Chapter II — First Encounter

"The Emperor is dead. Long live the Emperor."

— Jerome of House Bonaparte, 325(?) AC

"I believe we're no longer in Russia."

"WHAT?!"

Will

Bare trees, almost like charred skeletons in appearance, were the dominating trait of the Haunted Forest, a substantial woodland found sprawling for at least hundreds of miles deep into territories beyond the Wall. It creeped into the frozen wasteland like an amalgamation of thorns upon a white blanket of snow. From the the tall mountain ranges of the Frontfangs to the shorelines of the Shivering Sea, the forest itself encompassed at least the entire width of the land.

The creaking resonance of the trees was the least bit of worries for Will, a scrawny fellow with dirty blond hair and thin build. His face was long and lacked of any particular facial hair. He is a skilled tracker and huntsman, and according to his fellow Rangers, the 'sneakiest bastard to ever live'. His lightweight made up for his ability to stalk and run silently, as demanded by his past and current occupation. Will was a poacher, and a man of his talents had quite the career to live for.

Not until, of course, one of Jason Mallister's men caught him in the act. He was give two options: to get his hand cut off, or, take the black. Weighing the choices together, he decided he'd rather take the black than lose his hand. It was, after all, the primary tool of his choice.

And here he is, four years into Will's life and he was already a respected Ranger, with undying loyalty to the one family that welcome him: the Night's Watch. Nothing could have gone bad, except for the Wildlings. It was always those barbaric sons of whores that managed to keep the Rangers busy, pillaging and raiding every so often while they raped the North's women and killed their husbands and children. They were simply a menace to the good people, the civilized world. Nothing more than violent savages that deserve to be beaten to pulp. The purpose of the Wall became lost in translation. Of course, amongst the bad we're the fairly civil Wildlings. No use in trying to view an entire group as evil just because of their way of survival.

Which brings him to his current predicament: the Lord Commander has ordered a squad of three to track down Wildling movements within the Haunted Forest. Mounted on horses and ready for any trouble, Will and his two other companions: the bushy bearded brute Gared and Ser Waymar Royce, a knight and Ranger of noble birth from House Royce, one of the minor noble dynasties in the Vale of Arryn.

Gared was a veteran, belonging to the older generation of Night's Watch Rangers. As one could guess, Garen was the serious type, one that got straight to point of subjects and orders. His face was fatigued from the years of service to the brothers, having explored the lands beyond the Wall a hundreds times. He would do it again, a hundred times over, if he had the time. Not only was a capable Ranger all by his own, the middle-aged man was also a soldier. As to why he had landed in the Night's Watch was currently unknown, at least to Will. He didn't want to get his teeth smashed should he approach the latter with a particularly personal question from his past.

Waymar Royce was an entirely different matter, something that did not come to Will as a suprise. The young adult was a pompous, arrogant little cunt that even Gared could not handle. His boisterous behavior was a distraction enough as it is. Add to that, the boy had the tendency to underrate the capabilities of men older than him due to their lower birth. Not that it mattered to Will. Due to his noble blood, Waymar was immediately thrusted to a ranking equivalent that of an officer. But, Will had to confess. Waymar was particularly skilled with sword for a boy of his age, and he respected this disposition. If one is capable, then there shouldn't be any long term issues should problems start to arise.

Will was eventually pulled out of his thoughts as Waymar barked out an order, to which Gared grunted at but made no effort in disobeying. The trio made for a three-way split as they neared their destination. From Will's own accord, he was able to immediately catch the track to the Wildling encampment. His horse was more than happy to oblige to his heading, huffing along as it continued its march.

The walk continued until Will and his horse reached a particular deep slope, leading to an opening of what seemed to be a recently made camp. As he got closer, shock overcame his usually calm nature. The sight was appaling. Mutilated body parts, from legs, arms, and torso were frozen solid, and strewn about in a circular-like fashion, revolving around the camp's center fireplace. Will got off the mount of his horse, and in procession, continued to examine the body parts. There ranged from different sizes, or should he say, different ages. The body parts were both of adults and children. Even if cannibals were involved, he didn't expect this measure of carnage and violence in one seating. Adding up to the tense atmosphere, there seemed to be no tracks on the ground that signifies the presence of the supposed assailants.

Finally having enough, Will couldn't keep his composure and started to vomit vehemently onto the snow, staining the thick blank sheet with a pale red fluid far too straining to describe. After finishing his fair share of disgust, Will cleaned the edge of his mouth with his sleeves of his overcoat, and reinforcing his own self-control. He promptly left the camp, no longer able to cope with the sight. While headed towards his horse, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of a young girl, hanging from the branch of a nearby tree. Already unable to bear such a dreadful view, Will increased his pace and mounted his horse.

