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NAPOLEON
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The forest was silent but for the crunch of hooves and boots on damp earth. The green canopy stretched high, broken only by shafts of golden light that dappled the hunting party. The air was thick with the scent of pine and soil, fresh and untamed. Birds flitted between branches, disturbed by the slow advance of men on horseback.
Napoleon Bonaparte rode at the head of the group, his sharp eyes scanning the undergrowth. His grey greatcoat, now worn for necessity rather than spectacle, draped over his broad shoulders. The uniform beneath was crisp, pristine—his soldiers had made sure of that. He adjusted his grip on the reins, urging his horse forward with an air of quiet command.
Beside him, General Durutte, a veteran of Waterloo, held his musket at the ready, his eyes sharp despite his years. To the Emperor's right rode General Bertrand, his usual measured composure slightly disturbed by the oddity of the situation. Hunting—of all things—had not been on the expected agenda of rebuilding an empire in an unfamiliar world.
But Napoleon saw purpose in everything.
They needed food. Fresh meat would keep the men strong. But more than that, he needed to understand this land, its terrain, its game, its potential resources. There was no idle sport in this hunt—it was an assessment of his new kingdom-to-be.
A scout, one of his Chasseurs, raised a hand from ahead. "Tracks," he called in a hushed voice.
Napoleon dismounted smoothly, landing with practiced grace. His officers followed, though not all as effortlessly. He knelt, running his gloved fingers over the hoofprints in the mud. Large, deep—a stag. A fine prize.
"It moved east," he murmured. His voice was calm, assured. The men barely breathed as they listened. He did not need to raise his voice for them to hang on his every word. "The prints are fresh. The beast is close."
Durutte smirked, gripping his musket. "It is good to see your Majesty still has an eye for the hunt."
Napoleon exhaled through his nose—a silent acknowledgment, but not quite a laugh. Hunting had always been a practical exercise for him, not some aristocratic pastime. He had no patience for those who sought only sport without purpose. War had been his true hunt, and soon, it would be again.
With a gesture, the men fanned out, moving with the efficiency of seasoned soldiers. The forest swallowed them in its cool shade, the only sound now the occasional snap of twigs beneath careful steps.
Then—a rustle.
Napoleon froze, his keen gaze cutting through the brush. A flash of brown between the trees, the unmistakable curve of antlers.
He raised a hand. The others halted.
The stag was majestic—tall, strong, its dark eyes alert as it grazed between the roots of a gnarled oak. A worthy prize. Napoleon slowly reached for the musket strapped to his back.
Bertrand, ever cautious, whispered, "Shall I take the shot, Sire?"
Napoleon did not answer. Instead, he steadied himself, feeling the cool metal of the musket against his cheek. His heartbeat was steady. His breathing, controlled. There was no hesitation.
He fired.
The crack of gunpowder shattered the silence—birds exploded from the treetops in a frenzy. The stag lurched forward, a strangled noise escaping its throat before it collapsed, twitching.
Napoleon strode forward, musket still in hand. The men watched as he approached the fallen creature, his expression unreadable. He knelt beside it, running a gloved hand over the still-warm hide, feeling the rough texture of its fur. A clean kill. The bullet had struck just behind the shoulder—efficient, precise.
Bertrand exhaled. "A fine shot, Sire."
Napoleon finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "A soldier who cannot kill in one strike is no soldier at all."
The words were not boastful. They were a simple truth.
Durutte motioned for the men to begin dressing the carcass, already calculating how much meat it would yield for the camp. Napoleon stood, wiping a fleck of blood from his sleeve.
As the men worked, Bertrand observed, "It is strange, Sire. To think that in our world, we were defeated—yet here, we have been given a second chance. And already, you lead as if we had never fallen."
Napoleon turned to him, his steel-grey eyes unreadable.
"Because we have not fallen, Bertrand. We have merely begun."
