To read early:
Chapter 3: "Napoleon the Archer"
Chapter 4: "Toulon"
Chapter 5: "The Road to Ambition
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Chapter II : The Learning Eaglet
The wind of Oldtown carried the scent of salt and warm stone, a mix that filled Napoleon Francis Bonaparte's lungs and reminded him at every moment that he was no longer home. The city sprawled beneath his eyes from the narrow window of the small chamber Lord Hightower had granted him, in a discreet wing of the Hightower. Slate roofs gleamed under the sun, and the colossal lighthouse dominated the harbor, its eternal flame defying the heavens. It was a splendid city, in its way, but it was not Vienna, still less Paris. It was not France, the dream that still burned in his heart like a fever.
Franz—for that is what he called himself, the name Napoleon too strange, too heavy for these lands—knew he was no longer the Duke of Reichstadt. That title, like his world, had dissolved in the vortex that spat him onto this beach. He was but a castaway, a stranger, Napoleon Francis Bonaparte, a name that made guards chuckle and maesters frown. He had no lands, no gold, no crown.
Only his blood, his mind, and a year of asylum under Ser Baelor Hightower's roof. A year to become something, or to become nothing again.
He had thought, at first, that the voice in the flames had deceived him, perhaps damned him.
But no. This world, Westeros, was real. The waves that nearly drowned him, the sand he had felt under his nails, the wary glances of men in armor—all too vivid to be a dying man's delirium.
He was alive, more alive than he had ever been in his Austrian cage. And yet, he walked a tightrope, between hope and fear, between ambition and oblivion.
The first weeks in Oldtown were a whirlwind of learning and caution.
Napoleon had sworn himself to conceal his past, at least the truths that might mark him as a madman or a sorcerer.
Not a word about cannons that could reduce a wall to rubble, nor rifles that could kill a man at a hundred paces.
Not a word about his father, the Emperor, whose name alone might condemn him in a world where the King killed potential rivals on a whim. He spoke little of Europe, saying only that he came from a distant land, Austria, and that France, the homeland of his heart, was lost.
It was enough to explain his melancholy, and the people of Oldtown, curious but not cruel, did not press.
His education, however, was a weapon he could not entirely hide. Foresti, his tutor, had taught him mathematics, geometry, strategy—disciplines in which he excelled. Baumgartner had instructed him in physics, chemistry, the laws of nature, knowledge that seemed almost magical here.
But in Westeros, the maesters, with their chains of silver, iron, or bronze, seemed frozen in ancient knowledge, dusty as scribes copying scrolls without questioning them.
Napoleon was secretly outraged. How could a people stagnate so, without seeking to push the boundaries of the world? Where was the creativity, the spark that had birthed steam engines, suspension bridges, the modern armies of his time? Westeros, with its swords and armor, seemed a kingdom asleep.
Yet he learned. He learned quickly.
The master-at-arms of Oldtown, Ser Garth, a stocky man with graying hair and a piercing gaze, had taken him under his wing, not without a mocking smile.
"The oldest pupil I've ever had." He said, "but by the Seven, the most driven."
Napoleon, athletic but ignorant of the sword's art, threw himself into training with an almost desperate fervor. Each parry, each thrust, each step in the dusty courtyard was a way to prove he was more than a castaway. He learned the movements with mathematical precision, anticipating blows as he would have on an imaginary battlefield, where armies of musketeers clashed under tricolor banners.
Ser Garth, impressed despite himself, sometimes muttered that he had never seen a man progress so swiftly.
At twenty-one, Napoleon was Ser Garth's oldest student, but also his most motivated.
The training was tough, his muscles protesting the unfamiliar movements, but Napoleon, with his strategic mind and determination, quickly caught up.
Though athletic, he had never wielded a sword or worn armor—the Austrian swordsmanship he had learned was a far cry from the heavy blades of Westeros.
The Master at Arms, at first mocking, eventually recognized him as an exceptional student, not for his age, but for his thirst for knowledge and his ability to apply complex tactics.
"He learns as if his life depended on it." Ser Garth grumbled one day to Ser Baelor, in spite of himself.
Within months, Napoleon had mastered the basics of sword and shield fighting, adapting his modern military knowledge to this archaic art. He studied movements like equations, analyzing every parry and thrust with mathematical precision.
At the same time, he learned manual trades to survive.
Penniless, he learned carpentry from a local craftsman, hewing planks with a precision that impressed his master. He also took an interest in agriculture, studying the rudimentary methods of the Reach's peasants.
Secretly, he dreamed of reintroducing innovations—improved plows, irrigation systems—but he soon encountered an obstacle: the lack of resources like sufficient iron or gunpowder.
He attempted to recreate the latter, mixing coal, sulfur, and saltpeter, but without the precise tools of his time, his experiments failed, producing only acrid fumes and weak explosions. Frustrated, he kept these failures to himself, refusing to reveal the existence of such a weapon.
Over time, Baelor Hightower developed a deep respect for Napoleon, not only for his education but also for his humility and prudence.
Baelor saw in him a man who, despite his unknown origins and arcane knowledge, was eager to contribute without sowing chaos.
He admired his ability to adapt and learn the ways of Westeros, as well as his gesture of gratitude with the offered armor. Baelor viewed Napoleon as a potential ally, someone who could bring benefit to his house without disrupting the established order.
Lady Alerie, Baelor's wife, was initially wary of this outsider. However, she was won over by his respect for their home and his discretion. She especially appreciated his contribution to her children's education, seeing in him a model of perseverance and learning. Napoleon was quite good at keeping the children interested in his lessons. Making them count knights and swords instead of simply counting numbers.
