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Lady Desmera
Temporary head of the Tribunate
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The Arbor was changing. Brick by brick, law by law, Napoleon's reforms had taken root. Merchants thrived under the Emperor's protection, roads were being repaired, and the gunpowder mills worked day and night to supply his army. Yet with progress came problems, and it was Lady Desmera who was left to handle them.
Seated in the great hall of the Arbor's council chamber, she faced a long line of petitioners, each carrying their grievances, their hopes, their demands.
She adjusted her posture, folding her hands atop the wooden table where the symbol of the golden eagle had been engraved—a reminder of who ruled now.
"Next," she called.
Hearing the People
The first petitioner was a vineyard owner, his weathered face lined with worry.
"My lady," he began, "the new laws have changed how we pay our workers. Some of them refuse to work under the new wages, demanding what they were paid before, even though it was unfair. What am I to do?"
Desmera frowned. Napoleon had outlawed the feudal practice of paying laborers in only food and shelter. Now, they were to be paid in coin, a fair wage for fair work. But change was not always welcomed, even when it was just.
"Then hire those who will work under the law," she said firmly. "If they refuse a fair wage, let them go. Others will take their place."
The man nodded, though reluctantly. The old ways died hard.
The second case was a widow wrapped in a plain wool shawl. Her voice wavered as she spoke.
"My husband was lost at sea, my lady. His brothers now demand I return to my father's house, claiming I have no right to our land."
Desmera's jaw tightened. Before Napoleon, a woman's rights had been dictated by her family, and widows were often at the mercy of their in-laws.
"Your husband's land belongs to you and your children," she declared. "That is the law. They have no claim over it."
The woman's eyes filled with relief as she bowed her head. "Thank you, my lady."
The third case was not so simple.
Two men stepped forward, a French soldier and an Arbor fisherman.
"This man cheated me!" the fisherman accused. "We wagered on a game of cards, but when he lost, he refused to pay!"
The Frenchman crossed his arms."Because he was cheating."
Desmera raised a brow.
"Can you prove it?" she asked.
The soldier hesitated.
"Then," she said, "the bet stands. Pay him what you owe, and if you suspect cheating again, bring it before the courts—not your fists."
The Frenchman grumbled but relented, tossing a pouch of coins into the fisherman's hands.
The man smirked.
Desmera's voice cut through the air like steel. "And you—if you are caught cheating, you will answer for fraud. Is that understood?"
His smirk vanished. "Understood, my lady."
She dismissed them both.
The line of petitioners slowly dwindled as case after case was heard.
When the last petitioner had gone, Desmera finally allowed herself to breathe. The weight of the day settled on her shoulders, but there was still one duty left.
She had delayed it long enough.
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The vineyards of the Arbor stretched like a golden sea under the dying light of the sun. Desmera rode in silence, her mind weighed down with the burdens of governance. She had settled disputes, upheld Napoleon's laws, and maintained order, yet her people were not the only ones she needed to face.
Ahead, the Redwyne estate loomed—a grand house that had once been the seat of a great and powerful family. Now, it was a gilded cage. Its former lords, Paxter and Horas Redwyne, remained under house arrest, stripped of their rule but not their pride.
As Desmera dismounted, the guards stationed at the entrance nodded, their uniforms bearing Napoleon's golden eagle. They had once been Arbor men, but now they followed the Emperor.
She stepped inside, the air heavy with the scent of old wine and bitter resentment.
A Family Fractured
Paxter Redwyne sat near the hearth, his once-strong frame hunched with age, his eyes sharp with unspoken fury. His son, Horas, stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight.
The moment Desmera entered, her father's gaze met hers—cold and unyielding.
"Come to see what remains of your family?" Paxter said, his voice low but edged with steel.
"I came to see how you fare," she replied evenly.
Horas scoffed. "How generous of you."
Desmera took a slow breath, reigning in her patience. "This did not have to happen, father. If you had accepted the new order, you could still be ruling beside me."
Paxter's knuckles tightened on the armrest of his chair. "Beside you? I would rather rot in these halls than bow to a foreigner."
Desmera stepped closer. "Then rot you shall. But the Arbor will move forward, with or without you."
Her father's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she almost thought he would strike her. Instead, he turned his gaze to the fire, his silence speaking louder than words.
Horas took a step forward. "You think you are safe, sister?" His voice was almost a whisper. "The Arbor still remembers who its true lords are. And there are those who will not rest until we are back in power."
A chill ran down her spine, but she refused to show it. "Let them try," she said, her voice unwavering.
And try, they did.