He looked past his general, toward the horizon, where the land stretched vast and untamed. It was not France. Not yet. But it would be.
The hunt was far from over.
The hunt was productive. After felling the first stag, they pushed further into the forest, bringing down wild boars, hares, and fowl. Each shot of their muskets echoed through the trees, sending birds scattering and leaving the scent of gunpowder lingering in the air. Napoleon moved through the hunt with precision—his attention never on the kill itself, but on the land, the resources, the possibilities.
This place was untouched by the hands of war. No roads carved into the hills by centuries of marching armies, no ruins of old empires buried beneath the soil. It was fertile and ripe, unclaimed in a way that Europe had not been in centuries. It reminded him of the first campaigns of Italy, of Egypt—when he had been young, when the world had not yet turned against him.
And then, they were being watched.
A rustle. A snap of a branch.
Napoleon's hand went up immediately. The men halted, their discipline unbroken even in the midst of the wilderness. Eyes scanned the trees, weapons half-lowered but ready.
There.
A child.
No older than twelve, barefoot, half-hidden behind the bark of a thick oak. His small hands clutched a bundle of mushrooms, his dark eyes wide and unblinking.
For a moment, Napoleon saw himself.
A young boy in Corsica, standing at the edge of something far greater than himself. He had once been small, weak, an outsider in the very land of his birth. He knew what it meant to look upon foreign men with fear. He had been forced to learn their ways, to speak their language. To survive.
Durutte stepped forward, musket raised just slightly. "Shall we take him, Sire?"
The boy flinched.
Napoleon's expression did not shift, but his words were sharp. "No."
Durutte hesitated but obeyed. The other soldiers remained tense, but they followed their Emperor's lead.
Napoleon took a slow step forward. Then another.
He removed his gloves and extended a hand, palm up, open. A gesture of peace.
The boy did not understand his words, but he understood the movement. He stared, frozen between fear and curiosity.
And then, in the space of a breath, he turned and ran.
Some of the men moved as if to chase.
Napoleon's voice cut through the air like steel.
"Let him go."
Durutte frowned. "Sire, if they are hostile—"
Napoleon exhaled slowly, his gaze still on the trees. He had been rash in his youth. He had conquered too quickly, too carelessly. The Spanish had turned against him because he had given them no choice. He had won battles, but he had failed to win the hearts of men. And in the end, it had been his downfall.
Not here. Not again.
"Even if we are conquerors," he said at last, his voice steady, "let us show them we are civilized and approachable… or we cannot conquer at all."
Silence. The weight of the words settled over the men.
Napoleon turned away from the trees and began walking back toward camp.
The boy would run to his people. He would tell them what he had seen.
And soon enough, they would come.
Napoleon returned to camp just as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the clearing. The scent of roasted venison drifted through the air, mingling with the ever-present bite of gunpowder and sweat. The men were busy—some skinning the fresh kills from the hunt, others tending to the growing encampment. Tents had been erected in neat rows, supply piles organized with the discipline of an army that had once marched across the very heart of Europe.
But it was the engineering corps that held his attention.
Napoleon approached their section of the camp, where men labored over makeshift forges and crude workbenches, hammering out musket balls, sharpening bayonets, and mixing the volatile ingredients needed for gunpowder. Blackened hands worked with quiet efficiency, bellows pumping as fire roared within stone-lined pits.
A young lieutenant snapped to attention as he approached. "Sire!"
Napoleon gave a curt nod. "Report."
The officer wiped his hands on his soot-stained trousers before speaking. "We have begun the production of musket balls and simple shot, but we are limited in powder. The men have gathered sulfur deposits from a nearby spring, and we are experimenting with charcoal from the local wood. Saltpeter, however, remains an issue."
Napoleon's mind immediately began working through possibilities. Saltpeter could be extracted from soil, waste, or bat caves—but they had no time to cultivate it. He would need to find a local source, and soon.
"We will need scouting parties to find natural deposits," Napoleon said. "And the muskets?"
