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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Capitaine, Voltigeurs of the Young Guard
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The drums thundered, the fifes shrieked, and Captain Beaumont could taste the gunpowder in the air.
Ahead, Vinetown's walls loomed, cracked but defiant, manned by Redwynne soldiers who—despite everything—still refused to break. Damn fine stubborn bastards, I'll give them that.
He adjusted his bicorne, grinning. "Well, gentlemen, I suppose we'd better go and introduce ourselves."
The fusiliers laughed, though some did so nervously. They stood in tight ranks, muskets primed, bayonets gleaming. The tricolor snapped in the afternoon breeze, and behind them, Napoleon's cannons still roared, pounding the city's defenses.
A crash of stone and dust erupted ahead. Another section of the wall had given way. There was the opening.
Beaumont turned to his men. "Let's make the Emperor proud, eh? First through gets a drink on me—if you survive!"
They roared in approval.
Then—the bugle sounded the charge.
Storming the Walls
Beaumont ran, his boots kicking up dust, saber flashing as he led his fusiliers straight toward the breach.
The Redwynne archers fired first. Arrows hissed down, one of them thudding into the man beside him. The poor bastard yelped and tumbled forward, cursing rather than dying, which was a good sign.
"Keep moving, you lot! Or do you want a bloody pin-cushion for a grave?" Beaumont bellowed, ducking as an arrow zipped past his ear.
The fusiliers reached the breach.
Inside, the Redwynne defenders—tough, scarred men with swords and chainmail—stood in a tight formation. No muskets. No bayonets. Just steel and grit.
Beaumont grinned. This would be a proper fight.
He lunged in first, his saber slicing down, catching a Redwynne soldier across the shoulder. Steel rang on steel, men roared in fury, and blood splashed onto the rubble.
The fusiliers poured in after him, bayonets clashing with swords in a brutal, chaotic melee.
"I Hate Swords!"
Beaumont ducked a wild swing, narrowly avoiding having his head split open. He thrust his saber forward, catching his attacker in the gut.
"Oh, for God's sake, man, just die already!" he grunted as the Redwynne soldier staggered before finally collapsing.
A spear suddenly jabbed toward him. He barely had time to sidestep, smacking it aside with his saber before kicking the wielder square in the chest.
The man stumbled back, colliding with one of his comrades.
Beaumont turned to his men. "Right, boys! Bayonets do wonders against armor! Stab them where it hurts!"
The fusiliers took the advice well, lunging forward in disciplined formations. Bayonets found gaps in chainmail, forcing the defenders back, step by bloody step.
Still, the Redwynnes refused to break.
One of them—a **big brute with a greatsword—**barreled through the French line, knocking men aside like ragdolls.
Beaumont sighed. "Oh, hell."
The brute swung at him.
Beaumont barely dodged, the sword whistling past his nose.
He responded the only way he knew how.
He drew his pistol and shot the bastard in the face.
The Redwynne warrior dropped like a sack of bricks.
Beaumont exhaled, twirling his smoking pistol. "Honestly, why do people even bother with swords?"
The Breach is Taken
The fighting inside the breach turned into a rout.
With their strongest fighters cut down, the remaining Redwynne soldiers began retreating deeper into the city, their shouts mixing with the screams of civilians.
Beaumont planted a foot on a fallen enemy and turned to his men. "Alright, you miserable bastards, the wall's ours! Now let's go find the Emperor a city to conquer!"
The fusiliers cheered, raising their muskets.
Vinetown had not fallen yet. But it would.
The streets of Vinetown were a hell of fire and steel. The French fusiliers stormed through the narrow roads, stepping over the bodies of fallen Redwynne soldiers. The enemy fought savagely, unwilling to yield their home, but they were no match for the disciplined volleys of French muskets.
Johnny Beaumont led the charge, blade in hand, musket slung over his shoulder. His uniform was torn, streaked with blood—some his, most not. Smoke burned his lungs as he sprinted through the chaos, his men close behind.
"Forward, mes amis! The docks are within reach!" he shouted over the roar of battle.
A Redwynne knight barreled toward him, sword raised. Beaumont sidestepped at the last second, twisting his body as he plunged his saber into the man's gut. The knight choked, blood bubbling from his lips, before slumping to the cobblestones. Johnny yanked his sword free, barely sparing the man a glance before pushing forward.
