his existence forgotten."
Yet it all ended in 1832 when Napoleon II's sickness started getting worse. He died alone in his bed, with nothing but his regrets.
… Or did he?
Here is my new story: 'Mon nom est Napoléon', where Napoleon II ends up in Westeros.
Enjoy!
"My birth and my death, that is my whole story. Between my cradle and my grave, there is a big zero." Napoleon II Bonaparte, the Eaglet, April 15, 1832, Vienna.
In a vast stone-walled chamber lit by tarnished silver chandeliers, Napoleon II lay on a four-poster bed, its white satin sheets stained with sweat and unshed tears. The once opulent room now bore the signs of neglect, with tapestries faded by time and fine dust covering the furniture. The windows, large but closed, let in only a dull gray light, which matched the somber mood of impending death. The fire in the fireplace, the only source of warmth and life in the room, crackled, casting dancing shadows across Napoleon II's gaunt face, reflecting the turmoil of his soul.
His eyes, grey and blue, fell on a gold-framed portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was his father, Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, in all his glory, wearing the uniform of the Empire, his piercing gaze seeming to reach through time and death to judge his son. The painting captured the emperor in a moment of triumph with the imperial scepter in hand.
Napoleon II, with a pained sigh, murmured:
"Father, how ashamed you must be of me… the only footsteps of yours I'll follow will be the ones that lead me to my grave."
His thoughts wandered to memories of war stories, of brilliantly executed strategies, of battles in which his father had shone. He saw Austerlitz, where the snow had been stained with blood but also with the glory of the emperor; Marengo, where fortune had turned thanks to a daring maneuver; and Wagram, where his father's determination had broken the enemy lines. Every page of the memoirs and strategic works he had read flashed through his mind, his father's quotes echoing like echoes of a time when greatness was within reach.
"One does not lead an army from the rear."Napoleon had said, and each word seemed a direct accusation to his son who had never seen battle.
"Father, I am sorry." He whispered, his voice cracking with guilt. "I have lived so miserably, I have not honored your name as I should have. Please help me, give me strength… I can't die here, not now… I have so much to accomplish…"
Everywhere in Europe, people had chanted his name, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Poland… How would those people react should he die so young, so unaccomplished, so alone and miserable? He was no emperor, just a twenty-one year old whose dreams of glory were being taken away by tuberculosis.
He had nothing, not even his own mother was there to see him. She was living in Parma, with a new husband and their children, all the love and ambition she had for her firstborn had died with his father.
"My name is Napoleon." He said in French, he loved French, he wanted to see France. "Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of my name… And here lies my empire… a dusty bedroom with no subject, no army, no friend, not even a single member of my family."
He laughed, mocking his own patheticness, yet his dry laugh turned into a strangled sob. His dark blond hair were soaked in sweat, his pillow had turned into a sponge that was now absorbing his tears.
He had prepared his whole childhood, accumulating knowledge and experience… for nothing. He would not get the chance to live the life he had prepared for, he would not even get the chance to live another year.
"Is that all you want, Napoleon?A chance to live?"
Napoleon's eyes shot open in fear.
"Who is there?" He demanded in German, until he realized that the person who had spoken had done so in French.
With great effort, he straightened his back to sit up in bed. He looked around the dusty room, but saw no one.
"Did I dream?" He wondered as he felt his head grow heavier. "Was it an hallucination?"
A mocking laugh echoed his questions, startling the son of the Emperor.
"Who goes there?!" He demanded in French.
"Salvation."The voice answered, its soft yet mischievous tone gave the young man chills, his eyes widened when he realized it came from the fireplace. "Come closer, Napoleon, we have so much to talk about."
Napoleon looked at the fire, it was intense, far more intense than it should be, the logs were almost entirely consumed, yet it burned bright. Its warmth seemed to envelop his weak body like gigantic hooked fingers.
"I'm going insane…" He thought with disdain. "My mind is plagued as much as my body."
"Wrong, Napoleon, you're still as sane as you've always been. As for your body, the cure for it is what I've come to offer you."
Napoleon frowned, then chuckled. That his chuckle was a sad one, for it seemed that with each passing day, he was destined to being stroke by humiliating weakness.
