AN: Welcome one and all! This is the official rewrite of The Iron Emperor. This is my second story (but my first story nonetheless, because you know, its a rewrite). Any suggestions, tips, and constructive criticism is much appreciated.
There will be major changes to the story, and without a doubt, it will be far grander in scale. I've noticed that Napoleon has remained for too long beyond the Wall. Why not accelerate that a bit? Instead of a retreat, Napoleon, his army, and allies (at least those who had forces committed to the French invasion of Russia) will be transported to Westeros before the outbreak of the Battle of Borodino, the deadliest engagement in the campaign. Additionally, historical inaccuracies will be addressed and promptly resolved.
Where will he and his forces land, you say? How about you find out for yourself? Don't worry, it'll be a matter of time before the politics, intrigue, and mystics of the world of Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire comes to life and reacts to the arrival of foreigners from another reality.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Napoleonic Wars (or human history for that matter), Game of Thrones, or A Song of Ice and Fire. Historical publications and accounts belong to their respective owners. In fact, I do not own anything in this story, so let's just sum it up with that. I earn or make no money whatsover from writing this fanfic.
Warnings: Violence, amputations, blood and guts exploding, coarse language, character death, drama, intrigue, and most importantly, historical inaccuracies! (I'm just a happy human that makes happy mistakes).
Enjoy!
A SONG OF BLOOD AND IRON
by
DhertyDan
- - - PROLOGUE - - -
"On September 5, the two armies found themselves in each other's presence. The Russian Army was on line behind the Moscowa, the right anchored on Borodino, the left on Kologa. At twelve hundred toises ahead, the enemy had raised on a beautiful mound, between two woods, a redoubt that ten thousand men held."
- from Chapter IV, Twelfth Book of St. Hilaire's History of the Imperial Guard
NAPOLEON
Borodino approach, 5th of September, 1812
The noon sky was engulfed by the golden rays of the sun, as the puffy textures of clouds and their feathery whisps dragged fat above the sky, with it's enlightened glows and blue hues. The weather was comfortable at this time, juxtaposed with the beats of the drums of war. With the heavens clear and the day ripe for battle, the Emperor of the French and King of Italy, in all his glory, was all too eager to finally catch the damnable Russians by their tail, force Alexander and his cronies to the negotiating table, and complete this campaign once and for all. This ultimate victory, one that he would earn with much difficulty, will shatter further attempts of opposing his Empire. The British shall fall, and all Europe will bend to him.
His Imperial and Royal Majesty, Napoleon Bonaparte, strode at the forefront, his household and immediate staff of aides-de-camp, marshals, and chiefs surrounding him, leading the army as any commander should, himself sat astride upon the great steed. Behind him, the infantry corps calmly followed, like a shepherd to his sheep, as well as the cavalry and their horses, the train with their carts and baggage, and the artillery park, hauling the ordnances of mass destruction, all keys to his ultimate victory.
The pathway was but of dirt, mud, and grime, and contributed nothing to the advance of the Grande Armée, as it traversed across the Russian frontier. It only delayed it's eventual engagement with the Russian forces under Generals Bagration, Barclay, and Kutuzov, having taken their positions across the Kolocha. Their positions were supposedly centered upon the landmark known as Borodino, a village against the west bank of the aforementioned river, where the road striked through, settled upon a bridge, and crossed onto the other side. Beyond that spot on the map were more rivers, streams, hills, open meadows, and even mountains, as well as the city of Moscow—the cultural capital of this Slavic empire that had, for some insurmountable reason, found the bravery to not only disobey the French Emperor, but also collude with the conniving British. It made the embargo useless if such treachery was further tolerated, and his plan shall proceed without fail, with or without the Russians.
Napoleon had not observed anything else on his journey to Valuievo, since the twenty fourth of August, after nearly three weeks of marching, succeeding the Battle of Smolensk of between the sixteenth and the eighteenth. As far as the Emperor knew, the positions did not exist until two days later. Now, he was upon it.
The plans for quartering and resting at Smolensk were all but abandoned. It's unfortunate destruction denied him of a useful supply base, and they had to evacuate the city, lest the smoldering ruin's flames engulf them and suffocate his army. Napoleon needed a battle that would grant him his triumphant victory over this dragging conflict and have it finished. He urged his comrades and officers to push on, and exhilirated by his own will and determination, the officers and the marshals, and the most common of the foot soldiers, reciprocated that daring attitude, and spurred onwards.
