Chapter V— An Englishman in Napoleon's Court

"If there's anything I despise, it's ingratitude..."

— Napoleon of House Bonaparte, 300 AC

Will

The thin-framed Black Brother of the Night's Watch was himself tired as the Grand Army's march was dragged to it's third day. Or was it... it's fourth? Suppose that it were five, then the young man had truly gone too far with this whole insanity business. Will had missed the warmer confines of his prison-like tent, and the calm ambience that went with it. The soft thumps on the ground as men's boots collided with the snowy surface. Boiling water, simmering pots, and the sweet aroma of what he lonely assumed as wine and liquor. Though, not the one he had been associated it since his botched poaching career, but win nonetheless. No man from the Gift to Dorne would be so dense as not to notice the smell of good ale, or what have you.

A few days back had been a most hectic affair. Meetings, or 'interrogation sessions', with one Marshal Davoust became more and more frequent, as did the quality of his supposed imprisonment. The cold, calculating man had actually brought him all matters of 'gifts' from his lands of 'Europe' and 'France'. The names sounded strange, and was quite exotic for his taste. He rolled it with his tongue as couple of times and Will realized it left a nasty taste in his mouth. Either it was the culture shock he had been experiencing, or him merely going mad. He certainly did not forget those taunting, icy blue eyes, and that monstrous curve of a smile that had come upon that demonic face. Dream after dream, he was there, waiting to pounce on him like an undead direwolf.

Back to the topic at hand: Louis-Nicolas Davoust, or something. That's how, at least, what the man had insisted being called upon when the commander talked to him the Common tongue. Then again, the latter insisted that they simply settle it with a different name: English. Again, sounds foreign. Irritating too. If not, as terrible as that Europe and France of his. The foreigner didn't quite clarify it to him. Marshal Davoust, as the 'Frenchman' had spelled out to him in another session, was a stubborn, difficult to speak to, vicious, dull, sour, and serious individual who reminded him of a certain person who held high contempt for anything disorderly. Nay, Davoust could have very well bested Stannis Baratheon in regards to their gloomy facades. The Master of Ships himself, known far and wide in the Realm as the most cunning military commander and warrior to ever have lived, right behind legendary figures such as Aegon the Conqueror. Will had imagined a staring contest between Marshal Davoust and Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone. It would be the battle of the century.

Then again, the Brother in Black was not this childish to envisage such mummer's farce. Certainly unbecoming of the Ranger. And now, with all the paranoia about the White Walkers, their supposedly horse-sized ice spiders, and undead wight hordes, Will had not mustered the strength to be gleeful or happy about any of this. It was wrong. So misaligned with the current happenstance. Yet, he hears these foreigners laugh, sing, and dance to their tunes and comedic eccentricities. Even in the cold, the men he had called his captors, soldiers of an 'empire' so far away from their reach, morale was as high as ever. Though, food and supplies we're indeed, an entirely different matter.

Will was banished from the deepest roots of his mind as the very man in question has arrived to talk to him, slowly emerging from the corner of his eye. The Marshal had wanted the boy beside him, but as a guest, not a prisoner. The commander found his uses on Will, and so did, the aide-de-camp of the Emperor himself.

Thankfully, Will was provided a horse. The saddle was much more comfortable than his recent experience with mounts and steads. The stallion he was sat upon was disciplined, calm, and generally neutral. Despite his discomfort, having been surrounded by men who despised him and soldiers who'd pay to see him gutted and impaled upon a pike, the presence of Davoust was a reassuring factor. He was still, to be frank, silent as ever. Blue eyes had once again crossed the echelons of his mind.

"How are you doing," the Marshal greeted, his voice monotone, but as cold as steel, "the men not giving you any trouble?"

"N-no, s-sir. I m-mean, milord," he answered weakly, "they s-seemed to be more occupied with t-the c-cold." His head faced down once again. Davoust narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Will's facial movements.

"Head up. Have I not told you to drop the milord title? You're making me look like Wellington." the man answered. "I am no position to be a noble. Marshal or Monsieur would be enough."

"As you w-wish, Lord Marshal."

Davoust merely sighed. Even in the freezing weather, old habits die hard. The cold must have frozen the boy's skull.

"The Emperor sees his uses of you. From then on, you will remain under my tutelage. You do know of these lands, do you not?" the Marshal said in askance.

"I d-do." Will pointed towards west. "The map you showed me, Lord Marshal, I know of t-these parts. Full of 'em Wildling tribes. The Thenns in the Valley."

"The Thenns?" the Marshal furrowed his eyebrow a bit, clearly conscious of his curiousness. "Please do elaborate."

"Cannibals, Lord Marshal. They s-scar their skin and shave their scalps. They hunt from the Thenn Valley, a paradise it is, as your s-scouts hold true. They eat the flesh of their enemies, us crows."

"Hmm." the commander hummed. Of course, Will had been forced to reveal the Night's Watch, long ago. He had lied though. Under the guise of a Wildling ambush, Will explained that the trio, along with Gared and Ser Waymar, were attacked by the savages during a ranging. He had escaped, albeit barely, while his comrades had fallen to the barbarians. The commanding officer seemed to have bought it off, but pushed no further about his experience.

"It isn't my business what happened to you before we captured you," the word was stressed as to indicate his clear lack of bondage, "but I do know this: you shall swear your loyalty to the Emperor. He has requested your presence. A reward shall come when the time comes. But, do this, and you will hold a place amongst our ranks."

"Do you mean for me to desert the Watch? My Brothers?" the boy asked.