"We are maintaining them as best we can, Sire, but without proper tools, we cannot manufacture new ones. We will need proper forges."
Napoleon's jaw tightened. This was their greatest disadvantage. They had been reborn into a world far behind their own, a world they don't know. Their arms may be good —for now. But without the means to maintain it, their advantage would slip through their fingers.
"Prioritize powder production. Without it, our muskets are nothing more than clubs."
"Yes, Sire!"
Napoleon moved on.
The army was adapting, but not yet thriving. Morale was steady—better than expected, given the circumstances. The men were hardened veterans, survivors of the worst battles Europe had ever seen. Their discipline remained intact, but there was uncertainty in their eyes.
They had all awoken in an unfamiliar world. They did not yet know their enemy.
As he walked through the camp, soldiers snapped to attention, their blue uniforms standing out starkly against the greens and browns of the landscape. Some whispered among themselves, casting glances toward their Emperor. They had followed him to exile once. Now they had followed him into the unknown.
He would not fail them again.
At last, Napoleon retired to his tent. The interior was simple but orderly—his campaign desk already covered in notes and rough sketches of the land, his saber resting within reach. He removed his hat and sat, staring at the crude maps written by the scouting parties he sent.
They needed more information. More maps, more knowledge of the land, more understanding of its people.
Captain Johnny had been sent to explore for that very reason.
Napoleon exhaled, rubbing his temple. This was not Europe. He could not afford to act as he had before, sweeping across the land in rapid conquest. This war—if it came—would be different.
Patience. Precision. Power.
That was the way forward.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Capitaine, Voltigeurs of the Young Guard
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Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont leaned back in his chair, watching Corporal Marcel "The Fox" Girard work with quiet efficiency.
The Redwynes, in their wine-soaked generosity, had shown them a map.
Not just any map.
A detailed map of this so-called Westeros.
The Reach. The Riverlands. The North. The Stormlands. Every major stronghold, road, river, and coastline meticulously drawn.
It was gold in the form of ink and parchment.
And now, thanks to Marcel's quick hands and sharper mind, they had their own copy.
Across the table, Sergeant Luc "The Bear" Tremblay took a slow sip of his wine, watching Marcel's hand glide over the parchment.
"You ever consider becoming an artist, Fox?"
Marcel smirked, not looking up. "I considered a great many things before deciding crime was more profitable."
Private Jacques "The Rooster" Lefevre, already a few goblets deep, chuckled. "And now you're in the army. A criminal and a soldier. I'm not sure if that's an upgrade or a downgrade."
Marcel shrugged. "That depends entirely on how this all plays out, doesn't it?"
Johnny smirked, swirling the deep red Arbor wine in his cup. "As long as we don't get caught, it's an upgrade."
Marcel finished his work and slid the map across the table. "There. Almost better than the original."
Johnny leaned in, his eyes scanning the invaluable information now in their possession.
The Redwynes, in their arrogance and trust, hadn't even thought to question why their foreign guests were so interested in the entire realm's geography.
They had been too busy refilling Johnny's cup.
Luc peered over Johnny's shoulder. "So, Captain, what's the plan now?"
Johnny grinned, slipping the copied map into his coat.
"Simple, mon ami. We drink."
And drink they did.
The Redwynes had welcomed them as honored guests, filling their cups with endless Arbor wine, their laughter loud and warm in the candlelit hall.
Johnny, being a Frenchman, a soldier, and an opportunist, had not refused.
They had drunk to alliances, to the king, to good wine and bad wars.
They had drunk until the hall blurred, until words slurred, until everything felt soft and distant.
Until the only thing that mattered was the next pour.
The warmth in his belly. The music in the air.
And then—after one goblet too many—
He had stood, weaving slightly, and excused himself from the table.
Luc and Jacques had called after him, laughing at his unsteady steps, but Johnny had waved them off with a grin.
"I am merely admiring the architecture, mes amis!"
