Chapter IV — Lingua Franca

"Do you think the Dothraki scare me? I am the Horseman of Europe!"

— Joachim of House Murat, 304 AC

Will

It had only been a day since he was captured by the men in strange garments, or should he say, 'saved' from those vile creatures he only knew from legend to be the heinous creatures of the Long Night. The White Walkers, as they were called in the old and wizened tales of the ancient, were demonic beings who had penultimate control over ice and snow and the cold. During the Long Night, they brought the storm with them: a winter that lasted for a generation, and nearly causing the annihilation of the First Men eight thousand years ago. Now he was here, contemplating on what should happen next. Should he warn these people? Should he, at least, try to communicate with their leaders and share the news of such beasts from the Lands of Always Winter?

Will had since been traumatized about the events of that encounter, but never really bothered showing the chaotic state of his mind. His head was playing tricks on him, ideas and thoughts were contradicting each other, resulting in confusion, frustration, and him generally delving into the realm of madness and sickness. His thoughts, though, didn't necessarily reflect his outside actions. He was always blanking out, still, and doing nothing in particular. A couple of times during the, the soldiers in blue brought him to several locations throughout the camp, the strange men trying to interrogate him in various languages and dialects he didn't even understand: French, German, Italian, and Russian. Not that Will knew of these languages, he simply didn't know what to make of them—other than a string of words that made weird sounds and clicks with the mouth. It was uncomfortable to hear.

Throughout their brief sessions, that usually ended in failure due to the language barrier, he would contemplate of the death of Gared. He didn't know of the fate of Ser Royce. Either he died, or also somewhat escaped. He remembered that happenstance well. The head of his fellow comrade, sliced clean from the neck, and landing upon his own bruised hands. Will felt the warm blood that made it's way around his palms, crawling, showcasing a most gruesome scene. The body, headless, slumping into ground and spurting gallons of blood into the white ground. He thought of those same haunting, blue eyes, staring directly towards his soul. Will almost thought the Walker was smiling before it disappeared with the wind, forever immortalizing that sense of fear he had for the creatures of the Night.

Every now and then, he would wake from the same dream over and over again. Head, blood, corpse, and blue eyes. Will cursed at every inch of his being, as the mind boggling session was making him mad. Almost as if, he wanted to die. Just end all of it. To end the dreams. What good would these strange men do? Nothing. Nothing would stop the Long Night. Nothing can stop the Night King from destroying all life as he knew. He spent most of his times isolated, in the confines of a tent surrounded by a dozen or so guards. He had no sword, no intention to escape, and most importantly, no will to live. Will? Such a stupid name!

Until of course, that fateful day, several cycles of dusks and dawns, that he met a peculiar man.

It was his fourth, what, fifth day in the encampment? It didn't really matter to him, as he awoke from a deep slumber. That same thrice-damned dream had happened again, like it always did. At least, the provisioned bed was a nice touch to the 'captive' things. It was cold, but warm enough to be comfortable with his surroundings. The tent's fabric cover dances gracefully with the breeze outside, coupled with the shuffling of men moving about, in continuation to their monotonous tasks. Whatever they did, Will didn't have the time to be concerned with them. He had his own mind to repair.

He was jolted into attention as guard forces himself into the tent's interior.

"Se lever. C'est ton jour de chance." the guard announced. "Nous avons trouvé un traducteur pour vous."

Will could swear he heard the word "chance" in between the man's barking. It could mean a lot of things. Was it his last chance? Has his luck truly ran out with these men? After all, Will had only seen himself as nothing more than dead weight for his captors. He wouldn't speak. Even if he could, he wouldn't try. Will wasn't one for revealing the secrets of the Nights's Watch.

His thoughts was interrupted as two more guards went inside the tent and grasped him around the arms. Making no effort in struggling, Will relaxed his composure and let the men drag him outside. The bitter cold came biting back at him—his current rage far too obsolete at the moment. The weather up farther north was something he wasn't accustomed to. And his frail and thin body frame had suffered because of it. His eyes were met with the camp's view, with it's rows and boulevards of tents and fireplaces, where grey smoke arose to the sky. The sunlight was enough for him to see as far as he needed, but it was incredibly scarce. The icy clouds were covering the sky again. He hoped to see the blue facade of the heavens once more, before his inevitable doom. He only hoped, but did not persist on with the wish.

Will began fixinf his stature and walked, the guards finally letting go of him. The procession succeeded with shackles to his wrist, rendering them useless, resting at his behind. What a truly effective way of incapacitating a unarmed man.

The guards marched him across the camp, some of the other soldiers often stealing glances from him every now and then. He realized then that these men had great disdain for anything associated with him. They scowled, and often, blurted out what sounded like insults. Very, very severe insults.

A man garbed in a green coat, holding at his arm what looked to be a brass helm, shouted "Merde!" The guards broke out into a chuckle, while the other bystanders wore grins that signified satisfaction. Why the soldiers loathed him so much, he did not know. The laughing died down some seconds later, the piercing gaze darting behind his head like a spear.