"No, I mean you to avenge your fallen friends. These Wildlings you speak of. Have they not caused enough damage to your Realm? Innocent women and children, men of the household killed with their arms, farms burned, villages ravaged. Is it not what you want? Peace and tranquility?"

Will contemplated at that. For all he knew, he already lost faith in the Night's Watch. They wouldn't be able to defeat the Others, not with their numbers. But Davoust, his Emperor, and this army, could stand a chance. With their wooden sticks of death, the so-called muskets and their supposedly loud and thunderous cannons, large hallow cylinders of metal that would bring devastation to any army from Wall to Sunspear, and to the east towards Essos and Slaver's Bay. Perhaps even in the Shadow Lands. Will was unsure of these weapons at first. He had, and stupidly, assumed they were mummer's farce. But, various demonstrations during their near-week long journey into the Thenn, or "Elysian" Valley, had justified their exaggerated and destructive power. He had seen it in action after all.

There were desertions now, as supplies went as low as they could, and rations revolved bread and fruits that were barely sized a man's thumb. The vivandieres and cantinieres, maidens who had accompanied the army and suited their healing and medicinal needs, could not spare but a small drop of wine, ale, or even a crumb of barley. Dozens had suffered the fate of a deserter: executed by firing squad. Men, once loyal to the Emperor, were mercilessly shot by roaring bullets, their honor and sacrifices completely discarded as they went off with a bang. The last thing they would hear were those muskets. Apart from that, most died instantly from the trauma and the pain.

Deaths weren't secluded only to deserters. Many died from hunger, weakness, and fatigue. Hundreds, at most, as attrition rates shot through the roof. Some died, merely dropping dead as soon as they took that last breath, that last step into the blistering wilderness. Others, to his pity, couldn't take it anymore. They sat on the ground, and slowly, lay on the soft ground. They closed their eyes to fall asleep, embracing the prospect of death and isolation. True to be told, they were alone in this world. Mounds of blue and the brown, white, or black of horse corpses lay on the bed of Death.

From all the deaths that had occurred, the Grand Army still stood strong.

Will had decided that he would do good to be a part of this Grand Army. He wanted revenge against the White Walkers. Perhaps, driven by his depressive form and inner madness. To be honest, he faired better. Just weeks ago, he was yelling in the forest. Now, he was as calm as a tame dragon. It may have had something to do with the people around him. It unnerved him that he was hated here, and yet, he was relieved that people were here, and came to acknowledge his existence.

"I'll do it, Lord Marsha." He said, a great determination to avenge the deaths of his Brothers overcoming his being. This renewed sense of purpose was instantaneous. If he is to survive, he might as well make do with what he as.

"I wish to be a marksman and soldier of the Grand Army. I may be branded a deserter by my comrades, but I will not stand idly by as more of by Brothers will die by their hands." He wasn't specific about who they are, but he knew the Marshal would assume regardless.

And from that point, Will could almost see the normally stern and cold commander twitch his lips upwards. The boy could have sworn he almost saw a smile curl upon the older man's mouth.

Napoleon

Seconds became minutes. Minutes became hours. The sun had once again left the azure sky to void color, leaving nothing but darkened clouds that loomed gloomily over the barren landscape. The Grand Army had halted to rest once again, after hours of marching without stop or break. The camp was set up quickly, as forecast has yet again signified a storm of some significant strength. The sprawling encampment, lit with what little lamps glowed. Makeshift torches, braziers, and fireplaces glimmered in contrast to the abyss that had encompassed the Lands of Always Winter.

Napoleon and his Marshals were gathered in particularly roomy tent, one that stood above others, and were surrounded by patrolling guards. Though, they felt numb with the cold. The camp was asleep, tranquil in their condition, but was suffering all the same. Napoleon himself was not too pleased with the results of the march. Hands covering his face, he murmuring to himself as he leaned on the table to support his sullen and murky mannerisms with his heavily coated elbows. The clothes were thick, and not very easy to move about.

The Marshals themselves, apart from the other generals who tended to their duties as camp prefects, were speaking to their Emperor with the recent reports. More than that, what had really kept Napoleon awake was the Army's supply of food and drink. Streams were scarce as they went further North. No news from the Eclaireurs, as they are yet to return from their regular round of patrols around the encampment. He hopped Colonel Testot-Ferry would have word about the Elysian Valley soon.

Marshal Berthier, the chief-of-staff, was the first to break the overbearing silence of their council.

"Sire, at least a dozen or so men had attempted to desert their posts from along the Northern, Central, and Southern Flanks. They had been arrested for treason and... dealt with, accordingly. I understand that treason is almost punishable by death, Your Majesty, but should we really resort to such... extremities?" The man asked. He got no answer however, as Napoleon started to merely remove his head from his palms. He looked blankly, his eyes lacking emotion. Berthier knew this to be his signal to back off, and he did so. "Forgive, Sire, I have pushed my point too far."

Napoleon continued to look. Before anything could be said, Ney intervened, by beginning his attrition reports.

"Seventy-six men, Sire, has perished along the march, adding up to our already swelling number of casualties from the invasion. Since our march, deaths has reached nine-hundred and three, not accounting our own losses with the cavalry. Another hundred stallions had died. The men decided to harvest the meat. Our foraging volunteers are hunting as much game as they could. Deer, wolf, white hares, and mountain cats. Add that to our remaining stocks and we still might prevail." The Marshal continued. "It could feed us for now, until we reach the Valley, but men will start to look for wine and bread and fruits. They can't live on meat and boiled snow forever, Sire." Boiled snow. I'm amazed out how our engineers are thinking outside the box.