Then, he saw it.
Beyond the collapsing Redwynne defenses, the harbor stretched before him. The masts of ships swayed like dark silhouettes against the setting sun. Dozens of vessels were preparing to set sail, their crews working frantically to escape the city before the French could take the harbor.
And then, on the deck of one of the larger ships—
A flash of red.
Lady Desmera.
Johnny nearly stumbled. His grip tightened around his saber.
Her auburn hair whipped in the salty wind, her deep red dress a stark contrast against the polished wood of the ship. She was shouting orders, urgency written all over her face.
For a brief moment, Johnny's mind went back to that night—the wine, the laughter, the teasing words whispered between stolen kisses.
And now she was sailing away.
A sharp boom cracked through the air as one of Napoleon's cannons fired toward the retreating ships.
Merde.
Johnny's heart dropped.
If she set sail, she would be nothing more than a target for the French artillery. The fleet was not escaping—not with Napoleon in command.
He cursed under his breath. She was an enemy, a Redwynne, but damned if he was going to let her get blown apart by a cannonball.
"With me! To the ships!" he bellowed, breaking into a full sprint.
The Redwynne defenders at the docks saw them coming and braced themselves. A tight formation of spearmen blocked the way, their shields locked together. Behind them, archers nocked their arrows.
"Hold ranks! Fire!"
The fusiliers dropped to one knee and fired a deadly volley. The air filled with smoke and the screams of men as the first line of Redwynne soldiers crumpled. Johnny didn't wait.
"Charge!"
Swords clashed. Muskets were used as clubs, bayonets thrust forward. The dock turned into a brawl of blood and desperation.
A Redwynne captain lunged at Johnny, a longsword swinging for his throat. Johnny ducked low, slamming his shoulder into the man's ribs before slicing across his exposed thigh. The captain crumpled with a grunt, but another soldier immediately took his place.
Johnny parried, their blades screeching against each other. The Redwynne soldier snarled and shoved forward, knocking Johnny off balance.
A gunshot rang out.
The soldier's face twisted in shock as blood bloomed across his chest.
Marcel "The Fox" Girard stood behind him, musket still smoking.
"You owe me, Capitaine," Marcel called before leaping into the fray.
Johnny grinned, wiped sweat from his brow, and sprinted toward the ship.
Desmera's ship.
The moment Johnny landed on the deck, a cutlass swung for his head.
He ducked, barely avoiding the steel. A Redwynne sailor snarled and lunged again. Johnny caught the man's wrist, twisting it hard until the cutlass clattered to the deck.
Before the sailor could react, Johnny slammed his knee into his gut and tossed him overboard.
Another man came at him—a deck officer this time, pistol drawn.
Johnny lunged, grabbing the barrel just as the man fired. The shot went wild, hitting the mast instead. Johnny drove his shoulder into the officer's chest, sending them both crashing onto the deck.
They rolled, struggling for control. The officer landed a punch to Johnny's jaw, stars bursting in his vision. Johnny snarled, headbutting him in return. The man reeled, dazed.
Johnny didn't hesitate. He drew his dagger and plunged it into the man's ribs.
The officer's body went limp. Johnny pushed him off and staggered to his feet, panting.
"Goddamn it, Desmera, where are you?"
He turned—and barely dodged the dagger aimed for his throat.
Desmera moved with lethal precision, slashing at him again.
"You!" she hissed, fury in her emerald eyes. "Bastard!"
Johnny barely blocked in time, her dagger skimming across his forearm.
"Merde!" He caught her wrist and twisted, but she was quicker than most men he fought. She kicked at his knee, nearly knocking him off balance.
"Desmera, stop!"
"You think I'll let you take my city?!" She yanked free and came at him again, wild and desperate.
Johnny dodged, grabbed her arm, and spun her around, trapping her against the mast.
She struggled. "Let me go!"
"Not a chance, ma chère! You're about to be blown to pieces!"
She froze.
"Look."
Her gaze followed his nod—toward the harbor, where Napoleon's cannons were taking position.
The Redwynne fleet was not escaping. Not today.
Her chest rose and fell sharply.
"The fleet is doomed," Johnny said. "And I'd rather not see you turned into driftwood."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, she exhaled sharply. "Damn you, Johnny."