After a minute of walking, they came upon the interrogator's tent. He was familiar with it, now. It was larger, much more cleaner than the other tents strewn about the camp in orderly fashion, and above the roofing was two poles that sprouted out of the pale fabrics, bearing trianglular flags that was clad in blue, white, and red. They entered the shelter within a blink of an eye, the guards paying no mind that the flaps had just swatted the base of his face. He heard a faint gulp, perhaps, an attempt in trying to hold back laughter. Will didn't care, though.

The interior was composed of the same rectangular table, with two chairs facing from opposite sides, and a light dangling from the supports of the tent. It was an almost hexagonal encasing, black colored, and glass surrounding the device. Inside, a small fire, sufficient enough to light the tent, was glowing with no clear source of fuel. He wondered how that worked. Perhaps magic was involved. Will had seen children rise from their graves, and a White Walker, cleanse his companion of a head. It wasn't too far fetched at this point.

He was seated, albeit forcefully, on the leftmost chair. The guards left briefly, leaving him all alone. Silence grew from within the tent, until of course, he came to the deduction that someone else was here. He could hear the subtle breathing, the wind channeling into the nose and out.

"Tu es intéressant, mon garçon." a voice said nonchalantly, to which Will assumed was from the shadowy abyss presented before him. He had to be honest to himself—while the makeshift chamber had light, it didn't really cover the entire tent. "Vous n'êtes clairement pas Anglais. J'ai vu des gens comme toi. Vous n'êtes pas l'un d'entre eux."

"Pas à l'académie, au moins."

Will merely glanced into the darkness, his eyes empty. He couldn't answer. He didn't understand. He simply ignored any attempt at communication.

"You better pay attention, boy. Or you will find yourself out of a bed to sleep on. You can join the wolves perhaps. After all, with the rags you call clothing, you look like one." the voice stated with a threatening tone.

Will was shocked—no—astonished that the voice had spoken the Common tongue. He hadn't heard of it for at least a week now. Ever since that day. Oh how he hated it with such a passion, and a same time, he mourned for his dead brothers. Gared the Elder, and Waymar the Boisterous. It almost made him chuckle. Yet, he refused to acknowledge his amusement and remained the empty shell. At first, he didn't want to answer. Now, he wanted assurance. Will needed to talk to someone who would understand him. Some who could comprehend the situation he found himself in.

"I-" he started, before pausing to gather his thoughts. "Y-you... you... you s-speak Common?" His voice was as weak as he remembered, trembling and faint. Such a pitiful thing to hear.

"Common?" the voice answered back. There were no sounds for some time, and instead, the raspy voice replaced with subtle footsteps. Then, from the void, emerged a man in his early forties, clad in a Marshal's extravagantly complex blue uniforms, teaming with golden epaulets and linings, and several emblems and symbols that hang loosely from the figure's torso. His face maintained a pale white, plumpish semblance, with graying sideburns and bald scalp. The commander, as Will had presumed him to be, approached the table and proceeded to rest himself upon the chair. The man's expression remained stone hard, not changing. It was a disciplined face, with no scowl or contempt clearly being interpreted. Though, his voice was harsh from before, he knew that it was necessitated to grab his feigning attention.

"Tell me, boy. Who do you think we are?" the bald man blurted out is askance.

"I-I... I d-don't know." Will replied weakfully. He had to give it to him. This interrogation was by far, the most effective, even with the clear lack of progress at the moment.

"Well, that makes it more necessary that I talk to you about it." the man huffed, shuffling about his chair and unbuttoning his outer garments, repositioning himself on the coarse seating as if getting ready to tell a story.

"I am Marshal Louis-Nicolas d'Avout, First Duke of Auerstaedt, and First Prince of Eckmuhl. My name had been stylized to be Davoust, with an s, but I'm sure it doesn't matter to you barbarians anyways." the man started to introduce himself. He adjusted about his seat to get a much more comfortable bearing. "You are under the jurisdiction of the General Staff of the Grand Army of the First French Empire, and is hereby, prisoner to our cause. We came to believe you to be an Englishman, or one of Wellington's cockroaches, but that doesn't look like it."

Will remained silent throughout the latter's dialogue, mouth hanging open as he sat there, agape. How could this man know Common when all others here had been talking to him in their bastard languages? He almost went mad listening to their internal dealings and salutations. Why couldn't this 'Davoust' visit him earlier?

"BOY!"

"Boy! I want your name! Give me a name!" Davoust snapped in a detesting tone. The younger man's reverie was quickly halted, jolting the shackled Will.

"M-my... The name's W... Will... my Prince." the boy replied, the last word coming out after a few seconds of thought.

"My Prince? Do I look like a monarch to you?" the Marshal replied in ridiculing manner, standing up from his seat, and grasping the surface of the table as if to stand over the prisoner. The gesture echoed 'You are beneath me.'

"My Prince, are you not one?" Will responded with a question. "The Prince of Eckmool?" The name was entirely butchered by the Westerosi.

"First Prince of Eckmuhl." Davoust corrected, changing the pronunciation of the phrase. His tone seemed to have simmered away, as the man returned to his seat. "But, no, I am not of nobility. It is but a title, given to me by my Emperor, as part of my shared victory over the Battle of Eckmuhl—a village in Bavaria, Germany."

