Chapter VI - An Englishman in Napoleon's Court, Part II

"Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than glory?"

- Jerome of House Bonaparte, 300 AC

Ney

"And who, pray tell, decided that using what little ammunition we have was the wisest choice in our current circumstances?" asked Marshal Ney, clearly irritated that one of his men had the audacity to break an order. After all, they were already in a bad position. Wasting ammo and grenades for something as small as drilling was going too far. He understand men had to train, for a fight is never far away, and they were in a world that would gut them like pigs should the time come, but he never understood the stubbornness of soldiers.

"A sergeant under General Compans, from the one of the 5e Battalion's fusilier company. A veteran if I might add. Goes by the name of Baptiste Antoine," answered the dull-faced Davoust, who was equally annoyed that one of his generals couldn't administer control on a quite rebellious officer of the Grand Army. "Compans insisted that he wasn't aware that Sergeant Antoine would actually use live rounds. As soon as shots were fired, others quick to notice. At least three volleys had gone off. That's what, three hundred rounds wasted?"

"Three hundred less souls to be claimed," murmured Ney. "It's getting out of hand, Davoust. Rebellions here, mutinies there. And now what? We have our own officers disobey our rationing? The Emperor will be most displeased." The commander of the I Infantry Corps stood up, bowed to the corner of the table, and proceeded to leave the pavilion, leaving Davoust alone with the King of Westphalia.

Jérôme

Things were certainly getting out of hand. Jérôme knew of this. Even when they are so close to their destination, the Grand Army was as fragmented as a cracked case of glass. It's fragile and brittle. Anything that could go wrong will go wrong. Mutinies from the regulars were normal, but when officers rebel, that was certainly too much to bear. It demonstrated the clear weakness of the Grand Army. It can no longer function as one if something isn't done. Jerome sighed.

"My Prince," Davoust turned, "I'd like to take my leave for now. There is much to be done concerning our armed forces." The man had a tint of respect in his voice, but also distress. Something that wasn't normal for someone as sour as the Duke of Auerstaedt. Jerome merely waved a hand, to which the man nodded, and vacated the pavilion as well.

Jérôme was alone again, like any other miserable soul in this damned wasteland. He began to ponder about the future of the French. Will they survive? Will they truly establish a dynasty of prosperity?

Then a sudden blare ringed around his ears. There were wild shuffles of feet and muskets. Men yelling and screaming as if a wild animal had just stumbled upon their camp. Perhaps a pack of wolves or a bear? He wasn't sure. Then begun the alarms, bells suspended upon tall rectangular poles of wood that resounded even when muffled by the tent's layers. Jerome rushed to the tent fly, confused of the sight that was beholden. Riflemen were rushing towards the northern portion of the camp.

"Sire," Davoust approached with his aids, "a situation north of the camp. I was on my way to meet General Compans to deal with Sergeant Antoine, but, it seems that another matter requires our attention."

"Let us see. Tell one of your aids to warn the other generals and the Emperor as well, though, I figured that with all the commotion, they would have already known."

Davoust soon ordered his men to disperse and alert the other officers. This could escalate quickly.

Jérôme was virtually running to the scene as more of the French gathered towards the north of the encampment, armed and ready. Davoust was ordering them to make way for the Prince, to which they obeyed without question. When they went deeper into the crowd, the men were silent, with steel eyes glaring at the source of this unwanted disorder.

The men were now separated from his left and right sides, waiting. They finally reached the end, where infantrymen aimed their muskets, ready to shoot at the command of their officers and generals. Jerome felt the tension in the air. He eyed at the people before him.

It was them. The wildlings. The barbaric nomads that supposedly ravaged the Wall for want of food, supply, and pillage. There were those who had brown and black crowns on their heads with unshaven facial features. Jerome took notice of a ginger in the midst of the rabble, and was a brute of a man. The others, however, almost shook his spine.

The other savages were with no hair, shaven in fact to a shiny finish, and pail skin to match their already horrific features. There were scars on their heads as well as their hands. Jérôme figured they too had such impurities all over their bodies. It matched well with the description that was told to them of the scouts led by Colonel Claude. So these were the Thenns. Whatever they had done, Jerome had no want of knowing.

At the vanguard of the wildling group, who counted as numbering at least fifty or so, was a man of middling height, slender, sharp faced, with shrewd brown eyes and brown hair that gone mostly grey. Even for his slim features, the man had a broad chest, from what he saw of his frame. He was covered with black furs and torn rags, clothing that were not worn since the era of the viking of his time, but there was a sense of civility in the way the barbarian presented himself.

"Davoust," he said, which caused the marshal to step closer, "I do believe a welcome is in place."