He put his naked feet on the cold parquet, yet he failed to properly stand up, for his legs weren't strong enough to support his thin body. Embarrassed and dismayed by his condition, he supported himself using the side of his bed, but when it was time to walk by himself, his struggle became harder. Yet, he refused to crawl on all fours, he would stand strong or fall, and he fell.
The cough that seized his throat burned it so badly he spat crimson drops, the cough was so violent he lost what little balance he had managed to muster and fell face first on the Italian carpet. The voice laughed out loud, earning a groan from him as he felt his blood flow from his forehead.
"Poor Eaglet… Alone, dying, so much potential, wasted."
Napoleon rose his head from the ground and sat on the carpet, his tired gaze fell on the fire, the tricks his mind was playing became more twisted with each passing second, he could almost see a face in those flames.
"Twisting the knife is useless, there is nothing you could say I haven't told myself."
Once again, the voice chuckled.
"And what would you say if I pulled the knife out? What if I took away your sickness and restored your health? You need only say the word, Napoleon, and I'll give you your life back."
Napoleon frowned, his disdain slowly turned into wariness as he looked at the fire with a far more rational gaze.
"Are you the Devil?" He asked, his teeth gritting against each other. "Have you come to tempt me?"
The thing laughed once again, though is was far deeper and horrifying than the previous ones.
"God is not here, Napoleon, nor is the Devil, I am, and it is not your soul I seek, but your life."
He shook his head.
"This makes no sense, I'm about to die…"
"Precisely, you're dying, after preparing since your birth to live a life that would have changed your World. Your decades of glory and greatness have been taken away from you, the ink of this World's story is dry, but your story, Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of your name, can be written in another book."
Napoleon stared at the fire, dumbfounded.
"How?" He whispered. "I don't understand…"
"You don't need to understand, Napoleon, you simply need to answer this question. Do you wish for your life to end here, in this room, or do you wish to live it to its fullest?"
Napoleon chuckled, which earned him another bloody cough.
"Whatever you are, you're taking me for a fool." He spat. "Who would choose death over life? There must be a catch, a trick, something…You can't expect me to choose to die young instead of living the life of an Emperor."
"You'll never be Emperor, Napoleon, nor will you ever step foot into France or even see your father's country. I need you to live, but it will not be the life you've dreamt of."
Napoleon could not believe his ears, he stared angrily at the fire.
"Then what good will it be?" He spat once again.
And the voice laughed once again.
"You tell me, Eaglet. Your other option is to die here. You have nothing to lose."
At that, Napoleon bit his tongue. Conceding the creature's point.
To say he wasn't tempted would have been a lie, yet this whole situation was insane, even his mind plagued by fever could tell. The thing in the flames, it could only be the Devil, what else could it actually be?
"What kind of life will I live?" He asked.
"Whatever you make of it."
"Then why do you want it so badly?" He snarled.
"Because I know what you'll make of it, Eaglet."
He hated that name, 'Eaglet', it was a constant reminder that he had been a child Emperor and nothing more. That thing knew how to get under his skin.
"If you're so powerful, if you know everything, then what do you need my permission for?"
"I don't need your permission, Eaglet, I need you to accept it. For if I force you into this, you will fail. And I have nothing to gain from your failure."
"Then what do you have to gain?"
"You don't need to know, Eaglet, you just need to succeed. From your success I'll benefit, and when you'll join your father in death, you will do so as a man whose life has been worth living."
This time, Napoleon actually got angry. Despite his state of weakness, his blue-grey eyes lit with a fire as intense as the one that illuminated his face.
"Empty promises, from a trick of the mind or a creature of evil. You claim to have power, yet you seek the help of a dying man consumed by despair. You invoke my father's name to provoke me, as if he'd approve a deal with the Devil!"
The creature laughed a cruel laugh, as if to mock his bravado and rejoice from his state of despair.
"We both know what your father would have done, had I offered him a chance to win against his enemies. You know as well, for you've read it: 'Death is nothing, but to live defeated and without glory is to die every day,' such were his words. And when have you ever won, Eaglet?"
Never.
Such was the cruel answer, Napoleon the second had never done anything meaningful during his twenty-one years of life. He knew it, and he so desperately wanted to accept whatever that thing was offering him. For dying would be to meet his father and disappoint him. And for that, and that only, Napoleon feared death even more than the actual Devil.
