Mon Nom est Napoléon - V (Patreon)

Chapter 5: The Road to Ambition

Napoleon departed Oldtown in the early hours of a misty morning, having informed Maester Larn of his intentions. The maester, though disappointed, was understanding.

“You are young,” Larn had said, his voice a blend of resignation and warmth. “I understand your desire to venture forth and explore this land, known to you only through the pages of our books. But take care, lad—a lone stranger is easy prey for bandits. A dagger to the throat would consign all your knowledge to oblivion. You should write books, Franz, to immortalize the library within your mind.”

Napoleon had smiled at the suggestion. The Entity that had brought him to this world would not allow him to meet such a ignoble end as a slit throat in a ditch. He was confident in his survival, yet Larn’s proposal stirred something within him. Writing could preserve his ideas, his legacy.

“There are truths the people of Westeros are not yet ready to grasp,” he replied thoughtfully. “I must first gauge the limits of their understanding. Once I have, I will heed your advice.”

Larn gave a wry grimace, equal parts amusement and regret. Their conversation ended with a firm handshake, and the maester watched as his favored pupil left the Citadel, his cart drawn by a horse far too fine for such humble labor.

Armed with a map of the region, Napoleon followed the road toward Highgarden. His journals, carefully stowed in a reinforced chest beneath the cart’s bench, brimmed with notes written in French and German—languages unknown to Westeros save for him. In them, he recorded his ideas, observations, and innovations, safeguarding his secrets from prying eyes. The maesters of the Citadel had already gleaned more from him than he had intended to share. His knowledge was his greatest weapon, and he resolved to wield it with patience.

His journey was methodical. He stopped at every village and farm, bartering with peasants and merchants to acquire seeds—wheat, barley, rye, and rarer varieties he hoped to adapt to a crop rotation system he dreamed of introducing: the Norfolk method. He scrutinized each grain with care, noting its size, color, and resilience under the curious or exasperated gazes of his interlocutors. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned fields yielding bountiful harvests capable of sustaining armies. For beneath his calm exterior, ambition still burned fiercely. Westeros was a blank canvas, and Napoleon’s knowledge and drive would paint it into a masterpiece.

In a village near Horn Hill, he offered his services at a commoners’ wedding—a simple but joyous affair, filled with flower garlands and free-flowing wine. With his violin in hand, Napoleon played melodies drawn from his memories of Vienna, interwoven with tunes he had adapted from the songs of the Reach. 

The villagers clapped in delight, and the newlyweds, flushed with happiness, danced until they collapsed in exhaustion.

That night, Napoleon indulged too freely in the wine. He awoke the next morning half-buried in a haystack, his trousers around his ankles and a red-haired peasant girl, equally unclothed, nestled under his arm. Fortunately, no pitchfork-wielding father came to demand retribution. His performance earned him a handful of copper coins and a basket of fresh bread.

Though he inwardly chastised himself for his lapse in discipline, Napoleon couldn’t deny he had enjoyed the moment. For one evening, his restless mind had found peace. Yet shame soon followed. He was an imperial prince, Napoleon II, and could not afford to lose himself in carnal pleasures or drink. At his next stop, he turned to his journals, pouring his memories onto the page—not only his father’s saga but also the tales of those who had shaped history. He wrote to remind himself of his own mettle.

His memory, however, betrayed him. The details of Alexander the Great’s conquests, or the reigns of Louis XIV and Charlemagne, eluded him, too fragmented to transcribe with accuracy. But one figure stood clear in his mind: Julius Caesar. As a child, Napoleon had been captivated by his father’s admiration for the Roman consul. He had devoured Caesar’s own accounts, particularly The Gallic Wars, though he had paid less attention to the Civil War.

Writing became Napoleon’s solace during solitary evenings, though he often struggled to recall precise details.

“Maester Larn was right,” he murmured one night in a rented inn room. “I must write. I may not always have the time…”

The Duke of Reichstadt’s thoughts were a whirlwind, his relentless pursuit of knowledge threatening to overwhelm him. His journals became his second memory, a personal library, his greatest asset. He could not afford to neglect them.

Days later, as he neared Highgarden, Napoleon hesitated for the first time. Several paths lay before him. He could play his violin in local taverns, hoping to catch the eye of a knight with ties to the Tyrells, who might vouch for his talents. But he doubted his ability to secure a place among them. Worse, he questioned whether the Tyrells, whose wealth stemmed from agriculture, were the right patrons for his ambitions. As a foreigner, he would struggle to convince nobles to embrace his agricultural innovations.

“What would they make of my ideas?” he mused. “Would they see a chance to increase their wealth, or dismiss me as a mere peasant?”