Will simply looked confused, not knowing of the places the Marshal has mentioned. Mayhaps, he speaks of his homeland? This Germany? But he said the 'French Empire' before. He spoke of a Grand Army, supposedly, the armed people of this Empire. As in, like the legends of the Valyrian Freehold before the Doom? It was all too much to think about, as his head was lost in a maze of questions, questions that led to more questions, and answers that led to dead ends. They must be really, really far away from home. Far from even Essos. During his tenure as a poacher, he heard of stories, tall tales about the lands beyond the the Red Waste and the sea to the west of this continent.

"Where do you hail from, boy?" the Marshal auipped, the derogatory manner of his voice once again making a resurfacing.

"The Riverlands, milord. Seagard to be precise. Far down south." the boy quickly rebutted.

"The Riverlands?" Davoust retorted, confused. "C'est vrai alors. Nous ne sommes plus en Russie comme nous en sommes venus à présumer toutes ces nuits."

Will didn't follow, but continued with his explanation. "It's a kingdom, milord. Ruled by House Tully of Riverrun. One of the nine in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"And how did you come all the way here, Will?" said Davoust, currently eyeing the prisoner carefully and closely.

"Milord, I had taken the black," Will paused for a while to garner his thinking, "I was caught by Lord Jason Mannister for killing a buck. He owns the land, he says. Didn't want my hand hacked off with a sword, I swore myself to the service of the Night's Watch."

Will later realized his mistake. He had not only revealed private information regarding his life, but also unveiling the existence of the Night's Watch to these foreigners. It wasn't looking good. If the Marshal pushed any further, he would refuse. But there would be consequences. Though, the entirety of life is in peril, he couldn't just let his brothers down. Them, who had called him a savage when the true barbarians of these lands are the Wildlings.

As he had expected, Davoust pushed anyway.

"The Night's Watch?"

He tried to be as discreet as possible with his next words. Will had to be careful. He couldn't reveal anything that may pose a threat to the order.

"A military order, milord, to man the Wall."

"The Wall?"

"You do not know of the Wall, milord? Built by Bran the Builder? To defend Westeros from the Long Night and the nightmares in brings with it?"

Davoust merely shrugged. "Please do enlighten me of this... Wall. This is getting more and more interesting."

"It is a great barrier of ice and snow, milord, that separates the Seven Kingdoms and the Lands of Always Winter along the Gift. The Night's Watch has manned the Wall for thousands of years."

All that came from the older man was a frown, then a confused look, then a scowl that was filled even more fury. The scowl was reduced to a glare, and the commander promptly stood up from his chair. It was time to leave.

"I think that will be enough," the man commented, "if what you tell is true, then we will have to move. You will accompany us as we traverse the land. We have a map, but that is not enough. The Emperor wills it. Fail, and you will meet a fate much worse than death." The mood was bitter and grim. Clearly, the Marshal doubts the information he had provided. It would take more than that to gain the trust of these men. And this officer, who also seems to detest the presence of the Riverman with repugnance, is his only chance through their leader. Noble or not, he needed to warn them. And the Night's Watch too. Scrap that, the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms must know.

The Marshal tugged on his uniform, flattening it out to it's former image. His decorations twinkled with what light was available. Plopping his covers upon several steps into the exit, the older man turned and deepened his scowl, glancing over the Westerosi prisoner. His head immediately snapped back into a straightened direction and departing the tent. A pair of guards went inside to retrieve Will, who made no effort in struggling against them. Once again, he was carried back to his imprisonment, if you can even call it that.

Will was left once again to himself, a stranger in a sea of foreigners. Whoever this Davoust is, through him, he could, mayhaps, gain the trust of the Emperor he keeps concerning himself about. He couldn't escape. Not now. Not with his mindset—a convoluted mess of thoughts and bits and pieces of his consciousness, rummaged around the ground like the shattered debris of pottery. He couldn't just reveal it to him either. They'll think him mad. Will had to be useful at the time being. And when the time comes, when they meet the Night's Watch, he can spread the news.

The White Walkers are upon them.

The Germans

Three men were not in a very satisfactory mood due to their current predicament. The Emperor of the French Napoleon had told them of very dour news: the Grand Army and it's foreign attachments had been transported to an unknown land. A land where no map had shown, no book had studied or described, no man experienced. At least, to their knowledge, none of the French, Italians, enthnic Germans, Slavs, Dutch, or other foreigners had ever seen. Their latest meeting was but a several days ago, with the onset arrival of the French 1e Éclaireurs Scout Regiment, forty six dauntless men who had traversed the snowy wilderness through thick brawn and a willful drive to survive the near impossible. The horsemen, along with one Monsieur Charles Minard of the Geographical Engineering Crops, has drawn them a map of key geographical points, elevations relief, and the mentioned paradise of the "Elysian Valley", courtesy of the cold hearted engineer, and it's favorable locality as a haven for the Grand Army.

The Grand Army was to start marching in twenty-four hours time, tomorrow noon, when the sun was at it's highest and the weather was in it's least most rancorous plight. The Austrian Corps, within the confines of the 'Southern Flank', would begin it's movement aside the much larger Central, Left, and Right Flanks.

Not that it concerned them. The trifecta of ethnic German commanders were particularly happy that they were placed in such positions: among their friends, their brothers, their family.

