Mon Nom est Napoléon - III (Patreon)

Chapter III: Napoleon the Archer

Napoleon spent days, weeks, months, writing in his personal journals. Building a small library of his own, filled with books he authored. Half of his books, he wrote them in French, the other half was written in German for two reasons: one, he did not want to forget his languages. France and Austria might be lost to him, but he was still a Bonaparte and a Habsburg. He refused to forget about them to focus solely on English. The other reason was more pragmatic: he did not want anyone to find his projects. Being the only person in this World that could speak French and German offered him an excellent way to protect his work from potential spies or jealous acolytes.

He wrote about everything he could think of, but most of it was the knowledge he had accumulated in Schönbrunn during the twenty first years of his life. He wrote about the teachings he had received from Foresti in mathematics and strategy, and the ones he had received from Baumgartner in physics and chemistry. He wrote about his father’s campaigns in Italy, Egypt, Germany, Poland, Spain, Russia and France. Trying to remember as well as he could, the tactics of the Grande Armée, and the battles that had made his Father, legendary. His favorites had been Toulon, Lodi, Rivoli, the Pyramids, Austerslitz, Auerstedt, Friedland, Wagram and Dresden. He wrote about the Infantry Square that defeated the Mamluks, the Army Corps that made the Grande Armée so fast his father crushed Prussia in barely nineteen days.

But he also wrote about every author he had ever read, and whose subjects were the most crucial for his plans. Especially economists such as Adam Smith and David Ricardo.
That had ended being an actual trial because he could not remember everything he had read, ‘An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith’ had been hard to read, Adam Smith was a genius in economy but a poor writer. "The Wealth of Nations" had not been better.

Yet, Napoleon managed to remember Smith’s principle doctrines, in his journal he wrote:

The Invisible Hand: In a free market, individual actions, motivated by self-interest, lead to collective well-being. Selfishness and hedonism are the driving forces behind production and consumption and should not be hindered by the state.

Division of Labor: Specialization allows for greater productivity, which benefits the entire economy. The example of pin factory work in his book "The Wealth of Nations" illustrates this idea.

‘Laissez-faire’, the physiocrats’ ideas, they believed that government policy should not interfere with the operation of natural economic. 

Smith argues that the state should limit itself to ensuring security, justice, and basic infrastructure, in other words, sovereign functions (armies, police, justice), but should not interfere in market economies.

Absolute Advantage Theory: Smith justifies trade between nations because they have an interest in specializing in production in which they have an advantage (specific raw materials, skilled labor and others.)

About Ricardo’s Doctrines, Napoleon remembered and wrote this:

- Comparative Advantage Theory: Ricardo developed this fundamental theory of international trade, according to which each country should specialize in producing the goods for which it is most efficient, where its opportunity cost is lowest, in order to trade with other countries. This maximizes the gains for each country.

- Ricardo proved that even a country without specialties could specialize in the interests of the market.

- Law of Diminishing Returns: The returns to a factor of production (such as labor or capital) decrease as the quantity of that factor increases while holding other factors constant.

- Labor Theory of Value: The value of a good is determined by the amount of labor required to produce it (including all direct and indirect costs).

Napoleon had also reunited every information he had found regarding Westerosi trade and economic laws in a single journal, with his two journals open before his eyes, he started imagining how those theories would revolutionize Westeros’ economy and wrote into the same Journal in which he had recited Smith’s and Ricardo’s doctrines, how their doctrines might breathe life into Westeros’s sluggish veins, his quill scratching with the fervor of a man who saw empires in fields and forges.

Napoleon’s pen moved swiftly, the fire crackling as he titled the entry: "Westeros’ Continental System".

He recalled Smith’s Wealth of Nations, studied under Baumgartner’s tutelage, its ideas as sharp as any blade. 

"Westeros languishes under lords who hoard and squander." He wrote. "Smith’s doctrine of free markets could break their chains."

He envisioned a Reach where trade flowed unhindered, not choked by tariffs or guild monopolies. The smallfolk toil, yet their goods—wheat, wool, wine—rot in barns or enrich only the highborn, he scribbled. Smith’s invisible hand, the force of self-interest guiding men to mutual gain, could transform this. 

"Let merchants sell freely across the Seven Kingdoms, from Dorne’s spices to the North’s furs. Let prices fall by competition, not decree." 

He imagined markets in Highgarden or Oldtown bustling like London’s, where bakers, smiths, and weavers thrived by meeting demand, not by bowing to lords.