His engineering concepts might pique their interest, but they carried little weight in his decision. He had only just left Oldtown; there was still so much to see, to learn, to achieve. To stop now made no sense, and it risked offending the Hightowers, who might interpret his move to Highgarden as a slight, as though their prestige were insufficient.

If Highgarden held opportunities, it was too soon to pursue them. Napoleon lingered only a few days, performing as a musician to gather enough coin to continue his journey. Luck favored him—not only coppers but a few silver stags, emblematic of the region’s wealth, filled his purse. He considered staying longer, tempted by the prospect of playing for the Tyrells and perhaps earning a golden dragon. 

But the risk outweighed the reward. 

Patience, he reminded himself, was his greatest virtue, even after three long years at the Citadel. He could not gamble his future on a reckless move.

So, after a brief stay, he resumed his journey, wondering if he had made his first true mistake.

A new dilemma soon arose. Napoleon was loath to stray from the main roads, fearing bandit attacks, leaving him with two options. 

The first was to follow the Roseroad toward King’s Landing—a choice he dreaded. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms had a grim reputation for filth and danger. Napoleon had no desire to die of dysentery or a cutthroat’s blade in some alley. The city was still reeling from Tywin Lannister’s brutal sack, which had plunged much of its population into poverty, heightening the risks.

Moreover, Napoleon doubted his ability to make a favorable impression at court. He was merely a musician with ideas— at best, a pawn in the political machinations of Westeros’s elite.

“Too soon,” he whispered, gazing down the Roseroad. “I’m not ready.”

The second option was to head west, following the coast to Lannisport. This appealed to him more. The route was dotted with castles and villages, promising safer travel and steadier income. Lannisport, too, enjoyed a better reputation than King’s Landing. Though Tywin Lannister was not known for leniency, his iron rule ensured order, offering Napoleon a safer city where he could operate without fear of crossing the Lord of Casterly Rock.

His decision made, Napoleon set out for the west, hoping fortune would smile upon him.

The journey exceeded his expectations. The roads of the Westerlands were safer and better maintained than those of the Reach. Napoleon performed in Hewett’s Town, Cobble Cove, and villages between Old Oak and Crakehall. His purse grew heavier, though he kept his few golden dragons hidden beneath his cart’s bench.

True to his vow of moderation, he avoided excess, sipping only a single cup of wine with meals and steering clear of brothels along the way. Instead, he continued writing about Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul, though he struggled to recall the names of the Belgic tribes who faced the proconsul at the Battle of the Sabis. His German texts on the subject tested his translation skills.

According to Julius Caesar, of all the peoples of Gaul, the Belgae were the bravest—too independent, too distant from Roman civilization, too numerous, and undefeated for generations. They shunned Latin culture, viewing Roman wine as a weakling’s drink that had softened the southern Gauls, while they remained virile, drinking beer and mead.In his Gallic Wars, Caesar faced the Belgic tribes—chiefly the Nervii, Atrebates, and Viromandui—at the Battle of the Sabis. Leading six legions, roughly 30,000 men, plus auxiliaries, Caesar marched into Belgic territory after reports of their mobilization. The Romans encamped on the north bank of the Sabis River, unaware that the Belgae, led by the Nervii, hid in dense woods across the shallow waters, plotting an ambush.As the Romans fortified their camp, the Belgae attacked. The Nervii charged uphill, catching the Romans off guard while they foraged or entrenched. The Ninth and Tenth Legions held the left flank, but the center and right wavered under the Belgae’s ferocious assault. Caesar took command, rallying his troops and reorganizing the legions. The Tenth Legion, under Titus Labienus, repelled the Atrebates and captured their camp, freeing reinforcements for the center. Caesar led the reserve Twelfth and Eighth Legions to bolster the right, where the Nervii fought fiercest. The arrival of two additional legions from the baggage train turned the tide.The Romans encircled the Nervii, who fought nearly to annihilation. Caesar reported that only 500 of their 60,000 warriors survived. The victory secured Roman dominance over Belgica, showcasing Caesar’s tactical brilliance and his legions’ discipline.

Napoleon wondered if his account of the battle was faithful to the texts he had read. Had he overlooked other battles before the Sabis? He sighed. He should have begun this work upon arriving in Westeros, when his memories were still fresh, his books his only companions during his sickly days.

“God…” he murmured, gazing out the window of an inn south of Crakehall, in a village absent from his map. The stars glittered in a sea of darkness. “It’s been four years already…”

He calculated it would take another week to reach Lannisport. His journals now brimmed with sketches of agricultural tools, forges, and navigational aids, alongside his historical accounts. 

Napoleon realized that learning new things had cost him old memories. His innovations and engineering talents survived in his notebooks, as did his father’s saga, but the details of France and Europe’s history were fading. He could recall broad strokes, but the specifics slipped away.