(-)(-)(-)
In 283 AC, three months after his arrival and a few months before the end of the Rebellion, Napoleon attracted the attention of the maesters of the Citadel, who heard of this learned foreigner through rumors in Oldtown and a report from the Maester of the Hightowers. During a visit, Maester Petyr questioned him on a variety of subjects—history, navigation, economics. Napoleon answered cautiously, revealing just enough to fascinate without betraying his origins. The maesters, amazed by his grasp of geometry and physics, petitioned Lord Hightower for him to stay and study at the Citadel. Ser Baelor, seeing him as an asset, lent him a sum in gold dragons to finance his studies at the Citadel, on the condition that he share his knowledge. Napoleon agreed, determined to limit what he would reveal.
The maesters of the Citadel saw in Napoleon a treasure. His knowledge, even sparingly shared, fascinated them. During an evening in a tapestry-lined hall, a maester named Larn—a wizened old man with a heavy chain and greedy eyes—pressed him with questions about mathematics. Napoleon spoke of algebraic equations, Euclidean geometry, careful not to mention modern applications like artillery or navigation.
The maesters, awestruck, petitioned Lord Hightower to fund Napoleon's studies at the Citadel.
"A mind like his must not be wasted." Larn declared, and Ser Baelor, ever calculating, agreed to lend the gold.
Napoleon had hesitated. Studying at the Citadel meant being even more indebted to Ser Baelor, if he did not find a way to repay him, he would become his lackey for the rest of his days.
But he had no choice. Without money, without title, he depended on the Hightowers' generosity, and a year passed quickly.
So he bowed, vowing inwardly to reveal only what was necessary.
Napoleon entered the Citadel as a novice, a rare status for a man with no known lineage in Westeros. He settled into an austere cell; a straw bed, and a rickety table, but he didn't care: he was there to learn and to grow.
And he did, he devoured the library's manuscripts, studying Westeros' history with fascination mixed with disbelief.
The conquests of Aegon the Conqueror reminded him of Alexander the Great, the struggles of the Targaryens evoked the European Wars of Succession, and the wildlings of the North reminded him of the barbarian tribes of antiquity. He recorded these parallels in a secret notebook, written in French so that no one could decipher it.
He shared morsels of knowledge—basic physics, military strategy—but kept the secrets that could upend this world. The maesters, eager, took notes, and Napoleon, in return, devoured their scrolls.
The history of Westeros captivated him. The Targaryens, with their dragons and conquest, reminded him of the empires of his world, but wilder, crueler.
The struggles between houses, the betrayals, the civil wars echoed the intrigues of European courts, but here, blood flowed more freely, oaths broke like twigs.
He read the maesters' chronicles with a fascination tinged with dread, comparing Westeros's battles to his father's. Austerlitz, Wagram, Friedland—names that had no echo here but haunted his nights.
One afternoon, as he studied in a Citadel hall, a septon named Meribald came to him. The man, with a wrinkled face but lively eyes, wanted to instruct the foreigner Napoleon was to the one true religion.
Napoleon, cautious, avoided mentioning Christianity, saying only that his people worshipped a single god.
Meribald spoke of the Seven, facets of one deity, and Napoleon, listening, couldn't help but compare. The Father, just and stern, resembled the God of Scripture.
The Mother evoked the Virgin Mary. But the Seven, with their Septs and crystals, seemed both closer and stranger than anything he had known.
He asked questions, eager to learn, and Meribald, delighted, lent him a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.
Napoleon read it in one night, noting the parallels but keeping his thoughts to himself.
Each day, Napoleon felt both more anchored and more lost.
He learned the sword with Ser Garth, studied with the maesters, listened to the septon's tales.
But one question gnawed at him: why was he here? The voice in the flames had promised a life, a chance at greatness.
But what greatness could he achieve in a world where he was a stranger without name, army, or crown?
He thought of his father, of that nightmare where the Emperor looked at him with horror.
"What have you done?" He had asked. Napoleon the second had no answer.
In moments of solitude, he stood by the window, gazing at the sea that had spat him out.
He thought of France, of the tricolor flag he had seen only in his father's tales. He thought of his soul, sold for an uncertain promise.
Was he damned? Was he free? He did not know.
But he knew one thing: he was Napoleon Francis Bonaparte, and he would not fade away. Not here. Not now. Westeros was a chessboard, and he would learn to play it. For his father. For himself. For history, wherever it was written.
Yet… The melancholy he felt, was treacherous and painful, the memory of his father and the ambition he had inherited from him were his sole motivators to keep moving forward. But his dreams of grandeur were often slapped out of his mind by the harsh reality of his situation.
During his moments of solitude, as he gazed at the sea, he sometimes sang, not the 'Chant du Départ' that his father's soldiers had sang during their campaigns, but a sadder one, 'Te souviens-tu?', a song that described a former officer of theGrande Arméerunning into an old comrade who once saved his life, begging in the streets. He sings of the glories once achieved byNapoleon's troops in their past campaigns.
Whenever he felt melancholic, Napoleon thought of his father and sang it, for it was the only dignified way he had found to squeeze the sorrow out of his chest. For every time he sang it, a tear ran down his cheek.
Te souviens-tu, disait un capitaine
Au vétéran qui mendiait son pain,
Te souviens-tuqu'autrefois dans la plaine,
Tu détournas un sabre de mon sein?
Sous les drapeaux d'une mère chérie,
Tous deux jadis nous avons combattu;
Je m'en souviens, car je te dois la vie:
Mais, toi, soldat, dis-moi,t'en souviens-tu?
Te souviens-tude ces jours trop rapides,
Où le Français acquit tant de renom!
Te souviens-tuque sur les pyramides,
Chacun de nous osa graver son nom?
Malgré les vents, malgré la terre et l'onde,
On vit flotter, après l'avoir vaincu,
Nos étendards sur le berceau du monde:
Dis-moi, soldat, dis-moi,t'en souviens-tu?