"Division of labor is key." He continued, his mind racing. In villages like Tumbleton, he’d seen farmers forge their own tools, weave their own cloth—a waste of effort. 

"Smith would have each man master one craft: the smith hammers, the weaver spins, the farmer sows."

A hamlet could produce tenfold if tasks were split, goods traded, and coin flowed. He thought of the Norfolk system, his sacks of seeds waiting in the carriole. 

"With clover and turnips, fields yield more; with specialization, villages prosper." 

Yet he knew the lords would resist, their power tied to control. 

"The Tyrells grow fat on taxes, not innovation." He wrote bitterly. "To bring Smith’s ideas, I must find a lord bold enough—or become one."

Napoleon paused, realizing something. 

"Westeros has no banks, no joint-stock companies." He noted. "Smith’s vision of capital pooling for great works—canals, roads, shipyards—could bind the Seven Kingdoms."

"Let’s imagine a merchant in Lannisport funding a forge in the Stormlands, or a road from Winterfell to Sunspear."

But superstition and mistrust stifled such dreams. 

"The maesters cling to parchment, the septons to prayers."

He resolved to plant these seeds subtly, perhaps as a counselor to a rising house, his French journals guarding the full scope of his plans.

He turned a page, titling the next entry: "David Ricardo’s principles for Westeros". 

Ricardo’s theories, less familiar but no less potent, had struck him in Vienna’s libraries. "Comparative advantage…" He wrote. "…Is a sword to cut through Westeros’s isolation." 

He saw each region as a unique thread in a vast tapestry. 

"Dorne grows olives, the Reach wheat, the Iron Islands fish. Yet lords trade little, hoarding or warring. Ricardo taught that nations prosper by focusing on what they do best, trading for the rest. Why should Dornishmen sow barley when their sun yields lemons? Let them sell fruit to the Reach, buy grain in return."

He sketched a vision of trade routes crisscrossing the continent, his quill dancing. 

"Highgarden sends wheat to the North, where crops falter, and takes timber in exchange. The Ironborn, scorned as reavers, could fish and mine, trading ore for Arbor wine. Even the smallest holdfast has something—a herb, a craft—to offer." 

Ricardo’s logic promised wealth without conquest, a harmony of interests. But lords see trade as weakness, he wrote, frustration creeping into his script. 

"They’d rather raid than barter."

Napoleon thought of the merchants he’d met since he had arrived in Westeros, their wares taxed at every bridge and gate. 

"Ricardo’s free trade would sweep these tolls away." He wrote. "Coin would flow, not swords." He imagined himself advising a lord—perhaps a Tyrell vassal, or a bold Dornish prince—proposing markets where goods moved freely. 

"The smallfolk would eat better, the lords grow richer, and I… I would hold the strings." 

But he knew the risk: lords feared change, and maesters distrusted ideas not born of their chains. "My journals must stay hidden." He wrote. "Until I find soil fertile for these seeds."

He considered Ricardo’s theory of rent, how land’s value rose with scarcity. 

"The Reach’s fields are gold, yet mismanaged." he noted. "Lords lease to favorites, not the skilled." 

Ricardo’s insight could guide a system where farmers competed for land, driving innovation. 

"My Norfolk plans align here." He wrote. "Rotations increasing yields, rents rewarding efficiency."

But such reforms needed power—a keep, a title, or a lord’s ear. 

"One day." He vowed. "I will reshape this land."

But first, he needed to free himself from Ser Baelor’s grasp. Napoleon knew the lord sought to control him. Financing his studies had been a way for the knight to make Napoleon his obligor; now he could not leave Oldtown without repaying his debt. And even if he succeeded, Ser Baelor would not let him leave without seeking to maintain control. In their meetings, Baelor suggested prestigious roles: advisor to his court, emissary to a vassal house, or even maester. These propositions, while seemingly attractive, were cages. Napoleon wanted to explore Westeros—its plains, its fortresses, its courts—to understand its people, its struggles, and to identify a place where his knowledge and ambition could take root. Traveling alone, without escort or patronage, was essential: he wanted to be the master of his destiny, free to observe and act without the eyes of a lord upon him. But Baelor, a master strategist, would not easily give up a man he considered a valuable resource.

"I am no one’s pet." Napoleon angrily whispered in German before adding in French: "I am Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of my name, and I did not make a deal with the Devil to live a servant’s life."

But the weight of his ambitions, carried in his journals no one could read, gnawed at him. 