The troops immediately rendered their aimed muskets, but still stood on alert. "Welcome," said Davoust in the English language. "You stand before Jérôme-Napoleon Bonaparte, Prince of the French Empire and King of Westphalia. State your intentions."

There was a short silence when finally, the man in the front spoke up, "The name's Mance. Mance Rayder." The savage moved forward and unsheathed what had to be a makeshift dagger and blade. The others became weary and quickly moved to aim at the man, but Davoust intervened.

"Stand your ground!" he said in French. Jérôme understood this time. This was too much English to take.

Seemingly confused, the man who called himself Mance Rayder shrugged away his puzzled look and dropped the two blades he was holding. What would have made a sound in say, a floor of marble, was silenced by the soft cushioning of snow below them. The Frenchmen eased their stances, but was still cautious of any hostile attempts by the wildlings.

"I want to parley with your leader," Mance said, "treat with him, or her, if you will. There is something I'd like to discuss."

Jérôme didn't what he said, and asked Davoust, which happily explained the savage's request.

"Parley? What position is he to negotiate with my brother? They are but barbarians," replied Jerome, glaring at the 'supposed' fiend. He hoped that this Rayder had something good to say to his brother. Anything as mediocre as 'surrender' or 'give us your weapons or die' was surely a waste of time. Napoleon would have them arrested and used as hostages for future encounters at best or execute them for this spite on his dignity at worst. "Though, he is quite civil about it. I see no threat in his words," Jérôme finished.

"As you say, my Prince. It seems that there are no violent intentions from this man. I suggest we accept his request. We should show our civility." Jérôme merely nodded at that. Bloodshed was not necessary at the moment.

Davoust turned to Mance Rayder and proclaimed the Prince's answer. "His Majesty the Prince has accepted your request," he said, "and welcomes you with open hospitality. The Prince shall talk with his brother about this matter. In the meantime, we are willing to let you inside the camp. You can only bring another two with you."

Jérôme was aware that allowing more than representative could be dangerous, but it also had the benefit of security. If the Grand Army was this generous, the barbarians would think twice about retaliating should something happen by accident.

"I'll bring Tormund Giantbane and Loboda with me. No more, no less," answered Mance Rayder, "and we shall leave our weapons behind with our men. Please, allow them to camp outside."

Davoust nodded. A gesture of good will, perhaps. This way, the French could gain the trust of the supposedly unruly men that were the Wildings.

Mance

The strange men were... well... strange, to say the least. Mance Rayder considered their origins. They wore no armor, only fabric and cloth to cover themselves from the cold, with wild colors that wouldn't do well in the field. Blue, green, white, red, and gold were well apparent in their clothing. It also meant something else... These outsiders were wealthy, as he can tell. The man who called himself Davoust, pronounced with a silent s, referred to the younger lad prince. They couldn't be from King's Landing, as obviously foretold from their language, nature, and behavior. Mayhaps they were mercenaries from one of the Free Cities? He only heard stories from rare passing ships and the occasional smugglers near the Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, of the many sellsword and sellsail companies that dotted the Narrow Sea and the following continent of Essos. However, they didn't sound like the rabble he had heard of or the fierce, loyal, yet gold-driven warriors of the Golden Company. The men he had seen so far were soldiers, if not trained, then very much loyal to whoever seats on the top. Their so-called "Emperor". Such a strange title, as men of power usually claimed to be King or Prince of something or what not. King-Beyond-the-Wall was beholden to that fact.

What more could he see of these visitors from the other side of the world? Their weapons. They had horses, yes, and quite large ones in fact, as he had seen from that scout force a while ago. Only a few had their swords, ones with curved blades good for slashing opponents, and some had what looked to be intricately designed wood hanging from their belts, held in a pocket made leather. They had a long structure, at least at half an arm's length, with smaller pieces of metal carved and held in place, from the front, bottom, and top. A long metal tube stood out from the other parts, with a hole towards the front end. The back seemed to serve as a handle as he could see from the design. Perhaps it was a pipe? And then, as if the Old Gods of the Forest weren't satisfied enough with the perplexing gazes of Tormund, Loboda, and himself, the strangers conjured even larger versions of the strange contraptions, this time the barrel reaching at shoulder's length, and their heights greatly enhanced with blades attached to their ends. They looked like spears, but why design them this way? Maybe it had a two functions, to which Mance had no knowledge of. Then he remembered that small ball during his meeting with the Magnar of the Thenn. Could there be a connection between these two? Before he could come up with an answer, Tormund, unfortunately, interrupted him of his thoughtful reverie. The full view of the tent's interior came into view as his eyes slowly focused on the large ginger.

"Mance, you there? Welcome back to the land of the living," said the man in a comical fashion, "I thought I had lost you to the cold, though it's quite warm here." He slowly glanced at the latern. Loboda was silent, not a comment said.