He coughed one more time, so badly he let himself fall on the ground one more time to lie on his back, he turned his head to the right and spat even more blood. Even breathing was torture now.
He looked at the ceiling.
"What kind of life will I live?" He asked.
"It'll be yours to craft. I'm only offering you renewed health."
He chuckled.
"You make it sound far too tempting."
He sat back up and looked at his father's portrait… Sadness washed over his face, and it brought shame and despair with it.
"If not in France… Then where will my life take place?"
"In another world, a whole other world, where Europe does not exist, where your enemies will never find you, where the name Bonaparte means nothing."
Napoleon frowned in confusion. Another world? What did that mean? A new planet? And his name would mean nothing?
Surprisingly, being thrown into the unknown was not something he feared so much since he was dying.
"I don't want to die." He confessed. "I don't want my life to be meaningless."
"I know, Napoleon."
His blue-grey eyes fell on the fireplace, he was starting to hate the face he believed he saw in the flames.
"Very well, Devil, you've won. If you're not a trick of the mind, then I accept your deal. Give me the opportunity I seek."
A peal of sinister laughter echoed his response, plunging the room into an eerie silence. Napoleon II felt a wave of darkness engulf him, a sensation of falling dizzyingly. He fell into unconsciousness, the laughter still echoing in his mind, as a vortex sucked him in. This vortex, at first dark, transformed into salty, icy water, gripping him like a vice.
He woke with a start, struggling to breathe. The sea around him was raging, its waves crashing against steep cliffs, the salt spray stinging his eyes. The sky was covered with threatening clouds from which torrential rain escaped, and the air had the smell of salt and danger. Nevertheless, his body seemed to have regained all its youthful strength and he fought fiercely against the elements.
"Wretched creature!" He shouted in German. "Is this the life you promised me?!"
He fought, again and again, his health was excellent, as was his physical fitness, he felt it. But no man had the strength to fight against the raging elements of nature. And after long minutes of fierce combat, exhaustion caught up with him almost as quickly as it had left him, and so, he lost consciousness again.
When he opened his eyes, he was on a beach of fine sand, bordered by rocks covered with moss and algae. The wind was blowing hard, making the trees shiver in the distance, and the sun, finally visible, lit up a foreign landscape, green hills on the horizon. A little girl was looking at him with concern. She wore rags, her hair tangled by the wind and the sea, her bare feet marked by stones and sand. Her eyes, a deep blue, reflected a life of struggle but also an innocent curiosity.
"Are you okay?" She asked, her soft voice contrasting with the coarseness of her appearance.
Napoleon II vomited salt water, his lungs were burning, he tried to catch his breath. He asked, in German, where he was, but the girl, puzzled, did not understand.
"Are you okay?" she repeated in English, her eyes now reflecting genuine compassion.
Napoleon II, confused, alarmed, and still suffering from the pain of his previous struggle, realized that she had spoken in a foreign language.
"I'm in England?"He thought with horror. "How…? This is a trick… A farce… A dream… This can't…"
"Help…" Was the only word he managed to say, before his fatigue caught up to him, his heavy eyelids closed themselves despite his protests, and his head fell on the girl's knees.
(-)(-)(-)
The nightmare he had was a storm of regret and guilt. In the dream, Napoleon II found himself in a vast room, the walls covered with tapestries that depicted battle scenes, all marked by his father's glory. The room was cold, almost icy, and a sinister light came from a single flickering torch. Napoleon the first, in uniform, approached his son, his face marked with disappointment so deep that it seemed to carve furrows into his face.
"What have you done?" He asked, his voice echoing in the empty room, each word striking his son like a stab. Napoleon II, tried to look away, to deny the question, his voice breaking as he pleaded:
"Father, stay with me, teach me greatness..."
Yet, he received no answer, as a sinister shadow engulfed Napoleon I, his face contorting into an expression of horror as he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Napoleon II in a cold solitude, the silence weighing on him like a sentence.
He woke with a start, his heart pounding, on a bed that seemed designed for torture rather than rest. The mattress was hard, the sheets rough, and a musty smell permeated the air. A man, wearing a robe of coarse cloth and a collar of metal chains, was leaning over him, his hand warm against his forehead, making him jump.
"Wo bin ich? Wer bist du?" He asked in German as he grabbed the man by his robe.