The Russian Army was on the retreat, and it's rearguard garrisoned on some rudimentary earthworks. It was on that day that Napoleon, having come upon the Russian left flank by chance, reflective of his ever apparent luck, and chanced on the opponent's positions along a redoubt, in which the Russian horde had entrenched themselves in a pitiful demonstration of defense, decided to rid of it. The left flank was weak and vulnerable, as they had expected the Emperor to approach the river Kolocha by the new post road that connected the ancient city of Moscow to Smolensk. Indeed, the greencoats concentrated their bulk towards their eastern flank. Fortunately for him, Napoleon ordered the Great Army to cross the Kolocha, an unexpected move, and totally caught the Russians by surprise.
The sixteenth and eighteenth divisions of Marshal Poniatowski's V Corps made a flanking movement through the woods from the southern fringes of the redoubt, after removing Russian forces in Yelnia. Several skirmishes would indicate the start of the battle between the Polish and Russian troops, but none so far had progressed in that moment of time. While gunshots rippled, the bloodshed had yet to begin in its entirety. Drums rolled, beats rumbled, and trumpets called out orders. Hooves and heels moved all the same.
Napoleon delivered his first orders of the afternoon, after hours of marching, to his commanders, in the form relay and dispatch, as the norm. The offensive neared it's initiation.
His brother-in-law, Marshal Joachim Murat, the First Horseman of Europe and King of Naples, had taken the valiant order to tackle the face. Under his commands were Général Compte de Nansouty of the I Cavalry Corps and Général Montbrun's II Cavalry Corps, and were pitched to clash with the Russians and fill in the ranks. They would cross the river Kolocha along with Général Compans's Fifth Division, accompanying Marshal Davout of the I Corps, forming the head column from the west of the redoubt. Another two divisions from the corps would follow, commandeered by Générals Friant and Morand. Prince Eugene Beauharnais, the adopted son to the Emperor, assumed positions to cannonade the enemy's right with batteries of artillery. It would utterly pulverize the redoubt, and with it, the soldiers that manned the defenses.
Compans got underway and attacked the Russian light infantry at Doronino, west of the redoubt. Russian cavalry attacked the French infantry but were held off until French cavalry arrived to restore the balance. Doronino was soon taken but the Russians were able to retreat in good order. As further formations arrived upon their positions, Compans began his first direct assault on the redoubt. His four infantry regiments were stretched out in a line. The Hundred-eleventh Line was at the left. Next was the Twenty-fifth Line, which was to attack the village of Shevardino (north east of the redoubt). Compans led the Fifty-seventh Line and Sixty-first Line, which attacked to the south of the redoubt. Murat, with his cavalry, filled in the gaps between the lines, as Friant and Morand navigated their ranks towards the right flank of the Russians. The French quickly occupied Doronino Hill, the higher ground west of the redoubt, and mounted a gun battery on top of the hill. The greencoats retreated under heavy French pressure. The redoubt was captured, but that proved to be a hollow achievement, as they were pushed back after the Slavs committed a counterattack.
The fighting was long and bitter, the redoubt taken and lost three times by his troops, and remained finally in their hands after the Russians signaled their retreat. Napoleon, with all the Imperial Guard behind him, established his bivouac not far from the theatre of this keen fight. With his personal spyglass, his eyes scanned the surroundings eagerly, and see to it that he understood the movements of the belligerent opposition. He frowned. Many Russians were dead, as is the truth, but a difference could be said when considering the Frenchmen lost in the fighting. The ratio, however acceptable it is in terms of war, was still too stinging of a casualty. The Sixty-first, by removing the redoubt, had suffered so much that the following day, the Emperor passing it in review, and finding it considerably diminished.
"What have you done with your third battalion?" Napoleon asked the commander, the Sixty-first reduced of much of it numbers and staff.
"Sire, it remained in the redoubt!" The colonel answered. It was truly unfortunate.
In it's aftermath, both had suffered heavy casualties. The Russians lost their six thousand men after each body was taken into account. Napoleon had lost nearly five thousand souls to the fray, with the infantry regiments of Compans's division affected the most, that is, if you only consider the carcasses that were still whole. Much to Napoleon's chagrin, the Russians proved unusually stubborn today, his sentries capturing very few prisoners and stragglers at the conclusion of the engagement, playing right into his fears that the Russians will ever spare the thought to surrender, even in the capture of Moscow. Might St. Petersburg hold higher value, as the capital of this Slavic nation, and out the Tsar Alexander at a stranglehold?