At first, Marshals Karl Philipp, Johann Yorck, and Julius von Grawert desired to instigate a rebellion from the Army's interior, thinking the Emperor mad and insane. They didn't believe that the Grand Army was transported. Lies, lies, and more lies by the French. Their deception only reaches so far. However, the map they have been shown pacified their fears and gave rise to much newer eccentricities. Scouts from their regiments contradicted their description of the lands. There were no towns or cities. Settlements were lacking. Where fledgling foundations of villages were supposedly found had been replaced with barren soil, more snow than they could remember, and the same pattern of lush forests. Forests that bore no fruit or chirped no sound. Game was scarce, where witnessing wolves and stags was nothing more than rare occasion. Where mountains or hills should have been standing were plains of decaying grass and the frozen steam of ghostly trees. No mud roads, bridges, streams, or windmills. No supply posts or signs. Only snow: that maddening sight of white blankets that had plagued their dreams for days now. Their nightmares became of frost, not war. The fear of dying in this frozen tundra was agonizing. Just imagining it was enough to make men vomit and sickly. To die at the hands of the enemy was honorable, to fight and perish in the field of battle. But to spoil in a land of never ending winter, alone and without your comrades to comfort you. It was most unacceptable.

Circumstances had also led to their separation from their homelands. What would become of them now? The only people of Germanic descent to exist, currently in this world, far away from their peacetime friends, clans, families, and compatriots. What would happen to the their monarchs, leaders, and lords? Would they weep for the loss of their beloved men, or would they remain unflinching, without as to so much as to batter an eye that their own soldiers had disappeared. The trio contemplated that future of Europe: would the disappearance of the Grand Army lead to another war? Would Russia invade Poland and course into the Prussian and Austrian heartlands? Would the British, seeing this as a weakness, finally defeat the French? So many possibilities. Yet, they were here. They would no say in the upcoming future of that land, that world from afar. They were to concern themselves with now, the present day, in the rugged terrains of hoarfrost and rime. They were to represent the Austrian and Prussian legions and preserve German culture. After whatever ventures the Emperor of the French had surmised, they would settle, forget about war, and simply live in peace.

The crowd of three were meeting at their usual time of the day, along with other foreign generals akin to the ways and blood of the Germanic tribes. Karl Philipp was dominating the conversation, with his white uniform coating, embroidered in golden linings that boasted wavy patterns, signifying a sense of wealth and power. To complete the regalia were scarlet wrist cuffs and trousers, a black gold-lined bicorne cover, and a white-red and green straps. The Prince of Schwarzenberg sported dark brown hair, a broad and roundish face, with growths about his pale cheeks.

"It is imperative we decide on the matter at hand. We must forge are loyalty to Napoleon if the German line is to survive in this harsh new world." he said in a prevailing tone, swaying the other commanders to his will. They agreed thoughtfully, seeing the distinguishable logic within his words. To rebel was to commit self-destruction. The French were much more numerous, and a revolt by the ethnic German population of soldiers, horse riders, and supporting personnel would not bode well for their survival. They would be executed, or worse, cast out of the Army and cursed to forever wonder flat plains and jagged rocks of this God-forsaken realm.

Marshals Yorck and Grawert were listening intently, and as the sole representatives of the Prussian faction, had taken the responsibility to enforce their judgment on the younger Marshal's words. Clad in their black Prussian uniforms, with red colors embellished of golden designs, the German Iron Cross gilding their coats, and golden chords hanging from their wares, the two were wizened and seasoned commanders from the Prussian army. Yorck was reaching in his late fifties, as reflected from a balding scalp and is golden locks being replaced with grey ones. Grawert was in his sixties and is approaching the age of the sulky elderly. Indeed, the old man was as sulky as he was aged. Stretch marks, eye bags, and cracked lips was a common sight with the Prussian officers. He had thought of retiring soon, but the situation has effectively delayed his desired wish to rest.

"While he may not be our Frederick or our Francis, we are still allied to him. Our duty is to fight, and Napoleon as a monarch himself, we are obligated to fight for them. The French, Polish, and Italian commanders have given us their blessings and trust. If they fight for the entire Grand Army, then we shall do so with them. Thus, our honor calls." the younger Marshal continued. While the politics of the Army was strained at best, the Germanic generals had given their grunts of accord. Still bitter, though, with the Prussian and Austrian defeats, the consequences had vociferated an effort for coordination with their allies and compliance to the demands of the high French command. It was a sacrifice, no, a gamble they're willing to risk.

The generals and Marshals, after much discussion, returned to their posts, others their quarters, to think for themselves.

Whatever shall fate hold for them? Only time will tell.

Claude

Daybreak was as malicious as ever. Fortunately, the fresh scent of evergreen trees were able to trample that persisting stench of city and village crap and reeking of manure. His nose was itching from the continuous aroma of horse shite, steaming coffee, boiling soups, and the whiffs of the ash from firewood. He chuckled. At times, the Colonel missed the Austrian and Polish countrysides, the Italian rolling hills and terrains of greenery, olives, and shrubs. The Alpines to the south of Tyrol, and the flatlands of rural France, specifically the spacious outskirts of Paris.