He had to write, to preserve the lessons history had taught him, lest he repeat its mistakes at a cost he could not afford.

Napoleon arrived in Lannisport two days ahead of schedule, a smile breaking across his face as he beheld the city bathed in the glow of the setting sun. Encircled by high, sturdy walls, Lannisport was overlooked by what he assumed was Casterly Rock, perched atop a towering hill. He urged his horse, Toulon, to hasten so he could enter before nightfall and find a suitable inn.

The city buzzed with life, even after dusk, surpassing Oldtown in vibrancy. Its streets were paved, its houses well-kept and elegantly built—not the Vienna of his memories, nor the Paris of his childhood, but a marked improvement over Oldtown. The air was cleaner, too.

Keen to remain discreet, Napoleon chose a moderately priced inn near the sea, paying a premium for a room with a view. After stabling Toulon and securing his belongings, he collapsed onto the finest bed he had known since his time at the Hightower. Exhausted from his journey, he slept well past dawn.

When he awoke, cursing the high sun, he washed with a bucket of cold water and began to plan. His first impression of Lannisport was favorable. Lord Tywin Lannister’s harsh reputation aside, he clearly governed his domain well. Napoleon could envision settling here, but several factors needed consideration.

Life in Lannisport was costly. He needed to determine if his earnings as a musician would suffice to sustain him long enough for his broader plans to take root. More crucially, he had to assess his prospects for social advancement. Tywin’s reputation gave him pause—an iron-fisted lord who had undone King Aegon V’s progressive reforms, which Napoleon found clumsy yet well-intentioned. He would have refined those reforms, balancing them with clearer, more palatable measures. Tywin’s ruthless adherence to the status quo revealed an inflexible, conservative nature. A brilliant, ambitious foreigner would likely find no favor with the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Maester Larn’s warnings echoed in his mind. Even if Tywin recognized the value of Napoleon’s ideas, he would likely exploit them without aligning with Napoleon’s ambitions. At best, Napoleon would be well-paid; at worst, a mere tool. 

The Duke of Reichstadt was neither a slave nor a commoner. He would not serve a lord’s interests unless they advanced his own.

After an early lunch and a paid bath, Napoleon spent the afternoon seeking a venue to perform. His efforts proved fruitless—most taverns in the city’s upper districts already employed local musicians. As a foreigner with an unfamiliar instrument, he was deemed too risky compared to known performers.

Undeterred, Napoleon turned to the streets. The market square, he quickly realized, was a poor choice—its evening bustle of merchants, jugglers, and dancers would drown out his music. He needed a quieter spot where wealthy passersby might appreciate his art.

Following his ears as much as his eyes, he stumbled upon a street that could only be the city’s red-light district—or one of them. Wide and fragrant with lavender, it was lively yet free of competing musicians. Napoleon saw his opportunity.

Careful not to disrupt the courtesans’ trade, he positioned himself between two establishments. Under the curious gazes of the women at the windows, he raised his violin and began to play. His repertoire included waltzes like Die Romantiker, Ländlers, Mozart’s violin concertos, and Niccolò Paganini’s Carnival of Venice, which he had seen performed in Vienna years ago.

His success was immediate. Passersby gathered to listen, courtesans leaned out to watch, and even satisfied clients paused to admire the music. The city guards, usually vigilant, seemed to enjoy his performance. After each piece, Napoleon bowed, accepting applause and collecting coins—silver stags, not coppers.

His first evening was a triumph. Though he didn’t earn enough to cover his week’s lodging, consistent performances promised to cover his expenses and grow his savings. The brothel owners, pleased with the crowds his music drew, offered generous tips after three nights to ensure he stayed.

Napoleon lingered in Lannisport longer than planned, lured by the promise of profit. Ever calculating, he switched streets one evening without warning, finding another red-light district with finer courtesans, wealthier clients, and grander buildings. Performing in the upper city was risky for a commoner, let alone a foreigner, but his reputation preceded him. A guard who had seen him play allowed him to pass after a cursory search.

It was in this street that he earned his first golden dragon through music—and where he met someone who would upend his plans.

On an evening like any other, as Napoleon finished his third melody and collected his third round of coins, a cloaked man in his twenties caught his eye by tossing three golden dragons into his hat. 

Such generosity was rare and drew unwanted attention in a city where cutthroats lurked.

Napoleon met the man’s gaze—green eyes and a cynical smile. 

“I wish to hire your services for the evening,” the stranger said. “Follow me.”

Before Napoleon could respond, the man turned and vanished into the night, leaving the crowd murmuring. Unwilling to follow blindly, Napoleon cleared his throat loudly, forcing the man to turn back.

“Forgive me, whoever you are, but I don’t make a habit of following men who look like cutthroats into dark alleys.”

