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NAPOLEON
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Night had settled over the French camp, broken only by the flickering glow of lanterns and distant campfires. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder, damp earth, and the lingering smoke of the forges where French engineers toiled through the night. Yet within the Imperial war tent, there was only silence—the kind that came before a storm.
At the center of it all stood Napoleon Bonaparte, his sharp gaze fixed on the map spread across the campaign table. It was his first true glimpse of this foreign land beyond the dense forests surrounding their camp—a land of rivers and valleys, of castles and cities untouched by war. And now, thanks to Captain Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont and his men, he had a path forward.
Around him stood his generals—men forged in fire, who had bled for his empire across the battlefields of Europe.
General Jean-Baptiste Duhesme, commander of the Young Guard, stood stiffly, his face lined with battle scars, his patience worn thin. Beside him, General Pierre François Joseph Durutte, a man of quiet calculation, studied the map intently, his brow furrowed.
On Napoleon's left, General Guillaume Philibert Duhesme, the older and more experienced of the Duhesme brothers, exhaled slowly, already seeing the battle ahead. And closest to Napoleon, ever the loyal shadow, was General Henri-Gatien Bertrand, his keen mind turning the Emperor's ambitions into strategy.
Across from them stood Johnny and his men—Sergeant Luc "The Bear" Tremblay, Corporal Marcel "The Fox" Girard, Private Jacques "The Rooster" Lefevre, and Corporal Étienne "Quick Fingers" Moreau—their uniforms still dusted from the ride back from Vinetown.
Captain Beaumont glanced at his men before stepping forward. He had a swagger, but not the kind that grated on Napoleon. No, the man knew when to temper it.
"Dunn Keep is a minor hold," Johnny reported. "A single stone tower, barely fortified. A few hundred men." He tapped the map where it was marked. "They won't last an hour against artillery."
Jean-Baptiste Duhesme scoffed. "Peasants playing at war," he muttered.
Napoleon's gaze flicked to him, but he said nothing. Underestimation was the first step to failure.
"And Cockshaw Keep?" Durutte asked, his fingers trailing over the map's ridges.
Sergeant Luc Tremblay spoke this time. "Same as Dunn. No cannons. No muskets. No real defenses. They fight with swords, pikes, and bows."
A long silence. The implications were clear.
Napoleon's lips barely moved. "Medieval."
Guillaume Duhesme shook his head, eyes dark with thought. "They've never seen war like ours."
Bertrand leaned forward, studying the positioning. "They have some defenses. High walls, thick stone. If they were properly armed, this could be difficult."
Johnny's smirk was barely there. "They're not properly armed, mon Empereur."
Napoleon's fingers tapped once against the edge of the table. That settled that.
"And the fleet?" Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer would determine the true battle ahead.
Private Jacques 'The Rooster' Lefevre, a wiry man with sharp eyes, stepped forward. "Two hundred warships in Vinetown's harbor. Good ships. Large, reinforced hulls." He exhaled. "They could contest us at sea."
Finally, something resembling a challenge. Napoleon nodded slightly. "On land?"
Johnny shook his head. "They have nothing." His fingers skimmed over the city's outer defenses. "If they refuse to surrender, our cannons will make quick work of them."
Durutte exhaled, shaking his head. "A slaughter."
Napoleon said nothing. His mind had already moved ahead to the city. Its walls. Its people. Its surrender.
"And their loyalties?" Napoleon asked.
Johnny took only a moment before answering. "House Redwyne serves House Tyrell of Highgarden, who in turn serve a king. A boy."
Durutte's brow furrowed. "A weak king?"
Johnny nodded. "His throne is not steady." He gestured vaguely. "Their realm is fractured. Their alliances fragile."
Napoleon absorbed this. An empire crumbling from within. He had seen it before. He had broken it before.
"And the Redwynes?" he pressed.
Johnny hesitated. Barely.
"They rule the Arbor," he said carefully. "They are… proud."
Napoleon's eyes sharpened. Pride. That, too, he had crushed before.
For a long moment, nothing was said. The only sound was the faint crackle of the lantern and the distant, muffled voices of soldiers beyond the tent.
Napoleon studied the map, seeing not just ink on parchment, but the battle to come.
It was not Austerlitz. Not yet.
It was not Borodino. Not yet.
But it was a battle all the same.
His fingers drummed once against the table.
"We march at first light," he said. The words sealed the city's fate.
Dunn Keep.
Cockshaw Keep.
Vinetown.
His gaze lifted, cold and sharp. "Send envoys to the Redwynes. Offer them surrender."
Bertrand gave a slow nod. "And if they refuse?"
Napoleon's lips curled, barely a smile.
"Then we besiege them by morning."
The tent was silent.
Duhesme exhaled, muttering, "They won't know what hit them."