Te souviens-tuque les preux d'Italie
Ont vainement combattu contre nous?
Te souviens-tuque les preux d'Ibérie
Devant nos chefs ont plié les genoux?
Te souviens-tu qu'aux champs de l'Allemagne
Nos bataillons, arrivant impromptu,
En quatre jours ont fait une campagne:
Dis-moi, soldat, dis-moi,t'en souviens-tu?
Te souviens-tude ces plaines glacées
Que les Français, abordaient en vainqueur,
Et sur leurs fronts les neiges amassées
Glacer leurs corps sans refroidir leurs cœurs?
Souvent alors, au milieu des alarmes,
Nos pleurs coulaient, mais notre œil abattu
Brillait encore lorsqu'on volait aux armes
Dis-moi, soldat, dis-moi,t'en souviens-tu?
Te souviens- tuqu'un jour notre patrie
Vivante encore descendit au cercueil,
Et que l'on vit, dansLutèceflétrie,
Les étrangers marcher avec orgueil?
Garde en ton cœur ce jour pour le maudire,
Garde en ton cœur ces voix qui se sont tues,
Qu'un chef jamais n'ait besoin de te dire:
Dis-moi, soldat, dis-moi,t'en souviens-tu?
Te souviens-tu?...Mais ici ma voix tremble,
Car je n'ai plus de noble souvenir;
Bientôt, l'ami, nous pleurerons ensemble,
En attendant un meilleur avenir.
Mais si la mort, planant sur nos chaumières,
Me rappelait le repos qui m'est dû,
Tu fermeras doucement ma paupière,
En me disant Soldat,t'en souviens-tu
(Do you remember, said a captain,
To a veteran begging for bread
Do you remember back when on the plain
You deflected a saber from my breast?
Under the flag of a dear mother
We both fought long ago
I remember it, for I owe you my life:
But you, soldier, tell me, do you remember it?
Do you remember the days too short
When France gained so much renown?
Do you remember how on the pyramids
Each of us dared to engrave his name?
Despite the winds, despite the earth and waves,
We saw fluttering, after victory,
Our standard over the cradle of the world:
Tell me, soldier, tell me, do you remember it?
Do you remember how the brave men of Italy
Fought in vain against us?
Do you remember how the brave men of Iberia
Bent their knees before our leaders?
Do you remember how on the fields of Germany
Our battalions, arriving impromptu,
Ran a campaign in four days:
Tell me, soldier, tell me, do you remember it?
Do you remember the icy plains
Where the French, attacking triumphantly,
Saw ahead of them the heaps of snow
Freeze their bodies without cooling their hearts?
Then often in between the alarms
Our tears flowed, but our dispirited eyes
Still shined when we flew into battle:
Tell me, soldier, tell me, do you remember it?
Do you remember how one day, our homeland,
Still alive, was laid down in her coffin
And how we saw in the withered Lutetia
Foreigners marching with pride!
Engrave that day in your heart to curse it
And when Bellone finally appears,
A chief would never need to say to you
Tell me, soldier, tell me, do you remember it?
Do you remember… but now my voice trembles
For I have no more noble memories,
Come here friend, let us cry together
Waiting for a better future
But if death, hovering over my cottage
Calls me to a deserved rest
You will gently close my eyes
Saying to me: soldier, do your remember it?)
(-)(-)(-)
Napoleon had joined the Citadel three months ago, thanks to Lord Hightower's gold, and already he had plunged into their disciplines with a voracity that surprised even the most jaded maesters. His mind, sharpened by Foresti and Baumgartner, absorbed everything: mathematics, astronomy, medicine, history, strategy. But he kept his boldest thoughts to himself, recorded in a notebook written in French, a language unknown here, safe from prying eyes. This notebook was his refuge, his secret battlefield, where he jotted ideas that could transform Westeros—but which he would never reveal, lest he be branded a sorcerer or give this world weapons it did not understand. Just like they did not understand what the name Napoleon Bonaparte meant.
Napoleon had hidden the many names he had, finding only reasons to keep his father's and grandfather's names as well as his family name. He had been named after two Emperors, and even though Westerosis knew nothing of their greatness, Napoleon would remember them and honor them, even though, he could only be called 'Franz' as he had been called in Schönbrunn, in order not to sound too foreign.
Napoleon first focused on disciplines where he could excel without betraying his origins. The maesters' mathematics, though solid, were rudimentary, limited to practical geometry and basic arithmetic.
He studied their treatises with ease, silently correcting errors he dared not voice. Astronomy, however, fascinated him: the maesters mapped the stars with remarkable precision, but their theories on celestial movements were embryonic.
Napoleon, versed in Newtonian physics, saw opportunities for more accurate calculations, predictions he kept to himself.
Medicine, though, shocked him.
The maesters knew herbs, sutures, bone-setting, but their remedies often bordered on superstition.
They knew nothing of germs, hygiene, or basic chemical principles. Napoleon, trained in the rudiments of his era's science, saw in their practices a tragic stagnation.
He studied their methods, asking innocuous questions, but in his notebook, he recorded revolutionary ideas: the need to boil instruments, the importance of clean water, the principles of antisepsis he had learned from Baumgartner.
Military strategy, taught by the maester with the black iron link, was a field where Napoleon shone. Westerosis knew sieges, pikemen formations, cavalry tactics, but their ideas seemed locked in a medieval past.
Napoleon, raised in the shadow of Napoleonic campaigns, saw flaws: armies too slow, supply lines vulnerable, a dire lack of coordination, and of course, no meritocracy, Lords who had sit their asses their whole lives suddenly became battle commanders when a conflict arose. Incompetence was not strong enough of a word for this.
