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NAPOLEON
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From his command post atop the hill, Napoleon watched the first clash unfold. Across the ridge, smoke still lingered where Beaumont's Arbor regiment had repelled the enemy knights. The square formation had held firm, the musket volleys precise, the discipline unwavering. A good sign.
But this was merely the beginning.
Beyond the battlefield, the Tyrell host was on the move. Thousands of men, banners rippling in the wind, advancing in tight ranks toward the hillside where the French had dug in. The green and gold of Highgarden stood in stark contrast to the cold steel and blue uniforms of France.
Napoleon's sharp eyes scanned the field, noting the enemy formations—blocks of spearmen, longbowmen taking position behind them, and heavy foot soldiers moving in slow, methodical waves. The enemy commander was not throwing his cavalry recklessly this time. No, this was a proper engagement.
"Duhesme," Napoleon said, his voice calm yet firm.
General Duhesme stepped forward, his uniform still immaculate despite the dust and gunpowder that clung to the battlefield.
"Take the fusiliers and grenadiers. Deploy them at the front," Napoleon ordered. "The Tyrell infantry is advancing. They mean to march up this hill. We will meet them with fire and steel."
Duhesme nodded, his sharp eyes gleaming. "At once, sire."
The orders were relayed with speed and precision. Down below, French drummers began their cadence, the rhythmic beat sending men into motion. The fusiliers formed into long, disciplined lines, their bayonets gleaming in the morning sun. Beside them, the grenadiers, larger men with bearskin caps, took their position, ready to strike with deadly volleys and brutal charges.
Napoleon turned next to the artillery crews stationed behind him.
The cannons—French 8-pounders and heavier 12-pounders—had been positioned expertly along the ridge. Their barrels, freshly polished and now loaded, stood ready like the fangs of a beast awaiting its prey. The engineers had done their work well.
But for this first strike, Napoleon would take matters into his own hands.
He strode toward one of the largest cannons—a 12-pounder, its iron mouth gaping toward the valley below. The crew snapped to attention, stepping aside as their Emperor took hold of the artillery sight.
Napoleon peered down, aligning the shot carefully. From this height, the Tyrell infantry was a mass of green and steel, advancing in measured steps.
Too slow. Too predictable.
"Load round shot," Napoleon commanded.
A cannonball, smooth and heavy, was rammed down the barrel, the wadding packed tight.
Napoleon raised his hand. "Fire."
The gunner yanked the lanyard.
The cannon roared, the recoil shaking the earth beneath it. The ball screamed through the air, slamming into the enemy's front line. Bodies were torn apart instantly, men flung backward like ragdolls.
A moment of hesitation rippled through their ranks.
Napoleon smiled coldly.
He turned to the next cannon. "Grapeshot."
The crew hurried, loading the weapon with a canister filled with dozens of small iron balls. A murderous choice, ideal for cutting down charging infantry in tight formations.
Again, Napoleon took careful aim. The enemy was closer now, the second wave pushing up the slope.
"Fire."
The cannon belched fire and smoke. The grapeshot spread wide, tearing through flesh and armor like a storm of death. Men collapsed in heaps, their bodies shredded beyond recognition.
Still, the Tyrells advanced. Their commanders, though shaken, kept them moving.
Napoleon turned back to his officers.
"Keep the barrage steady. Alternate between round shot and grapeshot. We will thin their numbers before they reach our lines."
The artillery crews worked like clockwork.Shot after shot, explosion after explosion, the hillside shook with the fury of French cannons.
Napoleon turned his gaze to the infantry lines below. Duhesme and the fusiliers had taken their positions. The grenadiers stood ready.
The Tyrell forces were nearly within musket range.
Napoleon exhaled, then gave the order.
"Infantry, present arms!"
A wave of metallic clicks echoed as muskets were raised, aimed directly at the oncoming enemy.
He could see it now—the moment of truth.
"First rank… FIRE!"
The battle for Oldtown had truly begun.
The roar of muskets ripped through the morning air, drowning out the desperate cries of the Tyrell soldiers. A wall of fire erupted from the French lines, smoke billowing in thick clouds as the first rank of fusiliers discharged their muskets.
The bullets struck like a reaper's scythe, mowing down the first line of green-clad infantry. Bodies crumpled, some tumbling forward with gaping holes in their chests, others screaming as they clutched shattered limbs. The charge wavered, but their commanders barked orders, forcing them to press on.