Claude Testot-Ferry was currently tending to his horse, which he had named ironically named Hiver, the French terminology for winter. Apart from his personal steed was another twenty thousand, dragged around the camp, ridden, and sometimes rested with dry hay and water. Luckily for him, Napoleon's plans had not included the reintegration of the 1e Regiment d'Éclaireurs à Cheval. He himself had grown accustomed to his fellow cavalrymen. The engineer Charles Minard befriended the Colonel after their time during the expedition. Their little adventure, however, was a success. The men had celebrated, and Napoleon himself and other elite commanders praised the Éclaireurs for their bravery and on-time arrival. Their efforts had been met with rewards: Claude was to be given the post of Colonel. Relatively, Minard was promoted as Lieutenant, and the Éclaireurs given honors after they have completed their scouting mission. Unfortunately, Minard was told to stay. His new friend had said something about "receiving new responsibilities" from the Emperor. Another had replaced him as the regiment's chief cartographer.

The men around him were hastily moving about the camp, the friction of their boots creating heat hot enough to create an almost disgusting cocktail of slush, mud, and grime. The soil was squishy, making sounds that was comedic. Yet, it wasn't really suited with the circumstances. He was in high hopes, yes, but amusement wasn't currently in his mind. Tents were being brought down one by one, of all sixes and shapes, from officers' quarters, to stocks, and the regular cone-shaped and triangular prisms of a soldier's temporary sleeping places. Line infantrymen retrieved their knapsacks and kits, holding muskets with the butt on hand and the barrels staring towards to sky.

An amalgamation of blue greatcoats flowed along the paths, filling Claude's eyes. Grenadiers, fusiliers, voltigeurs, carbiniers, and chasseurs, all marching, drilling, and running about for the incoming departure of the Grand Army's regiments. Musicians, drummers, and cornets were gathering their drums, flutes, and instruments to prepare for the force's marching band. To entertain the troops, and for the lack of a better word, cause the encouragement of the marching soldiers and reduce mental fatigue. Physical exhaustion was an entirely different matter.

Claude witnessed the pretty-faced vivandières and cantinières, one of the many women attached to the battle formations. They carried metal pails, tables, and even medical supplies and cloths for aid. Some were married, some weren't. What had caught Claude's attention was a particularly lovely lady: blond hair, blue eyes, and thin pink lips. Maybe, he would get to talk to her. This was a new world anyways. There are many possibilities. And it's prime time, the French did some repopulating on its own. Spread the language, encourage the culture, after the war is done. When the war is finished. He suspected that all was in Napoleon's hands now. Their very livelihoods depend on the outcome of this entire charade.

Their dresses of smooth frabrics and white cloths swayed as they heaved with them loads of pitchers, pots for cookery and boiling, as well as platinum-like platters either for some grub, to carry shot glasses, or deliver drinks to men who were wasting themselves away through the night. Did he mention they have liquor? All manner of beverages: from beer, spirits, rum, and even wine for the more expensive and elegant soldier. Not those run-of-the-mill recruits and volunteers who had signed their lives away for a little taste of glory and victory. Claude's thoughts later averted back to his brothers-at-arms.

The columns and rows of movement also included artillery pieces, hauled of by horses and their riders with ammunition carts and caissons, narrow wooden containers that had sloping lids hinged to open, and the insides separated into compartments for a complement of rounds. Claude noticed a spare wheel attached to it's backside. The pieces were followed by the cavalry itself: horse carbiniers, hussars, Chasseurs-a-cheval, lanciers, and curiassers with different colors of uniform, their exact design and form, and the horse themselves, with shades varying from roan to liver, and palomino to dun. He could hear the yells of commanders, followed by the compliance of their subordinates and privates. Claude had then restored his admiration for Marshal Murat. He had to had it to him: the man was a legend amongst cavalrymen.

When the rest of the Éclaireurs had finally gathered, the encampment was near empty. The Army's bulk was gathered in an open field to the west, down the hill the main encampment zone was located, where dust and snow was arising from the ground. Claude from afar could see the formations of the line regiments, creating a sea of mismatching blue and black covers. Companies of horse riders were aligned with friendlies, walking in slow paces to make way for their positions. In the front of each battalion were their colors, flying high from tall masts embellished with the Imperial Golden Eagle. Indeed, a sight to behold. Trailing behind the battalions were non-combatants: surgeons, aides, shoemakers, gaiter-makers, gunsmiths, tailors, the musicians themselves, seeing the music of the march. Joyful hymns that were known for reinvigorating the spirit of winded fellows. Claude had also taken interest in the flying colors of the auxiliary forces: the white and red shades of the Polish national banner, the black and yellow union of the Austrian foreigners, green-white-and-red of the Italians and Naples, and the white over blue fanions of Westphalia. There more flags to describe, and more than Claude could remember at the moment.

The Flanks stretched from side to side, and the organized crowds only grew larger and larger as the Éclaireurs were getting closer. One last look of assurance at the camp revealed it to be empty: the traces of footsteps and charred wood was apparent, but the Grand Army had salvaged everything useful. And yet, even with the daring and bittersweet nature of the climate, the men were high in their share of morale.