He studied the scrolls with iron discipline, but in his notebook, he sketched formations inspired by his father's divisional system, rapid maneuvers, tactical uses of terrain he dared not share.
He also took an interest in metallurgy, though the maesters were not smiths.
Their knowledge of Valyrian steel, rare and near-mythical, fascinated him, but their understanding of alloys was limited.
Napoleon, with his grasp of chemistry, imagined ways to improve forging, to produce lighter, stronger steel.
These ideas, he kept to himself, noted in French in his notebook, where he also wrote of hydraulics, suspension bridges, steam engines—concepts that, if applied, could transform Westeros, but which he deemed too dangerous to reveal.
Yet, Napoleon recorded his thoughts with almost military discipline. Here are some excerpts:
On Medicine, he wrote:
"The maesters heal with herbs and prayers, but they know nothing of the true nature of disease. If I could teach them hygiene, the use of alcohol to disinfect, or even the rudiments of vaccination, thousands of lives could be saved. But how to explain without revealing where I come from? This knowledge could make me suspect, or worse, mark me as an alchemist. I must remain silent, for now."
On Military Strategy, he wrote:
"Westeros's armies are brave but disorganized. Their battles are brutal melees, without the precision of a Grande Armée. A division into autonomous corps, with officers trained in improvisation, could crush any house. If I were to command here, I would teach mobility, the use of reserves, artillery—but without cannons, how? Crossbows, perhaps, if standardized and mass-produced. An idea to explore, but to keep secret."
On Metallurgy and Mechanics, he wrote:
"Valyrian steel is a marvel, but rare. With coal and better control of furnaces, they could produce comparable steel in quantity. Their water mills are primitive; a simple turbine could multiply their efficiency. And if I spoke of steam engines? No, too risky. This world is not ready."
He grumbled, there was so much and he was only a man. He went to clean his face with water and mumbled:
"Westeros is a kingdom of swords and oaths, but it lacks unity. The houses tear each other apart like European kingdoms before the Empire. A centralized administration, a code of laws, a standing army—this could make this continent an empire. But I am only a stranger. For now, I must learn, observe, wait. But…"
He sighed, of dismay and exhaustion.
"Westeros's history is a distorted mirror of Europe. The Targaryens united a continent, as my father tried, but they did so with fire and blood, not ideas. Here, there is no Rousseau, no Voltaire, no Civil Code. The maesters hoard knowledge but do not spread it. The lords rule but do not govern. If I had an army, a flag, a cause… could I change this world? Or would I be another fool, broken by ambition?"
The history of Westeros, as he discovered in the Citadel's scrolls, was a tale of blood, fire, and betrayal. The maesters lent him detailed chronicles: Aegon's Conquest, the wars of the First Men, the reigns of the Targaryens, the rebellions, the Dance of the Dragons.
Napoleon read with a fascination tinged with dread, comparing each page to Europe's history.
The Targaryens, with their dragons and ambition, reminded him of his father, but their fall, caused by their own divisions, echoed the fragility of empires. The Starks, honorable but rigid, seemed akin to the Habsburgs, while the Lannisters, with their cunning and gold, recalled London's bankers who had funded his father's downfall.
What struck him most was Westeros's instability. The houses fought for thrones, titles, grudges centuries old, never seeking to build something lasting. He saw in their wars an echo of Europe's conflicts—the Wars of Religion, the struggles for supremacy—but without the Enlightenment's spark, without the Revolution that had given France a new soul, even if it had devoured its children.
Westeros, with its unpredictable seasons and superstitions, seemed trapped in an endless cycle of violence.
Napoleon learned, day by day, to navigate this world, to understand its rules, its flaws, its possibilities. He learned the sword with Ser Garth, science with the maesters, faith with Septon Meribald. But in his heart, he remained a Bonaparte, and he dreamed of greatness.
As he gazed at the sea from his window, he murmured to himself:
"If I cannot be an emperor here, I will be something else. A general, a scholar, a liberator. Westeros does not yet know who I am. But it will."
Then he closed his notebook, slipped it under his mattress, and slept, haunted by his father's face, the laugh of the flames, and the uncertain future awaiting him in this unforgiving world.
(-)(-)(-)
The maesters had lent him volumes on Essos, the continent to the east, and Napoleon devoured them with a fascination laced with wariness.
Essos was a patchwork of city-states, wild plains, and ancient ruins, a world where gold, slavery, and trade reigned supreme.
The Free Cities, with their opulent merchants and mercenary armies, reminded him of Italy's merchant republics—Venice, Genoa—but larger, more chaotic.
Braavos, with its Iron Bank and colossal Titan, evoked London, the financial power that had funded his father's downfall.
Yet Braavos, with its laws against slavery, seemed to carry a shadow of justice, an idea he secretly admired.
The Dothraki, nomadic horsemen of the plains, fascinated him more.
Their savagery, mobility, and lack of fixed structures recalled the Cossacks, but more brutal, freer. He saw in them raw power, but undisciplined, incapable of uniting for lasting conquest.
"The Dothraki are a storm without direction. A light cavalry army, well-trained, could sweep them aside or rally them. French discipline, trained officers, and they could become a fearsome weapon. But who could tame them?"
The history of Valyria, an ancient power destroyed by cataclysm, troubled him deeply. The Valyrians, with their dragons and magical steel, evoked Rome, but a Rome fueled by sorcery he could not fathom.
Their fall, caused by their own arrogance, echoed his father's mistakes. The Emperor had wanted too much, too fast, and Europe had united against him.
Valyria had been broken by gods or nature—Napoleon wasn't sure what to believe.
"Valyria is a warning. An empire built on fire and blood endures only if its foundations are strong. Westeros and Essos are divided, fragmented. A firm hand, an enlightened mind, could unite them. But at what cost?"