Napoleon's cold blue eyes watched, calculating.
"Second rank… FIRE!"
Another deafening volley. The Tyrell foot soldiers were met with another storm of lead, tearing through chainmail and flesh alike. Some fell mid-stride, others convulsed on the ground as blood pooled around them. The stench of burnt powder and iron filled the air, mixing with the sickly-sweet scent of spilled guts.
Yet still, the Tyrells kept coming.
Napoleon's mind worked like a war engine, absorbing every movement, every hesitation, every gap in the enemy's advance. He turned to Pierre, his aide-de-camp.
"Signal the grenadiers. They will fix bayonets and charge when the enemy reaches twenty paces."
Pierre nodded sharply, waving his signal flag.
Napoleon turned to the artillery crews. His golden eagle insignia gleamed in the sun, his silhouette framed against the smoke-covered sky.
"Continue bombardment. Target the flanks. The enemy's formation is dense—make them pay for it."
A captain saluted, his face blackened with powder. "As you command, sire."
The cannons fired again, their thunder shaking the earth beneath them.
A round shot tore through a cluster of Tyrell men, the impact shattering bones, sending an arm spiraling through the air like a grotesque ragdoll. Another cannonball struck a knight, the force blasting his torso apart, leaving only a pair of twitching legs standing for a brief moment before collapsing.
And then came the grapeshot.
The cannister burst open mid-flight, sending dozens of iron balls raking through the packed infantry. Blood sprayed as heads were obliterated, shoulders torn apart, entire sections of the enemy's front line reduced to writhing heaps of agony.
The steady beat of drums and the high-pitched wail of fifes cut through the morning mist, their sharp, disciplined rhythm a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding below. French fusiliers stood firm in their formations, muskets braced, bayonets glinting in the pale sunlight. Their blue coats, now darkened with sweat and gunpowder, rippled in the breeze as they awaited the next command.
Beyond them, the rolling green fields of the Reach were now a graveyard. The first Tyrell charge had faltered, its broken remains littering the hillside—men clutching gaping wounds, shattered muskets strewn in the mud, war banners trampled beneath boots and hooves. The stench of blood and burned powder filled the air, mingling with the distant cries of the dying.
Napoleon stood atop a slight rise, eyes cold and calculating. His golden eagle insignia gleamed on his chest, catching the morning light like a beacon of dominance.
A French artillery officer approached, face blackened with soot. "Orders, sire?"
Napoleon's gaze swept the battlefield. Beyond the wreckage of the first charge, he saw another wave of green-clad soldiers forming up. They were reorganizing, their banners lifting, officers bellowing commands as they prepared for another advance.
A slow, knowing smirk tugged at Napoleon's lips.
"Let them come," he murmured.
He turned to Pierre, his aide-de-camp.
"Signal the grenadiers. They are to advance with grenades. Hold fire until I give the order."
Pierre snapped a crisp salute and galloped down toward the front lines.
Napoleon's blue eyes flicked to the artillery.
"Continue bombardment. Use round shot at long range. Switch to grapeshot when they close."
The artillery captain nodded and barked the order. Moments later, the cannons thundered.
A round shot tore through the enemy ranks, blasting a gaping hole through a cluster of men. Another cannonball smashed into a line of advancing soldiers, tearing through flesh and bone like paper.
And yet, the Tyrells pressed forward, desperate to reclaim the field.
The Grenadiers Strike
The French fifes shrieked in a rapid, urgent tune, followed by the deep, rolling boom of the drums. The grenadiers—tall, fearsome men with plumed shakos and belts lined with explosives—advanced with disciplined steps.
Napoleon raised his arm.
The Tyrell infantry, now within striking distance, let out a battle cry and surged forward, muskets raised, bayonets gleaming.
Napoleon's hand fell.
"GRENADEIERS—THROW!"
The air filled with a chorus of metallic clinks as dozens of grenades arced through the sky, tumbling toward the charging enemy.
A heartbeat later—BOOM!
The explosions tore through the Tyrell ranks.
Flaming debris and blood sprayed in all directions. Soldiers screamed as shrapnel shredded their uniforms, lodged deep into flesh, severed arms, ripped apart legs. Some were thrown backward, others crumpled on the spot, their bodies torn open by the blasts.
The charge collapsed into chaos.
Amid the carnage, a Tyrell knight on horseback, his armor gleaming with dust and blood, yanked at his reins, his voice desperate.
"RETREAT! FALL BACK TO THE CITY!"