The crowd laughed, some whistling for him to resume playing. The commotion drew guards, but they halted when the cloaked man faced them, retreating without a word.

Napoleon realized he was dealing with someone of authority, despite the man’s youth, which heightened both his caution and curiosity.

The stranger returned, visibly annoyed. 

“Would a cutthroat toss you three golden dragons only to slit your throat for silver stags, you idiot?”

Napoleon suppressed a smile. If his instincts were correct, he had hooked a significant figure. The key now was not to offend him.

He nodded, gathered his belongings, and followed, ignoring the crowd’s disappointed cries. Catching up, he spoke carefully. 

“Listen, ser. Peasants count their coppers before deciding what to give me, or they make excuses to give nothing. Merchants wait to see what others pay before bidding for my services. You tossed those dragons with such ease that I knew wealth means little to you. The way the guards deferred to you tells me you’re a Lannister.”

The man froze, as if struck by lightning, his hand drifting to a sword hidden beneath his cloak. But he faltered when Napoleon held out the three dragons.

“That you came personally to hire me suggests this isn’t an official invitation,” Napoleon continued. “Pardon my caution, but your family isn’t known for its mercy, and I don’t value my life at three dragons.”

The presumed Lannister’s eyes flicked between the coins and Napoleon. 

“You’re no ordinary minstrel,” he said.

“I’m no minstrel,” Napoleon corrected. “I don’t sing. I’m a musician.”

The man groaned in exasperation. 

“I’ve no time for this nonsense.” He tossed his entire purse to Napoleon, who gaped—there had to be thirty dragons inside. The Lannisters truly did shit gold.

Without waiting, the man resumed walking, confident Napoleon would follow. He was right.

Their path wound through the city to the coast, then up a steep road to a secluded cottage. The Lannister demanded Napoleon’s weapons. When told he had none, the man searched him, grunted, and shoved open the door without knocking.

“Who’s there?” a voice called, still cracking with youth.

“Your brother!” the Lannister replied, slamming the door behind Napoleon. “With the musician you wanted! I think you’ll like him—he’s as cunning as you, though taller!”

Ignoring the jab, Napoleon scanned the room. The cottage was modest, with few adjacent rooms. Dirty dishes piled on the table, and no servants were in sight, suggesting the occupants valued discretion.

A door opened, and a blond dwarf in a nightshirt emerged, pulling a giggling girl by the hand. Napoleon’s eyes widened. Weeks in Lannisport had taught him much about the Lannisters, including the existence of Lord Tywin’s dwarf son, the subject of endless rumors at his inn.

If his guess was right, the man who had hired him was none other than…

“Ah, Jaime!” Tyrion Lannister exclaimed, kissing the girl’s hand. “You took your time!”

“Your musician wasn’t in the street you told me,” Jaime, the Kingslayer, retorted.

Tyrion laughed, grabbing a pitcher of wine and three cups. He filled them, handing one to the girl and another to Napoleon. “Pardon my brother’s mood—he lost a bet and was tasked with fetching you. What’s your name, bard?”

Napoleon cleared his throat. He sensed trouble brewing. Alone with Lord Tywin’s sons—one a kingslayer—was not part of his plan. 

“Franz,” he said simply. “And I’m no bard; I don’t sing. Just a musician.”

The girl made a disappointed sound, but Tyrion scratched his chin, eyes narrowing.

 “You’ve an odd accent. Where are you from?”

“Oldtown.”

“And before that?”

“Across the sea, from a village called Vienna.”

The girl’s blue eyes lit up, but Tyrion’s mismatched gaze grew more suspicious. Jaime cut in before further questions could follow. 

“Well, my task is done, little brother. Time for bed.”

He left without another word, forcing Tyrion, barely thirteen, to close the door behind him. 

“What a sore loser,” Tyrion chuckled, turning back to Napoleon. “I’ve heard tales about you—music from another world, played on an instrument that delights the ears of whores.”

Napoleon laughed softly. 

“I don’t play for whores specifically, Lord Tyrion. I just found a spot with deep-pocketed clients and no competition.”

Tyrion raised his cup with a grin. “

A clever man. I like clever men, unlike Jaime, which explains his sour face. My Tysha was so intrigued by you that she asked me to bring you here, and I can’t deny her anything…”

“You really don’t sing?” Tysha asked, her eyes sparkling. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

“The only songs I know are in my native tongue,” Napoleon replied. “I avoid singing to seem less foreign.”

Tyrion’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes glinted with suspicion. “Tysha and I agree your foreign roots don’t matter. We’d love to hear one of your songs.”

“Oh, yes!” Tysha clapped. “Please, I’ve never heard High Valyrian!”

Uncomfortable but composed, Napoleon inclined his head. “I’m afraid I must disappoint you again. My tongue isn’t High Valyrian—it’s far less known.”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed deeply, as if he suspected deceit. “How curious. And what is this unique language called?”