Other service regiments were using carriages for their tools and equipment. Trains and carts that contained their supplies, munitions, and extra stores for spare muskets, sabers, and other weapons were placed within the Central and Northern Flanks. They too were in the rear of the Central Flank, guarded by the reserved detachments of the Grand Army. Claude hoped Minard and his fellow intelligentsia would be well.

The Éclaireurs took their positions in front of the main battlements. Being the scouting force, they were responsible for surveying the path of the Grand Army as it makes it's way across the wilderness. When finally, the last of personnel had joined up, and the camp void of anything except mud, debris, and still-burning fires, Napoleon and his cohorts had signaled for the Army to begin it's departure. Horns screamed and drums rolled.

By God in Heaven, they had actually started moving

Jérôme

Jérôme's general staff was arrayed through the forepart of the Northern Flank, the line infantry regiments calmly tracing behind him. They themselves were mounted onto horses, trotting along the blank surfaces of snow and permafrost. The commander of the I Cavalry Corps, Marshal Joachim Murat, was galloping to the side of his brother-in-law, after temporary leaving his post as it's assigned head officer. The flamboyant King of Naples and Grand Duke of Berg had come upon he latter as a means to share of news: talks have started among the senior officials regarding the Grand Army's brief and mysterious transcendence into this plain of existence. Miracle or not, the Emperor of the French is planning to reveal the matter of fact publically in a speech he dares to take as soon as they reach Monsieur Minard's Elysian Valley.

"Good-brother." Marshal Murat greeted, and incredulously stepped into the way of Marshal Poniatowski. The Polish veteran leader was sullen, the skin and hairy growths on his cheeks and the under nose curving into a frown. His lips went thin, and without much to do to the Emperor's family or their whimsical doings, swerved out of the way. After a few short moments, he had returned to a conversation with the Prince of France.

"Napoleon, our ever so ambitious brother, has decided to reveal our situation to the rest of the soldiers as soon as we reach the Elysian Valley. I do wonder he will accomplish this, seeing that by the time we do arrive, in two week's time, there would be no men left." the Dandy King bursted into a fit. Jérôme did not respond, and only looked on into the chilled hellscape.

"You do not trust him?" Jérôme asked, never looking to his side. He stretched his neck to relieve him of the stress building up on his back. Horse riding wasn't really to his liking. "Even if he gave you proof?"

"I do. Don't get me wrong, I have admired him from my younger years. He is a hero to he people. He may not be close to me, but I am still loyal to him. Napoleon has brought me here, granted me titles only I could have dreamt of as a child. I don't need to float on the fact that he is distant from me. The very man who married his younger sister. And, I already have all the proof I require to believe." The First Horseman of Europe leaned in closer to his brother-in-law's ears. "There have been news from Marshal Davoust. His chats with our English prisoner has been more or less fruitful. I couldn't understand English myself, and to my chagrin, Davoust is still a sour loser, but he is loyal. Napoleon trusts him. We ca trust him to."

"What of it, King of Naples?" Jérôme said in askance, plainly engrossed of this news.

"The Englishman is no Englishman at all. Davoust claims that our guest hails from a place he calls the Riverlands, further south of our position. Thousands of miles, he says." the Marshal calmly whispered.

"There are lands here? Greener than the frozen hell we have been dropped into?" the Prince of France questioned, bewildered at such information.

"According to the prisoner, we are in the continent of 'Westeros'. Or something like that. The Land of the West. Apparently, we are in the North, beyond the Wall—a barrier of ice and snow several hundred feet high and hundreds of miles long."

Jérôme was agaped, both shocked and suspicious of the tales the Murat Prince had been sharing him. It couldn't be true. It would be impossible. A wall of ice? That couldn't any more further from the truth. "How do you know this is true?"

"We don't. That's why we showed him the map the Emperor had showed us from before. It seems he knows of the lands. He could complete our maps with the help of the Minard fellow. Of course, if he complies to our demands. He is a prisoner. Under our jurisdiction. That should be clarification enough for him to understand that, for our mutual benefit, we should cooperate with each other." Murat explained, often stealing glances from around the assemblage of living carcasses. "The Emperor already knows. No need to share it with him. Our oath demands that any information that comes to us be sent to him at the foremost time."

"How did Davoust know how to speak fluent English? I myself married an American but never fathomed to learn the damned language. I loved Elizabeth, but not the culture. I learnt it for her sake but forgot about it as soon as Napoleon coerced me back to France. Yet, I still wish to see the son I never had." Jérôme said solemnly, this time, without flinching his eyes at the mention of her name. The woman he loved, but never got together with. Curse Napoleon and his Goddamned bethrotals. It didn't work out for him the first time anyways.

"He learned. Davoust had studied English during his student years in the military college Auxerre, and then Ecole Militaire in Paris. Language is an important aspect of being a military commander, my Prince. We meet new faces and people everyday. I'd suggest doing that as well." Joachim muttered half-heartedly. "It does bore me to indulge you in such useless plights, and I find myself exhausted. I bid you adieu."

The Horseman's steed reverted it's course into the back of the huge arrangements of foot soldiers, cavalry, and artillery, to which he promptly returned to his commanding post. Marshal Poniatowski happily made his way beside the French Heir to the Throne.

