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NAPOLEON
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The great hall of the Hightower, once a seat of noble power, now belonged to him. The banners of House Hightower had been stripped from the walls, replaced with the golden eagle of the French Empire. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the polished marble floor, still bearing the faint scuffs of boots from the battle days before.
Napoleon stood at the head of the long wooden table, his hands resting upon a map spread before him. Around him gathered the men who now held the fate of Oldtown in their hands—his generals, his advisors, and the prominent citizens of the city. The air was thick with murmured conversations as merchants, guild leaders, and scholars filled the chamber.
At last, when all had settled, Napoleon straightened. His gaze swept over them—some were eager, others cautious, and a few still defiant. He let the silence stretch, commanding their attention without a word. Then, he spoke.
"You have known war," he began, his voice steady but firm. "You have seen the power of my army and the futility of resistance. But I did not come here simply to conquer. I came to build."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly. Napoleon gestured toward the merchants, the guild masters, and the city's stewards.
"Oldtown has always been a city of trade, of knowledge, of wealth. Under my rule, it shall flourish once more." He turned to a group of robed men—maesters, scholars from the Citadel, their expressions wary. "Your knowledge will not be cast aside, nor your traditions erased. But you will no longer be beholden to lords who see you as little more than tools for their own power."
A figure stepped forward—the Maester of Oldtown. He was an older man, his chain of links glinting in the light, his face worn with years of study. "And what do you offer us in return?" he asked, voice measured but sharp.
Napoleon met his gaze. "Order. Stability. The rule of law. My Napoleonic Code will ensure that every man—merchant, scholar, craftsman—knows his rights and responsibilities."
He let his words settle before continuing. "The war is not yet over. The Reach is vast, and there are still those who will try to resist. But we will not sit idle while they gather strength. Order must be restored beyond these walls."
At this, his generals straightened, sensing what was to come. Duhesme, ever the strategist, crossed his arms, his sharp eyes studying the map. Beaumont, freshly blooded from the battle, listened intently.
Maester Harrold, standing by Napoleon's side, spoke next. "You mean to secure the lands surrounding Oldtown?"
Napoleon gave a short nod. He gestured toward the map, his fingers pressing over key locations. "Blackcrown, Honeyholt, Bandallon, Brightwater Keep—each of these holds is a key to the Reach. Left unchecked, they could become rallying points for resistance."
Beaumont leaned forward, eyes scanning the map. "Then we must move quickly, before they have time to muster forces."
Duhesme let out a short chuckle. "A war on multiple fronts, then? Ambitious as ever."
Napoleon smirked slightly. "Not a war. A consolidation." He straightened. "We will divide our forces. Some will march north, some west. We will secure these strongholds, not through senseless bloodshed, but through the promise of order. Those who yield will be spared and allowed to govern under my laws. Those who resist..." He let the words hang in the air.
Maester Harrold studied him for a long moment. "And if the lords refuse to bow?"
Napoleon's gaze did not waver. "Then we shall teach them what it means to defy an empire."
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The air inside the Hightower's great hall was thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and the lingering burn of candle smoke. The map of the Reach lay stretched before Napoleon, its inked roads and rivers illuminated by flickering torchlight. His generals and advisors stood around him, their faces marked with the weariness of battle but sharpened with purpose.
Napoleon traced his finger over Oldtown and then outward, marking their next targets. "Our reinforcements from the Arbor will arrive within the week. When they do, we shall not sit idle." His gaze swept across his assembled commanders. "We will move to secure the surrounding territories before the enemy has time to regroup."
Beaumont, standing with his arms crossed, his uniform still bearing the dust of battle, leaned in slightly. "How do you wish to divide our forces, Sire?"
Napoleon's finger slid to Blackcrown, a key castle to the northeast. "General Duhesme, you will take Blackcrown. It controls the route between Oldtown and Highgarden. We cannot allow it to become a haven for resistance."
Duhesme, ever the disciplined soldier, gave a firm nod. "I will take my fusiliers and grenadiers and ensure Blackcrown falls in line."
Napoleon moved his hand further east. "General Beaumont, you will take Honeyholt. It sits along the Honeywine, a crucial trade route. I want it under our control before the Tyrells can use it to resupply."
Beaumont's jaw tensed, but a glimmer of eagerness shone in his eyes. "I shall see it done."
Napoleon then lifted his hand from the map and folded his arms behind his back. "As for myself, I will remain in Oldtown. This city is the heart of the Reach's trade and knowledge. It must be rebuilt, stabilized, and governed properly before we press further."