“French.”

“French,” Tyrion repeated, tasting the word. “What a strange name…”

He settled on a stool beside Tysha, handed her his cup, and clapped his hands. 

“Well, Frenchman, my brother hired you for the night. I’m eager to hear this mysterious, unknown tongue.”

Napoleon rarely sang in French, never before an audience. 

But Tyrion’s probing gaze and the suspicion he had unwittingly stirred left him little choice. Refusing the son of Lord Tywin was unwise, especially with the Kingslayer knowing his face. Napoleon realized his carelessness—Jaime had slain a king; what was a musician’s life to him? His best course was to satisfy Tyrion and leave Lannisport. 

The purse Jaime had given him was worth six months of street performances. Greed could cost him dearly.

Clearing his throat, Napoleon considered his options. The French songs he knew were patriotic, revolutionary, or imperial—hardly suited for a young couple expecting exotic melodies. He settled on Partant pour la Syrie, written by his aunt, Hortense de Beauharnais, daughter of Empress Joséphine. 

He owed his knowledge of it, and many songs, to his aunt Sophie of Bavaria, a fervent Bonapartist just six years his senior, who had been a light in his life from childhood to his deathbed.

With a nostalgic smile that piqued Tyrion’s curiosity, Napoleon raised his violin, took a deep breath, and let the melody come alive.

Partant pour la Syrie, Leaving for Syria,
Le jeune et beau Dunois, The young and handsome Dunois
Venait prier Marie Went to ask the Virgin Mary,
De bénir ses exploits : His heroic deeds to bless,
Faites, Reine immortelle, Make it so, immortal Queen
Lui dit-il en partant, He said on his leaving,
Que j’aime la plus belle That I love the most beautiful (woman)
Et sois le plus vaillant. And be the bravest.

Il trace sur la pierre He writes on stone
Le serment de l’honneur, The oath of honor
Et va suivre à la guerre And follows into war
Le Comte son seigneur ; The earl, his lord.
Au noble voeu fidèle, Faithful to his noble vow,
Il dit en combattant : He said while fighting:
Amour à la plus belle, Love to the most beautiful (woman)
Honneur au plus vaillant. Honor to the bravest.

On lui doit la Victoire. We owe you the victory
Vraiment, dit le seigneur ; Verily! says the lord,
Puisque tu fais ma gloire Since you have established my glory,
Je ferai ton bonheur. I will make you happy!
De ma fille Isabelle, My daughter Isabella
Sois l’Époux à l’instant, Will be your wife
Car elle est la plus belle, For she is the most beautiful (woman)
Et toi le plus vaillant. And you the bravest.

À l’Autel de Marie, At the altar of Mary,
Ils contractent tous deux They pledged both
Cette union Chérie This dear union
Qui seule rend heureux. Which alone brings happiness.
Chacun dans la chapelle Everyone in the chapel
Disait en les voyant : Said seeing them:
Amour à la plus belle, Love to most beautiful (woman)
Honneur au plus vaillant. Honor to the bravest.

When Napoleon finished singing and opened his eyes, he saw genuine astonishment in Tyrion’s mismatched gaze, while Tysha, enraptured by his performance, broke the silence with enthusiastic applause.

“Bravo!” she exclaimed, leaping from her stool. “That was magnificent!”

Napoleon bowed slightly in thanks, but his eyes lingered on Tyrion, whose jaw had finally closed.

"I’m no charlatan," the Emperor’s son thought. "And you’ve no idea what I’m truly capable of."

Aloud, he said: 

“I hope it pleased you. It’s the first time I’ve sung in my native tongue before an audience.”

Tyrion regained his composure and cleared his throat. 

“Indeed, your language is melodious. I’ve never heard anything like it, though Lannisport sees countless foreign merchants.”

“As I said, my tongue is little known. That song was written by my aunt.”

“I see,” Tyrion replied, scratching his chin. “Well, I’m eager to hear what other songs your family has crafted.”

Napoleon knew no other songs from his family beyond the one he had just sung. 

Yet, unable to resist the chance to surprise the sharp-witted dwarf, he launched into “Le Chant du Départ,” the unofficial anthem of his father’s Grande Armée, belted out by soldiers at the Battle of Leipzig. 

He suspected Tyrion sensed the song’s martial origins, judging by the fascination in the dwarf’s eyes.

To lighten the mood, Napoleon followed with “Le Chant de l’Oignon,” a tune his father’s grenadiers had sung while marching to defeat his great-uncle Charles. This song revealed Tyrion’s remarkable analytical mind. Despite his mere thirteen years, the dwarf seemed uninterested in it, likely finding its melody too frivolous to merit close attention to the lyrics.