Napoleon nodded. Rotting food wasn't a problem, especially meat. But then again, some of the meat were diseased. The cold preserved the meat, but it also preserved whatever strains of bacteria and sickness remained latche unto it. It would most certain with the wild animals that they had hunted. No way to dry them. No way to cleanse them of their filth. It would have to do, for now.

It was at this time, Joachim Murat came to share his own report. "Sixteen of our pieces had to be dropped, as the horses had died off, and the weight was too heavy to burden ourselves with. The crew of the First and Second Artillery Companies had been reintegrated to the rear and reserve force. I fear we won't be using our twenty four pounders for a while, brother, not until we retrieve them." Of course I'd lose my cannons, with the damned weather. "We have also lost some of our munitions. A few rounds and canister shots, as well as powder. Though, enough to last us at least two days in a battle, if you plan to bombard them forty eight hours a time."

"It's understandable," Napoleon begun, his voice rough and glum, "it looks to be that our Army isn't facing as much attrition as we did in Russia." Jérôme caught the relief in his voice, but it was strained. "How long until the Valley comes to our sights?"

"Not too long now." This time, the voice came from Marshal Davoust. "Our guest had been useful. The Valley is close to a day's ride away. A day's ride, that is, Your Majesty. The Army would need to ponder longer. The Eclaireurs should have reached it by now. If their delay is of any importance, then they may have encountered the native indigenous population."

"I thought that this 'Will' would be betraying his cause if he shared this information with us? Is it not their ways? To 'remain parted from the quarrels of the Realm'? What of his brothers?" Jérôme interjected. "Do oaths not mean anything to him?"

"Technically, we are not part of the Seven Kingdoms, my Prince. He finds vengeance a more sound alternative than to wander this wasteland in hopes of finding another of his cult of the damned." Davoust looked at the Prince. "We are but hundreds of miles from their center of olesrions, at the Wall."

"And you trust this Englishman?" Marshal Macdonald snorted, and chuckled. "I'd rather listen to a rock than listen to those skirt-wearing fiends and savages."

"First of all, Jacques, those are Scotsmen. Second of all, we don't know where we are or how we got here. It would be best that we take advantage of our most available resources at the time being, and best of all, that very Englishman you are talking about. He rests, for now, but we need his knowledge of these lands. The map, as far as I know, is not enough." Davoust replied, which made the latter grumble in irritation. Napoleon made the move to stand and strutted around the table, hands firmly place behind his back.

"It would be of great use to us, my dear Marshals, that we use him to our full advantage. He will swear his fealty to me, and will fight, toil, sweat, cry, and bleed for our cause, the French cause. The Grand Army shall prevail, and that is what our goal is. After we have established our supply lines, we can move eastward, to the coasts, and work our way towards the south. This will ensure not only our survival, but our victory." Napoleon paused. "We need all the men we could get. Our soldiers are suffering, yet, they still stand strong. Traitors merely run because they fear that there will be no glory for them here. I reject that, with all the powers vested in me by God above, and I shall lead France to triumph once again. These next few days will determine our future."

The Marshals nodded in agreement, albeit, hesitantly. They would follow Napoleon thick and through, but not in the face of defeat. They were anxious. They didn't no whether the next actions of their Emperor would bring either victory or ruin to themselves. Right now, he needed their support. For the good of the Empire.

"I am still with you, my Emperor." Marshal Berthier said.

"And I, Sire. Long live the Republic." Ney followed. Soon, Oudinot, Macdonald and the other elite officers had declared the persistence of their allegiance.

"I am with you, brother." Jérôme finally finished.

"So am I." Murat chimed in, the ever charming individual that he is. The Dandy King knows his ways...

"Good." Napoleon retook his seat in the upfront of the wooden, where many scraps of parchment, scrolls, books, and ink pots and quills were strewn about. There glasses too, half full of wine or water. Others were considerably empty. The men looked at him now, ready for their next move. They seem so eager, yet so nervous. That will have to be solved.

"This council is to be adjourned for now. Get your rest, Marshals. We ride hard tomorrow. We have much to do, but so little time. We do not know if the weather will get calmer or harsher. The Army can only anticipate and tolerate so. We need to hold together. No amount of desertion or betrayal will resolve our situation." In succession, the Marshals and generals grumbled or mumbled their agreements. Soon after that, they all stood to leave.

The wood scraping the muddy ground started to resound the entire tent, as men shifted to move about. Their boots making contact with the frosted, wet ground made squeaks and gurgles. The last of them departed, and Napoleon was yet again left alone to his own dealings.

Claude

The First Eclaireurs, the valiant regiment of forty and five able-bodied cavalrymen were currently advancing across the white fields, black forests, and rough natural geography of the Lands of Beyond the Wall. Much have been told to them, courtesy of Marshal Davoust's efforts and sessions with their English friend back at the main body of the Grand Army, who, much to their chagrin were still days away from their position. They themselves were finally coming to the end of their journey, as their surroundings became much more familiar to the men. Claude Testot-Ferry was bearing a hastily put together copy of the map Charles Minard had gracefully drafted, provided, and shared with the highest elites of the French and foreign forces, and then finally, the Eclaireurs themselves.

But even the First Scouts were not without their fair share of hardships over their past week of travel. Sure enough, their food has also dwindled to nothing more than a few scraps of bread, thin slices of horse flesh, and boiled snow, which was fortunately and humorously abundant in these parts. The men now missed the occasional soup, stew, and wine of the homeland. They knew that once they had reached the promised land, the provisions they had once took for granted were going to return. They would once again be comfortable, regardless of what world they lived in. It had been a long time since they knew the truth, by to their knowledge, the rest of the Grand Army was still left in the dark. That would have to change soon. Otherwise, chaos would ensue in the coming months.