"I am a ghost, writing for a world that does not exist." He thought, his quill idle for once. His mind, that had been a furnace of ideas moments prior, felt like a taut bowstring, ready to snap. He needed respite, a moment to be merely a man, not a conqueror’s heir. 

Napoleon closed his journal, put it back in his bookshelves with a care bordering on ritual. 

"I cannot keep this pace." he admitted, the thought bitter. 

His education under Foresti and Baumgartner had drilled discipline into him—mathematics, strategy, philosophy—but it had also left him isolated, a prince without a court. In Vienna, he’d been taught to master his impulses, to see indulgence as weakness. Yet here, alone in a strange land, the solitude was a blade, cutting deeper each night.

It was not that late yet, he could go out. He freshened himself with water, put on civil clothes and left his room. Ready to roam across Oldtown’s streets searching for a welcomed distraction.

The city offered temptations: a tavern’s glow spilled laughter and the scent of ale onto the street, while across the way, a discreet house with curtained windows and a painted rose above the door whispered softer promises. Napoleon’s gaze lingered on both, his heart caught between weariness and caution.

"Ale might dull the edge." He thought, glancing at the tavern. Its warmth tempted, but he imagined himself drinking alone, a stranger among raucous sailors and merchants, his thoughts turning maudlin—or worse, drawing the eyes of thieves. 

"Drinking alone is a fool’s errand, and I will be no fool."

His gaze drifted to the brothel, its rose sign swaying gently. A flush crept up his neck, unbidden. 

"I am no monk." He thought, but the idea stirred unease. His upbringing in Schönbrunn had been austere, his tutors preaching restraint, his aunt’s shadow a constant reminder of duty. Women had been a distant notion—courtly glances, chaperoned dances, never more. 

When he was a battalion commander in the Lamezan-Salins regiment, he had often seen his men, his comrades, indulge in carnal pleasures in the local brothels, but never him. He was the grandson of the Emperor of Austria; giving in to such whims would have been a scandal that would have rocked the Court and spread throughout Europe like wildfire. The French would have seen him as a debaucher, and they would never have wanted him as Emperor. But here, in this world where he was still a nobody, he was free to experiment without fear of scandal.

Yet he was no longer the Eaglet, caged by Habsburg propriety. 

He was Napoleon, a wanderer with coin in his purse and a body crying for release. 

"It is not a sin." He reasoned. "But survival." 

Still, he hesitated, his hand tightening on his purse. 

"What would Father have done?" 

The Emperor, he knew, had taken lovers boldly, but always with purpose—alliances, not mere pleasure. 

"I am not him. Not yet."

The brothel’s door opened, and a woman stepped out, her auburn hair catching the torchlight. She leaned against the frame, her smile practiced but not unkind, her eyes scanning the street. Napoleon’s pulse quickened. 

"Enough." He decided, walking abruptly. "I will not unravel for want of courage." 

He crossed the street, his boots steady despite the tremor in his chest.

The interior of the brothel was warm, its air thick with the scent of lavender and cheap perfume. A low ceiling, draped with faded tapestries, gave the room a cozy intimacy, though the worn floorboards creaked underfoot. A handful of patrons—merchants, by their fine cloaks, and a grizzled sellsword—sat at tables, sipping wine while women in low-cut dresses laughed and flirted. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows. 

The auburn-haired woman, who introduced herself as Lysa, greeted Napoleon with a nod. “Welcome, traveler.” She said, her voice smooth as honey. “Looking for company?”

Napoleon, his education warring with his nerves, managed a tight smile. 

“Aye.” He said, his accent softened but betraying his foreign roots. “A moment’s respite, nothing more.” 

"Keep it simple." He thought, his tutor’s lessons echoing: "Never reveal more than you must."Lysa’s eyes, sharp despite her smile, assessed him—his leather armor, his sword, the links at his throat. 

"She sees coin, not a prince." he reassured himself, though his heart thudded.

She led him to a small table, pouring a cup of watered wine. 

“You’re no common wanderer.” She said, leaning close, her fingers brushing his arm. “Those chains—maester’s work, aye? Don’t you people take vows?"

Napoleon sipped the wine, its tang grounding him. 

“I’m not a maester yet, just an acolyte.” He said, his tone light but firm. “I seek… distraction.” 

"Do not lie, but do not confess." He reminded himself. His upbringing demanded decorum, but this was no Viennese salon. He studied Lysa—her face was pretty, her manner warm, though her eyes held the weariness of her trade. 

"She is no spy, no threat." He decided, though his hand stayed near his purse.