Tysha, however, was enchanted by every song, though “Partant pour la Syrie” remained her favorite. While Tyrion requested new songs, Tysha interrupted to hear “Partant pour la Syrie” or “Le Chant de l’Oignon” again. Tyrion, by contrast, was drawn to “Le Chant du Départ,” “La Marseillaise,” and “Veillons au Salut de l’Empire”—songs that captivated him for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp.

Napoleon didn’t only sing. He played waltzes and Ländlers on his violin, their lively melodies prompting Tysha to insist Tyrion dance with her, much to his mild embarrassment. 

The evening was a delight for the young girl, who laughed heartily through the night, demanding the same songs and tunes while pulling her companion into clumsy, affectionate dances.

Only after hours of merriment did Tysha’s energy wane. Reluctantly, she gave Tyrion a fervent kiss before retiring for the night, though he didn’t follow despite her calls. Napoleon noticed the dwarf’s gaze turn inquisitive once more.

After bidding Tysha goodnight and closing the door, Tyrion grabbed another pitcher of wine and refilled Napoleon’s cup.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “you’ve certainly earned your reputation. My sweet lady is overjoyed, and I could ask for nothing more.”

He handed the cup to the Duke of Reichstadt and continued. 

“That said, the situation has changed. You’re a fascinating man, Franz. Your instrument, your songs, your foreign tongue—all from another world. And you sang with such passion, it’s as if you lived the stories they tell.”

Napoleon remained silent, taking a small sip of wine. When Tyrion realized he wouldn’t respond, he pressed on. “Tell me, what do your songs speak of?”

“It depends on the song,” Napoleon replied evasively. “Most are about soldiers marching to war.”

Tyrion’s face fell in disappointment, but he didn’t relent. “And what do they mean to you?”

Napoleon met his gaze unflinchingly. “Memories of my father.”

“Ah,” Tyrion said, thoughtful. “But they hold deeper meaning, don’t they?”

“I don’t wish to answer.”

Tyrion raised his brows in surprise, then groaned like a petulant child. “Oh, you’ve ruined it! I was enjoying our game!”

“That’s the difference between us, my lord,” Napoleon said diplomatically. “I wasn’t.”

Tyrion glanced at the ceiling, pensive, before his eyes drifted to their cups. He snapped his fingers as if struck by inspiration. “Fine, let’s play a new game! A drinking game—a marvelous one. Here’s how it works: I look into your eyes and make a statement about your past. If I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong, I drink.”

Napoleon frowned. Having already revealed too much to the maesters and Ser Baelor in Oldtown, he was loath to repeat the mistake with a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Yet refusing would only fuel the dwarf’s curiosity. 

He needed to turn this to his advantage. Tyrion might be the key to opportunity—if played carefully. Lord Tywin might dismiss his thirteen-year-old son’s words, especially given the boy’s near-scandalous behavior.

“On one condition,” Napoleon said. “We’ll take turns making statements.”

Tyrion, a thirteen-year-old dwarf, faced Napoleon, a robust man nearing twenty-six. With luck, the Lannister’s smaller frame would succumb to the wine quickly.

Tyrion’s face lit up. 

“Perfect. But sit down first—my neck aches from looking up.”

Once seated, cups in hand, Tyrion scratched his chin, searching for his first statement. “Let’s begin… Your father was a military leader.”

Napoleon couldn’t believe his ears. His eyes widened in shock, eliciting a smug grin from Tyrion.

“Your songs,” the dwarf explained, anticipating Napoleon’s unspoken question. “They rang like an army on the march. Your father could only have been a soldier or a commander. And you’re too well-spoken to be a mere soldier’s son.”

Napoleon cursed inwardly and drank, irritated by the triumph in Tyrion’s mismatched eyes. 

“Your father doesn’t love you,” he countered. “Why else would you hide so far from his castle, unguarded, with your brother as your errand boy?”

Tyrion’s smile collapsed like a house of cards. He stared at his wine with annoyance. 

“You hit where it hurts,” he muttered, taking a swig.

“You’re not bad at that yourself,” Napoleon replied.

Tyrion pouted. “I’ve soured the mood, haven’t I, digging into a sensitive topic? Let’s leave our fathers aside. Your songs… You didn’t sing your full repertoire tonight.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes and drank. Tyrion allowed himself a small smile.

“Some songs are for me alone,” Napoleon said. “I wouldn’t sing them for anything.”

“Not even for a hundred golden dragons?”

“Have you a hundred golden dragons?”

“Not on me,” Tyrion admitted. “Would you sell me your remaining songs for a hundred dragons?”

“Sell them? You don’t just want to hear them?”

“I don’t understand your language. If you’ve kept some songs back, they must tell remarkable stories. For a hundred dragons, I’d ask for their translations.”