They only hoped there was more time.

Several minutes later, Claude had packed the map once more in his leather and resumed their race towards the Valley. The Colonel could already feel the fresh scent of tress from afar, the calm noises emanating from streams and small rivers, the chirping of birds, roars and howls of wolves, the galloping of herding does and stags alike. The ideal hunting ground. As settled before, the French rejoiced and enjoyed hunting, ever since the days of the ancient Roman Empire. The Gauls thrived from the lush forestry present in the French countryside. The Grand Army would surely thrive as well, without fault. It won't be long until the men would back on their feet, singing the glories of their Emperor, God, and Republic.

Mance

The wind, for some reason, was calm today. This, Mance Rayder could attest to. There was snow, yes, but only little trinkets of it. Small dots, floating and falling effortlessly as the weak breeze from the north flowed into the fields, trees, and valleys. They had existed the Valley only yesterday, after some delay with his entourage. There were sixty Wildlings in their group: Mance himself, Tormund Giantsbane, eight of his own, and another fifty that was led by Loboda, one of Styr's most trusted lieutenants. The alliance was solid, as of now. If the Magnar of the Thenns trusted him, then the Thenns would surely trust him. However, he doubted his position now. Mance and his group departed with haste, right before the Magnar had declared for him in all but name. He didn't quite follow the King-Beyong-the-Wall, but the god-chieftain was certainly not the stupid type to turn down a good alliance. An alliance that promised the Wildlings their rightful place south of the Wall. Where they could rape, pillage, and plunder however they liked. It would certainly be a problem. But, that was years from now. Time was of the essence, but it would take more of his time on this world to truly unify the Free Folk. And surely, he would successfully lead them.

Mance and Tormund were marching in the forefront of their little band of 'adventurers'. After all, they didn't know where to go or what to do. In all honesty, he went with this plan blinded. The only clues he had were blue coats, mounts, and and small ball that happened to cleave a Thenn's head clean off. As far as he knew, none of the Free Folk ever did that. Not in his life, or the in the entire history of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. There were wargs, yes. Skinchangers, parting from their bodies to mend and control the flesh of other creatures of the forest. That was the only magic he had come to came close by, not including his not-too-recent experiences with the necromancing capabilities of the Others. But this. He didn't know. How could a small, metal ball be such a danger to his efforts? He realized it not too far into their journey: these men, or whatever they are, could kill instantly. Swords or not, and if this was sorcery, they could surely kill anyone they wanted—no, massacre them. If, by then, the Free Folk continued to antagonize them, like what that hunting party happened to do, his people would surely face an enemy comparable that to the Others.

If these were, indeed, men, then he could reason. Excuse it as a misunderstanding. As far as he knew, these men in blue didn't suffer a casualty. But the Thenn did. The Thenn had a better stance to justify a war against these men in blue. The Thenn weren't so forgiving when another harms their on. They were the most civilized amongst the Free Folk, and the most advanced at that, but not the most merciful of people. He had to deal with this immediately, lest more deaths come. More deaths mean more bodies for the Others to harvest and add to their ever growing army of half dead abominations. He had seen it. Mammoths that could tower over farmhouses, giants that were even larger. Men, who had lost their arms, legs, and the majority of their humanity, walk with weapons. They were hallow, rotting, and scorched. The black bones and decayed flesh were haunting. And then there were the Others: with the great, giant frost spiders that sized as large as hounds up to even the biggest and grandest of destriers. Pale men that had icy growths all over themselves, sporting weapons of winter, and stood above all men. They were great creatures. They did great things. Terrible, but great things.

That was nearly eight thousand years ago. Now, they come to have their revenge. A second Long Night. A Night that will destroy the world.

His short reverie was interrupted by Tormund's hand grasping his shoulders, shaking him a little. Mance blinked and looked at the ginger. "What is it?" he asked.

The man pointed at the far distance, his rags stretching and following the movements of his arm. A pale finger protruded towards a nearby clearing, emerging from the forestry. Black woods, dead woods. "Look." the Giantsbane finally said.

It took a long time to see what Tormund had pointed at. Mance was middle aged. His eyes were weary, but he still stood strong. Narrowing his lids to get a clearer image, he immediately realized what was emerging out of the tall spirals jutting out of the white snow. There was dust and snow slowly clambering their way upwards, then suddenly, out from the barely dead trees, came horses. There were men, riding great beasts. Stallions that were larger than he had ever seen. Comparing it to the ones from the stables of Castle Black, these were much more muscled and trained. These were warhorses, only known in the North and below it. There no destriers in the Lands beyond the Wall, and destriers men an entire cavalry host. Whatever these men are, they brought an army with them. The though made Mance wince inside. There was an army of them. They had that sorcery of their's, but he never anticipated an army to appear out of nowhere. His predicament had just become more delicate. They would surely destroy the Thenns, he thought. They would destroy everyone.

"Mance..." Tormund said. "Those don't look like Free Folk to me..."

"I know... I know..." he followed, his voice lacking expression. He heard footsteps from behind him, it was the Thenns. Loboda, to be exact.

"Mance."

"Loboda."

"The horses. Men. They head towards the Valley." Loboda said, observing as the dust rose behind the galloping mounts and their riders, though very far away. He looked back at the King-Beyond-the-Wall. "Some of them have blue greatcoats. Others? Mixes of green as the grass of the south and others lined with crimson, blood crimson. Certainly not Free Folk. They don't look like kneelers either. They don't have armour, except for their helmets of theirs. Looks metal enough."