Luc snorted. "Aye, and the floor will admire your face soon enough."
Johnny had ignored him, making his way through the dimly lit halls of the Redwyne keep.
The stone walls were cool against his fingertips as he brushed past them, half-humming a tune, his head pleasantly light from the wine.
He barely noticed when he turned the wrong corner.
Barely registered the soft footsteps approaching.
Until suddenly—
He walked straight into trouble.
Quite literally.
Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont had been drunk before.
He had been drunk in Paris, swaying down cobbled streets with a song on his lips and a girl on his arm. He had been drunk in Spain, laughing over a barrel of brandy while guerrillas plotted to kill him. He had even been drunk on campaign, sipping stolen wine in the ruins of a burning town, the air thick with gunpowder and regret.
But this—this was new.
Arbor wine was dangerously smooth, a drink that slid down like honey but hit like a cannonball. The Redwynes had ensured his goblet never emptied, and Johnny, being a Frenchman and a soldier, had not refused.
Now, he was staggering through the dimly lit halls of the Redwyne keep, humming a half-forgotten tune, when he nearly walked straight into trouble.
Quite literally.
She stepped into his path, and for a moment, Johnny thought he had wandered into a painting.
Her hair was rich auburn, cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. Her dress—deep red, embroidered with gold—hugged her figure in ways that made the wine in his blood burn hotter. She had striking green eyes, sharp with amusement, and lips that curved into a knowing smirk.
"Well, well. You're not one of our knights."
Johnny blinked, steadied himself, and swept into a theatrical bow that nearly sent him tumbling over.
"Mademoiselle, you wound me!" he declared, pressing a hand to his chest. "Do I not look the very image of chivalry?"
She laughed, a light, ringing sound, and Johnny immediately decided he liked it.
"You look like you've had too much wine, Captain."
"It would be a crime not to, given how fine it is." He straightened, flashing his roguish grin. "Though I must say, it pales in comparison to the company."
Her eyebrow arched, amused but not unimpressed.
"A silver tongue, I see."
"It's gotten me in and out of trouble in equal measure."
"And which will it do tonight?"
Johnny smirked. "That depends entirely on you, mademoiselle."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of lavender and Arbor gold on her skin.
"Lady Desmera," she corrected, tilting her head. "Desmera Redwyne."
Redwyne.
Johnny's brain, sluggish from wine, took a second to process the name.
The ruling family of the Arbor.
Ah.
Merde.
A smarter man, a more cautious man, would have taken a step back. But Johnny had never been known for caution.
Instead, he grinned wider and offered her his arm.
"Well then, Lady Desmera, would you care for a moonlit stroll?"
She hesitated for half a second, then took his arm. "Just a stroll, Captain?"
Johnny laughed. "I make no promises."
And with that, he sealed his fate.
The garden was drenched in silver, the moon casting its glow over sculpted hedges and trellises heavy with vines. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the air, mingling with the salty breeze rolling in from the distant sea. Lanterns flickered along the pathways, their flames trembling like secrets waiting to be told.
Johnny walked beside Lady Desmera Redwyne, her arm looped lightly through his. Her touch was a whisper of warmth against his sleeve, but the tension between them was anything but subtle. It coiled beneath the surface, humming like the taut string of a bow.
She was dangerous.
And he was just drunk enough to ignore it.
"You seem far too steady for a man who nearly toppled over in the hall," Desmera mused, casting him a sideways glance.
Johnny smirked. "What can I say, mademoiselle? The night air is sobering."
"Is that so?" She tilted her head, green eyes glinting in the lantern light. "And here I thought you simply recovered quickly from poor decisions."
"Ah, but what if I don't think of this as a poor decision?"
Desmera laughed softly, a sound like velvet over steel. "Then you truly are a fool, Captain Beaumont."
Johnny stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "I've been called worse."