Napoleon dismissed the idea outright. This dwarf was too clever to be trusted with the translation of any song—especially “Te Souviens-tu?”, which spoke of Italy, Germany, Russia, and Spain.

“No.”

Tyrion pouted again. “Not even for two hundred?”

“I’ve kept only one song for myself,” Napoleon said. “Is it worth two hundred dragons?”

“You tell me. You certainly know how to stoke my curiosity. You’d make a fine merchant—or even a diplomat.”

Napoleon seized the chance to shift the topic. “Your brother would be hopeless at either. He tossed me his entire purse just to be done with his errand.”

Tyrion’s wine sprayed from his nose as he coughed and laughed, wiping his face. “Poor Jaime. He thinks every problem can be solved with a sword.”

“I imagine it’s hard to argue with him,” Napoleon reasoned, “considering that’s how he ended the most powerful dynasty in Westeros’s history.”

Tyrion’s laughter stopped abruptly, his brows furrowing. 

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted. “You’re very clever, Franz.”

Napoleon nodded, accepting the compliment, though he regretted not holding his tongue.

“My turn,” he said, studying Tyrion. “You once checked your chamber pot to see if you could shit gold like your father.”

Tyrion shot him a dismayed look and drank. “I was five,” he defended.

“And you did it. Your turn.”

Napoleon grew frustrated that the dwarf remained composed. How much wine did it take to send a thirteen-year-old dwarf under the table?

Tyrion scrutinized Napoleon’s blue-gray eyes, as if peering into his soul. 

“Your mother is dead.”

Napoleon raised his brows. He hadn’t thought of his mother in years. “Drink.”

Tyrion did so quickly but pressed on. “You became a musician to support your mother financially.”

“It was my turn,” Napoleon reminded him.

“It’s my game,” Tyrion countered. “Taking turns one by one is too slow. From now on, we switch only when someone makes a correct statement. So, you became a musician to support your mother.”

Napoleon bristled but saw the new rule could hasten the game. The sooner Tyrion drank himself senseless, the sooner this endless night would end. He had decided to leave Lannisport the moment he realized Lord Tywin despised his son. Lingering with Tyrion was a dangerous gamble.

“Drink,” Napoleon said flatly, masking his emotions.

Tyrion didn’t falter. “You hate your mother.”

Napoleon froze, as if struck by lightning.

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“You despise your mother!”

The Emperor’s son glared at the dwarf, who smirked. Napoleon drank. He’d said too much again—damn this imp! Yes, he harbored deep contempt for Marie-Louise Habsburg, who had ignored him most of his life. He’d have preferred to be Joséphine de Beauharnais’s son.

“You won’t tell me why you despise her?” Tyrion asked, his tone mischievous, tempting Napoleon to throttle him.

“That’s not part of the game,” the Eaglet growled, thinking quickly. He had to stay focused: get the Lannister drunk and under the table. “You wanted a pet lion as a child.”

Tyrion’s grin widened, signaling Napoleon’s error. “Drink,” he ordered. “And for your information, I’m still small.”

Napoleon didn’t smile. He’d been certain Tyrion, like any child fond of animals, had dreamed of a lion. Where had he gone wrong?

“A dragon,” he realized. “You wanted a dragon as a child.”

Tyrion sighed, defeated, and drank halfheartedly. “Well… my turn…”

He racked his brain before snapping his fingers. “You said you came from Oldtown… You considered becoming a maester.”

Napoleon snorted, amused. He’d never settle for so little. “Drink.”

Tyrion didn’t waver, though Napoleon saw the first signs of drunkenness. “You wanted to read every book in the Citadel.”

Not all of them, Napoleon thought. Some didn’t interest me. “Drink.”

Tyrion swore but complied. “I was so sure… A man as clever as you…”

“You don’t even know if I can read,” Napoleon pointed out.

“You speak too well,” Tyrion countered. “You use words some of my family wouldn’t know, and your accent is refined. I’m certain you can read… The Citadel must have drawn you, as it does all men of your intellect.”

Tyrion’s brows shot up, as if he couldn’t believe his own next statement. “You… You studied at the Citadel?”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“A statement,” Tyrion said with growing confidence. “You studied at the Citadel.”

Napoleon drank, amused by the dwarf’s wide-eyed shock. 

“How did you manage that?” Tyrion asked. “They only accept nobles or those with a patron!”

“That’s not part of the game, and it’s my turn,” Napoleon said calmly. Tyrion’s frustration was evident, but the Duke of Reichstadt remained resolute. “You’re desperate to know who I am, where I’m from, and what I can do.”

Tyrion groaned in exasperation, the first sign he was annoyed at drinking—an admission of failure. Napoleon had regained control of the game.