Bertrand, ever the measured one, studied Napoleon carefully. "And if they hold out?"
Napoleon glanced at the map once more. The inked lines of Vinetown's walls flickered under the lantern's glow. He already knew how it would end.
"They won't."
He stepped back, stretching his shoulders, letting the decision settle over the room.
"By this time tomorrow," he murmured, almost amused, "I will sleep in a proper bed."
And with that, the war tent emptied.
Napoleon stepped out of the planning tent, the cold night air hitting his face like a splash of water. The camp stretched before him, illuminated by flickering torchlight. Thousands of men—his men—moved in disciplined patterns, tending to their weapons, checking supplies, murmuring in hushed tones about the battle to come.
The scent of gunpowder and damp earth lingered in the air, a familiar comfort.
He inhaled deeply.
This was war.
This was his element.
He turned towards his own tent. Two guards snapped to attention, but he ignored them as he stepped inside.
The tent was quiet, save for the faint rustling of the fabric walls against the night wind. A lantern burned low on his desk, casting golden light over the map.
The map.
Napoleon moved toward it, his fingers trailing over the parchment's rough surface. His generals had seen roads and walls. His captains had seen enemy strongholds.
He saw something else.
A puzzle. A game. A battle that had already been won—if only he played it correctly.
His gaze settled on Vinetown's harbor, where two hundred Redwyne warships lay anchored.
Ships. He needed ships.
He had conquered nations, won battles against overwhelming odds, but the sea had always remained an obstacle. It was the sea that had carried his enemies to attack France. It was the sea that had kept him from striking at England. But now?
Now, the sea would be his.
His mind sharpened, recalling another siege, another port.
Toulon, 1793.
He had been a captain then, young and unproven. The British and Spanish fleets had controlled the harbor, thinking themselves untouchable. But he had used artillery, striking at their defenses with relentless precision, forcing them to abandon the city. It was his first taste of true command, the first time he had turned the tide with sheer calculation and firepower.
And tomorrow, he would do it again.
But this time, he would not let the fleet escape.
If the Redwynes refused to surrender, he would besiege their city and crush their resistance. His cannons would reduce their walls to rubble, his muskets would sweep their defenders from the streets. And when the city fell, the ships would be his.
His fingers tapped against the map, his thoughts stretching beyond the battle itself.
This was not just about land or power. This world—this feudal world—was archaic. Lords ruled by blood, not by merit. Peasants toiled under their masters, chained by titles and traditions that should have died centuries ago.
It was France before the Revolution.
Before the storm. Before the fire.
He would not merely conquer. He would reshape this land.
Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité.
The words were more than a motto—they were a promise. A promise to the world, to history, to himself.
He straightened, his gaze hard.
Tomorrow, they would march. They would pass Dunn Keep, Cockshaw Keep, and then—Vinetown.
And when the sun set tomorrow night, the Redwyne fleet would no longer belong to the Redwynes.
Napoleon exhaled slowly, stepping away from the map. His mind was sharp, but his body ached—a dull, insistent exhaustion creeping into his muscles. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them onto the desk, and unfastened his coat. The weight of command pressed heavy on his shoulders, but he had carried it for years. He would carry it until the end.
The flickering lantern cast long shadows across the canvas walls of his tent. The muffled sounds of the camp still reached him—soldiers murmuring, the distant clang of metal, the occasional nicker of horses. It was the sound of men preparing for war. It was a sound he knew well.
He sat on the edge of his cot, pulling off his boots. The leather creaked, worn from long marches, from battlefields stretching from Italy to Egypt, from the frozen rivers of Russia to the bloodied fields of Germany.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling of the tent.
His mind did not rest.
It never did.
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the map. The winding roads, the fortresses, the coastline where the fleet lay anchored. The battle had already begun in his head. He could see the columns advancing at first light, the thunder of artillery breaking the morning silence, the Redwynes scrambling to mount a defense.
Would they surrender?
No.
Men who commanded two hundred ships did not surrender easily. He would have to break them.
He turned onto his side, eyes still closed.
Tomorrow, he would add another victory to his name. Another city. Another fleet. Another step closer to shaping this world in his image.
And yet, beneath it all—beneath the strategies and the ambition—he felt something else.
Something deeper.
A certainty.
He had been born for this.
This was not just conquest. This was destiny.
The campfires burned outside. The wind whispered through the trees. The world held its breath.
And finally, the Emperor slept.
THE NEXT DAY
Dawn had barely touched the horizon when the drums began to roll. A steady, rhythmic call, deep as the heartbeat of an empire. The French camp stirred to life with the discipline of men who had marched across Europe and crushed kings beneath their boots. Officers barked orders, boots stamped in unison, and bayonets gleamed in the pale morning light.