"What do you think of 'em? The funny-looking bastards look weary and tired, but they're ready alright. It's as if they went through a battle to get here."

More like a war, Mance thought. He realized the conditions of the massive camp were piss-poor compared to heaping mess of lumber, stone, and ice that is Castle Black. Men were freezing like there was no tomorrow. "They're strange, Tormund, very strange. I'd mistaken them for greenboys and smallfolk, but they have that looks in their eyes."

"Aye," the younger man answered, "I see no craven here, but warriors. I respect them for that, even if they killed one of the Thenns, as stupid as they are."

Loboda eyed Tormund carefully. The Giantsbane shrugged, now willing to answer back.

An eerie silence overcame the tent once again. He could tel that his two other companions were uneasy, being behind enemy lines. As far as things went, the foreigners are mighty, but barely so, weakened by both the eternal winter of the realm beyond the Wall and an inherent lack of hope. He need not to look twice that the men were desperate, and he knew where this was going. Their Emperor will be more than willing to do what it takes to rid themselves of such a hazard. So, he decided quickly on the matter. He would try to ally with the Emperor. And hopefully, in his effort to aid his people, the Emperor will help him and his people cross the Wall, far away from the threat of the White Walkers, and as far away south as the tides would take them.

Mance returned to his senses as soon as he finished his mental work, thinking and considering about possible ways he could maneuver that would be beneficial for both the foreign host and the Free Folk. He knew well that the Thenn, along with other tribes, will not be amused about his decision.

He stood up immediately, the silhouette of his erected shadow dancing in the shade, rather glow, of the strange, boxy, contraption that was placed on the center of the temperorary home. Loboda paid no mind, his eyes busily farted at the flames of what the foreigners called a "lamp", which seemed to magically remain alight with no wood. Though, the space within was too small to even contain a log of wood to accommodate the fire. The Giantsbane looked up towards his chosen leader, expecting Mance to speak or tell his bidding.

"We're going to ally with them," Mance said firmly. Loboda stopped his mindless staring and also looked up, his face forming a blank look. Tormund, on the other hand, tried to look aghast, but couldn't. He could tell that the man had expected his decision as well.

"You know that Styr will be furious," Loboda added sternly, "that title of yours is as good as gone to the Thenns. The Thenn don't ally themselves to anyone, especially cunts that they don't know."

"We have an opportunity to take here, Loboda, and I suggest we take it. We can ally with these foreigners, provide them the comfort of the Valley, and know of their ways before we march to the Wall. With at least a half more than our current numbers, Castle Black will be overwhelmed. We will be victorious."

"That depends, Mance. Aye, they'll probably ally with you, seeing that these pansies are desperate for much good game and rest. But that prince and his bastard kneeler translator, with how they refer to their Emperor, it seems that they'd sooner stab us in the back before we even have a glimpse of the Wall. Say he does agree with helping us to get south, but he'll ask for more. Sooner or later, he'll threaten us of death and misery with whatever sorcery these bastards use if, say, we don't bend the knee to them. I won't bow to some foreign shites and their whores." The Thenn's rant was long and painstakingly hit too close to home. Loboda had a point, but Mance didn't want to keep his position any longer than necessary. There will come a time a new man will lead on in his stead. All men die. This whole King-Beyond-the-Wall nonesense was nothing more than a means to unite his people and save them from what he had seen. He couldn't let them die. Even the Thenns, with their cannibalism, the monstrosity that are the giants, and the moon-worshippers. He, as any other man proud of his heritage, would do anything to preserve it.

Mance held the title of King for more than a decade now, since the last Winter. And now, the Long Winter is truly coming. He'll sooner sacrifice himself just to see his people free from whatever lies beyond the Lands of Always Winter. Loboda was wrong. He will not bend the knee, but he will offer the hand of the Free folk. After all, no one owns anyone, and especially not him. Never him.

"Mance?" Tormund asked, "you really want to go through with this?"

"Aye," he replied, "freefolk or no freefolk, we might as we join together. There's no use in fighting them, or lest we all die at the hands of the Others. All of it would've been for nothing. The wars end now or never. The Free folk will see peace."

The red-headed warrior nodded in agreement. It couldn't have been said better. Loboda stares in disbelief, but conceded.

"We are yet to see your triumph your grace," the Thenn said idignantly, with as much disdain and hate towards the concept as any free folk, "the bastards might as well cut off our heads and pike 'em all over their little camp if our little stunt fails."

Mance paid no heed to the savage's talk. Suddenly, a shadow came upon their tent.

"L'empereur appelle pour vous," a young voice said.

"It's time," Mance said finally, before leading out his entourage towards the breach.