The Thenn commander's words became truth as Mance himself inspected the crowd, before they could leave their sights. They wore uniforms that were strange to him. They lacked armour, yet bore blades to their sides. Slight curved ones—good for swinging and slashing. They also had these gold-colored helmets, with spotted bases and long manes that extended from the top, like those of their own horses. The mounts themselves bore no armor, unlike the destriers of the south. Only saddles and packs. It made no sense. Who were these people?!

"One of my men recognize their garments. He was in the scout party from before. These are the ones. We found our... uhm, friends." Loboda commented. There came no response from Mance, only silently glaring at the cavalry group before him. "He says he wants blood, for his fallen comrade. The others agree with him. We could ambush the-"

"No! Just, no." Mance immediately snapped. "There will be no ambush. We will not attack them. We will present ourselves properly, until we meet their main host."

"Their main host?" Loboda asked, an amused tone in his voice. He chuckled. "No main host here, old man. All I see are cravens riding on their little ponies. They aren't kneelers, but they did kill a Thenn."

"Your scouts threatened one of them." Mance returned. Loboda scowled, but backed away as soon as Mance's men and Tormund begun to surround him.

"What would you do then, huh? Tell me, Giantsbabe?" Loboda taunted the ginger, grinning manically. "We outnumber you."

"I'll gut you, and feed you your entrails." Giantsbane snarled, clearly fuming with rage. "Touch Mance, I'll cut of your balls and feed 'em to your Magnar."

"You would dare-"

"Enough of this!" Mance said. "You squabble like children. We bear no ill will against each other! Stand down Tormund, I'll handle him."

Tormund was still scowling, but eventually backed down, dropping his arm to his sides along with his axe. Mance strutted forward, facing Loboda.

"Blood will not be spilled today. Nor any other day, especially when we meet their main host."

"How are you so sure, King Crow? The Magnar only trusted you because he thought you would bring him justice, for the undeniable murder of his men." Loboda scoffed, spitting into the ground. "Yet here you are, wanting to treat with these foreigners. And their 'main host'. How are you so sure?"

"Because I've seen warhorses. You have never. You were never south of the Wall. Aye, I'm sure. I'm sure." Mance retorted, crossing his arms, and made no effort breaking his stare off with the Thenn commander.

Loboda narrowed his eyes, then closed them. He chuckled a little and smirked. "I like you King Crow. You have a strong mind, but are you strong in a real fight? Aye, we will follow you. The Magnar ain't here, so why not?" The other Thenns finally losed their tense positions. So did Tormund and the other Free Folk. 'Mance's kingsguard', Rattleshirt, the Lord of Bones, once said. However, Mance remained anxious, vigilant even. There was still a doubt in the Thenn's voice. That small detail of disloyalty, dishonesty, and doubt. This was an issue he couldn't tolerate. As long as Loboda opposes him, so will the Thenns. So will their desire for spilt blood remain.

"We continue the march. Opposite their direction. We won't follow them. We head to their main host, and hopefully, treat with whoever is leading them. These are probably only the scouts. We watch out for others, as there are bound to be more of them. If we can, we apparoch them peacefully. No blood is to spilt." Rayder said in finality. That made other Thenns grumble, but Loboda remains stoic in his stance. He simply nodded. Mance could see the treachery in his eyes. He would see Mance as siding with them. He clearly didn't get the bigger picture. Tormund however, nodded too, and supportively, along with his other companions.

It would be a long week before things get done.

The band resumed their walk, while the figures at the corner of their eyes, with great beasts under them as steeds, disappeared into the horizon. The landscape had swallowed them once again.

Will

It was upon them. The Thenn Valley. The famed paradise in a sea of death, snow, and cold. They were so close, yet so hungry at the same time. The jagged edges of the Frostfangs, their peaks stretching from the blanketed horizon, was now in full view of the French Grand Army. Will could see the greenery, the tall evergreen forest filled with life, and the game that roamed, ready to be hunted nourishment. Fruits that were prepared to be plucked from their branches, and with every bite, juice spilt out. He would savor the flavor. It was probably the first time he would have eaten real food. The rations in Castle Black were as bland and bleak as they looked like.

Apart from his thoughts, Will had made progress with his 'marksman' skills. He was just starting, and there is much to learn. Much, much more. Marshal Davoust has implicated that the very moment he entered the Grand Army as a recruit. Auxiliary, he said. He was on reserve. A spare. It didn't bother him. After all, he only had just begun.

Davoust assigned him to his own division—a unit of troops that composed of five thousand other soldiers. Alongside that, he was given the rank of Soldat, or what Davoust clarified as Private in the 'English equivalent'. It was the lowest among ranks. Ranks were nonexistent in the Seven Kingdoms. There only the men-at-arms, levies, knights, and then the generals, which were either lords paramount, noble lords, or lesser lords. The term could also apply to knights with enough recognition and skill to be given the authority by their liege. The levies remained the bulk of armies. They never moved up.

What surprised Will was that the Grand Army was designed to allow men to move up, through skill, ability, and capability. The Emperor, Napoleon, had wanted the Army to be a meritocracy, where individuals, no matter how humble of birth, could rise rapidly towards the highest of commands, as did he. Davoust was extremely vague on the origins of the Emperor of the French, but it is widely known that Napoleon lived comfortably before, in some place called the Kingdom of Corsica, an island off the coast of what was known as the landmass of Italy. Given the right opportunities to prove themselves, capable men could rise to the top within a few years, whereas in other armies it usually required decades if at all. It was said that even the lowliest private carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack.