Napoleon stood before them, clad in his gray overcoat and bicorne hat, the familiar weight of command settling over him like a second skin. His hands were clasped behind his back as he surveyed his army—his 25,000 men Grande Armée. They stood in formation, their blue coats lined with white and red, muskets polished, artillery teams readying their cannons for the road ahead.
These men had followed him from Italy to Egypt, across the snows of Russia and the fields of Germany. Now, they stood in a land unknown to them, facing enemies they had never seen before. But it did not matter. Victory was inevitable.
He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the morning air, sharp and clear.
"Soldats! You have crossed seas and forests, marched into lands uncharted. But we are not wanderers. We are conquerors!"
A ripple went through the ranks. Hands clenched around musket stocks. Chins lifted higher.
"What stands before us is not just a town, not just a battle—it is a new world, waiting to be shaped by our hands!"
He let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, his voice rose like the roll of cannon fire.
"We are the sons of the Revolution! We are the bearers of liberty! We have torn down the thrones of tyrants, broken the chains of kings, and now, we march to bring reason and strength to this world!"
A murmur of approval ran through the ranks, swelling like the tide. He could see it in their faces—the fire, the hunger.
"The Redwynnes hide behind their walls, their castles, their fleets. They believe their feudal ways can stop us. They believe swords and arrows will stand against muskets and cannon. They are wrong!"
A few voices shouted their agreement. A drummer struck his sticks against the taut skin of his instrument, a quick, staccato beat.
Napoleon's gaze swept over them, his expression hard as iron.
"This day, we do not march for gold or for glory alone. We march to spread the fire of the Revolution! To show these people the power of France! And when we take their fleet, when our banners fly over their walls, they will know: they will never stop us!"
The army roared.
It was a deafening sound, a promise of destruction, of conquest, of victory.
Napoleon nodded once, sharp and precise.
"En avant!"
The columns began to move. The artillery creaked forward, horses snorted as they pulled the heavy guns. The infantry, muskets on shoulders, marched with the discipline of men who had crushed empires before.
And at their head, Napoleon rode forward, his face set toward Vinetown.
The sun had climbed higher by the time Napoleon and his army reached the first obstacle in their march—Dunn Keep.
A stout fortress of gray stone, Dunn Keep sat atop a low hill, overlooking the road that led deeper into Redwyne territory. The walls were not high by European standards, nor was it particularly formidable compared to the citadels Napoleon had besieged in Italy or Prussia. But it was well-positioned, and more importantly, it was held by men willing to fight.
Through his spyglass, Napoleon studied the enemy formation. The Redwynne soldiers had assembled outside the gates, blocking the road. Unlike his own men, they bore no muskets, only swords, spears, and crossbows. Their armor gleamed under the morning sun, steel plates and chainmail catching the light. A relic of the past, standing against the future.
Napoleon snapped the spyglass shut and turned to his generals, who gathered around him on horseback.
"Gentlemen, this is not a fortress that will withstand artillery. Nor is it an enemy that will break at the first shot," he said. "These men are loyal to their lord, and they will fight with everything they have. We will not waste time on a prolonged siege. We will crush them quickly, without mercy, but without unnecessary slaughter."
His officers nodded grimly.
"Duhesme," he continued, addressing the commander of the Young Guard, "take your voltigeurs and advance in loose formation. Harass their flanks and force them to close ranks. Durutte, once their attention is divided, your infantry will advance in column formation and break their line."
Durutte grinned, adjusting the reins of his horse. "A good bayonet charge will send them running."
Napoleon gave a sharp nod. "Precisely. Bertrand, keep your cavalry back for now. Once their line wavers, charge through and cut off their retreat. I want the keep taken, not razed. If they surrender, let them live."
The plan was simple—efficient, overwhelming force, striking like a hammer. It was how he had won in Italy. How he had crushed the Austrians. How he would break this feudal world.
His officers saluted and rode off to their respective commands.
Napoleon turned back toward Dunn Keep, watching as his orders unfolded.
The Battle for Dunn Keep
The first musket shots cracked across the battlefield as the French voltigeurs advanced, their blue coats shifting through the trees and brush like shadows. Smoke curled in the air as they fired, darting in and out of cover, peppering the Redwynne line with precise volleys.
The enemy held their ground at first, shields raised, crossbows loosing bolts that hissed through the air. But they were fighting an enemy beyond their understanding. The muskets' range outmatched their weapons, and for every Frenchman wounded, three of theirs fell.
Then, the order came.
"Fix bayonets!"
Durutte's infantry charged.
The Redwynnes, to their credit, did not break. Instead, they met the charge with a cry of defiance, swords drawn, clashing against the steel-tipped bayonets of the French.
Napoleon watched from his horse as the two forces collided—the past against the future. The Redwynne knights cut down two of his men, their heavy blades cleaving through blue coats before they themselves were run through with bayonets. The French took wounds—slashed arms, pierced legs—but they pushed forward, relentless.