Lysa chuckled, sensing his reserve. 

“Distraction we’ve got.” She said, gesturing to the room. “Pick your fancy, or I can choose for you.” Her tone was teasing, but Napoleon caught a flicker of curiosity. 

"She wonders who I am but she’ll not ask too much." 

His education had taught him to read people—courtiers, generals, now whores—and he saw no malice in her.

He hesitated, glancing at the other women. One, blonde and giggling, was too loud; another, older, seemed distracted. Lysa, with her quiet confidence, felt safer. 

“You, then.” He said, his voice low. “If you’re willing.”

Lysa’s smile widened, though her eyes stayed sharp. 

“A man who knows what he wants.” She said, rising. “Come.” She led him up a narrow stair to a small room, its bed draped in clean linens, a single candle burning on a table. The simplicity was a relief—no opulence to mock his past.

Inside, Napoleon’s nerves flared anew. 

"This is no conquest." He told himself. His education screamed restraint, but his body, taut from years of solitude, demanded release. Lysa, sensing his tension, moved slowly, her fingers undoing the laces of her bodice with practiced ease. 

“No need to rush.” She said, her voice soft. “You’re safe here.”

Napoleon exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax. She was kind, in her way, and he was grateful for the absence of judgment. He stepped closer, his hands tentative as he touched her waist. His upbringing had left him ill-prepared for intimacy—courtly love was a game of words, not flesh—but Lysa guided him with a gentleness that eased his awkwardness. 

“You’ve not done this often, have you?” she teased, her breath warm against his ear.

“Often enough.” He lied, a faint smile breaking through. "Let her think me a man, not a boy." The act, when it came, was brief but intense, a release that loosened the knot in his chest. Lysa was skilled, her movements deliberate, but there was a moment—her hand lingering on his cheek—where he felt a flicker of connection, not just transaction. 

"She sees me." He thought, startled, though he knew it was her craft.

Afterward, they lay side by side, the candle’s flame dancing. Napoleon, his mind clearer than it had been in weeks, felt no shame, only a quiet relief. The weight of his journals momentarily lifted. Lysa propped herself on an elbow, studying him. 

“You’re no maester, for all your chains.” She said, playing with his blond curls. “What’s your story, Franz?”

He tensed, his instincts flaring. She was probing, but not for harm. 

“I am a lost traveler.” He said, an amused smile on his face. “Trying to honor my father, nothing more.” 

He took a moment to admire her. Her curves, her breasts, even her behind. He liked her eyes, and the smile she wore was contagious.
"I am your first, aren’t I?" She asked, her smile mischievous. "It took you too long to find your rhythm, though, I’m amazed you did not spill earlier. How come a man as handsome as you had never had a girl in his bed before?"

Napoleon snorted. She was good, experienced, he never had a chance of hiding his inexperience. 

"My family is religious." He said, and that was putting it lightly considering the reputation of the Habsburgs of Austria.

Lysa laughed at that.
"Am I your sin then?" She asked, pressing her breasts against his arm, and sliding a hand between his legs, making him rise again.

"She is good." He thought bitterly, she was gonna squeeze him out of all of his money.

"The second round is for free." She said as she climbed him once more. "You paid for an hour and you still have plenty of time."

Napoleon frowned as she slid him inside her, before he realized what her goal was. He chuckled as she renewed their coupling.
"I’ll keep on choosing you if you teach me." He promised, not willing to surrender without a bargain.

Lysa lowered her upper body until the tips of their noses made contact.

"Deal." She whispered as she kissed him.

(-)(-)(-)

Outside, the night air was cool, Oldtown’s streets quiet save for the taverns’s distant hum. 

As he walked back towards the Citadel, he let out a long sigh, his tenseless shoulders ache for his bed.

"I needed this." He admitted, the brothel’s warmth had been a balm against his frayed nerves. 

His education, with its rigid codes, had not prepared him for the loneliness of such an adventure, but it had given him the strength to choose his path. 

"I will not break." He vowed, climbing the stairs.

The journals waited, their secrets safe in French and German, but tonight, Napoleon felt no urge to write. He’d cared for himself, not as a prince or a savant, but as a man. 

He went to bed almost as soon as he had entered his room.

A faint laugh, like flames crackling, echoed in his mind. He ignored it, his heart steadier than it had been in months. He was Napoleon Bonaparte, and he would endure. 