Maester Harrold stepped forward slightly, his chain clinking as he spoke. "A wise choice, Sire. Oldtown is not merely a city—it is a beacon. If it thrives under your rule, the other lords may think twice before resisting."
Napoleon inclined his head. "Precisely. I will see that order is established here, that the people know my laws, and that production resumes. We will need supplies, arms, and provisions for the coming campaigns."
A hush settled over the room as the reality of their next moves sank in. They were no longer just an invading force; they were becoming rulers.
Duhesme cleared his throat. "And what of Brightwater Keep and Bandallon?"
Napoleon's fingers tapped against the table. "We will move on them once our foothold is firm. For now, our priorities are Blackcrown and Honeyholt. We strike fast, we consolidate, and we show them that resistance is futile."
Beaumont adjusted his gloves. "We will need additional cavalry to scout ahead. The enemy may have forces lingering in the countryside."
Napoleon nodded. "Take what dragoons you need. I want reports on enemy movements at all times. There will be no surprises."
Duhesme gave a short laugh. "With you leading, Sire, the only surprises will be for our enemies."
Napoleon smirked, but his expression quickly hardened. "We cannot underestimate the Reachlords. The Tyrells have suffered a defeat, but their influence remains. Make no mistake, they will return—perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but one day. And when they do, they will find a realm already bent to my rule."
He turned toward the gathered officers and merchants. "You have your orders. We march as soon as the reinforcements arrive. Dismissed."
As the generals saluted and departed, Napoleon turned back to the map. The campaign was far from over. But with every step, with every city brought to order, the Reach was becoming his.
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Two days had passed since Napoleon's tricolor banners had replaced the golden roses of House Tyrell. The scent of ash still clung to the streets where fires had burned, and the scars of battle had yet to fade, but Oldtown was stirring back to life.
The people, at first wary of their conqueror, had begun to accept his rule. Merchants reopened their stalls, coin flowed through the markets again, and the citizens, though cautious, whispered of the changes sweeping through the city. New laws had been proclaimed—ones that protected property, ensured fair taxation, and abolished the arbitrary rule of lords over common folk. The old noble houses may have looked upon him with disdain, but the commoners and tradesmen had begun to see something else.
The tri-colored banners hanging from the great towers were not just symbols of foreign conquest. They were signs of order, of a new way.
But laws and reforms were only one pillar of rule. Knowledge was another. And so, as the city mended its wounds, Napoleon turned his attention to a different battlefield—the halls of wisdom.
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The towering spires of the Citadel loomed before him, their ancient stone facades untouched by war, still standing as an unshaken monument to knowledge. Unlike the war-ravaged streets outside, the halls of the maesters remained pristine, undisturbed by conquest or rebellion. Here, history was not written in blood, but in ink.
Stepping through the great doors, Napoleon inhaled deeply, the scent of aged parchment, burning candles, and ink filling his lungs. The air felt thick—not with the tension of war, but with the weight of centuries-old wisdom. This was no palace, no fortress—this was a treasury greater than gold or silver.
A procession of maesters and scholars greeted him, their grey robes whispering against the marble floor. Some bowed hesitantly, others studied him with cautious curiosity. He was no king, no lord of Oldtown, but a conqueror—a foreign ruler who now stood in their hallowed halls.
Napoleon's sharp gaze swept across the grand hall, where thousands of tomes lined the shelves, stacked so high that ladders were needed to reach them. Light filtered through tall arched windows, illuminating reading desks where apprentices scratched notes on parchment, their quills dancing with thought.
A particularly old maester, his chain long and heavy, stepped forward. "You honor us with your presence, Emperor," he said in a measured tone.
Napoleon turned to him with genuine curiosity. "No, it is I who am honored. In all my campaigns, I have never seen a place like this." He let his fingers trail over a nearby shelf, feeling the rough bindings of books whose knowledge stretched back centuries.
The old maester's expression softened. "Few in your position would seek wisdom when they already wield power."
Napoleon gave a small smirk. "Power without wisdom is fleeting. What good is ruling a kingdom if one does not understand it?" He then turned fully to the maester. "Tell me, what knowledge is held here? I wish to learn about this land—its past, its rulers, its myths."
The maester nodded, gesturing for Napoleon to follow. "Come, then. If it is history you seek, we shall begin with the great houses of Westeros."
They walked through the labyrinthine corridors, stopping before an immense tapestry that depicted the sigils of Westeros—wolves, lions, dragons, krakens, stags.
"These are the houses that shaped the Seven Kingdoms," the maester explained, pointing first to the three-headed dragon. "The Targaryens, once dragonlords of Valyria, ruled Westeros for centuries before Robert's Rebellion cast them down."