The Assassins in the Night
The moon was high when Desmera left the estate, the chill of the night settling over the vineyards. The road back to the governor's manor was quiet, only the hooves of her horse breaking the silence.
Then—a rustle in the vines.
Desmera's instincts flared. She turned sharply just as a shadow lunged from the darkness, a dagger gleaming in the moonlight.
Her hand flew to her belt—the weight of her pistol cold and steady.
The assassin barely had time to register the weapon before she pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The shot echoed through the night. The bullet struck clean between the assassin's ribs, sending him collapsing into the dirt. His dagger clattered to the ground, inches from her boot.
Silence followed—save for her own breathing.
The guards arrived seconds later, weapons drawn. One of them knelt to inspect the corpse. "Loyalist scum," he muttered.
Desmera swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay composed. They had tried to kill her. Not out of vengeance, not in a duel—but in the dark, like cowards.
She holstered her pistol. "Find out who sent him."
The next morning, she would have her answer.
The Investigation
By dawn, the city was already stirring, the scent of fresh bread and salt air mixing in the streets. But Desmera's mind was elsewhere—focused on the man she had killed and those who had sent him.
The investigation had been swift. The assassin had not acted alone.
Her aide placed a sealed letter on the table before her. "We found this among his things, my lady."
Desmera broke the seal.
Inside was a message, written in careful hand:
"The usurper's whore must die. The Redwyne name will rise again."
Her hands tightened on the parchment.
The letter bore no signature, but she knew the truth. There were still loyalists in the Arbor, men who wanted her dead, men who wanted Napoleon gone.
She set the letter down and looked at the soldier before her.
"Send word to every garrison. We root them out—every last one."
Her enemies had made their move.
Now, it was her turn.
The morning mist clung to the hills as Desmera rode back to the Redwyne estate, her expression set like stone. The letter she had found sat heavy in her pocket, the words etched into her mind.
"The usurper's whore must die. The Redwyne name will rise again."
Her grip tightened on the reins. Whoever had sent the assassin wanted to make it clear—they saw her as a traitor. And yet, her father and brother had everything to gain from her death.
Had they betrayed her?
She would find out.
A Confrontation with Blood
The estate was as lifeless as it had been the night before, its once-grand halls reduced to a prison of silence.
When Desmera stepped inside, Paxter and Horas were already waiting. Her father sat by the hearth, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Horas leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his gaze flickering over her like he knew why she had come.
She wasted no time.
"An assassin came for me last night."
Paxter raised a brow. "And yet you stand here, alive."
Desmera stepped closer, her voice sharp. "He carried a letter. A message from loyalists who want Napoleon gone. Loyalists who claim they fight in the name of House Redwyne."
Horas's expression darkened. "And you believe we had something to do with it?"
"Can you blame me?" she shot back.
A flicker of something—anger, hurt—passed across her father's face. But he quickly masked it.
"We did not order your death, Desmera," Paxter said evenly. "For all my hatred of your choices, you are still my daughter."
She searched his face for any sign of deception—but there was none.
Her brother, however, was less restrained. "Do you truly think we would send a single man to do the job?" Horas scoffed. "If I wanted you dead, sister, I would have sent an army."
Desmera didn't move. She still didn't trust them. But something in her gut told her they were telling the truth.
She exhaled sharply. "If it wasn't you, then there are still men out there willing to kill for you."
Paxter gave her a knowing look. "Then perhaps you should deal with them before they succeed."
A Taskforce Assembled
By midday, the French garrison in the Arbor stood in formation, their muskets gleaming under the sun. Rows of disciplined soldiers, hardened by campaigns on foreign soil, stood at attention, their uniforms pressed, their eyes cold and ready.
But beside them, a new force had begun to take shape. Arbor-born recruits, their blue coats still fresh, stood among the veterans—younger, less experienced, but determined. They had sworn loyalty to Napoleon's rule, trained in his methods, and now stood ready to crush the traitors lurking in the shadows.
Desmera strode before them, her pistol at her hip, her voice carrying across the courtyard.
"There are those among us who wish to see the Arbor fall back into the hands of old lords and broken oaths." Her eyes swept across the men, weighing their resolve. "But they will not succeed. We will find them. We will root them out. And we will bring them to justice."
The soldiers stamped their boots once, a single thunderous sound of approval.
Desmera turned to the officer in charge—a French captain named Moreau, one of Napoleon's trusted men.
"I want patrols increased. Every noble house, every merchant family suspected of funding these traitors—I want them watched."
Moreau nodded. "And when we find them?"
Desmera's gaze hardened.