Napoleon

It was so that Mance Rayder, Loboda the Thenn, and Tormund Giantsbane arrived at the so-called Emperor's Pavillion, a tent that was larger than that all the others, guarded by the sturdy and gallant members of the French Imperial Guard. The Old Guard, despite the major divisions of days ago, remained with their Emperor, to protect him, especially with savages and barbarians within their camps. It reminded them of the Vikings and Germanic tribes of old, the parasitic vagrants they were, that once toppled the mighty Roman Empire. They were aware, forwarned, and alert, as is any other man in the camp.

Banners flew high on the two supporting poles the campaign tent, its entrance closed, as the distant murmurs of men from inside could be heard. The flickering of the lights from lamps were visible, so were the black figures of Napoleon's staff. A great contrast to the starry void covering the skies.

It wasn't Napoleon's private quarters, of course. Here, his generals, marshals, and officers were gathered to witness a historic moment during their first few weeks after the Event: a diplomatic discussion between two foreign powers. A first contact, as one might say, even if the representative were barbarians. It was a start.

Napoleon Bonaparte, His Imperial and Royal Majesty, the Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Helvetic Confederation, considered recent events surrounding the Grand Army's encampment. Barbarians have come, yes, but their intentions were other than to parley with them. More associated is he with the French parler, which literally meant "to speak", and he was all too familiar with how the English used it frequently. They wanted to speak, or should he say, to negotiate, according to Davoust. It was certainly what the Marshal had observed from the man's tone. He'll see soon enough.

The atmosphere within the Emperor's Pavilion was a solemn one, despite the news of negotiation. They were anxious to meet the faces of this Brave New World, one with too many unknowns for one to consider. There was naught but darkness outside, as the night had come upon them. A yellow-orange hue encompassed the entire scene, and despite that, the frigidity remained. Clouds came out of conversing mouths. Shoulders and backs shook at the cold, hands and arms trying to keep themselves as far away from the frosty tendrils of the climate as possible. And thus, their greatcoats lingered on.

So far, the only native they had met was Davoust's little experiment. The English boy, Will, had taken a liking to the soldier's life, even if he lacked the training. He would make a true soldier out of him yet, converted to the French culture and tradition, to the glory of the Empire, to the heirs of Charlemagne and Augustus Ceasar. The boy would make a fine servant towards liberty and freedom. He was, after all, their only source of information regarding the nature of the lands beyond the Wall and the Sodom below. Napoleon expects that that would soon change, and he'll only be reliable concerning the affairs of the Southern part of the continent. No matter, however.

To his left and right-hand side, respectively, Jérôme was seated as befitted a man of his title and rank, and so did his stepson, Eugène. All of them were in fact seated in makeshift thrones: three simple wooden chairs, draped with the colors of the French Empire. They were surrounded by the rest of the general staff, with all the Marshals present and accounted for. Davoust, ever the stone-faced man, remained at their side. He was named, along with his duties as Marshal, the Chief Royal Translator for the three monarchs. He took the title with gratitude, of course, honored that he could work closer with the Emperor and the Prince towards a lasting peace in this part of the world. Napoleon only hoped so, as their gunpowder, at it's current amount, wouldn't last them a battle because their men would sooner die due to the infernal cold.

Marshals Ney and MacDonald were the second closest officers, who seemed to be discussing about the barbarians. He heard Ney joke about "finally meeting MacDonald's relatives" to which the other general responded with a face slowly contorting towards a scowl. Ney apologized soon after, which seemed to liven up the moment for a bit, but anyways, died down to that same, grim atmosphere. Napoleon was well aware that MacDonald himself was of Scottish descent, but the man was born and raised a Frenchman, and nothing could change that.

His Chief-of-Staff, Berthier, lay in the background, chatting with other generals concerning logistics and the state of the men. Murat, as usual, boasted about his skills with the horse, maintaining that ever charming personality and flamboyant outfit. Murat was not the ambitious type, and insisted that he remain absent from the royal seats. The other Marshals were in their own discussions, unaware that their Emperor gave mind to them.

The appointed usher announced the arrival of the foreigners, their names heralded according to what Davoust had garnered from his short chat with this Mance Rayder character.

"Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Tormund the Giantsbane."

"Loboda of the Thenns."

The barbarians dressed in nothing more than rags and animal hides and fur, sewn together to create makeshift coats that formed awful textures to the eyes.

Speaking of eyes, Napoleon thought. His glance worked its way across the interior of the tent. Everyone was silent, their sights equally bored on the new comers, with expressionless faces that meant nothing to him. The one Marshal Davoust had referred to as Mance Rayder seemed to huff a small sigh before continuing his walk towards the improvised dais. As they came closer, however, he realized how tall they were, and how proud they marched on. He liked that kind of confidence, friend or foe. They proved to be a challenge to his seasoned, military mind. The procession eventually came to a halt several paces from the wooden thrones.