Johnny smirked. "You already did, ma chère."
She shot him a glare but stopped struggling.
He released her wrist, stepping back. The battle still raged around them, but Johnny only saw her.
"You have two choices, Desmera," he said. "Stay on this ship and pray Napoleon's cannons miss you, or come with me and see what happens next."
For a long moment, she just stared at him.
Then—
She sighed. "You owe me wine for this."
Johnny grinned. "I'll owe you more than that, I think."
And with that, he took her hand and led her off the ship.
Smoke still clung to the ruins of Vinetown as the last echoes of battle faded into the sea breeze. The streets, once bustling with merchants and nobles, were now littered with bodies, broken weapons, and the smoldering remains of barricades. French soldiers moved methodically, securing the city, rounding up prisoners, and tending to the wounded.
At the docks, the Redwynne fleet no longer belonged to the Redwynnes. The tricolor of France fluttered from the masts of the captured ships, and French officers took stock of their newly acquired vessels. Some ships had burned, others had fled, but the majority had been seized.
On the harbor walls, a white flag rose above the keep. The last defenders had surrendered. Vinetown had fallen.
Johnny wiped blood from his brow, breath still heavy from the fight. Around him, his fusiliers were laughing, clapping each other on the back, basking in victory. A few were nursing wounds, but most had made it through.
He turned his head slightly, glancing at Lady Desmera.
She stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. She was covered in dust, her once-pristine dress torn at the hem, but her defiance had not faded. She looked at the fallen city—not with despair, but with cold calculation.
"I hope you're happy, Frenchman," she muttered.
Johnny sighed. "Believe me, Desmera, I've seen worse." He nodded toward the French banners rising over the keep. "This was mercy."
Her eyes darkened, but before she could respond—
"Captain Beaumont!"
A soldier approached, saluting. "The Emperor requests your presence, sir."
Johnny exhaled sharply. He knew this was coming. Napoleon would want a full report. And he'd have questions.
"Come on, Desmera," he said, turning to her. "You're coming with me."
She arched a brow. "And if I refuse?"
Johnny smirked. "Then I carry you."
Her lips parted—whether in protest or amusement, he wasn't sure—but in the end, she followed.
Napoleon's War Tent
Napoleon stood at the center of his makeshift command tent, studying a large map of the newly conquered Vinetown. The city was theirs, but there was still much to do.
His generals surrounded him, their uniforms still stained from battle. General Duhesme, Durutte, and Bertrand stood at attention, awaiting their Emperor's orders.
Napoleon's fingers traced the coastline, eyes sharp as he calculated their next move. The Redwynne fleet had been captured, giving him control of the sea. But there were still other noble houses to consider—other lords who would not submit so easily.
"We move quickly," Napoleon said, his voice firm. "I want this city secured by sundown. Every strongpoint garrisoned, every ship accounted for. No looting. This is French territory now."
His officers nodded.
Then, the tent flaps swung open.
Captain Beaumont entered, boots still covered in dust and blood. And beside him—a woman.
Napoleon's sharp blue gaze landed on her immediately.
Beaumont saluted. "Sire, the city is secured. The keep has surrendered. The fleet is ours."
Napoleon nodded. "Good." He glanced at the woman again, his head tilting slightly. There was something about her—something unusual.
"And who," he asked, "is this?"
Johnny hesitated. "This is—"
"Lady Desmera Redwynne," she interrupted, stepping forward. Her voice was clear, proud, and utterly fearless.
A flicker of amusement crossed Napoleon's face.
"Redwynne?" he echoed, as if tasting the name. "You must be important."
She lifted her chin. "I am."
Napoleon studied her, then shifted his gaze back to Johnny.
"Captain," he said, voice even, "I did not order you to capture noblewomen."
Johnny scratched the back of his head. "Technically, she captured herself."
General Duhesme chuckled under his breath. Napoleon, however, remained unreadable.
His eyes flicked back to Desmera.
"Tell me, Lady Redwynne," he said slowly, "what would your family have done if the battle had gone the other way?"
She didn't flinch. "We would have fought to the last."
Napoleon nodded, as if he expected the answer. "Then it seems fortune favors France today."
Silence settled in the tent. Then, he exhaled and turned back to the map.
"You will remain here," he told her, "under Captain Beaumont's watch."