(-)(-)(-)

The wind whipped across the cliffs of Oldtown, carrying the tang of salt and the faint sweetness of hay. Napoleon Bonaparte, known here as Napoleon, stood beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak, his eyes fixed on the bustling tourney field. It was the seventh day of the Harvest Feast in the year 284 AC, and Oldtown thrummed with life. Banners of House Hightower—green, emblazoned with a flaming tower—snapped in the breeze alongside the red bees of Beesbury and the green apples of Fossoway. Hawkers shouted over the din, peddling Arbor wine and steaming meat pies, while minstrels strummed lutes, their songs swallowed by the crowd’s clamor.

Napoleon, clad in a worn linen tunic and a borrowed doublet, gripped an arc of his own making—a sleek, recurved bow crafted from yew and ash, its lines precise, its balance perfect. His hands, roughened by months of woodworking and training, were steady, but his pulse quickened. He was here for the prize: one hundred golden dragons, enough to buy three years of freedom from Lord Baelor Hightower’s subtle leash. To claim it, he would have to outshoot men who had wielded bows since boyhood—knights, yeomen, and commoners whose lives revolved around the string and the shaft. But Napoleon was no ordinary man. He was Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of his name, and he had prepared an instrument worthy of his name.

Indeed, two months prior, when Napoleon first heard of the tourney in the carpenter’s workshop, he knew he could not rely on the crude bows of Westeros. The Oldtown archers favored longbows of yew, powerful but unwieldy, or short hunting bows, quick but lacking precision at range. His training with Ser Garth Flowers had taught him the basics of archery, but his true advantage lay in his education—mathematics from Foresti, physics from Baumgartner, and a mind honed to turn theory into reality. If he was to win, he needed a bow that married Westerosi craftsmanship with the principles of his lost world.

He began in the workshop, bartering his skills as a woodworker for access to tools and materials. The master carpenter, a grizzled man named Hal, grumbled but agreed, intrigued by the foreigner’s intensity. Napoleon selected yew for the bow’s core, its dense heartwood ideal for compression, and ash for the limbs, its flexibility perfect for tension. He studied the bows of Westeros, noting their flaws: uneven tillering, inconsistent draw weights, and cords prone to stretching. Drawing on his knowledge of mechanics, he designed a recurved bow, its limbs curved forward to store more energy, inspired by distant memories of composite bows described in military texts.

The process was grueling. By day, he toiled at the Citadel, studying history and westerosi economy to earn his keep. By night, he shaped the wood, steaming and bending the limbs with precision, measuring each curve with a string and chalk. He calculated the draw weight—sixty pounds, enough for power but light enough for control—and carved the grip to fit his hand like a glove. For the string, he twisted hemp and sinew, treating it with beeswax to resist moisture. The result was a bow unlike any in Oldtown: shorter than a longbow, more powerful than a hunter’s arc, with a smoothness that made drawing feel like breathing.

Was it better than the bows of Westeros? Undoubtedly. The longbows of the yeomen were brute instruments, relying on raw strength; his bow was a scalpel, designed for accuracy and efficiency. Its recurve stored energy more effectively, launching arrows with greater speed, and its balanced tillering ensured consistency. Yet, it was not a miracle. Napoleon knew his skill, not just his tool, would decide the day. For six weeks, he trained in secret, in the shadowed courtyards of the Citadel, adjusting his stance, calculating windage, and memorizing the flight of his arrows. He was ready.

However, entry to the tourney was not a given. The jousts and melee were for knights and lords, but the archery contest, though less prestigious, demanded credentials or coin. 

Napoleon had neither a patron nor spare silver. Lysa had warned him: “You need a lord’s word or a bribe for the herald. They don’t let just anyone shoot.”

Napoleon refused to beg. Instead, he approached the herald, Ser Olyvar Crane, a plump man with a ledger and a sneer, in the Hightower’s great hall. Dressed in his least threadbare tunic, he presented himself as “Napoleon, a scholar of the Citadel,” his accent softened by careful practice. He used his actual name, he wanted it to resonate. 

“I seek to compete.” He said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a prince.

Ser Olyvar snorted. 

“No house, no name? Why should I let a stranger sully the field?”

Napoleon had prepared for this. From his satchel, he produced a parchment—a detailed diagram of a new target design, with concentric rings measured to the inch, each scored precisely. 

“A gift, to make the contest fairer. In return, grant me a place.”

The herald’s eyes narrowed, but he studied the drawing, impressed despite himself. 

“Clever, are you? Fine. If your arrows fly as well as your quill, you might last a round.” 

He scrawled Napoleon’s name, chuckling. Napoleon bowed, his heart steady. The first hurdle was cleared.