As planned, Ney and Davoust begun the introductory statements.

"You stand before His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon the First, By the Grace of God and of the Consitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra, and his brothers: His Imperial Majesty Jérôme the First, French Prince, and King of Westphalia; and His Imperial Majesty Eugène of the House of Beauharnais, French Prince, Prince of Venice, Heir to the Grand Duchy of Frankfurt, and Heir Presumptive and Viceroy to the Kingdom of Italy. His Imperial and Royal Majesty has seen the wisdom in acknowledging your call for a dialogue, and wishes to settle it," said Ney in flawless French. Davoust repeated these same words, but in English, as to accommodate their guests. The dark-haired burley man stood unfazed by the shower of titles and names, while the red-head and the bald one stared in awe, despite the lack thereof of open mouths. Everyone knew Davoust had somber and boring tone to his speech, distant event from emotion, but when used properly, could produce a terrifying, booming voice that made immediate results.

The Rayder fellow acknowledged the titles and nodded. He said something in a foreign language he knew too well not to recognize. Davoust reciprocated the man's statement towards the Emperor of the French.

"He says he is pleased to meet you, Your Majesty, and luckily so in just the right time," the Marshal said, with a slight confusion in his voice, "he hoped that the discussion would be private, but with the ears of your entire staff present, Mon General, it seems he had gotten what he least expected to happen."

"Well? Tell us why you have come," said Napoleon, eyes narrowing. His brain began to churn. Now that was interesting, he thought, the barbarian has come with terms. Davoust, without another word, repeated Napoleon's question, almost immediately getting an answer.

"My Emperor, Mance Rayder asks for an alliance. He wants the so-called 'Freefolk' to join the Grand Army's journey."

A silence then overcame the room, before erupting into near-chaos.

"This is outrageous!" one of the officers said. "Execute the bastards!" another quipped loudly, with much disrelish and loathing. "English cunts! What do take us for? Traitors? Over my dead body!" a voice howled, this time from MacDonald. Napoleon has never expected a man, let alone a Marshal or the Empire, could use such language. Of course, the Emperor has expected such behavior from the patriotic ranks of his command staff. They were too proud to call the Freefolk, or Wildings as that Will fellow liked to call them, allies as they reminded them too much of the English. Additionally, they wore garments of barbarians and heathens. There was no civility in the way these men carried themselves. Regardless of whatever these savages follow and practice as their culture, Napoleon was sure that they did not reflect the much more civilized peoples of Europe. It was an audacious on their part.

However, Napoleon saw not only a chance for the Grand Army to survive, but as an opportunity. He would have to hear of the terms later on in detail, with the help of Davoust of course.

Napoleon raised his palm, and the chaos immediately died out. The two men behind Mance Rayder, already alert and ready to pounce as soon as one of his officers started something, were pacified of their wrath when the officers were rendered silent. Unsure, they looked toward the impromptu thrones. The Rayder fellow remained expressionless and unmoving, but his demonstration of integrity was caught on by the Emperor. He shouldn't really elongate this night any further. A brief response and agreement would be enough.

"Marshal Davoust," he continued as he lowered his right palm, "ask them of their offer. I want to know what we get in return."

And Davoust did question Mance Rayder. The Englishman gave his quick response.

"My Emperor, he will give the Grand Army resources and foodstuffs and fighting men. A hundred thousand, and counting. The Grand Army will be given free passage into the Thenn Valley and allowed to stay for an indefinite amount of time. He only asks that the cultures and laws of the Freefolk be respected if they are to join the host and that we aid them in their journey south. They want to cross the Wall."

Napoleon nodded in Davoust's explanation. Indeed the survival of the Grand Army hangs by a thread. This deal was too good to be true, but at the same time, it could be bait. How can he trust these foreigners? Should he help them? How can the Grand Army remain in an orderly fashion of it accepts vagabonds to roam within itself? Will they follow the rules the French will establish? He did not know. Napoleon needed more time to think. Perhaps, until tomorrow, before they begin moving once again.

"I shall think of this matter and will decide upon the morrow," he declared. His answer was reiterated in English by Davoust. The burly man seemed to be satisfied with the answer, seemingly pleased that there was a chance he would accept. Napoleon continued, however.

"The King-Beyond-the-Wall and his entourage can remain within the encampment for the night and tomorrow morning. By then, I shall have my answer."

And with that, the meeting was concluded. Firstly, Mance Rayder and his comrades were guided outside by the Old Guards, heading towards north of the camp, where his other men were bound to be. Then, the other officers filed out, while the generals and Marshals remained with the three monarchs. As the last of the junior officers had left, Napoleon stood up, almost ready to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. It was Jérôme's.

"Brother," the youth said, "what will you do?"

"I must think," he answered sharply, but not too harshly. "This presents us with an opportunity."