Napoleon's brow furrowed. "Dragonlords?"
The maester studied him for a moment, then motioned to a large tome on a wooden stand. He flipped through its ancient pages until he found an illustration. A dragon, great and terrible, its wings casting a shadow over an army of men.
"The Targaryens brought dragons to Westeros, creatures of fire and fury," the maester continued. "They forged their empire through flame, uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one rule."
Napoleon leaned in, studying the page with intense focus. "A weapon unlike any other..." He traced the image with a gloved finger. "If Valyria had not been destroyed, if the Targaryens had kept their dragons, this land might have never fallen to rebellion."
His mind raced. An empire held together by fear and fire, much like the Rome of old. But even Rome had crumbled, despite its legions and laws.
Turning another page, the maester spoke again. "But fire is not the only force in history. There are older threats, older wars."
He gestured to another illustration. A wall of ice, stretching impossibly high, with black-cloaked figures standing guard upon it.
"The Night's Watch," the maester said. "Sworn to defend against the threats beyond the Wall."
Napoleon scoffed lightly. "Barbarians?"
The maester shook his head. "Not only that. Legends tell of the White Walkers—creatures of ice and death that once brought an endless winter upon the world."
Napoleon studied the image, then closed the book with a decisive snap. "Legends have their use, but reality shapes the future."
He turned, looking at the vast hall once more, his thoughts drifting to another place, another time.
"If the Library of Alexandria had not burned, perhaps it would be like this," he murmured, almost to himself.
The maester raised an eyebrow. "Alexandria?"
Napoleon exhaled slowly, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia. "A beacon of knowledge in my world. The greatest library ever built, filled with wisdom from every corner of civilization." He clenched his hands behind his back. "But it was destroyed. Knowledge lost, never to be reclaimed." He turned back to the maester. "This place must never share that fate."
The maester gave a solemn nod. "As long as there are those who seek to learn, the Citadel will endure."
Napoleon's lips curled into a small smile. "Then let us ensure it does."
As he stepped away, his mind was ablaze with new thoughts. The world of Westeros was vast, its history deep and complex. There was much to learn, much to understand.
And knowledge, he knew, was the foundation of true power.
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For two days, Napoleon had immersed himself in the knowledge of Oldtown, absorbing the history of Westeros, its noble houses, and the workings of the Citadel. His mornings were spent in the grand halls of learning, debating with maesters and scholars, studying maps, laws, and customs. His afternoons were filled with governance—organizing supply lines, overseeing reconstruction, and solidifying his rule.
But he knew his presence alone would not be enough to secure the loyalty of Oldtown's people. Power, real power, did not come from swords and cannons alone. It came from the hearts and minds of the governed.
And so, he summoned the people to gather in the great square before the Starry Sept.
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By midday, the square was packed. Merchants, fishermen, craftsmen, maesters, even some minor lords—all had come. Some were wary, some curious, but all were drawn to the promise of something new.
Above them, upon the steps of the great sept, Napoleon stood in full regalia. His bicorne hat cast a shadow over his sharp eyes, his navy blue coat adorned with golden epaulets, the golden eagle of his empire displayed upon his chest. Behind him stood his generals and advisors, their uniforms pressed, their expressions stern.
A hush fell over the crowd as Napoleon stepped forward.
He let the silence stretch for a moment before he spoke.
"People of Oldtown," his voice rang out, strong and commanding, "I am Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French and now, ruler of this city."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but he continued.
"For centuries, the Hightowers have ruled from their great tower, unchallenged, unquestioned. You have paid your taxes, followed their laws, bent your knees. But I tell you this—a city as great as Oldtown should not be ruled by blood alone, but by reason, by law, by the will of its people."
He raised a gloved hand.
"I bring you no tyranny. No unjust rule. No chains of feudal lords who take from you and leave you with nothing. I bring you order. I bring you law."
A few heads nodded. Some whispered among themselves. Others remained silent, waiting.
Napoleon's gaze swept over them. He could feel the weight of history pressing down upon this place, a city as ancient as Westeros itself.
"Oldtown is a city of knowledge," he continued, "a city where scholars gather, where the greatest minds in the realm come to learn. Yet for too long, that knowledge has been hoarded by the few, locked away in halls where only the privileged may enter."
He gestured toward the towering Citadel.
"That will change. From this day forth, the wisdom of Oldtown shall be open to all—commoners and noblemen alike. No longer will education be a privilege of birth, but a right of every man who seeks it."
This time, the reaction was more noticeable. A murmur of approval. A few voices from the crowd shouted in agreement.
Napoleon pressed forward.