It almost reminded him of the Night's Watch. Even bastards, rapers, traitors, and criminals could be something. A man by the name of Allister Thorne was someone to prove that.

The Marshal of the Empire was never a rank in the first place, courtesy of Davoust. It was a personal title, granted to distinguished Divisional generals and commanders in the Army that had been recognized for their efforts, along with higher pay and privileges. The highest permanent rank was the Général de division, or Major General in the English equivalent. All these insignias, positions, appointments, and the notion of promotions were confusing to him. A true culture shock. The Grand Army was explicitly specific on it's organization. It was what held the entire force together, from the Southern to the Northern Flanks.

He himself was placed under the command of General Jean Dominique Compans, in the 5e Corps Battalion, the Fifth Battalion, another branch of 1,000 soldiers that served Davoust's I Infantry Corps. As explained to him, a regiment, in the case of the Marshal's command, usually contained at least three battalions, each comprising of a grenadier company, four fusilier companies, and one volitguer company. Another battalion was included, the depot battalion, which were composed of four fusilier companies. Each company contained a hundred men. The grenadiers were the elites, the best of the regiment, and were specialized in throwing 'grenades', or small circular pots that contained 'black powder'—the very same substance used to fuel the thunderous destruction of muskets. The fusiliers, on the other hand, were the regulars. They utilized the muskets themselves, and were the majority of what made up line infantry. They were the marksmen. Their weapon and companion, the smoothbore rifle. Voltigeurs were primarily the scouts and skirmishers. They took over specialized tasks, operated in loose formations, and screened for enemy forces. They were the skilled sharpshooters of the battalion, specifically trained in marksmanship, using cover and taking initiative.

The voltigeur company was what he aimed to be in. He laughed at his own jape, only briefly. His madness was still there, all thanks to that Other. The White Walker. He swore to Gared and Ser Royce that he would see that Walker riddled in bullet holes, face in a confused and painful expression, unable to comprehend what had just come upon him. He would have made his vengeance, all the while, earning the respect of these foreigners.

But right now, he was in no position. He had to learn. As Davoust had promised in return for his loyalty to the Emperor, he was to be placed with the voltigeurs. Will proved to be a valuable source of material for the movements of the Grand Army in these parts. So, he was under the Marshal's personal protection. So did the Emperor promise immunity. But, that didn't stop the other voltigeurs—seasoned soldiers and hardened men—from looking at him with scowls he swore that could have killed people half a mile away. They were so sour, in fact, that it was hard to look back at them. That hate. He didn't mind it, but it was so much hate that couldn't quite understand it himself. Whatever these Englishmen did to the French, it wasn't pretty. There was clearly a rivalry between these two nations.

Will's training officially commenced a while back. Days ago, and the day after he had that talk with Marshal Davoust and 'declared' for the Emperor. He had no choice either. The musket, of course, was his forced priority. Then there was drilling to train discipline, and customs and courtesies, as well as uniforms. He was surprised Davoust was this trusting of him in the first place. He wasn't at the same time. Will had no means to oppose them, and he had no reason to. He had been kept alive by these strangers, while the Watch will surely brand him a deserter just because he lost sight of Ser Royce. They wouldn't believe him anyways. It wasn't like he had a place to call home anymore. Eastwatch or Shadow Tower? Maybe. But they'll send him straight back to the Lord Commander regardless. He'll want answers. Jeor Mormons was one of the more reasonable folks in the Night's Watch, but he'll doubt Will. He can't make that risk, to return empty handed with no answers.

Will, like all other soldiers in the battalion, was provided a standard-issue 'Charleville' musket and it's bayonet, or the sharp end of the rifle. According to Davoust, it was the most widely used musket in the land of Europe during thei time, if not, the best musket in the whole world. The bayonet would be removed or put back on at will, in which, the musket itself can be used as a melee weapon. Not exactly the most formidable and effective compared to the usual greatsword, longsword, pike, spear, or bastard sword, but it could save you in close combat should you deplete yourself of ammo and powder. Relatively, the officers were the only men at the field that wielded a sabre—blade's that were slightly curved inwards. Relarive to the swords of the south, these sabres were swifter and good for slashing and thrusting. It was a deathly multi-tool, but, it was nothing in contrast to the common musket, carbine, or flintlock pistol.

Loading an empty musket incorporated several steps into the process, which was heavily emphasized by the four sergeants. Hardened men they were, bitter as ever, and the quadrumvirate were well versed in the discplining his new comrades, including himself of course. One sergeant, by the name of Baptiste Antoine, took him as a favorite. Will had to remember each step, and do it as fast as possible with only a single command. Initially, there were dozens that were expected of him to follow, but the other commands—make ready, present, and fire—with the exception of prime and load, were the only other commands he needed to here and do their respective movements. There were many more the decided not to linger too long about. It was variably too much. Telling himself would only cram his mind. At the sound of "premier et charger", which Davoust had happily translated for him, Will had to immediately follow the given instruction. The new recruit opened his priming pan or bassinet, plucked a cartridge from his giberne, bit off the tip of the end containing the powder charge, primed his musket by squeezing some powder into the pan, closed it, emptied the rest of the powder down his musket barrel, rammed the rest of the cartridge down on top of it using his iron ramrod (the cartridge paper served as wadding to keep powder and ball in place). He then cocked his musket and was ready to shoot. Will had been given the order to fire, and he did so, along with the other voltigeurs belonging to the company. He clicked the trigger and the weapon burst forth.

BANG!