She studied him for a moment, amusement still dancing at the edges of her lips, but something sharper flickering behind her gaze. He had seen that look before—on soldiers who knew the stakes, on women who played the game of power and survival as well as any general.
Lady Desmera Redwyne was not just some nobleman's daughter, to be charmed and forgotten by morning.
She was something else entirely.
"You don't belong here," she murmured.
Johnny arched a brow. "And yet here I am."
Her fingers grazed the cuff of his sleeve, a feather-light touch, but deliberate. "You and your men. You're no merchants. No knights. You speak of wars you've fought, lands you've seen. But not of your allegiance."
Johnny chuckled, low and deep. "Perhaps I like to keep an air of mystery."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could catch the faint trace of lavender and Arbor gold on her skin. "Or perhaps you're playing a dangerous game."
Their breaths mingled in the cool night air, the space between them drawn tight. He could see the curiosity in her eyes, warring with caution. She wanted to know who he truly was.
More dangerously, she wanted to know him.
Johnny, ever the gambler, decided to push his luck.
He lifted her hand, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of her wrist. He felt her pulse quicken beneath his lips.
"A wise man once told me," he murmured against her skin, "that life is nothing without a little danger."
Desmera exhaled, slow and measured, her smirk returning. "Then you, Captain Beaumont, may find yourself living quite a lot tonight."
Johnny grinned. "I do hope that's a promise."
And with that, the game truly began.
The moon hung low over the Redwyne gardens, drenching the rose maze in liquid silver. Johnny stumbled slightly on a loose cobblestone—damn Arbor wine—but recovered with a flourish, sweeping his arm toward a marble fountain. "Behold, my lady! The world's saddest mermaid."
Desmera snorted. The statue's moss-covered tail indeed resembled a soggy trout. "Did your French charm school teach you to insult your host's art?"
"Non, that was a free lesson from Sister Agatha's ruler." He caught her smirk and pressed closer, the scent of her perfume cutting through his wine haze—bergamot and danger. "Though I'd gladly endure a beating to keep you laughing."
"Careful, Captain." She trailed a finger down his lapel. "My father hangs poachers."
"Poachers?" Johnny feigned horror. "I'm merely… admiring the local wildlife."
Her laugh died as he backed her against a lemon tree, their breaths mingling. Somewhere distant, a guard coughed.
"Your men are drunk in our hall," she whispered, chin lifted in challenge. "Your map's already copied. Why linger?"
Johnny's grin turned feral. He'd wondered when she'd mention Marcel's handiwork. "Why play along?"
"Boredom. Curiosity." Her knee brushed his thigh. "The way you say 'mademoiselle' like a duelist's challenge."
He tsked. "Terrible reasons to risk scandal."
"Better than yours." She yanked him closer by his sash. "You're here because I allow it." she growled, capturing his mouth.
Desmera kissed like a storm at sea—all teeth and salt and ruthless currents. Johnny's hat tumbled into the rosemary bushes as her fingers knotted in his hair. When they broke apart, her bodice hung half-unlaced, his doublet missing three buttons.
"Mon dieu," he panted, "are you trying to get me drawn and quartered?"
"Only if you're caught." She stepped back, eyes glinting. "Can't keep up,stranger?"
Johnny lunged.
They crashed into her chambers, Desmera's teeth already at his throat as Johnny fumbled with the door. "Gods damn stranger—" She tore at his lace cuffs, sending buttons clattering across the floor.
Johnny laughed against her collarbone, hands spanning her waist. "Careful, mon fauve—this uniform cost more than your father's best stallion."
"Then earn its price." She shoved him backward onto the bed, climbing atop him with the lethal grace of a panther. Moonlight caught the sweat-slick planes of his chest as she raked nails down his torso. "Seven hells. Do all strangers come carved like marble?"
"Only the ones sent to tempt wicked ladies." He arched beneath her, muscles rippling as he flipped their positions. "But this?" His calloused palm slid up her inner thigh. "This is pure Beaumont."