"Arrest them. If they resist, kill them."
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NAPOLEON
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The earth trembled beneath thousands of boots, the rhythmic stomp of the French columns rolling like distant thunder over the hills of the Reach. Overhead, the tricolor banners snapped in the wind, their colors stark against the pale morning sky. The sharp notes of fifes and the deep roll of drums set the march, their steady cadence pulling the men forward, step by step, toward conquest.
Napoleon rode at the head of the column, his gloved hands light on the reins. His horse's breath came in steady puffs of mist, hooves kicking up dry dust that clung to the morning air. The road stretched ahead, winding through green fields and golden wheat, the wealth of the Reach laid bare before him. Farmers in the distance abandoned their tools, watching silently from the edges of their lands, eyes wide with the fear of those who had never known war.
Beyond the rolling hills, Brightwater Keep loomed in the distance, its towers jutting above the horizon like stone sentinels. The keep was strong, its walls thick, its defenses designed to hold against lesser foes. But Napoleon knew walls were only as strong as the men who defended them.
A distant drum of hooves broke through the steady march. A rider, covered in dust, galloped toward the vanguard. The soldier reined in sharply, his mount whinnying, flanks slick with sweat.
"Sire!" he gasped, snapping a salute. "Dispatch from General Beaumont."
Napoleon took the sealed letter, his fingers breaking the wax in a single, fluid motion. The parchment crinkled as he unfolded it, his sharp eyes scanning the words. A smirk flickered across his face.
Honeyholt had fallen. No siege. No bloodshed. The gates had opened before a single shot was fired.
He let out a breath, slow and measured, before folding the letter. Fear was a weapon sharper than any bayonet.
Turning in his saddle, Napoleon's gaze swept over his officers. Duhesme, Pierre, the newly arrived commanders who had fought beside him in another world, all waiting for his word.
"Beaumont holds Honeyholt," he said, his voice carrying over the steady trudge of marching boots. "That leaves Blackcrown and Bandallon." He turned to Pierre. "Your scouts?"
Pierre lifted his hand, and another rider stepped forward. The man's face was streaked with dirt, his uniform damp with sweat.
"Sire," the scout began, breathless from his ride, "enemy banners gather near Highgarden. Their numbers grow by the day. More lords arrive under Tyrell and Lannister colors."
Napoleon's jaw tensed. He turned his gaze back to the road ahead. Every moment spent consolidating the Reach was a moment the enemy used to build their host. If he hesitated, they would swell to an unstoppable force.
His gloved hand slammed against his saddle. "Speed," he said, his voice like steel. "We do not slow. We take the keeps, regroup, and march before the Tyrells and Lannisters are ready."
No hesitation. No wasted breath. The officers nodded and spurred their horses into motion, riding to relay the orders.
The French army did not falter. They pressed onward, their muskets gleaming, their bayonets fixed, their banners bright against the morning sun.
Napoleon exhaled through his nose, watching as Brightwater Keep grew closer, its towers casting long shadows across the fields.
Another stone to topple. Another crown to break.
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The air smelled of damp earth and gunpowder. Dawn had barely broken when Napoleon stood atop a small ridge, his piercing gaze locked on Brightwater Keep. Its gray stone walls rose defiantly over the land, its parapets lined with watchful sentries. The enemy banners—green and gold of House Florent, sworn to the Tyrells—fluttered in the morning wind.
From his position, Napoleon could hear the distant clang of alarm bells within the keep, their hurried tolling echoing across the fields. The Florents knew he had come.
His hand tightened around his telescope, his knuckles pale beneath the leather of his gloves. He had no time for a prolonged siege. He needed the castle now.
His men—six thousand strong—stood behind him, waiting. French fusiliers adjusted their shakos, bayonets fixed, while grenadiers double-checked their powder charges. The artillery, dragged into position under the cover of darkness, loomed behind them, their muzzles aimed at the gate.
A light mist clung to the grass, curling like ghostly fingers around the boots of his soldiers. Napoleon exhaled, sharp and steady, as tension coiled in his gut.
They had to move fast. If they tarried too long, if the Tyrell host at Highgarden moved quicker than expected, they would be surrounded. Speed was everything.
He turned sharply to his officers. "We attack now. No warning. No parley."
Duhesme blinked but nodded. Pierre grinned, tightening his grip on his saber.
Beaumont—his armor muddied from the previous engagements—leaned forward. "You want a direct assault, Sire?"
A muscle ticked in Napoleon's jaw. "No. We move fast, but we move smart. The Florents are not prepared for a full assault. Their sentries are still gathering their men. We will hit them before they organize."