Then, as Napoleon had predicted, the Redwynne line wavered.
"Now, Bertrand!"
The cavalry thundered forward, sabers flashing as they crashed into the enemy's flank. What discipline the Redwynnes had left shattered. Some tried to retreat, others stood their ground and were cut down.
Minutes later, it was over.
The last defenders threw down their weapons, falling to their knees, exhausted and beaten. The bodies of their fallen comrades lay scattered across the battlefield, the iron scent of blood mixing with the gunpowder still hanging in the air.
Napoleon rode forward, dismounting near the survivors. His boots crunched against the dirt as he approached. The few Redwynne men left looked up at him with weary, defiant eyes.
One among them—a knight with a bloodied sword—spat at his feet.
"You may have won the field, but you'll never break our people."
Napoleon stared at him for a long moment. Then, he simply said, "I do not need to break you. Only to move past you."
He turned to his officers. "Take them as prisoners. Tend to their wounded. They fought bravely, and brave men deserve mercy."
Some of his generals exchanged glances, but none questioned him. Mercy from Napoleon was rare, but when it was given, it was calculated. He did not need needless butchery. He needed the Redwynnes to see that resistance was futile.
He took one last glance at the field—his fallen soldiers, two dead from swords, others wounded but still standing.
A necessary price. A small one.
He exhaled and mounted his horse again, his gaze turning toward the road ahead.
Dunn Keep had fallen.
Cockshaw Keep was next.
The army marched forward, leaving the smoldering remains of battle behind. Dunn Keep was secured, its walls now lined with French soldiers, its banners replaced by the tricolor. But Napoleon did not linger. There was no time to waste—Cockshaw Keep was next.
The road stretched ahead, winding through open fields and patches of dense woodland. Napoleon rode at the head of the column, his generals beside him, their horses moving in steady rhythm with the marching men. The morning sun had burned away the mist, leaving the air crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and distant salt from the sea.
His soldiers, despite their victory, remained disciplined and silent as they marched. They had fought well, but this was only the beginning. The Redwynnes had yet to truly break.
They had been marching for less than an hour when a rider appeared on the horizon.
The lone horseman galloped toward them from the direction of Cockshaw Keep, the red-and-gold banner of House Redwyne fluttering behind him. He rode hard, his brown cloak billowing, his armor glinting in the sunlight.
Napoleon lifted a hand, signaling a halt. The army slowed, boots grinding against the dirt. The officers tensed, hands resting on hilts and pistol grips.
The messenger came to a stop a dozen paces away, his horse snorting, foam flecking its bridle. He was young, no more than twenty, his face tight with strain—but there was no fear in his eyes.
He straightened in his saddle, raising his voice.
"I come as an envoy from Cockshaw Keep! I bear the words of Lord Aedric Redwyne!"
Napoleon watched him carefully, then gave a slight nod. "Speak."
The rider took a breath. "Lord Aedric acknowledges your victory at Dunn Keep. He knows your army is unlike anything our lands have seen before. But he will not surrender Cockshaw."
A murmur ran through the French officers. Napoleon remained silent, his gaze locked on the messenger.
The rider continued. "Lord Aedric is willing to negotiate terms. He asks that you meet him under a flag of truce before blood is spilled again."
Napoleon exhaled slowly, glancing toward the distant outline of Cockshaw Keep, its towers barely visible beyond the hills. A delay. That's what Aedric wanted. A chance to stall for time, to gather his strength.
He turned in his saddle, facing his officers.
General Jean-Baptiste Duhesme frowned. "A negotiation? Or a trick?"
General Durutte scoffed. "What is there to negotiate? Their walls are stone, their weapons are steel. Ours are gunpowder and iron. We march, we take the keep, and we move on."
General Bertrand folded his arms. "Unless the Redwynne fleet is coming faster than expected, this is nothing but a desperate attempt to hold ground."
Napoleon listened, eyes still fixed on the horizon. Then, at last, he spoke.
"There is nothing to negotiate." His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the ranks. "Lord Aedric sees the future approaching, and he hopes to bargain his way out of it. But history does not negotiate. It advances, and those who stand against it are trampled."
The messenger's jaw tightened. "Then you refuse to speak with my lord?"
Napoleon's eyes met his. "Tell Lord Aedric that by nightfall, Cockshaw Keep will belong to me. He may surrender and live, or resist and perish."
The rider swallowed, but his posture remained rigid. He gave a single nod, wheeled his horse around, and galloped back toward Cockshaw Keep.
Napoleon watched him go, then turned to his officers. "Form ranks. We march."
The drums rolled.
The banners snapped in the wind.
The Grand Armée advanced once more.
The walls of Cockshaw Keep loomed ahead, defiant against the morning light. Built of thick grey stone, its battlements bristled with archers and spear-wielding guards, their banners of red grapes on gold snapping in the wind. Unlike Dunn Keep, which had fallen swiftly, Cockshaw would be a true fight.