Desmera's retort died in a gasp as his mouth found the pulse beneath her ear. She'd bedded knights, poets, even a Dornish prince—but this... The man moved like siege warfare, all strategic patience and devastating force. When his tongue circled a nipple, she barely registered tearing the canopy's silk curtains.
"Fuck your—ah!," she choked out, back arching off the mattress. "Who... train you... for this."
Johnny paused, grinning up the length of her body. "Myself.. Some prefer artillery. But I," he kissed lower, teeth grazing her hipbone, "always favored... hands-on combat."
When he finally sheathed himself inside her, Desmera's nails drew blood from his shoulders. "More—you insufferable pirate—"
"Demanding wench." Johnny snapped his hips harder, the headboard cracking against stone walls. "Shall I fetch... mmph... a white flag?"
Her laughter dissolved into moans as he hit a rhythm that left them both breathless. The captain's body was a revelation—corded muscle flexing beneath her palms, battle scars mapping his skin like forbidden runes. She came first with a curse that would shame a Lysene whore, back bowing off the bed as he pinned her wrists.
"Again," she demanded, legs locking around his waist.
Johnny's grin turned feral. "As my lady commands."
He flipped her onto hands and knees, one arm banding across her stomach to pull her flush against him. Desmera's vision blurred at the new angle, her second climax crashing over her like a storm tide. Through the haze, she registered his choked prayer in Provençal—then his collapse beside her, chest heaving.
Silence fell, broken only by the distant drip of their overturned wine goblet.
Desmera prodded a bite mark on his bicep. "You're... adequate."
Johnny barked a laugh, sweat-damp hair catching moonlight. "Adequate? You just woke every hound in the kennels."
"Arbor hounds are deaf." She traced the scar across his ribs. "This one's new."
"Madrid. A grandmother with a paring knife."
"Liar."
"Truth!" He caught her wandering hand. "She mistook me for her cheating husband."
Desmera's snort morphed into a yawn. "Stay, and I'll show you real scars tomorrow."
Johnny nuzzled her neck, already half-asleep. "Threat or promise?"
"Both."
They drifted off tangled in silk and secrets.
Sunlight stabbed his eyes like bayonets...
Johnny woke up to sunlight stabbing his eyes like bayonets.
His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like regret and expensive wine. His body ached in that particular way that only came from very enjoyable poor decisions.
It took him a moment to register the warm body beside him.
Then another moment to realize he was very, very naked.
And then—**as if his brain had been reloaded like a musket—**everything came flooding back.
The wine. The teasing. The kisses stolen between hushed laughter.
Desmera Redwyne.
Johnny froze.
Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.
Desmera lay beside him, tangled in silk sheets, her auburn hair spread across the pillow. She was smirking, wide awake.
"Morning, Captain."
Johnny swallowed hard. "Morning, Lady Redwyne."
She chuckled, stretching lazily. "You weren't calling me 'Lady' last night."
Johnny groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Merde. I'm going to die, aren't I?"
"Oh, probably."
Johnny barely had time to process that before—
The door slammed open.
A maid shrieked.
"LADY DESMERA?!"
Johnny, still half-naked, bolted upright. His first instinct was to reach for a pistol—only to remember he was very much not in a battlefield.
Desmera, infuriatingly, didn't seem fazed at all.
"Yes, Ellyn?" she drawled.
The poor maid was as white as a ghost.
"Your father is looking for you!" she hissed, then finally noticed Johnny. Her eyes widened in absolute horror.
Johnny cleared his throat, offering a sheepish smile. "Bonjour."
The maid gasped,spun on her heel, and fled.
Silence.
Johnny let out a long sigh and flopped back onto the pillows. "Well. That's not good."
Desmera laughed. "You think?"
He turned his head to look at her. "You're awfully calm for someone who just got caught with a foreign officer in her bed."
She shrugged. "I knew what I was doing."
Johnny groaned. "I, however, did not."