"I second that, father" Eugène added, his arms crossed across his uniforms, still seated upon the wooden throne. "If the Englishman wants help, we'll give it to him. He'll give us what the army will need to survive for the rest of our journey. We get to the Valley without bloodshed."

Another voice came, this time, Ney's, heartily agreeing with the French Prince. "The Prince is right, Your Majesty. If we are to survive, we might as well take this offer to our advantage. Should we help them cross the Wall, they will be debted to us. We will need the manpower to restart the Empire."

The Marshals, of course, provided their fair share of reasoning in agreeing with the offer. As for the savages, they can be educated. It was up to the French to civilize them with religion and culture. They shall fall to the Empire's reach. There was much support to the agreement, and that was enough for Napoleon to consider an agreement.

"Your Majesty, if I may," approached Marshal MacDonald. The French-born Scotsman held a face fixed with a painfully hardened expression.

"Go ahead, Jacques," he decreed with a wave of his hand.

"I don't like this, Sire. This 'Mance Rayder', his too suspicious. He comes out of nowhere and offers a helping hand to the Grand Army. How are we to trust him? A barbarian? He might as well slaughter our men should we allow them to stay here tonight!"

"I'm confident in my decision, Marshal," Napoleon answered. It was clear and straight to the point. MacDonald understood fully. Though there was a slight flash of anger in his eyes. The Emperor of the French narrowed his own sights, noticing that quick glimps from the officer, after which MacDonald had finally conceded.

"I... yes, Your Majesty," he stuttered, "I was wrong to judge your decision. It was not my place. Forgive me. It... it might have been the evening air."

The rest of the night saw the Emperor, his brother and stepson, as well as the rest of the Marshals and generals plan an agreement that wouldn't be too demanding to the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

It was also then decided that the time has come. The Grand Army will know of their current predicament. Transparency was key in these times. Otherwise, you get skepticism, which leads to doubt. Over time, that doubt might as well fester into treachery. That would not do.

Claude

The First Eclaireurs, much to their dismay, arose and was greeted by the bright, blue, dull sky, and an almost familiar scene of rolling hills, covered with sheets of white, as well as the occasional patch of dead woods, while sharp and twisting mountains lined the rest of the horizon. Claude Testot-Ferry gritted his teeth in the cold. But there was nothing he could. They had to move forwards.

The scout horses were reduced into a slow pace as they approached the Thenn Valley, the climate getting significantly colder every minute. Trees became a rare sight as they departed the farthest edges of the Haunted Forest. Claude knew the river was nearby. They were so close...

After what seemed to be hours, they arrived. It was truly a miracle they were able to reach the Valley, Claude knowing well that it was only so by divine intervention. If God had wanted them to live, their purpose in life is yet to end. They had work to do.

One the horses were watered and fed, the scouts began their work on small encampment. Loads were unloaded, tent's brought up, wooden pikes from smear trees sharpened and penetrated into the ground. The regiment of 45 finished the camp in all but a few hours, before the hunting and gathering portion of their journey truly started. Fifteen of the cavalry men were sent into the dee forests to make traps for game, while another fifteen attempted to collect some edible fruits from the wild. Each were directed by lieutenants of his own choosing as soon command of the regiment was handed over to him.

The camp, so far, was located in the very southern tip of the valley. According to the information given by that English boy Claude had the pleasure of talking to (of course, in the presence of one Marshal Louis-Nicolas Davoust), the Thenn tribesmen we're located further northwest, deeper into the local volcano's darkened, protective shell. An eruption must have occurred only recently and he knew that an active volcano was something the Grand Army didn't need to deal with right now. Also nearby were the much more cannibalistic Ice-river clans by the "Milkwater" River, living and thriving into the interior of what Will called the "Frostfangs" Mountains. Truly, a much thought out name, befitting of its nature and shape. They looked like the jagged teeth of a tiger or a lion.

As scouts, the First Eclaireurs resolved to hide themselves from clear sight. The camp was fine by itself, but the fire could attract any would-be attackers from miles away. They could also be mistaken for the Thenn's or Ice-river clans' brethren. Rather than risk being discovered, the fires were put out immediately. Claude would send five riders south to meet up with the main bulk of the Grand Army. With at least a foothold here, progress was made.

The captain saw the cavalrymen, with replenished canteens and food stocks from deer and rabbit meat, as well as reinvigorated and rested horses, leave without much trouble. If trouble, however, came upon then, the scouts were either to hide, or, use their swords. The carabiners were a last resort.

For now, Claude could rest easy as they have finally come. Even with the absence of fire, it felt quite warm within him. He didn't know what it was. Perhaps it was him finally losing himself to the cold.

But he will endure, and so will his men. For the glory of their God, Emperor, and Republic.