Desmera's lips pressed into a thin line. "A prisoner, then?"
Napoleon gave a small, knowing smile. "That depends entirely on you, my lady."
Then, turning to his officers, he clapped his hands together.
"Enough talk. We have an empire to build."
The streets of Vinetown were no longer filled with the screams of battle, nor the clash of steel and musket fire. Instead, they echoed with music.
French soldiers gathered in the city square, cheering, singing, and beating their drums in rhythm. The unmistakable tune of La Victoire est à Nous swelled in the air, rolling over the conquered city like a tidal wave. Fifes trilled, drums thundered, and voices rose together, carrying the song through the battered streets.
"L'ennemi fuit, la victoire est à nous!"
(The enemy flees, victory is ours!)
Johnny leaned against a broken pillar, a fresh bandage wrapped around a cut on his arm, watching his men with a weary smile. The battle had been brutal, but they had won. And now, like all soldiers after victory, they celebrated the only way they knew how—with music, drink, and laughter.
Across the square, Vinetown's people stood in stunned silence. Some huddled near the remains of their barricades, others peered from the windows of their homes, faces pale with disbelief. Never had they seen an army like this—not just because of their strange uniforms and weapons, but because they sang.
"These men fight like demons," one merchant whispered, watching them in awe. "And now they sing like revelers at a feast."
"They sing because they have won," another muttered, voice bitter.
But not all the citizens looked upon the victors with resentment. A group of young boys—no older than ten—watched the soldiers with wide-eyed wonder. One of them hesitated, then clapped along to the beat of the drums. Another followed. Soon, a handful of curious onlookers stood at the edges of the square, watching, listening, unable to look away.
Johnny exhaled, taking in the scene. This was always the way of war. First, fear and defiance. Then, awe and resignation. And finally, acceptance.
His eyes drifted to Lady Desmera, standing beside him, her arms crossed, her face unreadable.
She had refused to leave his side after Napoleon had ordered him to guard her. She watched her people—watched them see, for the first time, that the French were not mere invaders but something more.
"They don't know what to make of us," Johnny said, tilting his head toward the crowd.
Desmera didn't look at him. "Neither do I."
Johnny chuckled, then tapped his fingers on his musket as the soldiers' song continued.
"L'ennemi fuit! L'ennemi fuit!"
"La victoire est à nous!"
Victory belonged to France. And the world was beginning to understand it.
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NAPOLEON
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The Redwynne Keep still smelled of gunpowder and blood. Stone walls bore the scars of musket fire, and the grand tapestries that once adorned the halls were tattered or burned. Yet, despite the ruin, it was now his.
Napoleon strode through the keep's great hall, his polished boots tapping against the marble floor. His officers followed behind him, their uniforms stained with the grime of battle, but their posture proud. Outside, the sounds of victory still echoed—the pounding of hammers as soldiers began fortifying the keep, the cheers of men celebrating in the streets, the distant chorus of La Victoire est à Nous.
At the end of the hall, a great wooden chair stood upon a raised dais. It was no gilded throne, no imperial seat of power—just a simple, sturdy thing, carved by some long-forgotten craftsman. But in this moment, it was a throne nonetheless.
Napoleon approached it, his gloved fingers tracing the armrest. It reminded him of Toulon—when he had stood victorious after expelling the British, when he had first felt the weight of command.
He turned, sweeping his gaze over the hall, his officers watching him in silence. Then, with the same confidence that had carried him through a hundred battlefields, he lowered himself onto the throne.
It was an unspoken declaration: this land, this city, this keep—it all now belonged to France.
A moment passed. The hall remained silent, save for the distant sounds of rebuilding. Napoleon exhaled slowly. The conquest was not yet complete. The Redwynne fleet was taken, their soldiers scattered, but the war was not won. There was still resistance to crush, alliances to forge, and—most importantly—a new order to establish.
His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy doors groaning open.
A pair of soldiers marched inside, their bayonets glinting in the torchlight. Between them, two men were dragged forward, their wrists bound in rope.
Paxter and Horas Redwynne.
Napoleon straightened. His dark eyes studied the two nobles as they were forced to their knees before him.
Paxter Redwynne, the older of the two, held his head high, but there was defeat in his eyes. He was a man who had known power and now felt it slipping away like sand through his fingers. His son, Horas, was younger, his expression twisting between fear and defiance.