Essos, as a whole, seemed to him a fertile chaos, a place where a bold man could carve an empire, but only if he mastered war, trade, and diplomacy. Napoleon, raised in the shadow of Napoleonic campaigns, saw in this continent a chessboard, but a dangerous one, where every piece could turn against its master.
(-)(-)(-)
The Citadel's lessons on war, taught by the maester with the black iron link, were a mix of epic tales and outdated tactics. Napoleon, trained in modern strategy by the tutors of the Austrian Empire and steeped in his father's campaigns, found Westeros's armies both impressive and archaic.
The formations of pikemen, heavy cavalry charges, and endless sieges recalled the medieval wars he had studied—Crecy, Agincourt—but without the tactical revolution of firearms.
The maesters described battles where thousands clashed in brutal melees, where honor and bravery often trumped strategy. Napoleon, accustomed to Napoleonic corps d'armée, organized into autonomous divisions with supply lines and devastating artillery, saw flaws everywhere: armies too slow, supply lines vulnerable, a dire lack of coordination. The lords, too attached to their banners, often refused centralized command.
"These armies are feudal hordes, not instruments of war. A centralized force, with trained officers and a clear chain of command, could crush any house. Crossbows, well-used, could mimic the effect of muskets, but they treat them like toys. If I commanded here, I would reorganize everything: mobile reserves, scouts, protected supply lines."
He studied Westeros's weapons: swords, spears, longbows, crossbows. Valyrian steel, rare and precious, was a marvel, but the heavy armor of knights seemed an anachronism.
In his world, a cannonball or a volley of rifles would reduce such armor to scrap. Yet he admired the knights' discipline, their courage, their mastery of the blade.
Whenever he trained with Ser Garth, learning to wield a sword with a precision that surprised his teacher, he imagined hybrid armies, blending the knights' discipline with the Dothraki's mobility and his father's tactical precision.
(-)(-)(-)
The Citadel was a sanctuary, but also a labyrinth of ideas and whispers, where Napoleon Francis Bonaparte, or Franz as he was called in the walls, spent his days deciphering a world not his own. The pale morning light filtered through his cell's windows, illuminating scattered scrolls on his table.
The chronicles of Westeros, which he studied with near-feverish intensity, told a story of fire and blood, nowhere more evident than in the Rebellion of Robert Baratheon, a revolt shaking the continent in this year 282 after Aegon's Conquest. Napoleon saw in this war a chance to learn, to understand, and perhaps, one day, to shape.
The maesters, though cautious in their words, could not silence the events tearing Westeros apart.
Napoleon, with his mind trained in analyzing European wars, dove into the Rebellion like a general dissecting a campaign.
The causes, as reported by the maesters and the harbor's rumors, were a mix of betrayal, love, and madness. The Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen, had lit the spark by savagely executing Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon, accused of treason after Prince Rhaegar, heir to the throne, abducted Lyanna Stark, Robert Baratheon's betrothed. This scandal, coupled with Aerys's growing tyranny, had ignited the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands, united under Robert's banner.
Napoleon, raised in the shadow of Habsburg intrigues and the stories of Napoleonic wars, saw echoes of his world in this rebellion.
Aerys's madness recalled the excesses of some European monarchs, men who lost their crowns through pride or despair.
Rhaegar, with his charisma and tragic romanticism, evoked a Byronic hero, but also Paris of Troy, a man whose passions sparked a cataclysm.
Lyanna Stark, at the heart of the storm, remained an enigma—a woman whose shadow loomed over the war, whether victim or accomplice.
The Dornish, loyal to the Targaryens through Elia Martell's marriage to Rhaegar, added complexity, their loyalty clashing with the North's fury led by Eddard Stark.
"The Baratheon Rebellion is a mix of justice and chaos." Napoleon thought. "Aerys is a tyrant, like Robespierre and his terrorists, but his madness seems deeper, more destructive. Rhaegar, through love or ambition, broke a kingdom's balance. The Starks and Baratheons fight for honor, but honor does not win wars. If I were in their place, I would have unified the rebels under a central command, with clear supply lines and a strategy to isolate King's Landing. But here, everything is personal—oaths, vendettas. This is not a war, it's a damn feud."
The fall of the Targaryens, which he learned of in 283 as news of Robert's victory at the Trident and Tywin Lannister's sack of King's Landing reached Oldtown, left him pensive.
The Targaryens, with their dragons and near-divine lineage, were a symbol of unity, but also arrogance.
Their fall, orchestrated by the Lannisters' betrayal and Robert's fury, recalled the end of his father's Empire, broken by a coalition of kingdoms and the treachery of allies.
He admired the rebels' resilience but scorned their lack of vision. Robert, now king, seemed more warrior than ruler, and Napoleon doubted he could hold a fractured realm.
"The Targaryens fell as my father fell—through their own excesses and the betrayal of those they thought loyal. Robert is a conqueror, not a builder. This kingdom, without a code, without administration, will sink into new wars. If I had been there, I would have urged the rebels not just to overthrow, but to build. An empire, not a throne."
(-)(-)(-)
In a single year, Napoleon had made staggering progress at the Citadel, his intelligence and discipline impressing even the most skeptical maesters.
The maesters' training, though rigorous, was accessible to a mind like his, forged by princely education and a thirst for knowledge.
By 283, he had forged several links of his maester's chain, a feat that had impressed many acolytes and maesters, but a success that sparked far too much envy and attention towards the hidden Napoleon.
The Silver Link of medicine had been easy, Napoleon, with his nineteenth-century medical knowledge, surpassed the maesters in understanding hygiene and anatomy.
Though he hid advanced concepts like antisepsis, he showed mastery in diagnostics and herbal treatments, quickly learning Westerosi practices while suggesting subtle improvements. The maesters, impressed by his precision granted him this link without hesitation.