Smoke and smooth erupting from the hallow opening afront the device. The recoil felt powerful, pushing him back slightly due to an untrained body. If he had held it improperly, the new voltigeur private would have dislocated his arm. And was it amazing. For the first time ever, he felt his body tremble in excitement. There was no madness for a moment, no fear, only the excitement to fight. All that power, that thunderous power, held at his fingertips. He felt invincible. He felt that he could truly defeat the White Walkers. He probably didn't need to either, because the Others would run, run away, like the cravens they were those eight thousand years ago.

The heavy wind heaved and scratched his face, but it didn't matter. The eruptions from the line was too powerful. It blocked all other sounds from the massive encampment. Another order was given to load. He followed thoroughly, albeit slowly, but he succeeded despite his lack of experience. It felt natural to him. "Feu!"

BANG!

"Premier et charger!"

"Préparer!"

"Présent!"

"Feu!"

BANG!

"Premier et charger!"

"Préparer!"

"Présent!"

"Feu!"

BANG!

The pops flared in quick succession. The same wonderous feeling endured throughout their training. After learning the basics of the musket, Will was given his own uniform: a blue coat with a yellow collar and cuffs piped red, yellow bugle horns on the turnbacks, white trousers and lapels, and to top it all off, a hat he was introduced to as a shako, a plain black cylindrical military cap that was adorned by yellow chevrons, a visor, green cords, and a yellow-tipped green plume that extended from the frontal top of the topwear. Humorously enough, he couldn't wait to get rid of those rags and that black cloak the Night's Watch had bestowed to him, and wear these instead. They looked appealing, actually. While not the most humble of tunics, the uniforms gave off an essence of wealth and power. If these uniforms were that decorated, he could only guess that the French Empire was something of a utopia—where everyone was free under the rule of a benevolent monarch. One that was actually good on his job. He imagined cities that were clean and surreal. A paradise under the blanket of the sun.

He promptly removed his rags. While he dropped it onto the ground, he felt free. Free for once, in all his life. Marshal Davoust had been there to congratulate him in his official commission as a Soldat, one that belonged to the French Grand Army. He now sported the voltigeur uniform. It felt majestic to be in it. The former brother felt like a lord.

"You would make your comrades proud," he exclaimed, "think of this as a start of a new life for you, away from the Night's Watch, and fighting for a new cause. I'm here to help you in that path."

After his uniforms came his very own military kit, which comprised of many things he didn't know at first. Many of these tools and objects were of no use to him since he never saw them in the first place. However, there were a few he recognized. Apart from his military apparel was his knapsack, where his personal belongings were to place. Above it were mess tins and his greatcoat. There was also the water canteens, which were similar enough to the usual wineskins he was associated with. The giberne, or cartridge pouch, would include his ammo. There were also a linen bag that contained his knife, spoon, and fork, a mug, a wooden bowl, a leather pouch for his coin, a small framed mirror, a shaving kit, and two mechanical contraptions the Marshal discerned as a 'pocket watch' and a 'compass'. The 'watch' told him the time while the 'compass' always pointed north, through some sorcery Davoust explains as the world's 'magnetism'.

He didn't know much about it, so he decided not to question the foreigner's ways. If they were this advanced, then he had time to learn about them some other day. Perhaps a maester will come to study such knickknacks and trinkets.

That was just about Will's routine as a new soldier, an auxiliary. While the others were quite distraught (more like irritated) about his new assignation unto the voltigeur company of the 5e Corps Battalion and he had little to no friends (other than the bully Sergeant Antoine and Marshal Davoust), he was comfortable. He was part of a new belonging, a new duty.

The company was marching behind it's fellow brother-at-arms, steadily retaining a line that was as straight as the edge of a longsword. Boots hit the ground, sending small shocks upon the earth and snow. It was a breathtaking experience.

Even with fatigue, the men stood strong. Even with hunger, the men stood strong. Even with death and suffering in every corner, the men stood strong. The banners of the Emperor danced widely, the hundreds of staves of the golden eagle maneuvered with finesse, and the muskets with their bayonets waved around the field as the soldiers of the French Grand Army continued their exodus to the upper North.

Charles

Charles Minard took his new promotion lightly. The other engineers, mathematicians, carpenters, and architects that were recruited into the fray congratulated him. His efforts came with fruits of course. While his new companion, Colonel Testot-Ferry, became the official head of not only the Eclaireurs, but was also officially designated as the supreme commander of the Imperial Guard's Heavy Cavalry. Whatever remains of it, anyways. Last he heard, the rest of the Imperial Guard was dysfunctional, nonexistent, and void of all their duties as Napoleon's elites. They were literally demoted, now integrated with the rest of the normal soldiers. The Guards were relatively positive, though. They respected the decisions made by their leader. He also understood it too. The Army needs all the unity and men it could get. I too need to do my duty.

Out of the nine pontoon companies that were mobilized at the start of the French invasion, three survived, along with one pontoon train. The two marine companies were completely obliterated during their retreat across the Smolensk route. Charles had the faint idea that the Russians wanted them to be there, on that lonely road. To be trapped, with no hope of getting a smidge of supply. It was a purposeful strategy. The Russians were starving them out.

Out of the nine sapper companies, one remained. Out of the six mining companies, three was saved from the ravenous effects of winter attrition and battle. The engineer park, though, was the only combat service and support division that remained intact. That's not say that the company was exactly complete. Many of them were ill and sick. Dysentery, diarrhea, necrosis, athlete's foot, typhus, and the good ol' common cold. Injuries were becoming more and more common as the march ceased to hault. However, not in the literal sense. Without the needed amount of food and proper medical supplies, Charles was surprised that even the Army survived this much torment these past couple of months. The dead piled up too, from all over the flanks. The toll has reached numbers of above a thousand. The animals weren't so lucky either, horse and oxen. They dropped dead on their tracks and was chopped up afterwards with blunt knives and axes from the sappers. What a way to die. Pauvres bâtards.