He pointed to a portion of the eastern wall. "The weakest point. They believe the river protects it, but it does not. We will send the grenadiers in first—they scale the walls, open the gates, and let the fusiliers flood inside."
Beaumont gave a firm nod. "And the artillery?"
Napoleon turned his gaze back to the keep. "If they resist too long, we blow the gates open."
The Battle Begins
The first explosion shattered the still morning air. A Florent watchtower erupted in a plume of stone and flame, a well-placed shell from the artillery smashing it to ruin.
Before the defenders could recover, the French surged forward.
The grenadiers led the charge, their heavy boots splashing through the shallows of the river, their muskets slung over their backs as they carried scaling ladders toward the wall. Enemy archers loosed their arrows—thin, black streaks slicing the air—but the grenadiers pressed on.
Napoleon watched as one soldier, a man from Lyon, took an arrow to the shoulder but did not slow. He gritted his teeth, kept moving, slammed the ladder into the stone, and began to climb.
A fusilier beside Napoleon hissed under his breath. "Merde."
Napoleon's fingers curled into a fist. Honor them later. Win now.
The first grenadier reached the top. A Florent soldier rushed to meet him, sword gleaming in the pale light, but the grenadier pulled a grenade from his pouch—a crude iron ball, filled with powder, fuse already burning.
He tossed it right at the man's feet.
The explosion ripped through the parapet, hurling the Florent backward. Blood sprayed the stone. The grenadier stepped over the ruined body and raised his musket.
Bang.
One shot. One more enemy down.
Then the gates groaned open.
Napoleon snapped his arm forward. "Now!"
The fusiliers surged, muskets aimed and ready. They fired in volleys as they advanced, smoke curling in the air, the acrid scent of gunpowder choking the battlefield.
Inside the keep, the Florents fought like cornered wolves. Swords clashed in the tight corridors, bayonets plunging into soft flesh, the screams of the wounded echoing off stone walls. A group of Florent knights, their green cloaks heavy with dust and blood, tried to hold the courtyard.
They charged with steel in hand—but steel alone could not stop musket fire.
"Hold ranks!" A French officer bellowed. The fusiliers braced, muskets aimed, breath steady.
Fire.
The first volley tore through the knights. Some fell instantly, their bodies crumpling like broken dolls. Others staggered, blood painting their fine cloaks, armor dented where musket balls found their mark.
Another volley.
The last few survivors turned to flee.
Napoleon rode into the castle gates, his uniform still pristine despite the chaos. He surveyed the battlefield with the eye of a man who had seen hundreds before. Victory. Swift. Clean. Efficient.
His heart still thundered, though. Not from the battle—but from time slipping through his fingers.
He turned to Pierre. "Send word to Duhesme and Beaumont. They need to get here quickly. We cannot wait."
Pierre nodded and wheeled his horse around, galloping off.
Napoleon turned back to the smoke-stained castle. Brightwater Keep was his.
But the true war was still ahead.
The thunder of boots and hooves rolled across the countryside, a relentless drumbeat against the dirt roads and grassy hills. Dust clouds billowed behind the columns of soldiers, their uniforms stained with sweat, their breaths ragged from exhaustion—but still, they marched.
Napoleon rode at the front, his sharp gaze sweeping over his advancing army. They had no time to rest, no time to celebrate Brightwater Keep. Speed was their greatest weapon now.
Horn Hill lay just beyond the rolling hills and dense forests, the ancestral home of House Tarly—one of the strongest bannermen of the Tyrells. It was a natural fortress, perched atop rocky heights, its defenders trained since childhood to be warriors.
A siege would be difficult.
Unless he arrived before the enemy expected.
"Faster!" Napoleon's voice rang out as he turned to his officers. "We march day and night. No wagons to slow us down, only what we can carry. If the men falter, remind them: the longer we wait, the stronger the Tyrell host becomes!"
His generals exchanged glances, but none objected. They knew the stakes.
Duhesme rode beside him, his face hard with determination. "The men are pushing themselves to the limit, Sire."
Napoleon's jaw clenched. He knew. He could hear the labored breathing, the dragging footsteps—but they had no choice.
"They are soldiers," he replied. "And soldiers march."
The Hard March
By midday, the sun scorched their backs, their uniforms sticking to their skin with sweat. The countryside blurred into endless rolling hills, the dirt paths turning to uneven gravel.
Men drank from their canteens sparingly, their mouths dry with dust. Their muskets weighed heavier with every step, but still, they pressed on.