The man, the maester, widened his eyes, surprised by this foreign language.
"Guards!" He called, and in an instant, men in medieval armor, their breastplates decorated with intricate patterns, burst into the room.
Napoleon instantly let go of the maester as the guards pinned him on his bed, crushing him with their weight.
Napoleon, shocked by these men and their equipment from another age, despite their obvious quality, wondered where he had ended up. Confusion and fear mingled in him, creating a whirlwind of emotions.
"Lâchez-moi! (Let go of me!)" He ordered, but in French this time, which only amplified the confusion.
The maester readjusted his robe and rose his hands to calm the situation.
"Do not hurt him, he's confused and foreign, he may not speak our tongue."
One of the guards nodded, the other kept glaring at Napoleon as if he was daring him to make a move.
The Duke of Reichstadt exhaled heavily, cursed inwardly the devil that had thrown him in this situation, and spoke in English with a thick Austrian accent:
"I speak your language. "
The maester's surprise was palpable, his face lighting up with a mixture of fascination and caution.
"If you've calmed down and promise to act civilly, then the guards will release you, can you act civilly?"
"I can." He said, realizing that his tuberculosis was gone and that his throat felt better than it had in months. "My apologies." He quickly added.
The guards released Napoleon, though they remained vigilant, their eyes watching his every move.
Once free to sit up, he observed the old maester from head to toes.
"Are you a doctor?" He asked, but the term was unfamiliar to the maester, who, upon clarification, replied:
"If by 'doctor' you mean 'healer', then yes, I am. Though, we are called 'maesters'."
"Maesters…" Napoleon repeated, his confusion evident.
The maester knelt beside the bed, his chains were rattling softly
"What is your name?" he asked gently, his eyes searching his patient's for answers.
Napoleon hesitated, the thought of being in England, where his father had been exiled and defeated, made him wary. He felt a weight on his shoulders, as if his father's name was too heavy to bear here. Instead of answering, he asked again, in the proper language;
"Where am I?"
"You are in Oldtown." The maester replied, but the name meant nothing to Napoleon, increasing his sense of displacement.
"Am I in England?" He continued, but the maester did not understand.
"You are in Westeros." He clarified.
Napoleon frowned in despair and confusion.
He had always prided himself to be an excellent student. Geography had been a big part of his education, yet, he had never heard or read anything about a land called 'Westeros.'
"I'm sorry…" He said. "But I have never heard of such a place, perhaps you could tell me where it is in relation to Europe?"
The maester's eyes slightly widened.
With an apologetic expression, he admitted:
"I'm sorry as well, for I have never heard of it your country?"
"No… It's… it's a whole continent."
The maester's eyes shone in excitement, in contrast to Napoleon's horrified expression.
Indeed, the reality of the situation had shattered him. He remembered the promise of the voice in the fireplace: a life in another world. He collapsed inwardly, he who had dreamed so much of restoring the glory of France, of following in his father's footsteps. Now none of this would ever happen, the face had promised him a life, and it seemed to have hold its end of the bargain. Yet, only now did the Eaglet seem to realize what it truly meant.
The maester, realizing his patient's despair and wanting to avoid further shock, asked again:
"Your name, please?"
"Napoleon Bonaparte." He replied, his voice filled with pride and resignation, trying to attach his identity to something familiar in this strange world. Laughter erupted among the guards, one exclaiming.
"What kind of name is that?"
"My father's." Napoleon replied fiercely. "What are your fathers' names?"
The guards instantly stopped laughing to glare back at the skinny man that seemed to be challenging them. But the maester quickly rose his hands.
"Peace, please. This is the Citadel, not a training yard."
The men in armor remained perfectly still, yet their glares did not lose their intensity as the maester focused once again on his patient.
"Are you strong enough to stand up? My knees are as old as the rest of me, I'm afraid."
Napoleon nodded, and slowly got out of his bed, to put his naked feet on the cold floor. That was when he realized that his clothes had been taken away while he was asleep and replaced by a robe even more decrepit than the maester's.
After checking his health, the maester announced:
"Lord Hightower wishes to speak to you. "
Napoleon who was still in shock, looked up from his misery and slightly frowned.
"A Lord? Why would a Lord be interested in speaking to a sick stranger?