His knowledge of algebra and geometry, inherited from Foresti, far exceeded the maesters' treatises. He solved their problems with an ease bordering on arrogance, and his demonstrations, though cautious, earned him the link of mathematics in months.
Trained in military strategy, Napoleon also excelled in studying Westerosi tactics, though he found them outdated. His analyses of historical battles, like Aegon's Conquest, and his veiled suggestions for improving formations won the respect of the maester teaching this subject.
The black iron link of warfare was the easiest to earn.
His Newtonian physics and precise calculations of stellar movements impressed the maesters, though he avoided advanced concepts like confirmed heliocentrism.
He mastered their star charts and earned the bronze link of Astronomy with relative ease.
In disciplines like history, things got harder. Even though he studied Westerosi history passionately, he was still a novice in its complex details, and the maesters required encyclopedic knowledge.
Similarly, fields like smithing or alchemy were less accessible, requiring manual practice he had not yet mastered.
The maesters of the Citadel watched Napoleon with a mix of fascination, admiration, and suspicion. His arrival, a castaway from nowhere, had sparked whispers. His name, Napoleon Francis Bonaparte, sounded odd, almost comical, but his erudition quickly silenced them. He mastered mathematics with an ease that surpassed some maesters, correcting their calculations with a politeness that barely masked his impatience. His questions on astronomy, medicine, and strategy were precise, incisive, like those of a man who knew more than he let on.
Maester Larn, the most influential, saw him as a prodigy, but a dangerous one.
"He learns faster than any novice," he confided one evening to his colleagues in a private Citadel chamber. "But he hides something. His languages—'French,' 'German,' 'Italian'—are not inventions. He comes from a place he will not name."
Others, like Maester Gormon, saw opportunity. "His knowledge is exotic, but useful." He said. "If he shares even a fraction of what he knows, the Citadel could profit."
They noted his zeal, his discipline, but also his cautious silence.
He never spoke of his past, save for a vague 'Austria' and a 'France' lost. Some maesters, superstitious, wondered if he was tied to some ancient magic, an emissary of a forgotten realm. Others, more pragmatic, saw him as a fallen noble, a man of high birth seeking to rebuild his name.
Ser Baelor Hightower, who funded his studies, shared his impression with the maesters: "He is educated like a prince, but carries the weight of an exile. He could be an asset to Oldtown, or a danger. Watch him."
The fact that this foreigner was capable of forging a heavy chain in a single year was a feat maesters had rarely seen in all their years. Napoleon shown a thirst for knowledge not even the most devoted acolytes possessed, they saw in him a curious mind open to the mysteries of the world and the practicality of his past.
Maester Harras, as a younger man, was enthusiastic about learning the agricultural and resource management techniques Napoleon shared. He saw in him the potential to modernize some of Westeros' ancient practices, although he was aware of the limits Napoleon imposed on himself in sharing his knowledge.
Master Orwyn, a specialist in history, often debated Napoleon, comparing the tales of Westeros with those of Europe. He found his historical knowledge stimulating but feared that Napoleon might introduce concepts that might shake men's faith in the traditions of their world. Napoleon, perhaps because he was influenced by his Austrian family's conservatism, well aware of that fear and took it seriously. He did not need people to believe he was a wizard, nor did he need to start a cult or worse, a Revolution.
His link in Valyrian steel was more of a caprice, and how could he, of all people, reject magic when he appeared out of thin air in a strange new world ? World whose mysteries, he knew for sure, were more than mere legends.
The general opinion on Napoleon in Oldtown was tinged with respect, curiosity, and a slight apprehension about the implications of his knowledge. He was seen as a scholar, a cautious innovator, but also as an outsider whose true intentions and full capabilities remained, in part, a mystery.
It was acceptable from Napoleon's point of view, they could have thought him insane or a madman, he could have ended up a beggar in the harbor or an innovating craftsman in a workshop. Chills had ran down his spine at that thought, yes, he wanted to live, but he was also a Bonaparte. And perhaps, just perhaps, the Rebellion could be what the French Revolution had been for his father ?
It was doubtful since he was not Westerosi, but at the very least, maybe a new way to greatness would open.
Napoleon the second of his name sighed, he was in the library, again, reading, again, and losing himself in the History of Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms, and the Great Families, again.
For if there was one thing about Westeros he loved, it was its history.
With his XIXth-century European education, Napoleon had a complex and comparative view of the history of Westeros. He was fascinated by the richness of the stories, dynastic intrigues, and wars that had shaped the continent.
Napoleon dove into Westeros's history with near-military rigor, devouring maesters' chronicles on Targaryen reigns, the wars of the First Men, and the recent Rebellion of Robert Baratheon.
He analyzed the noble houses—Stark, Lannister, Tyrell, Martell—like European kingdoms, noting their strengths, weaknesses, and fragile alliances.
Westerosi politics, with its feudal oaths and betrayals, recalled Europe before the French Revolution, where nobles ruled by blood, not merit.
He admired the Starks' resilience but scorned their rigidity; he respected the Lannisters' cunning but saw their ambition as a danger.
The Tyrells, lords of the Reach, seemed opportunists, ready to switch sides to survive, much like the Habsburgs in their less glorious moments.
The Rebellion of Robert, which he studied in detail, seemed a justified uprising against tyranny, but poorly executed.
The rebels won through brute force and luck, not coherent strategy.
"Robert Baratheon took a throne, but not a kingdom. His allies are hungry wolves, ready to tear each other apart for scraps. A centralized administration, like my father's, could unite these lands. But who will dare break the houses to forge a nation?"
Napoleon learned quickly, absorbing details of lineages, battles, and intrigues. In one year, he had gained an encyclopedic knowledge of the great houses and major events, rivaling the most advanced novices.