He quickly reported back to Gared and Waymar, who awaited not too far away from the campsite. They were dismounted, conversing among themselves. To their suprise, Will came in very fast.

"For a man they call the sneakiest bastard alive, that wasn't much of a sneak wasn't it?" hummed Waymar, seemingly amused at the ordeal. He stared at Will for some time and then getting partially irritated. "Well, out with it!"

Will begun to explain his findings to the other Rangers, of how the mutilated corpses were arranged in such a manner that it almost resembled a shield. Of how the camp's tents were scratched and torn apart, tarnished beyond use. He didn't mention the girl from before. Waymar merely scoffed at his explanation, figuring that his job was made easier.

"What d'you expect? They're savages. One lot steals a goat from another lot and before you know it, they're ripping each other to pieces." Waymar said with a sarcastic tone, clearly entertained at the notion of Wildlings killing each other.

"I've never seen Wildlings do a thing like this. I've never seen anything like this, ever, for the duration of my life." Will blankly replied, clearly still shook from the experience.

Gared was grumbling, clearly not in the mood to start a fuss. "We should get back to the Wall." he stated firmly.

"Do the dead frighten you, old man?" said Waymar, grinning.

"Our orders, sire, was to track the Wildlings. We tracked them. They won't bother us no more." Gared retorted, slightly infuriated.

"You don't think the Lord Commander will ask us how they died?" Waymar countered the older man. "Get back to your horse."

Gared, grimaced and mounted back to his own stallion, his face filled with mirth. Waymar could do nothing but smirk at his victory. In succession, Will dismounted his own horse in protest.

"Whatever did it to them," Will paused to gather his thoughts, "could do it to us. They even rid themselves of the children." His residual fear was growing ever more closer to a breaking point.

"It's a good thing we're not children." Waymar replied, his voice spitting out in the same arrogant manner. His tone eventually descended to a berating one. "You want to run away south, run away. Of course, they will behead you as a deserter… If I don't catch you first, that is. Get back on your horse. I won't say it again."

Will glared at Waymar, his fear replaced with a sudden surge of fury. Then again, he obeys the younger man's demands, and returned to his horse. The trio proceeded to head towards the supposed direction of the encampment Will discovered. As they approached the campsite, Will was first to arrive, having accelerated the movement of his horse. As soon as he stopped, he saw that the camp was completely cleared, along with the girl from the tree. To his astonishment, the sign of movement was yet to appear.

"Your dead men seemed to have moved camp." Waymar mused.

Will didn't respond for a short time. "They were here." he managed to recoil, after having recollected his thoughts.

"See where they went." Gared gestured for the woods.

The trio dismounted their horses simultaneously, drawing their swords from their sheaths. As they re-enter the confines of the forest, the wind howled louder. The strange phenomenon was followed by the calls of eerie voices, whispers that were far too inaudible to be understood by the three. Gared and Waymar wondered further away from Will, who has headed in another direction on his own fruition.

Gared

Before long, Gared came upon a red, crimson color on the white sheets of snow. It was a cloth. The older man motioned to grasp it, inspecting the cloth further.

"What is it?" asked Waymar, tensed.

"It's-"

Gared was suddenly interrupted by a defeaning scream coming from behind him. The scream was then gagged by the sound of bubbling fluid, completely silencing the source. He craned his neck to right to check what had happened, only to discover that Waymar had been stabbed through his stomach, blood dripping from his own mouth as he choked. The weapon was clearly crystallized in appearance, taking the form of ice. It's transparent facade was covered by a layer of blood, shining at the early morning's light. He was much too shocked to even move. The spear-like weapon eventually retracted, revealing a gaping hole that further amounted to Gared's panic. Waymar's lifeless body slumped carelessly into the soft ground, making a small thump.

Gared then saw it. A creature, when pale bluish skin, a rough surface that almost resembled frost. The figure stood at least a two feet taller, clad in a black leather garment from neck to toe. Short talons grew from its head, creating a demonic appearance. And finally, he noticed those eyes: a mix of blue and black shading that completed the ice devil's appearance. The creature's face was neutral. The old man ran for his life after only a second of looking at said monster.

Will

Will suddenly jolted as he heard the scream, before being drowned it. He turned to observe what happened, planning to find his brothers before any trouble could occur. There must've been an attack.