"I introduce to you a new code of laws, one that will govern this city fairly and justly. A code not based on the whims of lords, but on the principles of equality before the law, the protection of property, and the rights of the individual."
He took a step forward, his voice rising with conviction.
"A farmer, a merchant, a scholar, and a nobleman shall be judged by the same laws! No more shall men be condemned without trial, no more shall corruption and favoritism dictate justice!"
A cheer broke out—small at first, but it grew.
Napoleon gritted his teeth, his heart pounding. This was the moment. This was the fire that would ignite something greater.
"For too long, power has been in the hands of the few! No more! The people shall have a voice in their own governance! Oldtown shall be ruled by an emperor—yes—but governed by its own people! By councils chosen not by birthright, but by merit!"
Now the crowd stirred with excitement. The merchants, the craftsmen, even the common laborers—they heard something they had never heard before. A promise of opportunity.
Napoleon took a deep breath.
Then he spoke the words that had guided him all his life.
"A man without opportunity is nothing."
The words struck like thunder.
"I will not allow you to be nothing. I will not allow your children to be nothing. This city, this land, will be shaped by those who have the will to rise! If you work hard, if you learn, if you fight for a better life, you shall have it!"
The cheer was deafening now.
Napoleon let it roar for a moment before raising a hand for silence.
When the crowd settled, he spoke once more.
"I vow to you this: Oldtown shall be what it was always meant to be—a beacon of knowledge, not for the few, but for all. Rich or poor, noble or common, man or woman, all who seek wisdom shall find it here."
He turned, raising his gaze to the towering Citadel, then back to the crowd.
"This is only the beginning. Together, we will build something greater than gold, greater than crowns—a future shaped by the minds and hands of its people."
Then, from the ranks of his soldiers, a cry erupted.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
It spread like wildfire.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
"Vive l'Empereur!"
The French soldiers, battle-hardened and victorious, raised their voices in unison, pounding their muskets against the stone.
And then, to Napoleon's satisfaction, the commoners began to echo it. They did not yet know what it meant, but they knew it was a cry of victory, of change, of something new and powerful.
"Vive l'Empereur!"
"Vive l'Empereur!"
The cry thundered through the square, shaking the stones of the ancient city.
Napoleon watched them, his heart burning with ambition.
This was no mere conquest. This was the birth of something greater.
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The great hall of Oldtown's former ruling seat had been stripped of Hightower banners. In their place, the golden eagle of France hung high, draped over the walls like a conqueror's mark upon history. The air was thick with the scent of burning tallow and parchment, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across the cold stone floor.
At the center of it all, Napoleon sat upon the high seat, his throne. It was not a king's chair adorned with velvet and gemstones, nor was it a golden monstrosity meant to stroke the ego of a monarch. It was solid oak, aged and sturdy—a throne of purpose, not vanity.
Before him stood his war council.
Generals Duhesme, Beaumont, and the others stood in formation, their coats pristine despite the long march. To their side, Maester Harold of the Arbor and Maester Osmund of Oldtown held their hands clasped before them, their chain-link collars swaying lightly as they shifted in place.
Napoleon leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Let's begin."
The State of the City
Maester Harold spoke first. "Your Majesty, the city remains stable under your rule." His tone was cautious yet firm, the voice of a man who had spent his life advising lords and now found himself serving an emperor. "The reforms you have enacted have eased tensions among the people. The merchants have welcomed the new trade laws, and the common folk have seen little disruption to their daily lives."
Napoleon nodded. He expected no less. He had not come to Oldtown as a butcher, nor as a tyrant, but as a builder.
Maester Osmund stepped forward next. "There is one more fortunate development," he added, adjusting his chain. "Oldtown's grain stores still hold strong from the last harvest. The city has more than enough food to sustain your army, even in the event of a siege."
That caught Napoleon's interest. "And wine?"
Harold gave a knowing smile. "The Arbor's finest flows freely into the city. The merchants are eager to do business again, now that the sea routes are secured."
Napoleon allowed himself the smallest smirk. Food and drink—two weapons as valuable as any musket. A well-fed army was a strong army. A well-supplied city was one that would not break under siege.
The State of Oldtown
Maester Harold spoke first. "Your Majesty, the city is stabilizing. Your laws have been met with curiosity rather than hostility. The merchants welcome order, and the common folk see no reason to resist."
Maester Osmund stepped forward, hands folded. "Our grain stores remain full from the last harvest. Oldtown will not starve."
Napoleon tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne. "And the Arbor?"
Harold gave a slight smile. "Wine shipments have resumed. The merchants are eager to trade with Oldtown once more."