But there was no retreat.
Napoleon raised his hand again.
"FUSILIERS—FIRE AT WILL!"
The French muskets cracked in staggered volleys, each shot precise, merciless. Bullets ripped through the panicked enemy ranks, sending men toppling backward, their bodies twisting from the force of impact.
The Tyrells broke.
Some dropped their weapons and ran. Others stumbled, trying to crawl away, only to be trampled beneath the boots of their fleeing comrades.
The Final Blow
Napoleon turned to Duhesme, his cavalry commander.
"Commit the dragoons. Cut them down."
Duhesme saluted, then wheeled his horse around, galloping toward his waiting cavalry.
Moments later, the ground trembled as hundreds of French dragoons thundered forward. Their sabers flashed in the morning sun, their mounts kicking up a storm of dust. They crashed into the retreating Tyrell infantry like a tidal wave of steel and fury.
Napoleon watched, his expression unreadable. The battle had become a slaughter.
A single cannon boomed, sending another round shot crashing into the fleeing enemy. A knight was struck mid-gallop, his upper body vanishing in an explosion of gore, his headless horse veering wildly before collapsing.
Napoleon inhaled slowly, the scent of blood and sulfur filling his lungs.
It was done.
The first wave had been annihilated. Oldtown was within reach.
The field was theirs. The Tyrell banners once billowing proudly in the morning sun now lay trampled in the blood-soaked mud. What remained of the enemy force had turned and fled, retreating towards the towering walls of Oldtown. Their armor clanked as they rushed through the great gates, voices frantic, orders shouted in panicked desperation.
From his position on horseback, Napoleon raised a hand, signaling a halt.
His officers, their faces streaked with sweat and gunpowder, looked to him for direction. The French fusiliers, their muskets still smoking, stood in disciplined ranks, awaiting orders. The grenadiers, having spent their deadly payload, adjusted their belts, gripping their bayoneted muskets in anticipation.
Napoleon's eyes fixed on Oldtown's walls.
Ancient stone, thick and weathered, loomed over the battlefield. Archers were already taking positions on the battlements, their green and gold surcoats fluttering in the wind. Behind the parapets, men prepared cauldrons of boiling pitch, while others carried barrels—undoubtedly filled with oil or sand—to be used as deadly projectiles.
The Tyrells were bracing for a siege.
But he would not give them the luxury of time.
Repositioning the Cannons
Napoleon turned in his saddle, his piercing gaze falling on General Duhesme.
"Cease all advance," he commanded, his voice sharp, unwavering. "We do not throw our men against stone walls like common fools. Prepare the artillery. We move the guns forward."
Duhesme gave a firm nod, then wheeled his horse around, barking orders down the line.
Within minutes, the engineers and artillery crews sprang into action.
Heavy wooden wheels creaked as the cannons were hauled forward, dragged by teams of horses and straining soldiers. Each artillery piece, a sleek, dark beast of bronze and iron, was carefully maneuvered into position—close enough to hammer the walls, yet beyond the deadly reach of the enemy archers.
Sweat glistened on the backs of the men as they dug trenches for the gunners, erecting makeshift defenses of earth and timber to shield the artillery from counterfire.
Napoleon rode past them, inspecting their progress with a keen eye.
The ground beneath them was still damp with blood, littered with shattered muskets, broken swords, and the bodies of fallen soldiers—French and Tyrell alike. And yet, his men moved with unwavering discipline, their focus set solely on the task at hand.
These were not mere warriors. These were soldiers of France.
The Bombardment Begins
The first battery was ready.
Napoleon dismounted, stepping toward a cannon, running his gloved hand along its polished surface.
He turned to his chief artillery officer.
"Load round shot. Concentrate fire on the weakest points of the wall. We breach it before nightfall."
The officer saluted sharply, then relayed the command.
With practiced precision, the crews moved.
Barrels of gunpowder were opened, measured carefully. Cannonballs, smooth and cold, were hoisted and loaded into the great iron muzzles. Men swabbed, rammed, and primed each weapon with meticulous speed.
Then, Napoleon gave the signal.
"Fire."
A split-second of silence.
Then, the earth trembled.
The first cannon roared, belching fire and smoke. The blast kicked up dirt and debris, the force rattling the bones of every man on the field.
The cannonball tore through the air, a black blur of destruction, before slamming into the walls of Oldtown with an ear-splitting crash. A cloud of dust and stone erupted from the impact point, leaving a jagged scar upon the ancient defenses.