Desmera rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Regrets already, Captain?"
He thought about it. About the feel of her lips on his, the way she had laughed into his kisses, the warmth of her body against his.
Then he sighed. "Not a single one."
"Good," she murmured, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against his lips.
Then, from somewhere in the keep—
"WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?!"
Johnny froze.
Desmera smirked. "That would be my father."
Johnny inhaled sharply and threw the sheets off. "I should probably leave."
"Probably."
He fumbled for his clothes, half-tripping as he yanked his trousers on. Desmera watched him with entirely too much amusement.
As he reached the door, she called out, "Try not to get executed, Captain."
Johnny turned back, flashing his most charming grin. "No promises, Lady Redwyne."
And with that, he bolted.
Johnny hit the hallway at a sprint, his boots barely laced, his coat slung haphazardly over one arm. The polished stone floors of the Redwyne keep were treacherously smooth beneath his feet, and in his hungover, half-dressed state, he nearly lost his balance twice before he even reached the first corner.
Behind him, the sound of doors slamming, voices shouting, and footsteps thundering through the corridors told him everything he needed to know.
Lord Redwyne was awake.
And he was not pleased.
Merde.
Johnny rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Corporal Marcel "The Fox" Girard—who, to his credit, only raised an eyebrow at Johnny's very obvious state of disarray.
"Rough night, Captain?"
Johnny grabbed him by the shoulders. "No time—where are the others?"
"Courtyard. Rooster is still drunk, Bear is—"
A furious bellow echoed down the halls.
"FIND HIM!"
Johnny swore under his breath. "—We need to go."
Marcel, ever the pragmatist, did not argue. He simply turned on his heel and strode ahead, leading Johnny through the winding corridors of the keep.
"Do I even want to know what happened?" Marcel muttered.
"Let's just say I've made a powerful enemy," Johnny whispered, ducking into the shadows as two guards stormed past them, their boots clanking against the stone.
Marcel shot him a dry look. "You were supposed to get information, not get involved."
Johnny smirked, still breathless. "I got both."
Marcel sighed. "Of course you did."
They reached the courtyard, where Sergeant Luc "The Bear" Tremblay was already securing their horses. Private Jacques "The Rooster" Lefevre, predictably, was slumped against a barrel, still groggy from the previous night's drinking.
Luc took one look at Johnny's wild hair, unbuttoned shirt, and overall disheveled state and let out a deep rumbling laugh. "You look like a man about to be executed."
"Not if we leave right now," Johnny shot back, yanking himself into the saddle. "Mount up!"
Luc hauled Rooster onto his horse while Marcel swung onto his own.
The sound of yelling grew louder—guards were pouring into the courtyard now, swords drawn, eyes scanning for the one idiot foreigner who had seduced their lord's daughter.
Johnny didn't wait for them to spot him.
He spurred his horse forward. "RIDE!"
The French soldiers bolted, their horses thundering through the open gates. Behind them, cries of alarm rang out, but they were already galloping down the dirt road, kicking up dust as they sped toward the safety of the coastline.
Johnny didn't dare look back.
Not until they were far from the keep, the sea breeze cooling the sweat on his skin, and Marcel, finally, exhaled.
"That," Marcel muttered, "was a stupidly close call."
Johnny, still grinning despite himself, adjusted his coat. "Was it? Or was it a brilliant bit of diplomacy?"
Luc snorted. "I'd call it suicide."
Rooster groaned from his saddle. "Can we never drink again?"
Marcel smirked. "Oh no, mon ami. We're drinking to celebrate not dying."
Johnny laughed, heart still pounding, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins.
He had survived.
But as the Redwyne keep faded into the distance, he found himself wondering if he'd truly escaped.
Because something told him this wasn't the last he'd see of Lady Desmera Redwyne.