Mance

In the previous night, the most strangest thing had happened. Expecting this foreign Emperor to regard little for his offered terms, Napoleon the First had instead gave time. Until then, there was no clear answer, but it gave him hope. Mance Rayder had to cling to that hope. The Freefolk needn't a war. They needed to head south.

The way these French worked, there was little he could relate with the supposed cutthroat nature of the Seven Kingdoms, where lords were boisterous, corrupt, and ruled over small folk. Where there was backstabbing, more wars that any can imagine in a lifetime, and petty squabbles that lead to bloodshed, death, and destruction. Yet, they know not of the second Long Night.

He arose early that morning, eager to hear the French leader's answer to his terms. Mance, once again, expected negotiations to be altered slightly. It was only predictable. The Grand Army is desperate, and so is it's commanding staff.

Under guests rights, no blood had been shed that night. The wildling group Mance led were accepted into the camp, allowed a space to make rest. Even more so, the French had provided them with food and water. For a starving army, they didn't look like much. In fact, they look like they've been starving a long time ago. And, during that evening, Mance decided he did not like horsemeat.

He had to give it to Loboda for maintaining his self-restraint. The Thenn were one of the most advanced tribes in the lands beyond the Wall, and the most disciplined. The other members of his tribe also made no further advances that would otherwise reveal their protest against his decision to offer an alliance. Mance has been impressed. Tormund, on the other hand, seemed content with whatever he decided. That would have to change. Tormund can't always be a yes-man. He would have to voice his own opinions as well.

It was finally time when a commotion had started in the encampment as soldiers rushed towards an open, flat field nearby. Snow turned into a browny, mushy mixture of mud and water. The entire Grand Army was mobilized into formation, but Rayder didn't understand what the maneuver was for. He and his group remained from a distance. Interestingly, the man named Napoleon came into the front of the massive formation. Several exchanges later, involving some yelling, rallying, and what sounded like chants and war cries, the formation dispersed.

Mance tried to walk around, looking upon the faces of the soldiers. There were confused faces, some in amusement, some in sad and downed expressions. Others were quite angry and furious. Whatever was said, it had a very significant impact in the integrity of the Grand Army.

"Good morning, Your Highness," said a voice in the Common tongue from his side, "it is good to see you." There, Louis-Nicolas Davoust, stood, already dressed in his campaign attire.

"Please, call me Mance," he replied, "and likewise. What was with the soldiers? I saw some of their faces. They don't look too happy."

"The Emperor has announced the Grand Army's predicament: we are no longer in our world but in a new one," came the dry reply. Mance caught on the statement quickly.

"What do you mean by your world?"

"Why Earth of course. It is true that we're foreigners, Mance Rayder, but that is so much more. We are from another world. Another reality, shall we say, by divine intervention or some other excuse by the religiously zealous," responded Davoust in a straight face.

"Liars, all of you," said Loboda, "how in the gods could you have have come from another world. There's only one!" The Thenn was very much frustrated and confused.

"Do you think us as fools?" Tormund reproached, stepping forward and tightening his grip on the hilt of his weapon. The blade of the rusted sword briefly flashed its reflective surface and caught Davoust's gaze. His pupils moved from the sword, towards Tormund, and then the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

"I assure you, it's the truth. You can see for yourself. We are unlike you or your people. We may look human, but we are humans who have progressed. Our Dark Ages has ended 300 years ago, when lords, kings, houses, and churches were the true power in Europe. In here, seems to have perpetrated for nearly 8,000 years." He looked away.

Dark ages? Churches? Europe? All these new things were coming in and out of his head like air. It didn't make sense. None of it did.

"Nonetheless, more will be said," he continued, "as the Emperor has called for you. A private meeting shall be done that will determine his decision in part of your offer from yesterday evening. It will take place in His Majesty's tent. I hope things go smoothly." Davoust turned. "Gentlemen, Your Majesty." And with a small bow, the Marshal turned and left the group bewildered

Napoleon

Napoleon's campaign tent was currently surrounded by an enclave of the Old Guard, where the Emperor himself awaited. After finally announcing to his soldiers of the current fate of the Grand Army, Napoleon hopes that the peace would be maintained. Otherwise, things will rapidly splinter apart. France will not survive. He knew what the men felt: anger, grief, confusion, hurt, and many other emotions he couldn't fathom himself. His mind drifted from memory to memory. The images of his son and Empress wife flashed before his eyes. Napoleon couldn't bare it. He knew he shouldn't have left, but his ambition and overconfidence got in the way. The Emperor of the French expected a quick victory against the Russians.