However, the Napoleon he was, saw a lack of centralization in Westeros, which he believed led to unnecessary conflict. He often wondered how a strong leader could unite this divided continent, comparing this chaos to Europe before his father.
Uniting the Seven Kingdoms was not an easy task, and he doubted that the new King, Robert Baratheon, more known for his strength as a warrior than his reputation as a Lord, would managed to accomplish what previous kings had failed to do. Yet, Westeros had such potential, Napoleon could see it even in the pages of that old history book.
He admired the cultural and geographical diversity of the Seven Kingdoms, each region having its own particularities, such as the Stormlands with their tempestuous climate or the North with its long winters and rustic but noble customs.
He analyzed the interactions between regions with a strategic eye, noting how geography influenced alliances and rivalries.
He was particularly interested in Dorne's strategic position, mentally comparing it to the European peninsulas.
But all in all, what had truly shaped this continent and kept doing so, were the Great Families that ruled upon those lands.
Napoleon was fascinated by House Targaryen, the history of conquest and their connection to dragons, seeing them as almost mythical figures.
He respected their ability to unify Westeros, but privately criticized how power had often been mismanaged or lost. He could not believe they had managed to lose their dragons, it was how they had managed to unite Westeros in the first place!
Without those mighty beasts, who were they but a bunch of incestuous nobles worse than the Bourbon Family?
It was no wonder they had ended up loosing the Iron Throne, thank God the other families had seen reason and not declare themselves independent, otherwise they'd still be at War!
He sighed, House Targaryen was gone now, overthrown while he had lost himself in the pages of this library.
Napoleon still remembered hearing the bells when Ser Baelor's father had returned from the war, technically defeated, as they had been on the loosing side, but with almost as much men as they had when they left.
The Reach was far from being the Kingdom who had suffered the most, the North and Dorne had lost far more than them, and the North had been on the winning side!
Napoleon liked House Stark, or more accurately, he had liked what he had read about them. He admired their sense of honor and justice, their way of governing based on loyalty and the protection of their people.
He saw in them a nobility close to the European chivalric ideal, although their resistance to change and modernity would have frustrated him had he lived among them.
Napoleon grimaced as he remembered the awful rumors he had heard in the mess hall, that King Aerys had burnt alive the Warden of the North, Rickard Stark, and strangled to death his heir, Brandon. With king as bad as that one, it was no wonder a Rebellion had risen. Napoleon was even surprised that it had not risen sooner, back during Aegon the Unworthy's rule.
Both those Kings were far worse than Louis the XVIth had been, but Aerys had had a way to delay his fall by delegating his rule to a man with the talent of Tywin Lannister.
Napoleon did not particularly like the Lannisters, even though their wealth and Machiavellianism intrigued him.
He saw them as political manipulators, reminiscent of the noble families of Europe who used their wealth to influence power. He respected their ability to survive and thrive in the power struggles of Westeros.
But the murder of children… Of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys… What in the name of God was that man hoping to accomplish by murdering those babes? Taking them as prisoners would have been more than enough to secure their place among the winners of the Rebellion.
When the seventh Coalition had managed to defeat his father, they had not murdered him in his crib and had even spared his father's life.
Despite the repeated humiliation his father had inflicted upon all those Kingdoms.
Tywin Lannister was a cruel man, a brilliant politician and an excellent ruler, but an evil man who Napoleon would have loved to face in battle.
He would have had no remorse humiliating him, while the repeated humiliations his grandfather had suffered from his father, had left conflicted feelings in his heart.
They were some of the reasons why, he chose to embrace his French identity over his Austrian's.
House Tyrell reminded him of his family, the Habsurgs of Austria, he found their dominance over Westeros' agricultural wealth and their political astuteness admirable, comparing their style of governance to that of the great European houses who knew how to use diplomacy.
The only victory the Crown had won over the Rebellion had been the battle of the Bells, won by a Reachman named Randyl Tarly, the same way his Grand-uncle, Archduke Charles, had managed to beat his Father at Essling. Before losing at Wagram.
House Baratheon was strong, Napoleon would give them that. Robert had defeated Rhaegar Targaryen in a one on one dual at the Trident, while Stannis, his little brother, had held their ancestral home for more than a year despite the army of the Reach at their door.
Their recent history of rebellion and power grabs reminded Napoleon of the revolts and coups of his own world.
He saw in them brute force mixed with a certain legitimacy, though their handling of power often seemed clumsy.
From what he'd heard from Ser Baelor, Jon Arryn seemed to be the one restructuring the Kingdom while Robert enjoyed his newly found power. Napoleon doubted his line would last if he did not produce an excellent heir. Though, with Tywin Lannister as the future King's grandfather, such a miracle was not out of option. Especially if a man like Jon Arryn was to rule while Robert was too busy entertaining himself.
House Arryn was a more conservative house, guardians of tradition, but with an important strategic position in the mountains, a force not to be underestimated. A man like Jon Arryn, if he were to live up to his House's reputation, could very well educate a Prince that could hold the Kingdoms together with a more conservative approach regarding Westerosi culture, Targaryens had blinded themselves with their Valyrian legacy for far too long. Something House Martell had used to their own advantage for almost two hundred years.
Napoleon liked the Martells, their independence and distinct Dornish culture fascinated him, their resistance to Targaryen conquest reminding him of the struggles for independence in Europe.
But the Eaglet found that they were far too isolated to truly adapt to the rest of the Realm, just like the North.
To Napoleon, the South was more or less the same Kingdom with different cultures and duchies, but the way to live, the oaths and the religion was globally the same, Dorne and the North were their own worlds.