"So, my Prince, what did the stallion gawk to you about this time?" the Polish commander asked in a comedic fashion. "Nothing too bland I presume?"

"Indeed. There are news, Józef. It might be key to our victory over these lands."

And so, Jérôme explained to his subordinate about the present state of things. Poniatwoski didn't take kindly to the news, an almost comic resent flowing over the Polish national, either because the Prince was playing with him through his made-up fantasies or that they were truly in a new world. He didn't even get to say goodbye to his family.

Napoleon had just recieved news of Davoust's little shenanigans, his thanks to his ever so devoted and staunch disciple. The Marshal had been interrogating their prisoner for a quite a while now. Not only was it days ago that the French commander reveal his expertise in the fluent expression of various languages: not only was he talented in the arts of French, but generally anything and everything that had do to with the Romantic languages. A little German here and there, and Russian and Polish too, but that was of no concern to the French monarch. He knew English, and the officer knew well. The battle hardened tactician never realized the importance of knowing your enemy. Well, he did know his enemy, but not the sense of their culture, understandings, ethics, or traditions. It was all bread and circuses to Napoleon. Only then, did he come to the comprehension that Machiavelli's words had come to life: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. This Englishman, no, 'Westerosi' as the Marshal has come to title the inhabitants of this continent, was an enemy, that, luckily for the Grand Army, has fallen into their hands.

Napoleon would use and push whatever knowledge this prisoner would spill out, even if he has to torture the fellow. This was war. While interrogation was all fun and dandy, watching men excrete themselves from outright verbal torment and threats, there are times when the extremities has to be used. Humans pushed to the limits and far beyond boundaries of what normal men could achieve. How does the water cure sound like? That was for another time, however. The Emperor was not a cruel person as to justify the torture of civilians without much as to provide clear reasoning for the actions of himself and his men. Then again, the Senate wasn't here. Another detail that Napoleon had taken to consideration, and quite possibly, one of the more favorable qualities of this sudden exchange between parallel realities.

The Central, Northern, and Southern Flanks has eventually separated, in which they preserved a distance of several leagues apart. This was done was to spread the area of coverage by the Army and create a free space for movement. It had been several hours now since the marching had commence, in which the Grand Army had effectively attained a few dozens of miles. The 1e Éclaireurs was already ahead, and would return the next day for reports. Morale was still high. The men were tired, yes, but that fleeting perception of perseverance has allowed the soldiers to persist on their seemingly never-ending trudge. The musicians' bands were still playing their tunes of patriotism, live for the French nation, and giving glory to the people of free Europe.

His general staff, with their company of stallions, were hiking along the middle of the Central Flank. Berthier's horse was flanking him to his left, and Marshal Neg to his right. Behind them were several other Marshals and generals, bickering among themselves gossips, whispers, and small talk. Marshals Oudinot and Macdonald were entranced in a conversation with the rough-faced Davoust, who was clarifying his talks with the English prisoner, speaking of tall tells that sounded mystical and fiction rather than fact. The Wall? The Gift? This Seven Kingdoms and their overtly obese monarch, if you can even consider him as one ('the Usurper', the boy had entitled the king), was even more preposterous to his hears. Napoleon was aware of the questions asked, and he himself, at firsthand, observed the 'talk' between the young boy and the loyal French commander. Things were progressively well in the long run.

Napoleon had given out a few words of inspiration to his fellow countrymen, his sons and children, to rally and embolden these able-bodied men-at-arms. There were screams of victory and prestige, as well as reprisals of courage, will, and praises to the Emperor. Napoleon had paraded himself around the assembled quarters, chanting remarks of continuing on the fight and wild utterances of riches, fame, and eminence. The men seemed to have taken a liking to this, displaying their loyalty by sustaining their paces for a few more hours.

The Central Flank halted in the midst of dying daylight, the sunset radiating an onimously orange glow from the horizon, the rays tarnished by falling snow and thick, dark clouds that had the audacity to ruin such a beautiful scene and engulf the calmed sky. Finally, the morning star was nothing more, and the Grand Army had made camp. Soldiers had settled into their tents and blankets. The men lay awaste, dreaming of their dreams and terrorized by their nightmares. Others were awake, keeping watch of the perimeter surrounding vast encampment of half-dead cadavers. The day had drawn into a close, leaving the fate of French and their many allies at the hands of this world's heavenly providence. Or worse, the chaotic instances that gave birth to reality itself, exploding and blazing like balls of fire and flame. When it comes to the stability of reality, it is always bound to converge to it's natural state of entropy: disarray, destruction, and pandemonium. It was this very same law that struck fear into the hearts of men.

Napoleon, in his temporary living quarters, had finally fallen asleep. What new destinies await them then? Will his plan for conquest succeed? Well, it should. He was Napoleon after all. The same staunch, stubborn, arrogant military genius and strategist that had George the Third, Frederick the Third, Francis the First, and Alexander the First a run for their money. He puppeted the Kingdom of Spain and Naples. He pushed the dastardly British out of the mainland. He had conquered Europe.