Another blast.
Then another.
Within moments, the full might of the French artillery was unleashed.
The walls of Oldtown trembled under the relentless bombardment, as Napoleon Bonaparte began the systematic destruction of one of Westeros' greatest cities.
The thunder of the cannons filled the air, shaking the very ground beneath Napoleon's boots. Smoke hung heavy over the battlefield, rolling in thick, choking clouds. The French artillery had settled into a steady rhythm—round shot hammering the walls of Oldtown, splintering stone, sending debris cascading down like an avalanche.
Napoleon stood with his officers near the battery line, his spyglass raised, watching the effect of the bombardment. The walls were pocked with fresh scars, but still, they held.Too thick, too sturdy. It would take time, but they would crumble.
Duhesme approached, wiping soot from his face. "Sire, the guns are making progress, but not fast enough. Some parts of the wall barely show cracks."
Napoleon lowered the spyglass, his expression unreadable. "Then we double our efforts. Bring up more powder. Increase the rate of fire."
Duhesme saluted and turned to relay the orders.
The gunners reloaded with practiced speed, their bodies moving in harmony—swabbing, loading, ramming, priming, firing.
Another round of booming thunder.
A fresh volley screamed toward Oldtown.
But then, a cannon's aim veered slightly.
A single round shot, massive and unforgiving, arced through the sky—not toward the walls, but higher.
Napoleon tracked its flight with narrowed eyes.
The officers beside him stopped talking.
The cannonball struck the Hightower.
A deafening explosion followed.
The impact shattered stone, sending massive chunks of masonry crashing down into the harbor below. A great plume of dust and smoke rose from the strike zone, the very top of the tower now marred by a gaping wound.
Even from this distance, Napoleon could hear the cries of the people inside the city.
The tallest structure in all of Westeros, the great beacon of Oldtown, had just been wounded by French artillery.
For the briefest of moments, there was silence among his men. Even the cannons seemed to pause, as if in awe of what had just happened.
Then, murmurs. Some officers looked to Napoleon, uncertain.
Pierre, his aide-de-camp, hesitated before speaking. "Sire… I don't think that was the intended target."
Napoleon's lips curled slightly, an amused glint in his eye. "No, but it will send a message all the same."
The cannon crews, emboldened by their unintentional display of power, let out a cheer.
Duhesme exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "The Reach will never forgive this."
Napoleon turned to him, his gaze cold and decisive. "They were never going to forgive us, General."
His eyes returned to the Hightower, now bleeding dust into the sky.
It was a warning.
And soon, Oldtown itself would fall.
The thunder of cannons had finally slowed, replaced by the low hum of fife and drums echoing across the battlefield. Smoke still clung to the air, curling over the scarred earth where cannonballs had torn through stone and flesh alike. The walls of Oldtown bore the marks of relentless artillery—a jagged wound now split open in the southern rampart, large enough for an army to march through.
Napoleon lowered his spyglass, his sharp eyes assessing the gaping breach, where rubble had collapsed into a chaotic mess of stone and dust. Archers still lined the intact portions of the walls, but the defenders were shaken, their formations uncertain. It was time.
Turning to his assembled generals, he spoke with a voice both calm and commanding.
"The walls are open. We march at once."
His words sent a ripple of movement through the command staff.
He turned to General Beaumont, who stood with his saber drawn, the Arbor-born regiment behind him—a thousand men, clad in tailored coats of French and Arbor colors, their muskets gleaming, bayonets fixed.
"General Beaumont, your regiment will take the vanguard. Show them the steel of the Arbor."
Beaumont saluted sharply, his face set with determination. "They will not falter, Sire."
Napoleon gave a nod. Then, raising his voice so the ranks could hear him, he issued the order that would decide Oldtown's fate.
"Advance!"
The March Begins
The drums rolled, steady and unyielding, as the French army began its march forward. Boots trampled over shattered earth, kicking up dust as thousands of men moved in perfect rhythm.
At the front, Beaumont led his regiment with iron discipline, his voice carrying above the chaos.
"Steady! Hold formation!"
His men marched in perfect step, muskets angled, bayonets glinting in the morning light. Behind them, the French fusiliers and grenadiers followed, their red and blue coats stark against the battlefield's smoke-stained haze.
Napoleon rode alongside his officers, watching the movement unfold with meticulous precision.