Napoleon leaned back and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had read for too long, his candle was almost consumed and night had fallen outside the library. He chuckled at himself with how fascinated he was with Westeros. Its history was both captivating and frustrating. He admired the great families for their resilience, tradition, and sometimes ingenuity, but he couldn't help but compare this society to the one he had known, often noting in his reflections the untapped potential of a world that remained, in his opinion, in an era of stagnation despite its heroes and legends.
"So much to discover, so much to explore, so much accomplish… and for once, so little time…" He mumbled in his beard, chuckling at his own frustration.
"I should have asked for three lives instead of one."
"And what would you have done with three lives, Bonaparte?" A curious voice asked, startling the Duke of Reichstadt.
Maester Larn was standing next to him, holding a recently lit candle that illuminated his wrinkled smile.
"Mayhaps I would have considered building an Empire." Napoleon chuckled at his own joke, closing his book. Larn read the book's title.
"I see copper is the next metal you've chosen to decorate your chain."
"But not the last." Napoleon assured him. "I also wish to add tin to my collection."
The old man rose an eyebrow, surprised but not displeased that agriculture was on his apprentice's list.
"I'm surprised you're even considering it, most of us don't, peasants' work they call it."
"Starvation kills as surely as any dagger or war." Napoleon replied. "And I've been a bit lazy, algebra, geometry, medicine and warfare were subjects I already had a solid grasp on, astronomy was my first actual trial."
"A trial you've passed rather easily."
"Thanks to a man who's work you never read." He said, stretching. "I regret not studying your history more intensely sooner, I find it fascinating, your land as well."
"I'm glad to hear that." Maester Larn said, taking a sit next to his favorite student. "Most foreigners like our gold more than our land."
"Essos seems even more chaotic than Westeros." Napoleon admitted. "Believe it or not, copper is going to take me longer than any of the others."
"You don't have to study essossi history or culture to forge a copper link, Bonaparte."
"Then I wouldn't deserve that link, what's the point of rewarding a task that has only been half completed?"
Larn chuckled, conceding his point.
"I've also noticed you haven't been making a lot of friends since you've been here. I assume it is because you have no ambition to remain among us?"
Napoleon slightly grimaced, it was true that he had a hard time making friends, but that was to be expected. He was a foreigner, separated by cultural differences, visions and social status. It was true that he did not intend to spend the rest of his days in the dusty volumes of the Citadel, but it did not mean he wasn't enjoying his time among the acolytes.
"I'm sorry Maester Larn, but I escaped drowning to arrive in a whole new continent I'd never heard about, drowning myself in the citadel's books would be a disappointing fate for a man who has a whole world to explore."
The maester nodded in understanding
"That is an answer an old man can understand and accept. I have to warn you though, your mind is sharp, but it could be a double-edge sword. I do not know what ambition is driving you, but you are not the first brilliant student I have seen sharpening his mind with the intent to make a name for himself, all the others either lost their drive or found an unfortunate ending in the grand scheme of our lords and kings."
Napoleon rose an eyebrow, what was his old teacher implying? Was the son of the Emperor so easy to read for the aged mind of a wise man?
Maester Larn kept speaking:
"You must not forget that you are a foreigner, and being too good is a reasonable reason to stop you. If you become a great swordsman, you will become a target for someone else's glory, not a hero. If you become a great merchant, you will be an easy target to remove and be replaced by a local loyal to a Lord. If you become a great craftsman, you'll be either marginalized by the others or being placed under a Lord's protection, exclusively at his service, the moment someone younger steps up, you are done. Worse, if you're too good, you'll be targeted by the Lord's rivals or forced to share your secrets to multiply the production."
He gently rubbed the book Napoleon was reading.
"I see what you are doing, Bonaparte, I can tell, you want to leave a trace in those books, I can tell, you want to be remembered. But no one in the Seven Kingdoms will ever let you rise as high as you intend. Only in the Citadel, will you be able to rise among our ranks and be able to live a trace. With your own books and your own ideas, not tales written by others."
With his piece said, Maester Larn got up and left, leaving his candle to Napoleon who watched him walk away.
Napoleon did not react immediately to Larn's doubts and teachings, every argument made sense in his mind, but he also knew that his teacher wanted to profit from his knowledge as much as the next lord. What Larn had done was nothing more than an attempt to keep him where he could see him. But did it mean he was wrong, though? Napoleon doubted it, every fate that Larn had pointed was a potential scenario for his fall. Was he discouraged though? Absolutely not.
He was Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of his name, son of the Emperor of France and grandson of the Emperor of Austria. He would find a way to make a name and a life for himself.
But he needed to be patient, his father had been far too hasty and that had been his doom. Napoleon was younger than his Father had been when he had become a general.
Napoleon the first had become First Consul of France at thirty and Emperor at thirty-five, but lost everything at forty-six and died at fifty-one, alone.
Napoelon the second would take his time, he doubted he'd ever become King of Westeros, Aegon the Conqueror had been a foreigner as well, but Aegon had had dragons.
Napoleon had his mind, his history, his knowledge and his youth. A King or an Emperor, he'd never become, but a Lord?
A castle of his own and the Restoration of House Bonaparte as a noble House? It was a titanic challenge, but one he was willing to take on.
He sighed, he needed to calm his inner fire.
He was no one, an acolyte at the Citadel sponsored by Lord Hightower, to whom he was indebted. He had a long way to go, but perhaps, perhaps, he would find an opening to exploit. And in order to exploit it to its fullest, he needed to understand these lands better than a native. He reopened his book and kept on reading, knowledge was the fuel of his ambition, the means to an end. Napoleon Bonaparte would never stop trying, he died once in a bed, alone and broken, in this world, he would either triumph or die trying.
To read early:
Chapter 3: "Napoleon the Archer"
Chapter 4: "Toulon"
Chapter 5: "The Road to Ambition
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