The maester smiled.
"He isn't our Lord yet, only the heir, and he wished to do so because it was his son who found you washed up on the beach."
"His son? I remember a little girl..."
"I'm sorry, but no one has mentioned any little girls when you were brought in here. "Do you feel well enough to answer questions? Lord Hightower will come and question you this afternoon."
Confused but curious, Napoleon agreed. He had many questions of his own, a quest for answers to understand his new reality. The maester promised to pass on the message and that a bowl of soup would be brought soon.
Yet, once he was alone, panic seized him. He stood up, his legs still weak, and headed to the window. From there he looked out over Oldtown, a town of stone buildings, soaring towers, and cobbled streets where people in strange clothes came and went. The sea in the distance sparkled under an alien sun, and he wondered with growing anxiety where he had really fallen, the immensity of his loss and displacement weighing on him like a leaden weight.
"Père…" (Father...) Napoleon murmured, invoking his Father. "Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait?" (What have I done?)
(-)(-)(-)
Napoleon had only just begun to savor the comforting warmth of the soup when a creak from the door announced an imposing presence. Ser Baelor Hightower entered, his figure clad in beautifully crafted armor, each piece of metal reflecting the torchlight, his black hair matching with the black of his house-emblazoned breastplate. His gaze, sharp as a blade, fell directly on Napoleon, who set his spoon down with calculated slowness.
"I am Ser Baelor Hightower, Heir of Oldtown." He declared in a deep, commanding voice that echoed through the room.
Napoleon, standing tall despite his precarious position, replied:
"And I, Napoleon Bonaparte, Duke of Reichstadt." " He had hoped that his title would evoke some sympathy or respect, but instead he saw Ser Baelor's brow furrow, his eyes expressing a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. Napoleon felt a wave of doubt wash over him; he did not want to be thought of as foolish.
To distract from his foreign title, he asked a question that had been nagging at him:
"Why is a maester, who appears to be a physician, dressed like a monk? In my country, physicians are often wealthy because of their valuable knowledge."
Ser Baelor, looked puzzled, his expression softening slightly. "Maesters are scholars, they serve the great houses and cities of Westeros. They wear these robes and metal chains as a sign of their knowledge and dedication to the service of others, not for their own wealth. "
Napoleon, fascinated by this social structure so different from the one he knew, listened with heightened attention.
Then came the inevitable question: "Where do you come from?"
There was a heavy silence, a pang in Napoleon's heart at the thought of France, the country he had never seen since his early childhood but cherished through stories and dreams. Reluctantly, he answered,
"I come from a country called Austria." The disappointment in his voice was palpable, as if each word was an admission of defeat.
Ser Baelor, observing this melancholy, asked with unexpected gentleness:
"Why do you sound disappointed?"
Napoleon took a deep breath, the words heavy with nostalgia.
"Austria is my mother's homeland, but my father's is France, and France... is lost to me after my father's death." The sadness in his voice was evident, an echo of past greatness and missed opportunity.
Lord Hightower, sensitive to this pain, chose not to press the subject. "What languages do you speak?" He then asked, seeking to assess the education of this stranger.
"German, Italian, French and English." Napoleon replied, listing his linguistic skills with a certain pride.
Ser Baelor, intrigued, continued, "You speak our language, yet you say you do not know our country, how is that?"
"From the continent I come from, they call this language, English. For it is the language of England, a country that is not mine but an influential country, renowned for its navy." Napoleon hated speaking English, for the English had made life difficult for his father, even destroying his dream at Waterloo.
"What do you call that language here?" He asked, trying to understand the oddity.
"The common tongue." Ser Baelor replied, a hint of irony in his voice.
Napoleon suppressed a laugh.
"It's convenient." He commented. "A bit pretentious, though, no offense."
"You're not wrong." Ser Baelor admitted wisely, a small smile playing on his lips. "Tell me, are you of noble birth?"
Napoleon instantly tensed, his eyes turned suspicious and wary. But he had already introduced himself as a Duke, perhaps the title was too foreign in Westeros for Ser Baelor to realize.
"Whether I am or not does not matter anymore, I have nothing but the blood flowing through my veins."
"I'm not interested in your blood." Ser Baelor said. "How did you lose what you had?"