To the left, cavalry units—dragoons and cuirassiers—flanked the advancing infantry, their sabers drawn, ready to strike if the enemy attempted to ride out. To the right, the engineering corps dragged field guns forward, preparing to set up a new firing position closer to the walls.
Ahead, the breach loomed.
Napoleon could see movement inside—the defenders scrambling to form a line, knights shouting hurried orders, banners of the Reach fluttering in desperation.
A Tyrell officer—his green cloak dirtied from the siege—stood atop the rubble, sword raised high, his voice a rallying cry for his men.
"Hold the breach! Hold for the Reach!"
A volley of arrows whistled through the air.
The first line of the Arbor regiment raised their muskets in unison.
"FIRE!" Beaumont roared.
The air exploded with gunpowder and lead.
A wall of musket fire ripped through the enemy ranks, tearing men from their feet, armor shattered, blood splattering against broken stone. The Tyrell knights, realizing the sheer firepower they faced, hesitated—some turning, others charging forward in reckless defiance.
Napoleon watched from horseback, his expression unreadable.
This was not just a battle—it was a lesson.
The old ways of warfare were dying, crushed beneath the weight of discipline, firepower, and the relentless march of the modern world.
He looked toward the breach, where Beaumont's men pressed forward.
"Push through," Napoleon murmured to himself. "Oldtown will fall today."
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Jean-Baptiste "Johnny" Beaumont
Général de brigade, Arbor Corps
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The drums rolled like distant thunder, steady and unyielding as they set the pace of the march. The fifes shrieked, their piercing notes cutting through the air, weaving a melody of discipline and impending violence. Beaumont's boots crunched against the churned earth, his saber drawn, gleaming dully under the storm-gray sky.
Ahead, the breach in Oldtown's walls gaped wide, smoke curling from shattered stone. The enemy had fallen back inside, but archers now lined the walls, their bows drawn taut. Beaumont could see the glint of their arrowheads catching the light, their quivers full and waiting.
They would loose their first volley soon.
"Loose formation! Spread out!" Beaumont barked, his voice cutting through the marching columns.
The regiment shifted instinctively, breaking their rigid lines into a more flexible formation, widening gaps between men to lessen the deadly impact of incoming fire. Their training showed. Not a single soldier faltered.
Then, from the walls—a sudden twang of hundreds of bowstrings.
"Arrows incoming!"
The hiss of death on the wind.
Beaumont gritted his teeth as the sky darkened for a moment, the black shafts descending like a storm of needles. He heard the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground, the guttural screams of the wounded as arrows found their mark. A soldier to his right stumbled, an arrow piercing his shoulder, but he snapped the shaft off and kept moving.
Not a single man turned back.
The enemy archers nocked another volley, preparing to fire again.
"Muskets, ready!" Beaumont roared.
The rifles snapped up, barrels gleaming in the dim light. Beaumont watched the enemy archers frantically reload.
Too slow.
His saber sliced through the air.
"FIRE!"
The thunder of musket fire erupted, a deafening, rolling blast that drowned out the battlefield. Smoke burst from the barrels, spreading thick and fast as the air filled with the acrid scent of burned powder.
On the walls, men screamed and fell, bodies tumbling down the rubble-strewn breach. Some slumped over the edge, limp like broken marionettes, their blood dripping down the stone.
The second rank of fusiliers stepped forward.
"Reload! Fire at will!" Beaumont commanded.
The fusiliers reloaded swiftly, their hands a blur of motion, priming their muskets with methodical precision. Another crackling volley tore through the archers, scattering their formation. The survivors abandoned their posts, fleeing deeper into the city.
The breach was momentarily clear.
"Advance! Keep moving!" Beaumont roared.
He surged forward, leading the charge. Behind him, the boots of a thousand men pounded the earth, their bayonets gleaming as they climbed over fallen bodies and jagged debris.
Then, through the swirling smoke, he saw them.
Beyond the breach, knights in gilded armor stood ready, their visors down, their lances gleaming, and their swords drawn. Behind them, rows of spearmen formed ranks, bracing for the assault.
Beaumont felt a rush of blood in his veins. They thought to stop him here? To push them back with steel and numbers alone?
He raised his saber high, his voice carrying over the battlefield.
"FIX BAYONETS!"
The metallic clack-clack of bayonets locking into place rippled through the regiment.
The final charge had begun.
The air reeked of blood and gunpowder. Smoke rolled through the breach like a creeping storm, curling around the broken stones of Oldtown's shattered walls. Beaumont stood at the front, his saber raised, his breathing steady despite the chaos around him.