With that, they rode back to camp.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The French camp sat nestled between rocky cliffs and dense forests, hidden away like a coiled serpent waiting to strike. Smoke from cookfires curled into the crisp morning air, mingling with the salty tang of the nearby sea. Soldiers moved about—some sharpening bayonets, others tending to their horses or rolling dice over makeshift crates.
But as Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont and his men rode in, all eyes turned to them.
Johnny was not a man easily ignored on any given day, but today—after vanishing into the Redwyne keep overnight and returning looking suspiciously disheveled—he was the subject of more than a few smirks.
"Ah, the prodigal captain returns," one dragoon called out with a grin.
Marcel, ever the showman, grinned back. "He had urgent negotiations with the Arbor nobility. Very intimate negotiations."
Jacques chuckled, Luc shook his head, and Johnny just sighed.
"Let's move," Johnny muttered, swinging off his horse. "The Emperor is waiting."
The Imperial war tent was spartan but efficient—just like the man who ruled from within it.
There was no luxury here, no silken tapestries or extravagant feasts. Only rugged maps, half-written orders, and the cold gleam of steel. A large campaign table stood at the center, covered in documents and scattered reports.
But something was missing.
Johnny noticed immediately.
There was no map.
Not of Westeros. Not of the Arbor. Not of anything beyond the thick forests that bordered the French encampment.
Johnny had seen Napoleon's war rooms before—in Italy, in Egypt, in Austria. The Emperor always had maps, always knew the terrain better than the men who lived there. But here?
Napoleon was blind.
The realization sent a jolt of excitement through Johnny's veins.
This was his moment.
And as if summoned by the weight of that thought, Napoleon Bonaparte himself stepped into the tent.
Shorter than most men in the room, but taller than his legend suggested, he carried himself with the presence of an unshakable force of nature. His sharp gaze swept over Johnny and his men before settling on their captain with interest.
"Captain Beaumont," Napoleon greeted, his voice smooth yet commanding. "You've returned."
Johnny snapped to attention. "Sire."
Napoleon folded his arms behind his back and studied him. "You were given one task—to learn what you could of this land. To bring me knowledge. And?"
Johnny took a slow breath.
Then he reached into his coat and pulled out the meticulously copied map.
The air in the tent seemed to tighten as he unfurled the parchment and spread it across the campaign table.
Every road. Every river. Every fortified stronghold in Westeros.
Silence.
Then—
A flicker of something dangerous and satisfied crossed Napoleon's face.
He stepped forward, placing his hands on the table, his sharp eyes scanning the inked lines with an intensity that could burn through the parchment.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then, softly—
"You did well, Captain."
The simple praise sent a rush of pride through Johnny's chest.
Napoleon's finger traced the coastline. "So. This is the Arbor. And beyond it… The Reach. The Riverlands. The North." He exhaled, almost a laugh. "This is a nice place. It's like Britain but bigger."
Johnny smirked.
Napoleon's gaze flicked up to him, keen and knowing.
"And how," the Emperor mused, "did you acquire this?"
Johnny hesitated—only for half a heartbeat.
Then he straightened, his grin easy and confident.
"The Redwynes are generous hosts," he said smoothly. "And Arbor wine, if you have not yet heard, is very fine."
Napoleon studied him, his eyes like knives—sharp enough to cut through lies, yet amused enough to let this one pass.
Finally, he nodded.
"I will have need of you again, Captain Beaumont," he said, rolling up the map with precise efficiency. "Rest while you can. War is coming."
Johnny gave a crisp salute, turned on his heel, and strode out of the tent.
As soon as they were clear, Marcel let out a low whistle.
"I can't believe you just lied to Napoleon Bonaparte," he muttered.
Johnny grinned. "I didn't lie. I just didn't tell the whole story"
Luc snorted. "Tsk"
Johnny chuckled as they walked toward the officer's quarters, the salty wind ruffling his coat.
He had survived Napoleon's scrutiny.
He had given the Emperor his first true vision of Westeros.
And, for now, he was still alive.