The soldiers shoved them forward. Paxter caught himself before he collapsed entirely, but Horas hit the stone floor with a grunt. Neither spoke.
Napoleon let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering. He had seen this before. In Italy, in Egypt, in Austria—defeated rulers, captured generals, men who once held power now kneeling before him. They all expected the same fate.
Death.
Paxter finally broke the silence. "If you mean to execute us, get on with it."
Horas flinched but kept his jaw clenched, as if trying to meet his father's steel.
Napoleon tilted his head. "Execute you?" He let the words linger, his voice carrying the weight of amusement and calculation. "Tell me, Lord Redwynne, what would that accomplish?"
Paxter narrowed his eyes. "Revenge. The assurance that we will never rise against you again."
Napoleon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had heard these words before. In Cairo, after the fall of the Mamluks. In Vienna, when the Austrian court trembled at his approach. Always the same expectation. Always the same flawed understanding.
"Revenge," Napoleon repeated, shaking his head. "A wasteful thing. No, I do not need your heads. What I need is your obedience."
Both men stiffened. They had expected death. They had not expected mercy.
"You will not kill us?" Horas asked, hesitant, as if the words themselves were dangerous to speak.
Napoleon smirked. "Would you prefer that I did?"
Horas fell silent.
Paxter, however, was no fool. He studied Napoleon carefully, as if trying to see the full shape of the man who had conquered his city.
"You plan to keep us as prisoners," he said at last.
"Not prisoners," Napoleon corrected. "Guests. Confined, of course, but comfortable." He gestured with one hand. "House arrest, if you will. You will remain under watch, but you will live. Your house will endure—if you choose to accept the new order that is coming."
Paxter's mouth pressed into a thin line. He did not thank Napoleon. He did not protest, either.
Napoleon stood. "Take them away," he ordered.
The guards obeyed, dragging the Redwynnes to their feet. Neither struggled, but the weight of their defeat hung heavy on their shoulders.
As they were led from the hall, Napoleon exhaled slowly. The war was not over. There were still battles to fight, cities to take, and a world to reshape.
But today, Vinetown had fallen. And Napoleon Bonaparte sat upon its throne.
The great hall of Redwynne Keep still smelled of gunpowder and sweat. Outside, the sounds of celebration and fortification filled the city. French soldiers patrolled the streets, some singing La Victoire est à Nous, while others worked to secure their new hold on Vinetown. The banners of House Redwyne had been ripped down, replaced by the tricolor of France.
Napoleon stood near the grand table in the center of the hall, a map of the Arbor spread before him. His officers had already been given their orders for the night—fortify the docks, organize supply lines, and begin the full integration of this city into his domain.
He had just begun studying the map again when the heavy doors creaked open.
A thin, elderly man entered, his robes heavy with the weight of knowledge rather than armor. His chain of office, made of interlinked metal rings of various materials, clinked softly as he walked. A maester.
Napoleon did not look up immediately. A bureaucrat. He had dealt with their kind before—the scholars, the scribes, the men who held no swords but wielded knowledge like daggers. He respected them, but only when they were useful.
The maester bowed deeply, but not too deeply. He was cautious. Smart.
"My lord," the maester said, his voice smooth and measured. "I am Maester Harrold of the Arbor, sworn to serve the keep and its ruling house." He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "It seems… the house has changed."
Napoleon finally looked up, his piercing grey-blue eyes meeting the maester's gaze. He smirked. "It has."
Harrold straightened. "I have served as an advisor to Lord Redwynne for years, ensuring the governance of Vinetown and its surrounding lands. If you are to rule here, it is my duty to inform you of what that entails."
Napoleon studied him for a moment before nodding. "Then speak."
Harrold moved closer to the map, his eyes scanning the intricate details before returning to Napoleon. "Vinetown is the heart of the Arbor. It controls the trade of wine and naval goods to much of Westeros. The nobility here answer to House Redwyne, who in turn swear fealty to the King of the Seven Kingdoms." He hesitated. "Or, at least, they once did."
Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "Explain."
The maester sighed, rubbing his temple. "The realm is in chaos. King Robert Baratheon has been dead for some time now, and his brothers Stannis and Renly fought over the throne. Renly Baratheon is now dead."
That made Napoleon pause.