Beyond the smoke, the Tyrell knights stood firm, their polished plate gleaming in the morning light, their swords drawn. Behind them, lines of spearmen braced their weapons, ready to turn the breach into a graveyard.
Beaumont's heart pounded in his chest.
This was it.
The fifes screamed, and the drums roared like war gods pounding the heavens.
"VIVE LA FRANCE! FORWARD!"
The regiment surged ahead, boots pounding the broken earth, their war cries shaking the sky. Beaumont led the charge, his saber flashing, the golden eagle insignia on his uniform catching the light.
Then—
The enemy charged.
The Tyrell knights thundered forward, their warhorses kicking up dust, lances aimed low. The spearmen followed behind, a tide of steel and flesh.
Beaumont gritted his teeth.
"FIRST RANK! FIRE!"
A blinding sheet of flame erupted from the muskets.
Thunder cracked the battlefield.
The first volley ripped through the enemy ranks. Knights were thrown from their saddles, their armor punched through by musket balls. Horses screamed, collapsing mid-gallop, their riders crushed beneath them. The spearmen in the back ranks faltered, bodies jerking violently as bullets tore through them.
The enemy reeled—but they kept coming.
Beaumont spun on his heel, his voice ringing over the chaos.
"SECOND RANK, FIRE!"
Another rolling blast of gunfire split the air.
More knights crashed to the ground, their armor dented and soaked with blood. The spearmen in front collapsed in heaps, their line crumbling under the onslaught.
But some pushed through.
The knights reached the first ranks, their swords swinging down, hacking into the French lines. A soldier beside Beaumont screamed as a longsword cleaved into his shoulder, blood spraying onto the ground. Another was run through by a lance, his body lifted off the ground before he crumpled like a ragdoll.
The line threatened to break.
Beaumont roared over the battlefield.
"BAYONETS! CHARGE!"
The third rank surged forward, muskets leveled, bayonets gleaming.
They crashed into the knights like a wave of steel. The frontline became a melee, screams of rage and agony mixing with the clash of steel. A Tyrell knight swung for Beaumont—he sidestepped, thrusting his saber into the man's visor. Blood spattered across his uniform as the knight collapsed.
A soldier to his left stabbed his bayonet into a spearman's gut, twisting hard. Another fired his musket point-blank into a knight's chest, the impact throwing the armored man backward in a lifeless heap.
Through the chaos, Beaumont saw it—
The enemy was wavering.
The spearmen, their ranks shattered, began to break away. The surviving knights looked to each other, hesitating.
Then—one of them shouted in panic.
"RETREAT! FALL BACK TO THE CITY!"
The French soldiers let out a victorious roar.
Beaumont raised his saber, his voice fierce.
"FIRE AT WILL! CUT THEM DOWN!"
The muskets erupted again, the final volley ripping through the retreating enemy. Men screamed, stumbling over bodies, some clutching their wounds as they collapsed into the dust.
The enemy fled through the ruins, their once-proud charge reduced to a panicked rout.
The breach belonged to France.
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The air hung thick with smoke and gunpowder, the acrid scent mingling with the metallic stench of blood. The battle for Oldtown had ended, but its echoes still rang through the streets—the moans of the wounded, the distant crackle of fires, the heavy boots of French soldiers securing the last pockets of resistance.
Beaumont stood at the head of his Arbor regiment, his uniform streaked with soot and blood, saber still gripped in his hand. Before him, in the shadow of the damaged Hightower, a final stand had been formed—the last remnants of House Tyrell's defenders.
Knights in emerald and gold stood shoulder to shoulder, their swords drawn, their shields battered but still raised. At their center stood Ser Garlan Tyrell, his armor dented, his face streaked with sweat and exhaustion, but his posture still proud.
And beside him, the Hightowers.
Lord Leyton Hightower, the ancient ruler of Oldtown, stood silent, his long white beard stained with ash. His children—Ser Baelor, Ser Garth, Gunthor, and the rest of his kin—stood alongside him, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.Lady Malora, the mysterious 'Mad Maid of Hightower,' watched the scene unfold with piercing eyes.
They were outnumbered. The streets behind them were lined with French fusiliers and grenadiers, their muskets aimed but unfired. The fife and drum played a slow, rhythmic march in the background, a victory song echoing through the conquered city.
Beaumont stepped forward.