"War." Napoleon answered grimly. "It happened when I was a boy, I never truly possessed anything meaningful but a loving family on my mother's side that took care of my education."
"What were you doing at sea?"
"I made a deal with the Devil."Napoleon almost answered, he did not want to lie, so he chose half-truths.
"I ran away from a miserable fate, though I never expected to arrive in a foreign land where people speak English without knowing anything about England. A land that's never been mentioned in any books or maps I have ever studied."
Ser Baelor did not comment, he simply kept examining the skinny man whose accent sounded as foreign as it was elegant.
"Do you wish to go back?"
"Yes!" Napoleon wanted to scream. "I want to go back to Europe, I want to see France, I want to sit on my Father's throne and restore his Empire!"
"I don't think I can ever go back." He answered with a sigh. "I wouldn't know what direction to take. And I don't have any money to buy a ship and a crew to take me back. I believe I am… A lost soul in the great schemes of God."
At this, Ser Baelor frowned.
"What Gods do you follow?"
"Gods?" Napoleon seemed surprised. "You have more than one?"
"Not exactly, we follow the Seven-who-are-One."
Now it was Napoleon's turn to frown, he opened his mouth to ask for more but quickly closed.
"I'm sorry but I have never heard of your religion, and if we were to have a theological conversation, we'd never see the end of it. Especially since you know nothing about my religion and I know nothing about yours."
Ser Baelor smiled at that, amused by his good sense.
"You're not wrong. Can you at least tell me the name of your religion?"
"It is christianity, catholicism in my case."
"Your case?"
Napoleon grimaced.
"Europeans are separated in many countries with many different languages and customs. We also have… different ways of worshiping the same God."
Ser Baelor snorted at that.
"That much sounds obvious. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-one."
"Why are you so thin? Did your food stocks run out on your ship?"
Napoleon took a moment to look at his thin arms and answered:
"I was sick, for a very long time.I only made a full recovery to be taken by the storm."
"It's a miracle you're alive."
Napoleon smiled.
"You don't know how true that is."
Ser Baelor spent the rest of the afternoon testing Napoleon's knowledge, wondering about his homeland, its customs and its conflicts. Napoleon did his best to hide the fact that he was the son of an Emperor and the grandson of another.
But when Ser Baelor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, the Eaglet felt a shiver of dread run down his spine.
For on his handkerchief, the coat of arms of the imperial French house was embroidered.
Not his own coat of arms, his own coat of arms were gules with two passing lions and a gold divide, the oval shield held by two sable and gold griffins each holding a war banner with the arms. Ducal hat and mantle.
No… These coat of arms was his father's, Azure with an imperial gold eagle, encroaching a thunderbolt. The crown, closed and topped with a globe surmounted by a cross, uses the eagles as arches, interspersed between stylized feathers. The scepter and the hand of justice reproduce the honors of Charlemagne used during the coronation. The grand collar of the Order of the Legion of Honor surrounds the shield. The mantle of gules, lined with ermine au naturel, sown with bees of gold and fringed in the same way, bears a braid of vine shoots and grapes. The two visible angles of the mantle show two pentagrammic stars of gold.
Ser Baelor took a moment to look at the Imperial Eagle, and asked with a tone that was surprisingly gentle:
"Is this the sigil of your House?"
"It is…" Was Napoleon timid answer.
"Why is there a crown on your sigil?"
Napoleon bit his lip, he couldn't lie, this man had kept this handkerchief well hidden during their entire conversation, he had known what kind of man had washed off his shores.
A bitter smile drew itself on the Eaglet's lips.
"This sigil is seventeen years too old, the crown is not necessary nowadays."
"Is it? Tell me, Napoleon Bonaparte, are you a threat to my people?"
"No."
"Do you bring war upon our shores?"
"I sincerely doubt that.I do not know where I am and I doubt anyone in Europe knows where Westeros is. And the war ended seventeen years ago, unless I were to lead an army back inside my own country, no one in Europe has reasons to fear me."
"Don't you wish to take back what's been taken from your family?"
"I wish I could." Was Napoleon's honest answer. "But I cannot do it, it's been seventeen years, and I'm alone with no allies and no support. I don't even know where to go to reach my country. I doubt I could ever find it again. And no one in Europe is stupid enough to start a war with a foreign country they know nothing about, especially over a castaway. I did not run away from my father's enemies, I ran from… a fate worse than death."