Sword in hand, Will rushed deeper into the forest, towards what he deduced to be where the sound was coming from. He was halted in his tracks as he tried to dodge three stampeding horses. He realized that it was their horses. Will takes several glances around the thin stems of the trees, trying to be as vigilant as possible. Then he saw her. The same girl from before, who he had thought was dead. The same little girl he saw hanged up on the trees branch, frozen from the temperature. The child opened it's eyes, revealing a sharp tint of blue.

Frightened at the aspect of necromancy, Will spun himself around and begun to run. As h fled to the opposite direction, he finally spotted Gared, who was also running. They dodged trees, rocks, as well as exposed roots. Some time later, after minutes of running, the two stopped, trying to gather their breath.

"What in the old gods' names were those things!" asked Gared, face red with exhaustion and tiredness. "What the bloody fuck!"

"I don't know-" Will's response was quickly cut off by the swift slash of a blade across Gared's neck, cutting the head off cleanly. Blood oozed from the empty stump on Gared's body, falling onto the ground within seconds. The head itself landed on the white snow, before being grabbed by the same creature from before. Will was petrified. He couldn't move. It was a White Walker.

The Walker continued to stare upon the petrified Will, before throwing Gared's severed head into his open palms. The creature then disappeared into the snowy mist, leaving the boy isolated. All Will could do was stare at Gared's head, it's face stuck in a still image. He screamed.

Jérôme

Jérôme and his brother the Emperor summarily paraded around the encampment as they headed towards their first prisoner of the day. The news from Marshal Louis-Alexandre Berthier was something that spread around the camp quickly, as eavesdroppers and bystanders heard of the conversation between their Emperor and his brother. Not to mention the constant shouting that was involved, mostly from Jérôme, and the sound of thrashing from before had caught the attention of the soldiers. They now whispered among themselves, pondering as to why an Englishman has somehow found himself in the middle of the Russian winter frontier.

Unbeknownst to them, Napoleon and Jérôme had already discussed the possibility that they were no longer in Russian lands. Rather, they had somehow transported to another place, perhaps in Scotland or something similar. Why? They did not know. Several times did Napoleon rebuke his brother's theory that the British has come to help the Tsar and his Imperial Army. From what he knew, it wasn't a possibility at all. The British remained neutral in the entire affair. The pair decided to keep their discussion to themselves before presenting such an outlandish idea to their Marshals. Mutiny wasn't really in Napoleon's list of things to achieve at the moment.

Several times did Jérôme resurface the notion of the Bonapartes and their fate. Napoleon had answered accordingly, acknowledging the facts that they would need heirs. Heirs that the men would follow. How they would acquire such heirs they did not know. Betrothals seems to be appealing at the moment. Even if this land, or world for that matter, had an inkling of civilization, the pair would not willingly give up the beloved of their past lives for this one. While the French was something, their kin, wives, and children were another.

The duo finally reached their perceived destination at the edge of the Army's encampment. The round tent was rough to the texture, it's base covered in icy residue. The usually clean surface has been tarnished by dirt, grime, and mud over the months it has been used, as well as scratches and holes. The fabric of the tent was flowing with the movement of the wind, a strong breeze eventually reaching them, making Jérôme slightly shiver. Napoleon took notice of this but never said anything, much less, react to such apparent exhibition of weakness. Not that it mattered. The tent in question was guarded by two members of the Young Guard, dressed in their usual blue plain uniforms and standardized Tirailleur caps. The guards held muskets each on their right hands. As soon as they sighted their Emperor, they snapped to a crisp attentive stance.

Napoleon waved them off, and in compliance, they returned to their rested positions. Jérôme followed suit of his brother's latest endeavor and entered the tent, moving the covers that encompassed the entrance of the portable shelter. The tent's interior was sufficiently illuminated by a nearby oil lantern, it's flames visibly dancing as the flames trickled and flared. It cast a soft shadow along the tent's intramural confines. The sufficient lighting revealed several things inside: a rectangular wooden table, several chairs arranged to surround said table, and a young man, the furthest towards the end of the leftmost side of the furniture, hands on the smooth flat surface. His wrists were secured with shackles, possibly a precaution, should the boy attempt to make any effort in escaping.

Jérôme doubted the dangers such a young man would pose. For the most part, this supposed Englishman was scrawny, frail looking, and wore nothing more than a thick set of furs that were distasteful at first sight. That's quite the tale he was getting from all of this. He has given his brother some advice on how to properly manage prisoners of war. Jérôme's intuitions seemed to be going nowhere at the moment. I tried to tell him.

The three set of chairs immediately opposite of the chained man was filled in simultaneously by Napoleon, followed by his younger brother, and finally, Marshal Ney. As the Emperor's right hand man, he has every right to know what tomfoolery is currently unfolding. The reports could wait, the Marshal thought, I need to hear this.