The prophesied second coming of Gaius Octavius Thurinus, the very same man who had brought all of Europe, North Africa, and Asia Minor to fold. To their knees. His legacy was his, and Napoleon's as well.

Mance

"Did the scouts find anything?" Mance Rayder questioned the Magnar of the people of the Thenns, with their glorification of self-scarification and pale, bald complexions that were the very bane of their fierce warrior attributes and skill with the blade. The Thenns were one of the more advanced tribes of the Free Folk, capable of basic mining and forging of copper and tin. If one looked at the history books of that other world, one would say they have remained in the Bronze Age for literally eight millennia.

"They did." Styr replied sternly, fumbling on his palm a small, grayish-black spherical object that reminded the Crow-raised Rayder of black pepper that the maester from the Black Castle. Or was it Castle Black? It didn't matter. He was getting old anyways.

"Wha'ever in the Old Gods' name is that?" asked Tormund, who was looking earnestly at the black ball. Mance would have expected the muscular brute to look disinterested in matters that involved investigation. The red head wasn't much more brains, but he did make it up for his brawn. Conjoin that with his dexterity with the blade or hammer and devoted adherence to anything the turncoat Wildling would blurt out, and you get one of your most faithful lieutenants. Which is precisely why Mance had brought him along this little diplomatic mission. Steadfast and strong, but wouldn't 'ave the audacity to butt in business he didn't belong to.

"This, Giantsbane, is what caused the demise of one of our hunters." Styr answered grimly. "My men found it lodged into a tree bark, an obvious impact crater around the little thing, and blood splattered all over, along with a piece of his brain on it. One of our spearwomen washed it to get a closer picture of the nasty bugger." The self-entitled God of the Thenns handed the compact object to Mance, who grasped out with his fingers. He rolled it around his palm, inspecting it when slight eye movements. Mance weighed it on his hands by plopping it up and down, and then, tossing it into the air for good measure. It wasn't light, or heavy either. The texture looked metallic enough with the naked eye.

"What do you make of it, Mance?" Tormund said in question. "How could 'at little thing kill someone?"

"I'm not sure." Mance answered implicitly. He flung the ball back onto the Magnar, who caught it with ease. The King-beyond-the-Wall stood up and made way for the hut's exit, but not before beckoning for Tormund to follow. The thick-bodied man prompted towards his leader.

"Where are you going?" Styr asked, slightly oblivious. Mance turned sharply to reply.

"I'm going out there. I need men, Styr. Whoever did this, they didn't do it for anything. Did your men somehow offend them in some way?"

"They were on a scout. Word has it that more Free Folk been disappearing nearby." the Magnar responded. "Poor fellow must 'ave tried to attack our mysterious friends."

"And that is why we must make peace with them. If what your men talks of is true, then they can kill without slashing their swords, or whatever monotonous means of killing they have against us. They saw your faces. If you had threatened them, then they won't hesitate to kill." Mance retorted. "It will be a massacre."

"So, you expect us to be afraid of whatever witchcraft you speak of? We 'ave wargs with us. Send the beasts of the snow agains their steel." another Thenn chimed in. A fighter and officer by the name of Loboda. It didn't roll well with Mance's Northern Common accent.

"Aye. I would expect it." He replied. "We need to survive, cooperate with together. I have told you, ALL of you of the coming winter, and the terrors that it will bring with it. I 'ave given you all proof. It be for the be'er to keep your words." Mance returned to his pace to depart the hut.

The Magnar of the Thenn chuckled. "Aye, I believe your words, King Crow." The mention of the name made Mance flinch slightly. "You'll get your men alright. I'll have Loboda and fifty men come with you."

"My thanks is yours, Magnar." Mance turned, relieved that he will get aid. Tormund simply stared blankly.

"Speak nothing of it, King-beyond-the-Wall. We, the Thenns, speak of the Old Tongue and proud descendants of the First Men, who have valiantly fought against the Night King and his armies. Aye, we believe in the gods of the Old and the Children. We aren't for bastardizing our culture like some kneeler or Andal cunt." Styr answered thoughtfully. "We are the Free Folk, after all. My sword is yours, Mance Rayder. You have my trust."

Mance nodded, and gestured for Tormund to come along.

"You got the Thenns with yah now, Mance. We can unite the Free Folk and head south." the younger burly man commented. "We can finish what we started-"

"We won't be getting south if we find and settle terms with this people and their ocean-blue wares." Mance rebutted quickly in a forbidding and serious tone. "Not now or ever. Those Thenns had declared war on whoever it is they saw. They did something to make 'em mad."

"What of it? We probably larger numbers than them. We can pound the bastards into dust. Spill their bloods and rip their hearts out."

"It won't be that easy. Not with that."

"The ball?" Tormund said in askance.

"Aye, the ball. They have something we don't, and I fear we won't be able to hold against it." Mance followed suit.

"You must scared out of your wits to believe that." Tormund quipped, which was proceeded with a long chuckle. The laugh died down, and he continued his comical rant. "The King-beyond-the-Wall scared of some kneeler heathens."

Mance didn't respond, and the pair headed for their tents. Mance, grabbing is gear, along with Tormund, made way for the village center. They would leave, as fast as possible. He wouldn't risk jeopardizing everything for a simple misunderstanding.