Ser Baelor slightly furrowed his brows.
"What fate are you talking about?"
"A meaningless life."
The knight's eyes widened for a second, his firm, inflexible stature softened slightly and he uncrossed his arms. He took one last look at the handkerchief before giving it back to Napoleon who retrieved it with hidden relief.
"Was your father a knight?" Ser Baelor asked.
Napoleon took a moment to remember his history, before he answered:
"We haven't had knights in… three centuries I believe. My father was a protector of our faith, though, and a fearless man who was admired and loved by his soldiers and officers."
Ser Baelor took a moment to ignore the dread that a world without knights inspired him.
"What about you, Napoleon?"
A moment of silence passed, then a second… Until a loud, bitter and dry snort escaped the Duke of Reichstadt's mouth.
"Me… I'm just his son."
And just like that, Ser Baelor knew what he had meant by 'meaningless life'.
"I see…"
Another moment of silence happened, during which Ser Baelor Hightower seemed to ponder a decision, Napoleon simply waited for him to speak.
"Have you been told of what the Citadel was?"
"No."
"It is as much as a place to heal the sick as it is an academy for the ones eager to learn. It is the perfect place for an ignorant foreigner to land."
Unsurprisingly, Napoleon doubted that it was luck that had brought him here.
"A ignorant foreigner without money, unable to even feed himself without a proper trade, let alone to attend an academy."
"You do not have to worry about this, I'm willing to offer you asylum in Oldtown in father's name for a period of one year."
Napoleon's eyebrows shot up to the ceiling, needless to say he hadn't expect such generosity.
Napoleon asked with caution mixed with curiosity:
"Why would you go so far for a stranger who could be mad or lying?"
"A madman could not invent languages, and you speak three that I do not understand. As for my mercy, well, as a pious man, I hope that the Gods will remember my generosity, should one day, one of my sons find himself in the same situation as you."
These words touched Napoleon deeply, rekindling a spark of hope within him.
However, he had grown up at his grandfather's Imperial Court, and was sufficiently experienced to understand his interlocutor's potential goal.
"I thank you for your generosity, yet I suppose you expect me to share my knowledge with you maesters in order to… perhaps gain access to concepts that would contribute to the prosperity of your house. Am I wrong?"
"What you are, is intelligent." Was Ser Baylor's amused answer. "Perhaps a man with talents could earn a few more years of asylum, should he prove himself, that is."
Napoleon snorted loudly, it was practical, he could respect a practical man.
"May this man with potential talents ask for a more nourishing meal? The sooner he starts working, the better. Don't you think?"
"I'll speak with the maester." Ser Baelor said as he opened the door, ending their interview. "I'll keep an eye on you, Napoleon Bonaparte, do not cause me any trouble."
Napoleon wasn't given the chance to answer, as the knight left the room and closed the door. Leaving him alone with his confusion.
He did not know exactly what he was hoping for, but this unexpected hospitality in a world as foreign as Westeros gave him a new purpose, perhaps a new chance to prove himself, even if it was far from anything he had known.
"I can't believe this…" He said. "Where in God's name have I landed?"
Yet, despite his confusion and state of despair, he felt something rise in his chest; excitement.
He was alive!
He wanted to get out, to explore the world and see what it had to offer. But he needed to trade carefully, he was a foreigner in a land he knew nothing about. Meaning he needed to follow the rules.
He looked down on the rags that he was wearing, then on his skinny arms. He went back to his now cold bowl of soup and drank it in one go. He was still hungry, but he didn't worry, better food would be served soon.
He stood up once more, looked down and shook his head in disappointment.
"This is so humiliating." He said in French. "Here I am, Napoleon Bonaparte, a beggar in all but name."
Yet, despite his state, despite his fear, despite his confusion, he smiled in relief.
AN: Hope you guys have enjoyed the first chapter of this new story!
Napoleon II was nicknamed the Eaglet posthumously, by Edmond Rostand in a play written in the Eaglet's honor in 1900. But I liked it so I kept it.
To read early:
Chapter 2: "The Learning Eaglet"
Chapter 3: "Franz the Archer"
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w w w . p a t r(e)on (slash) MonsieurLAH
Enjoy reading!