Jérôme was now calmly tapping all fingers of his right plan on the solid plank of he polished table, trying to alleviate the tense atmosphere that was enveloping the meeting. It was already too late for him to notice, but the boy was staring blankly downward. His face was long, sullied by blood, small bruises to his cheeks, and some shallow cuts to the sides of his face. The boy's eyes were empty—lifeless and void of living—from all he could tell. There were some episodes of quiet murmuring, thought the words he could not understand himself. Jérôme had recognized this sort of face when Napoleon was bombarded with a barrage of concerns, pleas, and half-hearted suggestions during their initial occupation of the ancestral city of Moscow. The Marshals had come to counsel him. As Jérôme recalled, the exact opposite was happening. Napoleon had stared blankly, losing a part of his hope, as the Russians deprived him of another deserved victory. The boy must have encountered a similar plight, but something a military general nor marshal would or could ever understand. The lowborns were always on the receiving end of the stick.

The suppressed vibe was interrupted by Napoleon's own visage, as to gesture his motion to speak.

"Who are you?"

Will

"Qui es-tu?"

The foreign language sounded strange to one's ear, definitely far too complex to pronounce. Will didn't know how he would respond. Would he try to speak to them in Common, hoping for them to understand the slightest of contextual hints? No, he decided against it. There was the chance that he could offend said people. As scary as they are, he didn't want things to turn for the worst. One thing is for sure though:

These were definitely not Wildlings.

Men, civilized men, capable of this order of organization, was something to be awed about. As he had first set foot on their encampment, he was surrounded by a sea of thousands upon thousands of small little dots, creating a blanket of differentiating colors, sizes, and height. Their tents were fashioned in rows and columns, banners flying proudly. They had uniforms that varied in design and nature depending on their rank, position, and function in the army. He knew it was an army. The horsemen that he had met not too long ago were armed with rapiers, common weapons amongst the rich in the Free Cities. This much he knew. Adding to that was a short, bulky piece of wood carried by the soldiers, often with razor sharp blades installed on their fronts. He hadn't figured out their purpose though, as he is yet to witness the weapon in action.

To his knowledge, these strange men had appeared out of nowhere. They didn't belong to any of the tribes or kingdoms. Their banners, as he had caught glimpses of it, shared a common color despite the different designs he had observed from them: blue, white, and red. He did not know what they meant or what they symbolized, but this much people, gathered in the midst of a Wildling-infested forest, far away from their original homes, was something that of a miracle. He recalled the appearance of a golden bird, an eagle, it's head towards the right, affixed on the center of the white field with a crown above it, and to complete the image, a string of words that he recalled as something like "Valeur et Discipline." It didn't take a Maester to realize what those words had meant.

"Valour and Discipline."

These were words, that represented either their ruling House or the group itself, something far more stranger and foreign than the common Minor or Great Houses of Westeros. These people, of uniforms and armor that resembled the garments of kings and princes, of fabric that was far too rich and expensive for even the common man, and finally, of culture and nature that makes them significantly different and apart from the peoples of these lands. Whoever these people are, whatever their intents or purposes are, it could prove either fatal or beneficial.

From his years of being a poacher, he had the knack for comprehending different situations that almost always involved his fate. This was one of them.

Will remained silent in protest of this supposedly new threat, even though he had doubts over his own scrutiny. He had no method of answering back anyways. He didn't judge this people properly, but he had to remain vigilant. He belonged to the brothers, after all. He belonged to the Night's Watch. It was their duty to preserve utmost loyalty.

Napoleon

Napoleon continued to eye the Northerner, glaring at every inconsequential movement that the younger man tried to make. In essence, they were minor, if not, nonexistent. From what the Emperor had surmised, the boy remains silent because it is an act of defiance—an effort to hinder the progress of communication. Sooner or later, he would find a suitable translator. He had no time to learn such an ugly and despicable dialect spoken by his mortal rivals.

"No answer, brother." Jérôme chimed in, growing impatient and restless. It has onky been a few minutes since Napoleon had asked the question, which apparently remained unanswered. "Of course he won't answer. He doesn't know what you're saying or how he could respond."

"By asking such a trivial question, what could have we possibly gotten out of it?" he added, losing some steam in the process.

"It destroys the possibility that he could be a spy." the Emperor quietly quipped. "If he doesn't know how to speak or hear our language, then he poses no threat to us. You said it yourself, Jérôme, the language barrier is a fickle thing. But in such cases where our enemy is involved, it curtails such circumstances into our utter favor." Napoleon finished with what appeared to be a growing curl around the fine lines of his lips, pleased at the aspect of gaining a tactical advantage.