Napoleon studied the fortifications from horseback, his officers gathered around him. Aedric Redwyne had chosen to resist rather than surrender. A mistake. But Napoleon would give him no time to regret it.
He turned to General Duhesme, commander of the Young Guard. "Deploy the skirmishers. Let them test the enemy's strength before we commit the main assault."
Duhesme nodded sharply and signaled to his aides. Soon, ranks of voltigeurs—light infantry trained to move swiftly and harass enemy forces—advanced with muskets at the ready. They spread out along the field, taking cover behind the low hills and scattered trees that led up to the keep.
Napoleon watched as the first shots rang out.
The Redwynne archers answered, a volley of arrows slicing through the air. Some struck their marks—French soldiers fell with cries of pain—but most missed, unable to match the accuracy and range of Napoleon's muskets.
Then, the cannon fire began.
The Storm Begins
A thunderous roar split the air as Napoleon's artillery opened up.Grapeshot and round shot smashed into the stone walls, sending shards flying. The defenders staggered as explosions burst across their battlements, wooden palisades splintering under the relentless barrage.
Still, they did not break.
The Redwynne soldiers held firm, shouting war cries, loosing arrows, bracing spears. They had fought for generations with steel and honor, and they would not yield to foreign invaders without a fight.
Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "They fight well."
General Durutte, watching from beside him, scoffed. "They fight like men who don't yet know they are beaten."
"Which makes them dangerous," Napoleon countered. "If they had even a handful of cannons, this battle would be far costlier."
Durutte conceded with a nod. "Shall we send in the assault columns?"
Napoleon surveyed the battlefield. The walls were strong, but the enemy was vulnerable. They lacked gunpowder, lacked artillery. All they had was courage. And courage alone would not be enough.
He turned to Duhesme."The Young Guard will lead the charge. Have them fix bayonets and take the walls."
Duhesme saluted, then barked orders to his captains.
The drums rolled.
The charge began.
The Assault on Cockshaw
With a great battle cry, hundreds of French soldiers surged forward. Their bayonets gleamed in the sunlight, muskets held close as they charged toward the battered walls. The Redwynnes met them with arrows, javelins, even rocks—but they did not stop.
Scaling ladders slammed against the stone. French troops climbed, dodging spear thrusts, shoving defenders back with musket butts. Some fell, struck by arrows or hacked down before they could crest the parapet, but more came behind them.
At the main gate, sappers placed powder charges. A moment later—
BOOM.
The wooden doors burst apart in a cloud of fire and smoke. French grenadiers surged through the breach, muskets flashing, bayonets stabbing, swords clashing.
Napoleon watched from horseback as his men pushed into the keep, the defenders stubborn but outmatched. The Redwynne soldiers fought bravely, their blades wet with French blood, but their steel could not match the cold precision of musket fire and bayonet drills.
At the height of the battle, two of Napoleon's men fell to Redwynne swords, caught in the brutal melee within the courtyard. Others were wounded—some from crossbow bolts, others from desperate, last-stand attacks by the enemy.
Still, the French numbers were too great, their firepower too overwhelming. The keep's defenders began to falter, their lines breaking apart.
And then the shouting changed.
Mercy Amidst the Ruins
A trumpet sounded from the walls. A voice, raw with desperation, cried out:
"We yield!"
Napoleon raised his hand, signaling a halt. The fighting stopped.
The last of the Redwynne soldiers—**no more than a dozen—dropped their weapons. They stood, panting, some bleeding, others leaning on each other for support.
Napoleon rode forward through the shattered gates. He looked down at the bloodied survivors, his expression unreadable.
One of the Redwynne officers, a knight with a broken sword, met his gaze. "We fought for our lord." His voice was hoarse but steady.
Napoleon inclined his head slightly. "And I admire that." He turned to his officers. "Spare them. They have fought with honor."
General Bertrand, blood still on his uniform, frowned. "And if they take up arms again?"
Napoleon looked back at the prisoners. "They won't." His voice was firm, confident. "Because they know what comes next. Their world is over. Ours has begun."
And with that, Cockshaw Keep belonged to the French.
Now they march for Vinetown
Afternoon sun blazed over the Arbor, casting long golden streaks across the vineyards. The scent of ripened grapes lingered in the warm air, mixing with the sweat and gunpowder of an army on the move. The Grande Armée marched with precision, their blue coats stark against the emerald fields. The fife and drums of the Imperial Guard Band played a steady cadence, the triumphant notes of La Victoire est à Nous rolling through the countryside. The men marched in perfect formation, their blue coats and shakos a stark contrast against the lush green vineyards.