No. He pushed such thoughts away. Now was not the time to doubt his decisions.
The unexpected French advance from the west and the fall of the Shevardino redoubt threw the Russian formation into disarray. Since the left flank of their defensive position had collapsed, Russian forces withdrew to the east, constructing a makeshift position centered around the village of Utitsa. The left flank of the Russian position was thus ripe for an attack.
— — x — — X — — x — —
The Bivouac, 6th of September
It was on the battlefield, one that would have gone down in history as one of the most disputed victories in this age and be the most memorable to those men who still hold it to memory, that Napoleon accepted, for the first time, the portrait of this son on whom rested such an amount of love and hope. The dawn brought upon another summer sun to the Grande Armée, another day to finally prepare for the final push to the walls of Moscow, and for Napoleon to ready himself of his undeniable and eventual ascendancy over all of Russia.
His announcement as Emperor of the French, as its supreme leader and commander, made him immortal.
His victory against Russia will make him the Master of all Europe, for a god has his own dominion. The continent shall suffice.
The air was not the same since the night has passed, and the new battlefield, still ridden with the stench of the dead, the burning residue of gunpowder, and other unfathomable odors. The freshness and cleanliness of nature was no longer there, ravaged by the deaths of men and the desolation of war making.
Napoleon lounged upon his field tent, as he had installed his Household and Guard at a distance from the destroyed village, and amidst the remnants and ash of the redoubt, where lay thousands of empty shells, robbed of their lives forever. They lay rest, immobile, and sprawled on the ground. The bodies were relocated with haste, away from the sight of the Emperor. Heaps of bodies were moved by carts and draft horses, to be moved to their final resting places: large pits that would comprise of mass graves. It was a dishonorable burial, to Napoleon, and to not be returned to their families where proper grieving can be conducted for the lost. It was a solemn affair however grueling the task may be. This was war. It is surely a nasty and expensive enterprise.
Napoleon pitied his men, warriors of strength and endurance. A melancholic sentiment passed over his thoughts and core. Such precious lives extinct within the blink of an eye. Their sacrifice would not be in vain, he assured, and the victory the will bring on the morrow will immortalize the men that died the day before, and those that will have passed in the looming embrace of death. This was his promise to all who had thrown their lives away just for their country, their God, and their Emperor.
Proper measures were taken to establish his entourage, settle them, and then direct them to assume the herculean effort in controlling the strongest and largest military force in Europe, and probably, the world. His pavilion was a great deal of fanfare, as his staff worked tirelessly to deliver his wishes and proclamations to his forces, to handle supplies and logistics, and to administer the state-within-a-state that was the Household, the Grand Quartier General, and the Great Army itself. There, at the comforts of his tent, did he plan out the great battle for tomorrow, determining the proper positioning of his forces against the Russians, shifting the focus from right to left and stealing the opponent of the advantage of their artillery. This process would go on for hours, stretching from dusk till dawn, and into lazy gaze of the morning sun. He managed to catch a brief rest, and resumed to his duties almost immediately.
It was at around nine of that morning, when he took another rest, that Napoleon was granted a visit from the Prefect of the Imperial Palace, Mr. L.F.J. Bausset, giving to him the dispatches which the Empress had condescended to entrust to the Prefect. He was not busy at the time, so Bausset had taken the initiative. The Prefect further inquired for the Emperor's next orders, relative to the portrait of his son. The case, which contained the portrait, was not brought in with the Palace Prefect, in a misguided assumption that with the coming of battle, Napoleon would not have it opened until the battle will have passed. It was honest error that the Emperor was happy enough to forget.
It has been long since he had seen his son. His beloved son, the destined King of Rome. He could remember from his son's ondoyé, his baptism ceremony, and the moment when he held his son high, proclaiming him to the public. In the monarch's manner and face could be seen the great satisfaction that he took from this solemn moment. François, his legacy, he would see once again, and Napoleon would be relieved of his stresses. And through this child, he could his wife, Marie Louise, the Empress of the French and Archduchess. Her devotion and righteousness was unmatched, and at times, Napoleon preferred her over his former beloved Joséphine, and however unfortunate the circumstances of their amicable divorce, the Emperor still retained a passion for the woman. He kept in touch with his greatest friend in his life.