"Dead?" he repeated, eyes sharpening. "How?"
Harrold shook his head. "The details are unclear, but it is said he was murdered by sorcery. Some claim Stannis was responsible, while others suspect treachery from within his own camp. Regardless, his army has fractured. Some have joined Stannis, others have scattered, and many still wander leaderless."
Napoleon leaned against the table, rubbing his chin in thought. This was valuable information. A fractured enemy was a vulnerable one.
"And what of the rest of the kingdom?" he asked.
The maester exhaled slowly. "The Iron Throne is held by King Joffrey Baratheon, though many question his parentage. House Stark of the North has declared independence, as has Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. War consumes the land."
Napoleon chuckled. "Then this is not a kingdom—it is a battlefield."
Harrold nodded grimly. "Indeed."
Napoleon considered this. The fractured state of Westeros presented both opportunity and danger. A divided enemy was easier to conquer, but an unstable land was difficult to rule. He would need to act swiftly. Stability must be imposed.
He looked back at the maester. "What of the Arbor itself? How will the people react to this new order?"
Harrold was silent for a moment before choosing his words carefully. "They are loyal to their lords, but they are also merchants. Traders. They will resist you at first, but if you control the wine trade, you control their wealth. Many will bend the knee once they see their profits secured."
Napoleon smirked. "Then I shall be both their conqueror and their banker."
The maester hesitated. "And what… exactly is your new order, my lord?"
Napoleon straightened. This was the moment.
He looked at the maester with the weight of a thousand campaigns behind his gaze. "The laws of this land are feudal, corrupt, and weak. They favor the nobility at the expense of the people. That will change."
Harrold's brows furrowed. "Change? To what?"
Napoleon's smirk grew. "To the Napoleonic Code."
The maester blinked, unfamiliar with the term.
Napoleon continued. "The law shall be clear, just, and equal for all men. The nobility will no longer hold power simply by birthright. Instead, merit will rule. The corrupt lords who hoard wealth while their people starve will find no place in my empire."
Harrold swallowed. "And those who refuse?"
Napoleon's expression darkened. "Then they will be replaced."
The maester inhaled deeply, as if weighing his next words carefully. "This is… a bold vision, my lord."
Napoleon gave a short laugh. "All revolutions are."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Harrold was no fool—he knew the world was changing.
Napoleon turned back to the map and placed a gloved finger on Vinetown. "Send word. I want the most prominent men of the Arbor—merchants, captains, magistrates—to meet their new ruler. I will explain to them the new order myself."
The maester hesitated, then bowed. "As you command, my lord."
As Harrold turned to leave, Napoleon exhaled slowly. The conquest was not finished, but the foundation was being laid. This was no longer just a war of muskets and bayonets. It was a war of ideas.
And Napoleon Bonaparte intended to win it.
The next day
The great hall of Redwyne Keep had been transformed. The long feasting tables, once set for lavish banquets of Arbor gold, were now covered in maps, ledgers, and military reports. French banners draped over the walls, replacing the sigil of House Redwyne. Armed grenadiers lined the perimeter, their muskets at the ready, bayonets gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the high windows.
At the head of the chamber, upon a newly fashioned wooden throne, Napoleon sat—not as a king, but as the master of a new empire.
Before him stood the most powerful figures of the Arbor—lords, merchants, ship captains, magistrates, and landowners. Among them, Paxter and Horas Redwyne had been granted seats near the front. Their faces were composed, but their eyes burned with barely restrained bitterness.
To Napoleon's right stood General Duhesme, General Durutte, and Marshal Bertrand, their blue coats crisp, gold epaulettes gleaming. To his left, Johnny Beumont stood, his fresh uniform contrasting with the rugged, amused smirk that never left his lips.
Beside Napoleon, serving now as his chief advisor, was Maester Harrold, his hands folded before him like an old scholar watching history reshape itself.
The hall fell into silence, all eyes on Napoleon. These were not soldiers, not warriors. They were men of trade and land, men who had ruled for centuries not with the sword, but with gold and bloodlines.
And now, they feared him.
Napoleon leaned forward, tapping his gloved fingers against the armrest.
"You have all been summoned," he began, his voice calm yet absolute, "because your world has changed."
A murmur rippled through the chamber, unease woven into every whisper.
Napoleon's gaze swept across them.