Napoleon rode at the front, his white horse stepping with precision, its hooves thudding against the dirt road that led to Vinetown, the Redwynnes' seat of power. He kept his gaze forward, unreadable, as villagers and townsfolk gathered at the edges of the road, watching with expressions that ranged from awe to fear.
Whispers passed through the crowd. Who are these soldiers? What weapons do they carry? The people of the Arbor had never seen such an army—men in disciplined ranks, muskets glinting under the sun, artillery drawn by sturdy horses. Some clutched their children close, others simply gawked, as if they beheld an invasion from another world.
Napoleon paid them no mind. His focus was on the Redwynne fleet, resting in Vinetown's harbor, and the walls of the city itself.
They had sent their warning. They had crushed two keeps in their path. Yet the Redwynnes still refused to surrender.
A Final Offer
As they neared the outskirts of Vinetown, Napoleon called for a halt. The army slowed, falling into position as officers barked orders. Cannon crews unhooked their pieces, preparing them for battle. The Imperial Guard stood poised, waiting.
Within his war tent, surrounded by his trusted commanders, Napoleon spread out the map of Vinetown across the table. The layout of the city was clear—thick walls, strong gates, and the port at its back, filled with over two hundred ships.
He turned to General Duhesme, his expression unreadable.
"We will not rush into this like fools," Napoleon said, his voice calm but firm. "Before we open fire, I will offer them one last chance."
The generals nodded, though some exchanged doubtful glances.
Captain Johnny Beaumont leaned over the map, running a gloved finger along the roads leading into the city. "They will fight, mon Empereur. The Redwynnes are proud. I have seen it in their eyes."
Napoleon smirked. "Pride is good. But pride will not stop cannonballs."
He turned to Durutte. "You will form the right flank. If they refuse our terms, your men will be the first to engage."
Durutte nodded, his face set in stone.
"To the left, Duhesme will lead the charge." Napoleon's eyes flicked to the commander of the Young Guard. "Take the vineyard roads and cut off any escape."
Duhesme saluted. "They will not leave their city, sire."
Napoleon tapped the harbor on the map. "Bertrand, you will take a detachment and ensure the fleet does not flee. If they attempt to set sail, fire upon them. I want those ships intact, not sunk."
Bertrand grinned. "Then we shall take their fleet, as you took Toulon."
Napoleon chuckled. "Precisely."
He straightened and folded his arms behind his back.
"I will not waste men needlessly. If they surrender, we will take the city without bloodshed. If not—" he gestured to the artillery officers standing at attention, "—we will batter their walls until they break."
A murmur of agreement passed through the tent.
Napoleon turned to an aide-de-camp, expression sharp.
"Take a white flag. Ride into Vinetown. Tell them this: They have seen our might. They know our power. If they surrender now, their lives will be spared. If they resist…" His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and final. "Then we will show them how war is fought in France."
The aide saluted and rode off toward the city gates.
Defiance
Minutes turned into an hour. Then another.
The French army waited in tense silence. The fife and drums had ceased, leaving only the distant calls of seagulls and the rustling of vineyard leaves in the breeze.
Then the envoy returned. Alone.
Napoleon did not need to ask. The look in the young officer's eyes said everything.
"They will fight."
Napoleon exhaled through his nose. A small smile played at his lips—not of amusement, but of inevitability.
"Very well," he murmured. He mounted his horse, looking over the thousands of men under his command. The finest army Europe had ever known.
He turned to his generals.
"Let us teach these lords what it means to defy an empire."
He raised his arm, and with a single word—
"Feu!"
—the first cannon roared.
The first cannon roared.
Then another. And another.
The air trembled with the deep, bone-rattling thunder of artillery. Smoke curled into the afternoon sky as iron shot hurtled forward, slamming into Vinetown's walls with the force of a god's hammer. Stone shattered. Dust rose. The city trembled beneath the relentless bombardment.
Napoleon stood at the center of it all, his gray greatcoat whipping in the wind, his eyes locked on the defenses. His horse pawed at the ground, restless beneath him, but he barely noticed.
He had been here before.
Siege of Toulon, 1793. A young artillery officer, unknown and untested, standing among the cannons, breaking the British grip on the city with cold precision. He had climbed from obscurity that day.
And today, he would take another city.
But this time, he would take its fleet as well.
"Give Them Hell"
Napoleon turned to his artillery officers, standing at attention. Columns of cannon crews worked feverishly, swabbing barrels, ramming shot, adjusting aim.
He lifted his riding crop, pointing at the fractured sections of Vinetown's walls.
"Focus fire here," he ordered. "Break them open."
The gunners obeyed without hesitation.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Explosions rippled across the battlements. Masonry crumbled, and a great section of wall collapsed inward, leaving a smoking gap. The defenders above were flung from their posts, their screams lost beneath the cannon's roar.
Napoleon gritted his teeth, his blood thrumming with the familiar rhythm of war.