But there was only loyalty when it came to Marie Louise, as did any marital relationship developing over those years, and they became closer to each other. She was young, courteous, and obedient. Napoleon spared no pain in pleasing his second wife, and it was a peaceful time. The grand marriage between him and the Duchess of Parma created an unbreakable bond between France and Austria. Nothing shall bend nor shatter it, so long as his son and wife survives, and so as he strives to make do of this war and come home to their loving embrace.
In quick succession, after Bausset had announced his purpose, did he request the case to brought with haste, as he was all too eager to see his François, and that he may extend his love for the child.
"Quickly, sire. Bring to me the case, and that I may cherish with me the image of the King of Rome, and be rid of the strains of the upcoming battle," the Emperor said, and his demands remedied almost as fast. The case was opened, and after a brief scan across his wife Empress's letter, he set his sights upon the painting of his son, made by the prominent Baron François Gérard as mentioned by Marie Louise. He was far away, thousands of miles, and trapped in Paris due to his age, that his heart was delighted at the pleasure of finally landing his eyes on his child, and it ached at the pain of not being able to hold him personally. To hold and present his pride towards the angry world, which has unfairly made an enemy of him.
The babe of the picture, with glimmering blue eyes, fair complexions, rotund features, and thin blond locks held a cup-and-ball toy, with a scarlet sash around the length of his body and donning a white shirt, carelessly worn in fact, looked gleefully towards him, with a smile that could charm the masses. The ball might have been taken for the globe of the world and the cup-stick for a sceptre. His eyes shone only the tenderness of his heart, soft in his desire to be reunited with his family, and so disturbed by the aspect that he shan't return to his comforts. That only drove the Emperor in this cursed expedition and be done with the Russian ilk. The anticipation for tomorrow's moments was a source of anxiety on his part.
Napoleon wished to share these emotions with his men, in which much of his trust has been placed upon, to promise their Emperor that victory will arrive soon, so that they may also bask in the glory of his passion and their cores shaken to be encouraged and enflamed. Hands caressed the surface of the painting, the canvas a mixture of rough, interconnected threads, and the natural smoothness of the oils dried and woven on the fabric.
If the Prefect Bausset had come closer, there were glints of tears and a redness in the eyes for a brief moment. Napoleon kept his contemplative emotions close, aiming not to humiliate himself in the presence of the subordinate.
"Sire," he started, "it is only fit that I portion the joy I feel now, in the sight of my son's portrait, with the men of the hour."
"Surely you jest, Your Majesty?" the Prefect inquired, confused. "A personal subject such as this will have to be kept, unquestionably." Such a demonstration was unusual for the Emperor, and it perplexed the man to no end. Napoleon merely curved his lips into a soft smile, not at all irritated by what the man had suggested.
"I am enthused of my son, Monsieur, and I cannot be selfish in such fashion. Call my Household! The officers of my entourage! And all the generals of the Guard! They too shall set their eyes upon my child and that they may know my passion as well." The Emperor responded in kind, a tone that excessed in joviality.
With that order, Napoleon gathered his aids, officers, commanders, and generals to him, from the military household and to the Imperial Guard. Carrying the frame with his hands as he departed from his lodgings, the Emperor carefully propped the portrait to one of his valets, who held it up high enough that the Guard sentry may see. This sight brought all the officers and soldiers who were in the neighborhood running up. He presented himself before the warriors, showing his true emotions in a rare demonstration of zeal.
"Sires," he said to them. "If the King of Rome… if my son," he began again, "were fifteen years old, I believe that he would be here, in the midst of you as well as the bravest of men, rather than in a painting." A brief pause, as his eyes gazed around, the officers and sentries who, by respect, were held aback some distance to admire the image of the Imperial Prince. "This portrait is admirable!" He added lastly. They cheered after the words were said.
To satisfy the curiosity of the military crowd, which kept increasing, the Emperor ordered the portrait of the King of Rome to be placed on one of the folding chairs in his tent and left it standing all day in sight of the army, so that the officers and the soldiers of his Guard could see it and draw from it a new courage. This portrait remained thus in the same place all day. The sympathy and the sentiments of all these good soldiers ended by breaking out into a manifestation which deeply touched the Emperor, revered truly as if an idol to a god.