His younger brother squinted, speculative of Napoleon's explanation. Jérôme averted his attention back to the younger gentleman, still restrained onto the seat. His face was completely ignorant of what was happening, which only made Jérôme grimace even more. As Napoleon put it, even of their supposed transportation into a new world, his brother is already making plans of conquering this strange new world. It didn't bother him. Jérôme was more concerned on how his brother would succeed in doing so. As much as he appreaciated his older sibling's ambitions and the accomplishments that come with it, it can no longer be ignored that the weary shape and order of the Grand Army requires more aggressive methods to be use in order for successful results in its future aspirations. Casualties, on either side, mattered to Jérôme the most. With casualties comes the cost of treating injuries and dead, as well as reducing their available manpower, resources, and equipment. They cannot sacrifice much.

His reverie was interrupted by Napoleon readily giving out instructions on what is to be an order for the next few days. "Our young guest shall be given full rights as a prisoner of war. He is to be provided fresh garments from our stores, as well as food, shelter, and a ride. I will provide him two members from the Young Guard for his own personal protection. No weapons are to be drawn or used near him. Violence against him will not be tolerated." The Emperor paused. "He is never to leave the sight of his respective guards."

"As you wish, Sire," responded Marshal Ney, already standing up ready to carry on the order, "it will be done."

Napoleon nodded to signify his approval, before turning to eye the Marshal. "And, Ney, I want those reports by the hour. Our departure is to be delayed for the time being. Obviously, we'll need to reorganize our forces before any real movements can be made." Ney bowed his head in the acceptance of his new orders. The man twisted himself around and took his prompt leave.

"Mon General," he gestured for Napoleon. A prompt "Your Majesty" was inclined towards Jérôme, who for all intensive purposes, nodded his head in return.

As soon as the man had exited the tent, two Young Guards came in to extract their newest prisoner. He stood up without protest and was literally dragged out of the tent's interior, hauled off to wherever the Marshal wanted him to be. Napoleon stood up as well, adjusting his own overcoat and returning his ushanka on it's rightful place.

Something has sparked in his mind. The gears had started to churn and rotate as scheme after scheme comes to fruition.

"There are many things to be done, brother," Napoleon jested, "and if it is true, then we are no longer in Russia. This is a new continent, a new start. Another land to be conquered by our mighty legions. For all we know, this could be a different world! Think about it brother! The possibilities. They are just absolutely endless!"

Jérôme hummed at the words of his brother. It was a tempting situation indeed. It's as if God had provided a clean, new, and blank template for their plans of a world order. Like an artist would be to a blank piece of canvas, fresh from its rolled slumber. This was an opportunity begging to be taken. Jérôme had made his decision: he would join his brother in their conquest of these lands. The least he could was help in the reconstruction process should they succeed. He would help with his new government and administering armies and provinces. Possibly, he could even push for Napoleon to observe some more basic rights for the people. Jérôme could be a contributing factor to the eventual success of the Revolution. This world or the other, it didn't really matter. So long as he had a say in how history was figuratively decided upon. Should they fail, though, he'd like to retreat to the countryside, perhaps become a farmer. Or with the last of the coin he had left by selling off his personal property, travel around this strange new world and learn as much as possible. Maybe even Napoleon would be interest, if either of them lived, though. Jérôme was still unsure. He did not want to leave out the possibility that they could come home. He felt Napoleon believed in this too. His brother was just being, well, optimistic. While they are here, they could both worry about themselves and their lives first, before concerning themselves with ways to discover the way back.

To Terra, or Earth, God's chosen kingdom.

The center of the universe, he thought.

Satisfied with his train of thought, Jérôme pushed himself out of the table's way and buttoned his layered coat, after which he plopped his own ushanka as a means to shield his bushy head.

"I shall retreat to my quarters, brother. I will ready my trunk and my personal effects," he stated, yawning at the afterthought, "you should as well, it will be quite the journey to wherever we're planning to go."

"I believe I will, brother. In two days time, we shall march. And we shall do so for our family, friends, God, and the French nation." Napoleon answered absentmindedly, already drafting plans and outcomes related to his new ventures in conquering this world.

"Good," Jérôme smiles tiredly, "farewell for now. Alert me of any further news, won't you? It's getting really interesting."

The veritable King of Westphalia turned on his heels and left the Emperor of the French his unaccompanied isolation. Napoleon was left to ponder with himself, highly optimistic of the future of House Bonaparte.

After all, victory belongs to the most persevering. Ability is nothing without opportunity.

A smile crept on his lips. At least, something good has come out of this entire charade.