"More! Keep firing until the breach is wide enough for the infantry!"
The cannons barked again. The gap widened. A path into the city.
This was the moment.
Napoleon turned in his saddle, raising his voice so it carried across the battlefield.
"Advance!"
"Chant de l'Oignon"
The drums rolled.
Bayonets flashed in the afternoon sun as columns of French infantry surged forward. The first wave stormed toward the breach, boots pounding against the earth in perfect unison.
And then, as if born from instinct, the men began to sing.
"Ah! Nous y reviendrons! Nous y reviendrons! Nous y reviendrons manger des oignons!"
The Chant de l'Oignon.
It rose over the battlefield—loud, fearless, defiant. A song of soldiers marching to victory, of muskets and bayonets, of war and triumph.
The Redwynne defenders, battered but still standing, rallied atop the ruined walls. Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down. Swords gleamed in the fading sunlight. They would not surrender.
Napoleon watched as his men crashed into the breach. The first ranks fired their muskets point-blank, sending lead tearing through the defenders. Smoke erupted. The second rank fired. Then the third.
Then—steel on steel.
Bayonets met swords, sabers, and axes. French soldiers plunged into the chaos, cutting through feudal armor like parchment.
Napoleon clenched his jaw. They were winning.
And then—
The Cavalry Charge
From the city's southern gate, the ground began to rumble.
Napoleon's head snapped toward the sound. A shadow moved through the smoke. Then another. Then a hundred.
Horsemen.
The Redwynne cavalry burst from the city like a thunderclap.Steel glinted. Hooves pounded. They were coming—and they were heading straight for him.
A chill shot through Napoleon's spine. He had expected resistance, but this—this was bold.
The charge came fast. Too fast. His aides and staff officers scrambled for their weapons. Some shouted warnings. Others reached for their pistols.
Napoleon sat still. His hand hovered near his own pistol—but he knew. He wouldn't fire first. He wouldn't panic.
Because he was not alone.
The Old Guard Stands
Like a storm gathering at sea, a wall of blue coats appeared between him and the charging cavalry.
The Old Guard.
"Form square!" a voice bellowed.
Veteran grenadiers snapped into formation, muskets lowering in unison. Their great bearskin hats made them look even more like statues—immovable, unbreakable.
"Fire!"
The first volley tore through the Redwynne horsemen.
Riders fell. Horses collapsed. The charge staggered.
Another volley.
Then another.
The remaining cavalry, seeing the deathtrap before them, wavered—and then broke.
Those who remained turned and fled, their attack shattered before it could reach its mark.
Napoleon exhaled slowly. He turned his gaze toward his Old Guard, standing as firm as ever, their muskets still smoking.
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
"Bon travail, mes vieux."Well done, my old ones.
The City Burns
From the breach, the sounds of battle and fire still raged. But Napoleon knew the truth. It was only a matter of time.
Vinetown was falling.
Napoleon turned his horse toward the ruined walls, toward his men pouring into the city. The fleet awaited in the harbor. His fleet.
His victory was at hand.
The Race to the Harbor
Smoke curled through the streets of Vinetown. The afternoon sun, once bright and golden, was now veiled in a hazy shroud of ash and fire. The tricolor banners of France rippled in the breeze as Napoleon and his men marched forward, pressing deeper into the dying city.
The civilians—shopkeepers, craftsmen, mothers clutching their children—stood frozen, staring at the advancing French ranks. Their faces were a mix of awe and horror. Some knelt in surrender, others trembled behind shuttered doors, peering through the cracks like rabbits in a burrow.
But not all had given up.
A young man in merchant's garb, no older than twenty, leapt from an alleyway, dagger in hand. With a desperate cry, he lunged toward a passing grenadier.
Crack!
A single shot rang out.
The youth collapsed, blood seeping through his tunic, the dagger clattering uselessly on the cobblestones. The French soldier who fired the shot barely slowed, reloading his musket as he continued forward.
Napoleon barely gave the scene a glance. This was war. He had seen it all before.
But he had no time for distractions.
Then, from ahead—a shout.
One of his aides-de-camp galloped toward him, breathless.
"Sire! The harbor—some of the enemy ships are trying to escape!"
For a brief moment, Napoleon's pulse quickened. His eyes flicked up to the skyline, toward the glinting masts rising beyond the burning rooftops.
The fleet.
His fleet.
Or at least, it would be if he took it before it slipped away.
His jaw tightened. He turned to his commanders—Duhesme, Durutte, Bertrand, and Captain Johnny.
"We must move now." His voice was calm, decisive. "A sprint to the harbor. If those ships escape, we will have wasted this victory."
His generals exchanged looks but nodded immediately.
"Yes, Sire!"
Napoleon turned to the nearest drummers. "Double-time! To the harbor!"