"It is over, Ser Garlan. My men have taken the city, your soldiers have surrendered. There is nothing left to fight for."
Garlan's grip on his longsword did not loosen. His eyes flicked to the bodies of his fallen men, then to the tattered banners of House Tyrell that still clung to the wind.
"You think this city belongs to you?" His voice was quiet but sharp. "Oldtown is older than your empire, Bonapartist. It will outlast you."
Beaumont exhaled, weary but unwavering.
"Perhaps. But that does not change the reality before us. Lay down your arms. Surrender now, and you and your men will live."
Before Garlan could answer, hoofbeats rang across the square. The French soldiers parted, and through them, Napoleon Bonaparte rode forward.
His uniform, immaculate despite the battle, bore the golden eagle of his empire. His eyes scanned the last defenders before settling on Garlan and the Hightowers. He dismounted with slow precision, removing his gloves as he stepped toward them.
A hush fell over the square.
"You are the last, then?" Napoleon asked, his voice calm but carrying across the ruins.
Lord Leyton Hightower lifted his gaze, his face unreadable. "Oldtown has stood for thousands of years. We are its guardians, and we will not kneel to an upstart conqueror."
Napoleon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Then you will die for a ruin."
A murmur ran through the Hightower knights, but Garlan stepped forward, his sword tip resting lightly on the ground.
"I will not kneel."
Napoleon exhaled sharply, as if disappointed.
"Your loyalty is admirable. But it blinds you to the truth." He gestured around them.
"Look at your city, Ser Garlan. It burns because of your resistance. Your people lay dead in the streets because of your pride. Had you surrendered sooner, this would not have been necessary."
A flicker of emotion passed over Garlan's face—anger, guilt, defiance all at once.
Napoleon took another step forward.
"War is a hammer, and I wield it only to forge something greater. You could be part of that future."
Garlan stared at him, unflinching."And if I refuse?"
Napoleon's gaze hardened.
"Then you and your house will vanish into history."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then, slowly—deliberately—Garlan turned his sword in his grip and drove it into the ground.
Not in surrender—but as a marker.
"We will leave," he said. "We will not bend the knee, but we will not waste more lives for a lost battle."
The knights behind him shifted uneasily, but none spoke against him.
Napoleon studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Then go. But remember this—you will not return to Oldtown as a soldier."
Garlan nodded, his jaw clenched tight."I understand."
Napoleon turned to the Hightowers.
"And you, Lord Leyton? What of your house?"
The old man closed his eyes for a long moment, then looked at his sons.One by one, they sheathed their swords.
Leyton Hightower let out a slow breath."Oldtown is its people. If I fight, they will suffer. We will not resist further."
Napoleon's eyes remained fixed on him for a long moment. Then, with a simple nod, he turned away.
"Good. Then Oldtown is mine."
The setting sun cast long golden streaks across the ruined streets of Oldtown. The scent of charred wood and gunpowder still lingered in the air, but the sounds of battle had faded. In its place was the steady rhythm of boots on stone—the march of the vanquished.
Beaumont rode alongside his regiment, watching as the last defenders of Oldtown prepared to leave. A long column of knights, men-at-arms, and their retainers stood in grim silence, their armor dulled by battle, their banners tattered but still carried high. At their head, Ser Garlan Tyrell rode stiff-backed, his face unreadable, his family's golden rose gleaming against his dented breastplate.
Behind him, the Hightowers stood with their remaining bannermen. Lord Leyton Hightower had not spoken a word since the surrender, his gaze fixed forward, as if he already marched toward a fate he could not change. Beside him, his sons and daughters rode in silence.
The French fusiliers stood in disciplined ranks, muskets resting at their shoulders, lining both sides of the street as the defeated were escorted from their city. Some soldiers watched with quiet curiosity, others with hardened indifference. The fife and drum played a slow, solemn tune, echoing through the broken streets.
At the gates of Oldtown, Napoleon waited.
Beaumont halted his horse a few steps behind his Emperor, watching as Garlan and the Hightowers approached. Neither side spoke at first. Only the sound of the waves crashing against the nearby harbor filled the silence.
Napoleon's expression was unreadable, his arms clasped behind his back. His uniform, as ever, was immaculate, save for a small tear on his sleeve from the battle. He studied Garlan and Lord Leyton with the cold, assessing gaze of a man who had already won.
Garlan was the first to break the silence. "Where will you send us?"