Tyrion gritted his teeth, aware of the shift despite his growing intoxication. Yet he wasn’t ready to concede. He refilled his cup and studied Napoleon with sparkling, curious eyes. 

“You forged a maester’s chain of four links or fewer.”

Filthy little snoop! Napoleon thought, struggling to keep his composure. His reputation at the Citadel was such that a noble like Tyrion could learn much by sending a raven to the maesters. But the thirteen-year-old’s ability to dissect him like a walnut was both humiliating and dangerous. This dwarf could dig deeper if he asked the right questions.

“Drink,” Napoleon said tersely, hoping the imp would finally collapse.

No such luck. Tyrion pressed on. “You forged a chain of six links or fewer.”

“Drink.”

Tyrion’s eyes lit up as he drank. “Seven links.”

“Drink.”

“Eight links?!”

Tyrion’s brows shot to the ceiling as Napoleon took a small sip. The dwarf made a clumsy bow. “My apologies—I vastly underestimated you.”

“I accept them, as I made the same mistake with you.”

Tyrion laughed. “I’m used to it. But you, Franz, grow more fascinating by the minute…”

“It’s my turn,” Napoleon interrupted. “You’re eager to become Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion’s smile vanished, replaced by a bitterness Napoleon knew all too well. “Drink,” the dwarf said, his enthusiasm gone.

Napoleon complied and narrowed his eyes. There was something here—perhaps useful information. “You fear becoming Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Drink.”

Napoleon drank. “Your father won’t let you become Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion’s long swig filled Napoleon with a strange mix of satisfaction and pity. He couldn’t imagine how he’d have felt if his father had disowned him in the Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène instead of passing him the torch.

“You cheated,” Tyrion grumbled. “We said we were done with out fathers. I’ll return the courtesy.” His subtlety was fading—the game’s end was near. “You want to be exactly like your father!” he declared loudly.

Napoleon remained impassive, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. The wine was affecting him too.

“Drink,” he said softly, as if urging calm.

Tyrion drank with a near-childish petulance. “You want to be better than your father,” he corrected.

Napoleon drank. Tyrion grinned, showing nearly all his teeth. “So tell me, Franz, what army do you plan to lead into battle?”

“The battle’s over, my lord,” Napoleon yawned, standing to stretch. “As is this game.”

Tyrion’s face fell. “I hired you for the whole night!”

“And dawn is breaking,” Napoleon replied, nodding toward the window.

Tyrion turned, dismayed to see the truth of the musician’s words. 

He pouted, then dug into his pocket, pulling out a golden dragon. “One more!” he pleaded, holding it out.

Napoleon shook his head, amused. “Raise the stakes.”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped. He stumbled toward a cabinet, spilling his cup as he fell flat. Undeterred, he scrambled up, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a purse, extracting four more golden dragons. He staggered back and thrust the five coins at Napoleon. 

“There,” he panted. “Now answer: what’s your plan to make a name for yourself on this continent?”

Napoleon hadn’t expected that question. Still, he pocketed the coins, crouched to Tyrion’s level, and winked. “To meet someone who’ll give me a grand opportunity—something I won’t find here, from what I’ve gathered.”

He stood, gathered his belongings, added Tyrion’s five dragons to Jaime’s purse, and extended his hand. 

“I must thank you, Lord Tyrion. I learned much tonight.”

Tyrion mumbled incoherently but shook the musician’s hand. “You’re a strange man, Franz—if that’s even your real name. You leave a bitter taste, but I enjoyed this evening, if only for the joy you brought my wife.”

Both froze as Tyrion let slip the damning word. His mismatched eyes widened in fear; Napoleon’s steel-blue gaze widened in alarm. Until now, the Duke of Reichstadt had seen Tysha as a lowborn girl, a commoner seeking coin in a noble’s arms for a night. 

But a marriage… That was scandalous. For a man like Lord Tywin, the best way to quash a scandal was to silence all witnesses.

“My lips are sealed, and my legs are already running,” Napoleon said simply, knowing he had no time to waste. “Good luck, Lord Tyrion.”

He turned and left the cottage without hesitation, walking briskly but not running to avoid drawing attention from guards or shopkeepers opening their stalls. It took nearly an hour to reach his inn. Though slightly drunk and exhausted from the sleepless night, he wasted no time. He gathered his belongings, returned his room key to the innkeeper, loaded his cart, hitched Toulon, and left Lannisport hours before noon.

The Emperor’s son headed northeast toward the Riverlands without looking back, his only thought to flee the Westerlands as quickly as possible, praying Tywin Lannister would never hear of the musician who had played for his dwarf son and his lowborn bride.

AN: Hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter, this story is becoming one of my favorites to write but I'll tone down a little about historical facts in the next chapters to focus solely on the scenes. Next up, Napoleon arrives in the Riverlands ;)