The rhythm changed instantly—the steady march became a rapid tat-tat-tat, a signal to the army.
The Final Push
The streets of Vinetown became a flood of blue and gold.
French soldiers broke into a sprint, muskets bouncing on their backs, boots pounding the cobblestone streets. They weaved through the remnants of resistance—a few Redwynne stragglers, last-ditch fighters, an old knight who refused to yield. Some stood their ground, swinging swords against bayonets, only to be cut down in seconds.
Napoleon rode at the center of it all, his horse galloping forward as his men rushed ahead.
The harbor came into view.
And there—on the water—the enemy ships.
Some were still moored, crews scrambling to untie ropes, to raise sails. Others had already started drifting away, their oars churning the water desperately.
Napoleon's heart pounded.
No.
They will not escape.
"Take the Harbor!"
Napoleon yanked his horse to a halt at the final street before the harbor. He stood in the saddle, raised his arm, and bellowed:
"TAKE THE HARBOR! SEIZE THOSE SHIPS! ANY MAN WHO BOARDS ONE—A PLACE IN HISTORY!"
The soldiers roared in response, the promise of glory igniting their blood.
They surged forward, bayonets lowered, muskets ready.
The final battle had begun.
The Seizure of the Fleet
The harbor exploded into chaos.
Napoleon watched from atop his warhorse, his eyes narrowing as his soldiers stormed forward. The din of battle filled the air—the clash of steel, the cracks of muskets, the desperate shouts of sailors trying to push off.
The Redwynne fleet was already in motion. Some ships had begun drifting from the docks, sails billowing in the afternoon breeze. Others were still tied, their crews scrambling over the decks, cutting ropes, tossing crates overboard to lighten the load.
But they were too slow.
Napoleon knew it the moment he saw the charge.
His grenadiers led the sprint, roaring as they surged down the stone docks, bayonets gleaming. Some leapt onto gangplanks, clashing with desperate sailors wielding cutlasses. Others vaulted over railings, landing on the decks in brutal melees.
Beyond them, the musketeers halted at the dock's edge, taking aim. A volley of shots rang out, cutting down sailors who had nearly pushed off.
Napoleon's eyes flickered across the harbor, tracking the battle like a game of chess.
To his left, Captain Johnny and his men had seized a small sloop, cutting through its defenders with practiced efficiency. The Redwynne crew—mostly merchants pressed into naval service—stood no chance against seasoned veterans. Some dropped their weapons, raising their hands in surrender.
To his right, General Duhesme led the Young Guard in a brutal boarding action. His men—tall, disciplined, relentless—stormed a warship, locking swords with its captain and officers. Napoleon saw Duhesme himself cut down a Redwynne lieutenant, his saber flashing in the dimming sunlight.
Further ahead—trouble.
One of the largest ships, a three-masted galley, was pulling away. The oars churned the waters, pushing it toward the open sea.
Napoleon's jaw clenched.
No. That ship will not escape.
"Bring It Down!"
He wheeled his horse toward his artillery commanders, his voice a whipcrack of authority.
"Gunners! Turn the cannons on that ship! Chain shot! Bring down its masts!"
The cannoneers scrambled, pivoting the heavy guns toward the fleeing vessel. The crews worked fast, shoving iron shot linked by chains down the barrels, ramming them deep.
A brief pause—then:
"Fire!"
The first cannon thundered.
The whirl of chain shot sliced through the air. It struck the ship's mainmast with a sickening crack, wood splintering, ropes snapping like a dying beast's tendons.
Napoleon watched with sharp satisfaction as the mast groaned and collapsed, toppling into the deck below. Sailors screamed as they were crushed beneath it. The ship veered, dead in the water.
It was over.
Victory at the Harbor
The fighting dragged on for minutes more, but Napoleon already knew the outcome.
One by one, the Redwynne ships fell.
Some were taken by force, with French soldiers cutting their way through defenders. Others were seized bloodlessly, their captains throwing down their weapons rather than be slaughtered. A few, desperate to escape, tried to row out of the harbor—but French skirmishers picked them off with musket fire.
And then, finally—
A trumpet sounded.
Napoleon breathed in deep, taking in the sight before him.
The harbor was his.
The tricolor of France now fluttered from the masts of Redwynne ships. Smoke still curled from musket fire, and the waters were littered with bodies, but the battle was done. His men were already securing prisoners, tying up surrendering sailors, tending to their wounded.
His fleet.
He exhaled, finally allowing himself a brief moment of triumph.
A New Empire Begins
He turned his horse, addressing his assembled generals—Duhesme, Durutte, Bertrand, and Johnny.
"Gentlemen." He swept a hand toward the captured ships, the conquered city, the tattered remains of Redwynne resistance."Today, we have not only taken a city. We have taken the seas."
He let the words settle before adding:
"And tomorrow, we take the world."