The rest of day flew by, Napoleon positioning his forces. By the evening, the Greatest Army in the world had maneuvered accordingly. Columns of smoke rose above the scenery as tens of thousands of campfires, French and Russian, were set alight by the soldiers, in which all had taken the opportunity to do away with exhaustion before the arrival of battle.
— — x — — X — — x — —
Borodino Heights, 7th of September
In truth, Napoleon had gained weight, his recent years amounting to nothing more than confinement to the Tuileries as he toiled as the Emperor of France. The issues alluding to Spain's constant tendency for atrocities, as carried out by rebel forces and their British co-conspirators throughout the Peninsular incursion was unacceptable and was considered a threat enough by His Imperial Majesty that it had kept him on his heels for nearly five years. His brother, Joseph, reigned, but reigned in a manner that too was not to his liking. The defeat at Salamanca, as a consequence, had weakened French efforts in suppressing this unlawful rebellion, and overall, the fate of a Bonapartist Spain. And just as matters worsened in that corner of the continent, Russia had happened, and had forced the Emperor to act accordingly.
He had softened, as many close to him would have surmised. Napoleon's stasis had developed him a paunch, his gut protruding like a pot belly. His apparel gave him no justice either, for his abdomen refused to hide even when donning his grey greatcoat. Those used to his fits of fury were surprised to find him growing more and more pensive, his anger instead replaced by calmness and calculation. The Emperor's eyes had grown less piercing and he happened spoke more slowly. The events of the Russian campaign suggests that his battles were no longer as resounding as they were.
And yet, French morale had remained excellent.
While the dusk brought the dark, it did not halt whatsoever the dealings of the French Grande Armée, for it still functioned and remained alive even in the night, with the wandering men still committed to their duties of patrols and sentries, of pages and engineers, and of relays and officers, only guided by the fires on the ground and the stars of the night sky. The constellations were particularly heavenly at that time with bright lights shining throughout the charcoal abyss. It was beautiful and terrifying, a prospect that would not come to fashion.
It was at two in the morning, with little more than a few hours before the day brings in another dawn, that Napoleon gathered all his Marshals and all his generals in his campaign tent, to deliver his final orders, and the statement he had labored over hours ago to be given to the soldiers. He could not personally express the speech, but he hoped nonetheless that it would evoke them the same fervor and vivacity as those of the soldiers of 1805. They were, after all, the same soldiers he had fought alongside with all those years ago, in which they conducted themselves in a manner that any commander and general would be proud of.
Austerlitz, Wagram, Marengo, the Pyramids of Giza, Aspern-Essling... all victories that commemorated forever the souls of those begone from this earth and of those still in the land of the living.
"Gentlemen, the hour has come," he said to them in his final words before the meeting came to be adjourned, "the chessmen are set up! The game will begin on the break of the sun! I put in you all the trust and reliance a man can place upon his closest and dearest family and friends, for I have no doubt that this battle shall end with our banners standing proudly on Moscow. Make worth of your troops, lead them decisively, and with all the bravery you can muster, charge against the Russian fiends like there will be no tomorrow."
The Marshals, in a single rhythmic chant, shouted "Vive l'Empereur!" and joined in by the cheers of their subordinate generals. The war council was brought to a close, and the Marshals of the Empire, with all their aids and officers, trotted to their positions and brought their soldiers to wake.
The Emperor had rode three of his horses that day: Luzelberg, Emir, and Courtois. By three, Napoleon had already been on the saddle as his Marshals filed out, and brought his entourage with him while he headed for the heights of Shervadino, cleared of its corpses, and set himself there a vantage point that encompassed the entire board. In the night before, he had asked of the movements of the Russians to assure that they had not stolen themselves under the guise of the night. Owing to their stubbornness, they had not done so, as cowardly as it sounds to retreat before a battle. Napoleon had been satisfied nonetheless and retreated to catch a quick rest. He rarely needed sleep, but his anticipation had robbed him of the energy to continue on. The Emperor, however, did not sleep well. He was suffering from a migraine, a bad cold, swollen legs, and difficulties with urination. Now, more awake as ever, he greeted the troops as they passed by, marching and drilling up to their positions, cheering and celebrating as they witnessed the presence of their Emperor.
Beforehand, the bands on the right flank began playing the reveillle to wake up the infantry, and it was gradually picked up all along the line. They played the most rousing pieces, as music does a great deal to prepare the spirit for battle. As they had awakened and prepared, the statement drafted by Napoleon was shared with the troops, the artillerists, the engineers, and the cavalry.