"Vinetown has fallen. Your fleet is mine. Your keep is mine. And House Redwyne, while still standing, no longer rules the Arbor."
He cast a glance toward Paxter, whose jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists beneath the table.
"You are not prisoners," Napoleon continued, his voice measured. "You are subjects of a new empire. And today, I will hear your concerns."
A pause. Then, after a moment, a man stepped forward—a portly merchant, his fine velvet coat stained with sweat. He wrung his hands nervously.
"M-my lord…" he stammered. "The wine trade… Vinetown lives and dies by its vineyards. We send our casks across the Seven Kingdoms—if House Tyrell closes its ports to us, we will be ruined."
Napoleon tilted his head, intrigued.
Maester Harrold spoke quietly beside him. "House Tyrell rules the Reach, my lord. They control Oldtown and the southern ports. If they refuse Arbor wine, the market will collapse."
Napoleon turned his gaze back to the merchant. He smiled.
"And if I control Oldtown?"
The merchant blinked, as if uncertain whether he had heard correctly. "…Then we would thrive."
Napoleon smirked. "Then perhaps you should hope I conquer it."
The room stilled. Some men shifted in discomfort. Others glanced at one another in quiet awe.
Another man stepped forward—a ship captain, his skin weathered from years at sea. "My lord, many of our ships are still damaged from battle. The Redwyne fleet was built for trade, not war. If we are to serve you… we need shipwrights, timber, and cannons."
Napoleon nodded. "Then you shall have them." He turned to Duhesme. "Begin refitting the captured ships. I want them armed and seaworthy within a fortnight."
Duhesme saluted. "It will be done, sire."
Then, Paxter Redwyne finally stepped forward.
"I must ask, Emperor," he said, voice cool, "what will become of my family?"
The room fell still once more. All eyes turned to Napoleon.
He studied Paxter for a moment, then spoke.
"Your family will remain under house arrest. You will not be executed, nor will your lands be stripped entirely. But you will not rule."
Paxter's jaw clenched. "Then who will?"
Napoleon's eyes gleamed.
"For now? I will."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the gathered men.
Paxter's son, Horas, scowled. "You mean to make yourself Lord of the Arbor?"
Napoleon chuckled. "No, boy. I do not care for titles. I care for order. And right now, order demands that I am the only one who commands this city."
Horas clenched his fists. "And what of the people? Do you think they will love you?"
Napoleon's expression hardened.
"Love? I do not need love. I need obedience."
The words struck the room like a cannon blast.
Then, a magistrate, his wrinkled hands clasped before him, spoke carefully. "My lord… House Tyrell will not ignore this. They are raising an army."
Napoleon's gaze flickered to Harrold.
The maester nodded grimly. "It is true. With Renly Baratheon dead, House Tyrell has thrown its full support behind King Joffrey in King's Landing. And now, they know you are here. Lord Mace Tyrell is mustering his banners."
Napoleon exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat.
So. The Tyrells wished to test his strength.
He glanced toward his generals.
"Then let us show them ours."
Durutte stepped forward, voice sharp. "Sire, we must reinforce our position before striking inland."
Napoleon nodded. "Agreed. We will secure the Arbor completely before moving against them." His mind was already turning. If the Tyrells thought they could sweep him from Westeros, they would soon regret it.
Then, he turned back to the gathered men.
"This land," he declared, "is no longer the Arbor. It is New France."
Gasps filled the hall.
Napoleon stood, his voice rising.
"This empire will not be ruled by kings and lords who inherit power but do not earn it. It will be ruled by law, discipline, and order."
He turned to Maester Harrold. "We will establish three parliamentary assemblies. The Council of State will draft laws. The Tribunate will debate them. The Legislative Assembly will vote upon them. And a Conservative Senate will ensure stability."
The Westerosi lords looked utterly bewildered.
Napoleon's voice thundered:
"We will not bow to the whims of feudal lords! We will march on Oldtown! We will break the old order and build something greater!"
Silence.
Then, slowly, the murmurs of uncertainty shifted—to understanding.
To acceptance.
Even Maester Harrold, after a long pause, bowed his head.
Napoleon turned to his engineers. "Prepare the fleet. We sail for Oldtown."
The gathered men stood frozen, realizing the truth.
The conquest of Westeros had only just begun.