As leading officer of the Grand Army's Geographical Engineering Corps, he and his colleagues were responsible for the cartography of the landscape, studying of natural formations on land, and aid in the movement of nearly fifty thousand souls across the barren wasteland of the lands beyond the Wall. This much he knew, from his recent meetings with the Emperor, his entourage of Marshals and generals, as well as that sour-faced Davoust. I don't like him. Too... bitter...

Over the course of their mass 'migration' to the famed Elysian Valley. Or the 'Thenn'. It was such a strange name, but as claimed by that scrawny golden-headed English fellow, the natives their were very prideful of their name, land, and ancestors. "The First Men ruled these lands," he remembered Davoust translate to him what the boy had just said. They were meeting with the foreigner for the first time (his first time anyways, and strangely enough, the Colonel of the First Scouts wasn't there to greet him). Probably scouting. 'Will' (very English name) swore his fealty to His Majesty, and was subsequently recruited into the Grand Army. Under the ever watchful eye of Marshal Davoust, their guest was a Soldat. A private. An Englishman in the Emperor's Court.

Afterwards, the meetings became noncomplacent. He was rarely called. Though, he hoped the map would maintain its uses to the council. His company focused more on broken trains, carts, and carriages. It wasn't much, but at least, he was doing his part, along with his associates.

The cold wind blew over their little gathering, the fire cracking and glowing. The sun was soon to set, and their company of scholars were shifting about, trying to be as warm as possible with what layers they had. Greatcoats, not every effective in weather as chilly as this. Furs would do great, but not right now. The foragers, which were volunteers from the ranks, were hunting as much as they could. He could hear the singular bursts of muskets from a mile away, resonating across the valley of trees, mountains, hills, and rivers, along with the yelps of the animals themselves, downed by a force they have never met or witnessed before.

"We're all gonna die," one of the engineers said. Piedmont was his name and a younger fellow compared to Mindard's age. "So hungry..."

"Pull yourself together," another piped in. Javier was an older engineer, coming from Paris itself. He joined the company during Napoleon's reccruitment drive at the start of the 1808 campaign against the Spanish Empire. From then on, he remained in the military as a senior officer for the Engineer Park. He himself recruited some pontooniers for the Emperor himself, but never got enough recognition to be the company's leader. "If you think like that, you'll surely die with that kind of mentality."

Alexandre Piedmont eyed the older man for a second, glaring, then retreated back to the thoughts of his mind. Gustav Javier stood up, took a stick from the snowy ground, and began poking it to the dying fire. The other engineers were far too frail and weakened from the journey to even move their lips. Sealed, chapped, and dry. The water wouldn't help. It would freeze them.

Apart from Javier, Piedmont, and Minard, there were Roland Bachelet, Martial Barthet, Bruno Bullion, Hubert Brazier, Gérard Carpentier, Médard Delafose, and Gaspard Barnier. All them important, all of them working day and night, all of them significant to the Emperor's cause. He pushed that thought out of his head, his ears suddenly stormed by the noise emanating from the sprawling camp beyond their measly corner.

"I'm getting more wood," he announced, standing up. No one bothered to acknowledge that, not even Javier. Suprisingly enough, Piedmont stood up as well.

"I'll come with. Better to be moving than staying here and waiting to die." There was a slight humour to his voice, and irony too. Minard ignored it, though. He couldn't stomach a joke right now. After visiting one of the stocks, they found out the wood has ran out. No more batches were to come until the lumberjacks came back. Cursing himself, he beckoned Piedmont to follow.

Charles and Alexandre now wondered about the woods. The younger engineer carried thin sticks of dried wood they had found lying on the ground. Some of it was plucked from younger trees. Charles himself carried a bundle, a small one, by Alexandre had a thicker one.

"I think we should go back now." Alexandre mumbled, too cold to say the statement louder. He was shivering and walked awkwardly. Charles nodded promptly and the pair departed with haste. Minard could have sworn he saw a few shadows approaching them. Perhaps some of the soldiers patrolling the premises. There were, after all, natives around. He never did ponder whether there either. Feeling secure enough, the pair continued their trek towards their part of the camp. They passed oxen grazing on dried leaves and wheat, along with horses as well. Meat sizzled while the smell proliferated their noses. It was deer meat. Not the usual horse or oxen. Horses trotted about as officers or cavalry men made their moves from inside the camp. The spaces along the aisles of tents and shelters were wide enough to fit them. The paths were black with dirt and mud, the snow melting into the soil due to friction. There was no dust.

Steam arises from boiling pots of broth and water. What made that process convenient was that while they get water from the snow, it cleaned the water as well. It was enough to eliminate the impurities that resided. The boiling water also provided warmth with every sip. The men haven't bathed in a long time now. It was unhygienic for the most part.

Once they returned, they tossed the required number of sticks and thin logs to keep the campfire going. All the whole Charles placed the spares aside for later use. They resettled and relaxed. There was to be no work today. The company of ten would rest easy tonight.

Before Charles could even close his eyes to entrance himself with slumber, men begun shouting. It wasn't so much of a scream, but a warning. To alert the camp. The engineers jolted awake, erratically looking around to gain some news. A soldier came by.

"There's a situation north of the camp! Barbarians! Savages! They come! God save us!" The man left without another word.

Charles and Javier looked at each other and dispersed their own contemplation to the other engineers. All of them quickly got up and rushed their way towards the upper part of the camp.

Things just got interesting.