A steady food supply. A stable economy. Two weapons just as valuable as musket and steel.
The Reinforcements
Duhesme cleared his throat. "The reinforcements have arrived, Sire."
Napoleon's gaze snapped to him. "How many?"
Duhesme hesitated. "Thirteen thousand as you requested."
Napoleon's brow furrowed. "Good, I hope the remaining frenchmen in the Arbor will be managed well by Councilor Desmera to secure the islands, to ensure no counterattack can dislodge our hold."
It was a necessary precaution. The Arbor was the key to their supply lines. If they lost it, they lost everything.
Napoleon nodded. "Where are the reinforcements stationed?"
Duhesme unrolled a map onto the war table. "The reinforcements have fortified the original landing site. A temporary fort has been constructed there, and from it, they are supplying Oldtown and maintaining a defensive presence."
Napoleon glanced over the map. It was a smart move—a forward operating base, secure but flexible.
The Enemy Moves
Pierre's expression darkened. "Our scouts report that the Tyrells and Lannisters have begun massing their forces near Highgarden."
Napoleon leaned forward. "How many?"
Pierre hesitated. "At least forty thousand. Possibly more."
A silence fell over the chamber.
Duhesme exhaled. Beaumont tensed. Maester Osmund furrowed his brow.
A combined force of Tyrell and Lannister troops, outnumbering them nearly two to one.
Napoleon Takes the Offensive
Napoleon's fingers tightened on the table's edge. The enemy was mustering at Highgarden, their banners swelling with each passing day. If he waited, the Tyrell-Lannister host would descend upon Oldtown with crushing force.
He would not let them.
His voice cut through the tense air. "We will not wait for them."
Duhesme frowned. "Sire?"
Napoleon straightened. "If we remain idle, they will strengthen their numbers, reinforce their supply lines, and march south at full strength. We must strike first—swiftly and decisively. Speed will be our greatest weapon."
Beaumont smirked, adjusting his sword belt. "Then tell us where to go, Sire."
Napoleon stepped forward and pointed to the map spread across the war table.
"We will divide our forces."
He turned to Duhesme first. "You will take Blackcrown. Control the river crossings and cut off their western supply routes. They must not receive reinforcements from the Stormlands."
To Beaumont. "You will take Honeyholt. Hold it and fortify it. If they attempt to maneuver west to break through, you will be their wall."
Beaumont gave a firm nod. "Consider it done."
He shifted his gaze to Pierre. "You will march on Bandallon. Control the coastal road. No reinforcements from Lannisport, no shipments, no support. I want their trade strangled."
Pierre placed a fist over his chest. "It will be done, Sire."
Finally, Napoleon tapped his finger against Brightwater Keep.
"I will lead the main army east."
The council stirred at his words.
Duhesme narrowed his eyes. "You mean to take Brightwater Keep?"
Napoleon's expression was unwavering. "We will storm it. Once we seize the keep, we will regroup, solidify our hold on the region, and prepare for their counterattack."
The room was silent for a moment. Then, Beaumont chuckled. "A rapid advance, breaking them before they can even move."
Napoleon nodded. "Exactly. We strike before they expect it. The Tyrells and Lannisters think they are mustering to fight on their terms. We will dictate the terms of this war. We do not need prolonged sieges or drawn-out battles. We need speed."
Maester Harold hesitated. "Sire, this is a bold move, but can we truly capture all these targets before they retaliate?"
Napoleon's gaze burned with confidence. "Not only can we—we must. The longer we wait, the stronger they become. The faster we move, the greater our chances of victory."
He let the words settle, then looked each of his generals in the eye.
"You have your orders. Now, make it happen."
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A Calculated Risk
Maester Osmund cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, Brightwater Keep is heavily fortified. You will face resistance."
Napoleon's voice was calm. "Every fortress can fall."
Duhesme exhaled. "If we take Brightwater, we cut off Highgarden from the south. The Tyrells will be forced to react."
Napoleon nodded. "Exactly."
If he took Brightwater Keep, he forced the Tyrells to move on his terms. They would either have to march south to reclaim it, stretching their forces thin, or stay put—allowing his armies to seize even more ground.
Leaving Oldtown
Maester Harold frowned. "And Oldtown, Your Majesty? Who will govern it?"
Napoleon did not hesitate. "General Reynaud will remain behind with one thousand men. Oldtown will be held."
Harold considered this, then gave a slow nod.
Napoleon studied the faces around him. These were his most trusted men. Each one had his orders.
He let the silence hang in the air for a moment longer.
Then he stepped forward, placing both hands on the table.
"We leave at dawn."