Even the horses showed signs of exhaustion, their flanks slick with sweat. Napoleon's own mount snorted beneath him, muscles trembling from the unrelenting pace.
Pierre wiped a hand across his brow. "I hope the others are keeping up, Sire."
Napoleon's lips curled into a smirk. "If they want to win, they will."
They marched long past sunset, through the twilight and into the dark. The moon hung overhead, pale and watchful, casting eerie shadows over the land.
The men said little. There was only the rhythmic stomp of boots, the occasional muttered curse, the sound of leather straps tightening as soldiers adjusted their gear.
When the first glimmer of dawn crested over the eastern hills, Napoleon finally raised his hand.
"Here."
Before them, a plateau overlooking Horn Hill.
They had arrived.
Establishing Camp
"Form the camp here," Napoleon ordered as the soldiers broke rank.
Tents sprang up in ordered rows, and cookfires were lit, smoke curling into the morning air. The scent of burned wood and boiling broth mixed with the sweat and dirt clinging to the men.
Napoleon watched as his officers took stock of their forces. Despite the brutal march, his men still stood strong.
But they were not at full strength yet.
Duhesme approached, rolling his shoulders stiffly. "The scouts report no movement from Horn Hill, Sire. It seems they do not know we are here yet."
Napoleon exhaled, pleased. Perfect.
Pierre approached next, leading a fresh mount for him. "And the others?" Napoleon asked, swinging himself into the saddle.
"The scouts expect Beaumont and the others to arrive within two days," Pierre replied. "They have taken their objectives. Now, they march to join us."
Napoleon nodded, his gaze locked on the distant fortress of Horn Hill.
Two days. That was all he had.
He turned to his officers. "Let the men rest, but only briefly. We will prepare our positions. Horn Hill will not take us by surprise."
He knew the battle would come.
But he would be ready.
The morning sun burned low in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the hills, stretching long shadows across the land. Napoleon sat atop his horse, his sharp eyes scanning the rolling terrain ahead. Horn Hill loomed in the distance, its stone walls standing tall against the sky, an imposing bastion of House Tarly.
This was the battlefield.
His forces had arrived first, but he knew the rest were close behind. If they were to strike Horn Hill, it had to be together.
The Arrival of Beaumont
Not long after their encampment was set, the sound of distant drums and marching boots carried over the hills.
Napoleon turned, his grip tightening on the reins. Beaumont had arrived.
A column of soldiers crested the ridge—his Arbor-born regiments, their banners fluttering in the wind, their uniforms dirtied from the march but their ranks still firm. At their head rode General Beaumont, his sharp features set with determination, his coat lined with dust but his golden eagle insignia gleaming under the sun.
As they reached the camp, Beaumont pulled his horse beside Napoleon's, giving a curt nod. "Sire, Honeyholt is secured. No resistance."
Napoleon gave a firm nod. "And the men?"
"Exhausted, but ready," Beaumont replied. "We've force-marched through the night to reach you."
Napoleon glanced at the long column of soldiers behind him. Their faces were lined with sweat and fatigue, but there was no hesitation in their eyes. They had done as ordered.
"Let them rest," Napoleon said, turning his gaze back to Horn Hill. "But not too much."
Living Off the Land
With the arrival of Beaumont's troops, Napoleon had over 20,000 men under his command—a force too large to sustain on what rations they had left from Oldtown.
They would live off the land.
Scouting parties were sent to secure local farms, mills, and granaries, gathering food and supplies from the countryside. Fresh horses were taken, carts seized for transport.
In the center of camp, fires burned as meat roasted on open spits, the scent of cooking filling the air as soldiers rested where they could—some collapsing into the dirt, others using their rolled coats as makeshift pillows.
Napoleon strode through the rows of tents, his boots kicking up dust as he observed his army.
He knew what they needed—rest, food, and the knowledge that their leader was among them.
Defensive Preparations
Even in rest, the army was preparing for battle.
Napoleon ordered his artillery positioned defensively, cannons placed along ridges and hills overlooking the camp. They would not be caught off guard.
Twelve-pounders were rolled into position, their iron barrels gleaming in the afternoon sun. Napoleon personally oversaw the placements, ensuring fields of fire overlapped, with clear arcs on any approach from Horn Hill.
Duhesme rode up beside him, watching as the last of the guns were set in place. "You expect an attack, Sire?"
Napoleon's lips curled into a smirk. "I expect war, General."
As the sun dipped lower, and the first fires of evening flickered through the encampment, Napoleon stood atop a small rise, arms crossed, gaze never leaving the looming walls of Horn Hill.
The battle was coming.