"Soldiers!" it said there, "here is the battle that you wished so much for. From now on the victory depends on you; it is necessary for you; it will give you abundance, good winter quarters and a prompt return to the fatherland. Conduct yourselves as at Austerlitz, Wagram, Witepsk, in Smolensk, and that the posterity will most recall in quotes of pride of your conduct on this day, so that you will say: He was in this great battle under the walls of Moscow!"
The acclamations of the soldiers answered this call to their courage, and soon all the corps shook. Indeed, the word had no other purpose but to encourage the men, the effect doing more than instill to them the bravery they needed now more than ever. They were now driven to win, even in their death, for their sacrifice will carry France to it's inevitable place in the sun as the greatest nation on Earth. The master of the world, carrying all its burdens on its back. The bastion of freedom, liberty, and the capital of the revolutionary movement. The Emperor, as they were so sure, would bring them to that victory, no matter the odds nor the obstacles. The only consequence of their honorable undertaking will be liberation, of all peoples, under the tricolor and the eagle.
At five thirty, the sun was up, and, being released from a thick fog, shone radiantly in the vastness of the sky. By seeing it going up on the horizon, Napoleon exclaimed with joy.
"It is the sun of Austerlitz!"
This exclamation, repeated from mouth to mouth, quickly circulated through all the ranks.
By half past five, all the units were in their designated positions, drawn up as if on parade. The Imperial Guard was drawn up alongside and behind Napoleon. He was brought a folding camp chair, which he turned back to front and sat astride, leaning his arms on its back. Behind him stood Berthier and Bessieres, and behind them a swarm of aides-de-camp and duty officers. Before him he could see a formidable sight. The appearance of all these crack troops, beautiful to behold in their impatience to go into action and secure a victory, made a most imposing spectacle.
Indeed, the battle looked like an easy victory for Napoleon and his Guard being present. Napoleon spent the previous day on horseback inspecting the own troops, considering plans and giving commands to generals. The Emperor reviewed the Russian positions and returned to his staff. He listened to a suggestion from Davout to outflank the Russian left wing but said it should not be done. He recalled to his Marshals.
"I have made my calculations, inspected to the best of my ability the state of my men, consulted the books and the maps, and affirmed my suspicions with the scouts. The rest is up to fate and wherever that may bring us." He paused. "I wish not to crush them. Their defeat alone will have already heightened my joy."
The sun brightly lit up the enormous panorama which, rising like an amphitheater, extended before both armies. The Smolensk highway with two rows of birches on both sides passed through the village of Borodino where stood a white church. Below Borodino the highway crossed the Kolocha river by a bridge and, winding down and up, led to the village of Valuievo, where Napoleon was then stationed. The ground along the Kolocha River was broken. The rest of the battlefield was carpeted with meadows and small fields of rye. Only the southern part—around the village of Utitza—was wooded. In every direction were seen indefinite masses of infantry and the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard everywhere. In the sea of men and animals groups of birches shined in the sunshine, with their green and yellow foliage and white bark.
And yet, it was not to be. There would be no battle.
At the strike of six, the heavens had opened up.
The Light, the brightest for all eternity, had revealed itself upon the children of Man, and it blinded them. In simultaneous fashion, there was a sound, a mix of screeches and thunderous claps, that reverberated all over the teeming wilderness and slight hints of civilization. It was a phenomenon so implausible and improbable that none could comprehend it, for the French and Russians could not know what it was and why such a circumstance had befallen them.
Then there was a strange sound along with the ringing, a thunderous applause of what blowed like a horn. It was deep, quick, and resonated. All the green of the great frontier was replaced with a blazing nightmare, burning trees and grass alike as animals flailed, screaming for the fires to stop. For the fires to stop its advance by devouring everything.
Another trumpet hurled itself forth. The river Kolocha turned crimson, it's surface polished and light reflected. It was blood, many realized, and impossibly mixed with molten rock and stone. The fish floated upwards. They were no more but burning and rotting flesh.
A third sound had revealed itself. Stars from the sky darkened and plummeted towards far horizon. There such demonstrations of light as the stars made impact. The canteens of the men smelled of pollution.
There was a fourth. The sun had blackened, leaving only the Light as a shining beacon. The moon, visible from a view, descended from the heavens and darkened as well, disappearing from the front of the atmosphere. The stars that remained bolted onto the dark abyss faded. Now there was no light but the Light itself.