Napoleon tilted his head slightly. "That is for you to decide. But you will go north. Your path is yours, but you will not take up arms against me again."
Lord Leyton let out a slow breath, his voice steady despite his years."You have taken Oldtown, Bonaparte, but you will never own it."
Napoleon gave a faint smile. "Ownership is not my concern, my lord. Order is."
With a nod of his head, he gestured to his officers.
A company of dragoons, led by Colonel Lannes, moved forward, their sabers at their sides.
"You will be escorted beyond the reach of my army," Napoleon said. "You will be given provisions, mounts, and enough silver to sustain you. But step into my war again, and I will not be so generous."
Garlan's jaw clenched, but he gave a short nod.Behind him, the knights of House Tyrell and House Hightower began their slow procession forward, their banners fluttering one last time above Oldtown's walls.
As they passed, Beaumont met Garlan's gaze. There was no hatred there—no anger. Only the quiet understanding of two soldiers who had fought and bled for their causes.
Then, without another word, the last defenders of Oldtown rode out through the gates, their figures shrinking into the distance.
Behind them, French soldiers moved to close the gates. And with that, Oldtown belonged to Napoleon.
The heavy gates of Oldtown groaned as they shut behind the last of the Tyrell and Hightower bannermen. The distant beat of hooves faded into the horizon, swallowed by the rolling hills beyond the city. Beaumont watched them go, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the reins of his horse. They had won. But had they truly broken their enemy?
Beside him, Napoleon remained still, his gaze locked on the departing column. The Emperor's face gave nothing away—no triumph, no concern, only the unreadable mask of a man always thinking five moves ahead.
The moment of silence was broken by a familiar voice.
"This is a mistake."
Beaumont turned his head as Maester Harrold approached, his robes billowing behind him in the salty morning breeze. The old man looked weary, his lined face twisted in frustration. He had been at Napoleon's side throughout the campaign, offering counsel, but now his voice was edged with something rarely heard from him—outright defiance.
Napoleon did not turn. "Speak your mind, Maester."
Harrold took a breath, his eyes flickering toward the closed gates before settling back on the Emperor. "You have let them go."
Beaumont shifted in his saddle, watching as the maester stepped closer, his hands clenched in the folds of his robes.
"These are not beaten men, Bonaparte," Harrold continued. "They will not simply fade into obscurity. They will ride north, they will regroup, and they will return—with an army at their backs."
Beaumont could feel the tension in the air, thick as the lingering gunpowder from the battle. The French officers nearby turned their heads slightly, waiting to see how their Emperor would respond.
At last, Napoleon exhaled, a slow, measured breath. He turned to Harrold, his sharp blue eyes studying the maester as if weighing the weight of his words.
"You assume they have the means," Napoleon said, his tone calm, almost amused. "The Tyrells may have coin, but they have lost their greatest city. Their influence in the Reach is diminished, their pride wounded. Even if they gather men, what army will march through their fields with winter approaching?"
Harrold's brow furrowed. "You underestimate noble pride, my lord. These men will never accept your rule. You could have taken them prisoner, forced their banners to bow, broken them entirely. Instead, you have allowed them to become a rallying cry for rebellion."
Napoleon's gaze did not waver. "A beaten man in chains is a martyr. A beaten man walking away with nothing is a failure." He let the words sink in before continuing. "They will not march on Oldtown again, not anytime soon. They will have to beg allies for aid, scrape together forces while their people starve. And by the time they find a lord willing to challenge me..." He gestured toward the city behind them. "I will have made Oldtown and the Arbor strong enough to withstand any such foolishness."
Harrold's lips thinned, but he did not argue further. Beaumont could see the calculation in his eyes—the struggle between wisdom and doubt. The old man had spent his life advising lords and kings, and now he found himself standing before the one ruler he could not predict.
Napoleon took a step forward, closing the space between them. "You are a learned man, Maester," he said, his voice lower but firm. "But I did not take this city by playing their game. I will not rule it by their rules either."
Harrold studied him for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. He gave a short nod, though his expression remained tight. "Then I hope, for all our sakes, you are right, Bonaparte."
With that, the maester turned and strode away, his robes sweeping the bloodstained ground behind him.
Beaumont let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He looked toward Napoleon, whose gaze had already returned to the distant horizon.
The Emperor's expression had not changed, but Beaumont had fought at his side long enough to recognize the flicker of something in his eyes—not doubt, but anticipation.
He had not simply let the Tyrells go.
Napoleon had set a trap.