(-)(-)(-)

The tourney field was a riot of color and noise. Wooden stands groaned under the weight of spectators—merchants, smallfolk, and minor lords—while Ser Baelor Hightower watched from a canopied dais next to his father, his kin and a gaggle of maesters at his side. Thirty-two archers stood ready, their bows a mix of long and short, some ornate, others plain. 

Napoleon, with his unadorned recurve, drew no eyes. His bow, sleek and strange, was mistaken for a hunter’s tool, and he preferred it that way.

The contest unfolded in three rounds, each culling half the field. The first, at thirty paces, was child’s play for most. Napoleon stepped to the line, his bow humming as he drew. His first arrow struck the center, the second and third clustering within an inch. The crowd barely stirred, but a maester in the stands whispered. “The foreigner shoots like he’s measuring.” 

A drunken squire missed the target entirely, earning jeers, and sixteen archers advanced.

The second round, at fifty paces, tested skill. A gusty wind swept the field, fluttering banners and bending arrows. Napoleon watched the pennants, gauging the breeze’s speed.

"Eight knots." He estimated, shifting west. He adjusted his aim, drawing the string to his cheek. His bow’s recurve sang, sending arrows swift and true. All three landed in the inner ring, tight as a fist. A knight of House Beesbury, cursing the wind, saw two shots drift wide, and the crowd groaned. Eight archers remained.

The final round, at seventy paces, was a gauntlet. The targets, smaller now, stood atop a rise, exposed to the wind’s full fury. The finalists included Tom the Long, a yeoman with arms like oak branches; Ser Alwyn Fossoway, a knight more proud than skilled; and a lean hunter from the Stormlands, silent and deadly. Napoleon, the last to qualify, was an enigma, his plain clothes and foreign bow drawing smirks from the nobles.

Each archer had five arrows, scores tallied by the herald. Tom shot first, his longbow thundering. Three arrows hit the inner ring, but two veered, caught by a gust. Ser Alwyn, swaggering, placed only two in the center, his arrogance undone by haste. The hunter, methodical, landed four in the ring, setting a high mark. Napoleon stepped forward, the crowd’s murmurs a distant hum. 

He felt the weight of eyes—Baelor’s, the maesters’, the smallfolk’s—but shut them out.

He drew, his bow’s limbs flexing smoothly. The first arrow flew, striking dead center, and a ripple passed through the stands. The second, a hair to the right, still in the ring. The third, perfect again, drew a gasp. The fourth wavered, pushed by a sudden gust, grazing the outer edge of the inner circle. Napoleon’s jaw tightened. To win, his final shot had to be flawless.

He paused, closing his eyes for a heartbeat, recalculating. The wind was easing, the banners drooping. He drew, the string taut against his fingers, and released. The arrow arced, swift as a hawk, and buried itself in the target’s heart. The crowd erupted, smallfolk cheering, maesters rising from their seats. Even Baelor leaned forward, his face unreadable.

Ser Olyvar, after a dramatic pause, bellowed, “Napoleon, the foreigner, takes the prize!” The roar swelled, tinged with disbelief. Tom the Long spat into the grass but clapped Napoleon’s shoulder. “Never seen a bow like that, lad. You shoot like the Stranger himself.”

For the first time since he had made a deal with the Devil, Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of his name, was proud of himself.

(-)(-)(-)

In the Hightower’s great hall, Lord Baelor presented the prize: a purse heavy with one hundred golden dragons. 

“A fine display, Duke Napoleon.” He said, his voice smooth but probing.

Inwardly, Napoleon cursed his own carelessness, he should have never told Ser Baelor that he was a noble.

 “What will you do with such wealth?” The knight asked.

Napoleon, clutching the purse, chose his words carefully. 

“I’ll pay my debts, my lord, and continue my studies. Oldtown has given me a home. I owe it much.” 

Baelor’s smile was thin, his eyes calculating. Napoleon was no longer invisible, and that was both a triumph and a danger.

Alone in his chamber, he spilled the coins onto his cot, their gleam dancing in the candlelight. He had repaid his debt towards Ser Baelor with interests. 

Yet the victory felt fragile. He had drawn attention, and in Westeros, attention was a blade with two edges. He thought of his father, the Eagle, whose triumphs had shaken empires.

"This is but a step." He vowed in French. "I will carve my name into this world."

Napoleon’s fingers traced the curve of his bow. He was Napoleon Bonaparte, the second of his name, and his first arrow had found its mark.