The fifth sound opened a pit from the ground, and arose locusts from its depths, tormenting the French and the Russians. Even with the sky darkened, the locusts engulfed and encroached upon the face of the Light, covering everything in a thick, enormous cloud of brown and black. The men panicked as the creatures tormented them, biting and swarming entire bodies. Unbelievable screams of agony denoted the fields. The locusts eventually opened a gap at the sky and the Light peeked against the millions of insects.
The Light had gotten brighter, blinding their eyes, and that ever irritating sound had pummeled their ears to such a degree that all they heard was ringing. Deaf and incapacitated, the soldiers, one by one, collapsed to the ground, pleading for the pain to stop as their heads burned and ached. Their throbbing minds was impactful, reducing them to husks that shook violently. Some were resilient enough to only kneel, covering their heads and ears with their palms, but to no avail, for their efforts for all but fruitless. Their pain now, that mental and physical torture that was not apparent, extended to their bodies.
The locusts had gone. Instead, a nightmare had replaced the murderous insects. The sky was a scorching cascade of flames, circling like firestorms enveloping the invisible ceiling of the world to devour all. The earth shook and rumbled, violently groaning as if it were to split apart and send them to the deepest pits of Hell. The river nearby was boiling, molten rock and stone replacing the dissipating vapor. The Light was malevolent.
Napoleon, the Emperor of the French, for the first time, was defeated, and it was not by an army or a coalition. It was this Light, unbearable as it is, that it has brought down the Great Army. His condition, which was already of many ills, had only intensified. He was the first of many to have slumped onto the grass.
No more, no more. He cursed. What is a god of the earth to a god of the heavens? Puny and miserable, that is, and the Emperor raged that he could not act. Not even to help himself or his people. Had he finally angered that God? In his rebellion to make himself king of the earth and seas? To declare his empire eternal?
And finally, it was his time.
The Light, as if with a swipe of a hand, consumed the Grande Armée. All Napoleon could see was the Light removing everything in sight. His soldiers, cannons, horses, and the surrounding terrain itself, all dissipating into nothingness, grounded into dust.
Before his thoughts were able to register, he had fainted. But he could still feel it. That eternal pain, throbbing and threatening to kill his very soul, as his own physical existence was malformed and misshapen.
The Light descended back to the evens with a flash. All movements had seized immediately.
The sky was no longer flaming, the earth stood still like before, and the river was teeming with precious water. Birds chirped and sang at this peacefulness. Deers mewled. Clouds whirled and rolled. A cold breeze raced across the landscape. Normality was restored.
Had the Russians prayed too much? It was their wish after all to defeat the French. The good frightening might have finished the task for them. The clergy of the orthodox declared a sign that God was with the Motherland.
The Russian Army, as it restored itself to functionality, were left confounded, confused, and decimated. There were no deaths, but there was much agony to share around. Men slugged but recovered, though, still disoriented from the ordeal. Field Marshal Mikhail Kutuzov, Commander in Chief of the Imperial Russian Army, demanded answers about his foe's movements. His aids and valets and commanders all said the same response: the French were simply not there.
The other side of the Kolocha bore no evidence regarding the supposed presence of the Great Army.
They were nowhere to be seen.
AN: The majority of the events that has unfolded in this prologue are based off the writings and accounts created by various peoples that were close to Napoleon himself, as well as the interpretations of modern historians of such events. Otherwise, the rest is from my own imagination. It is open to revision, as history is an ever changing thing, no matter how much we know about our past. There are some aspects of history that would take years, decades, and centuries before they surface once again.
Other than that, I have also been contemplating whether I should ISOT (the alternate history term for mass teleportation conducted by so-called alien space bats) the entirety of Napoleon's Grande Armée (such as the X Corps, the Austrian Corps, and the often forgotten Northern Flank of Marshals Oudinot, St. Cyr, and Victor) or only the portion that fought (or would have fought) in the Battle of Borodino. That's a choice I'll have to decide for the next chapter, and I'd like some feedback from the community on what best to do.
Obviously, the title is a reference to Bismarck's ever legendary speech of "Blood and Iron." Truly, it is a testament to the aggressive methods of the Iron Chancellor as the architect of the German unification. Will Napoleon follow the same footsteps and unite all of Westeros under the Imperial Eagle?
Thank you for reading!