The soldiers of the Grand Army probably felt the same. That their Emperor would grant them a swift victory. The largest invasion in Europe failed, nonetheless. The Russian Winter swept upon them, engulfing them in temperatures that would make Hell freeze. Now, it was impossible to get them home. If the Grand Army did live on, the soldiers would still be disheartened. They'd rather die than live a life without their loved ones. Napoleon felt the same. He is a soldier, after all.

Snapping back into reality, the Emperor felt a trickle of tear escape his eyes. He quickly wiped it off with his sleeve. Napoleon, as the leader of the French in this world, had a great responsibility placed upon him, divine or not. His people had to survive. He only hoped that it would be so.

Marshal Davoust announced himself by the flaps of the tent's only entrance. After a quick "enter" by Napoleon, the Marshal entered and greeted him.

"My Emperor," he started, "I have informed Mance Rayder of our meeting place."

"Good. Things must go according to plan," said Napoleon, starting from the chair, and finally in front of Davoust. "The future of France will depend upon these next few days. We can either build a dynasty that will last a thousand years, or we can rot in the ground, the very memory of our people, our nation, and our God smothered forever from the face of this Earth."

"Understood, Sire," the Marshal answered. Before anything else was said and done, Napoleon grasped the other's shoulder.

"I am honored to have you in my staff, Davoust. Without you, we wouldn't have been able to figure out where we are. We know nothing of that bastard language, but you sacrificed time and effort to learn it, even if it wasn't meant to be. This knowledge you hold is invaluable to our cause. As expected of a professional military officer, you exceed any established standard. You have done a great service to the Empire," the Emperor said. The latter's face formed a raised brow, not knowing what to expect at that moment.

Napoleon took a small step back and dislodged a medal pinned on his left breast. The Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour shined as it reflected light from a nearby candle, boasting the smooth surface of the base silver cross and the golden texture of the Imperial Eagle, it's fluttering wings spread in all its glory. Napoleon took another star forward to clamp it on Davoust's own uniform, already glamoured with excessive decorations as befitted a general officer of the Empire. The Grand Eagle blended well with Davoust's own Légion d'honneur medallion.

"I, Napoleon the First of the Imperial House of Bonaparte, By the Grace of God and the Consitutions of the Empire, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, and Co-Prince of Andorra, hereby declare you the titles of the Grand Marshal of the French Empire, Mediator of the Frankish-Thennic Confederation, and First Consul of Nouveau France, with all provisions and privileges appointed with such positions and titles. This I say and command."

Davoust was speechless. He always has been, but not speechless to the point that he was surprised. The Marshal said what had to be said when it was required of him. He gave no remarks or unneeded opinions, wearing that steel mask.

"My Emperor!" The man practically screamed while dropping into the ground with into his knees. "I am not honored!"

"Stand, Davoust! Arise as Grand Marshal of the French Empire," Napoleon countered, his voice firm and clear. Davoust did as he was told, his body trembling before the Emperor.

"For my sake, Davoust, take my gifts with gratitude. You will lead my New France into its rightful place in this pitiful world," the Emperor continued. Davoust is known to be Napoleon's most faithful and loyal officers. Yet, here, in the doorstep of the Lake of Cocytus, the Devil's frozen prison, that loyalty has endured. It was only so that Napoleon gave something in return. Additionally, didn't dare forget about his other commanders, such as Berthier, Ney, and Oudinot, who had maintained their loyalty all this time. They were to become the first Grand Marshals to be proclaimed by Napoleon, who would lead his army to either glorious victory or honorable defeat. If the talks are successful, New France will be established. Sooner or later, all the Grand Army will be give it's due. He would conquer the world for them, for the France he unwillingly abandoned in that pervious world, and for his family.

"Come my friend, it is almost time. I can feel and almost grasp it. History and destiny will be changed forever."

And, just in the nick of time, an Old Guard made himself present and announced the arrival of the "barbarian" delegates.

For France.

Ygritte

Hardhome is the closest thing to a true town that the Free Folk ever built, though by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms south of the Wall it was a modestly sized fishing village. It was perfectly situated in a strong defensive position on the tip of the peninsula known as Storrhold's Point, near waters rich in fish, seals, and sea cows, and with abundant supplies of timber and stone in the surrounding cliffs, well sheltered with caves and caverns.

Six hundred years ago, exactly three hundred years before the eventual invasion and conquest of Aegon Targaryen of the continent Westeros, Its people are said to have been carried off into slavery by slavers from across the Narrow Sea or slaughtered for meat by cannibals out of Skagos, depending on the tale one chooses believe.

The homes of the inhabitants of Hardhome were said to have burned with flames so high and hot that the watchers on the Wall far to the south thought that the sun was rising in from the north. Afterwards, ashes rained down on the and the alike for almost half a year.

Traders and a ship sent by the to investigate reported only nightmarish devastation where Hardhome had stood, a landscape of charred trees and burned bones, waters choked with swollen corpses and blood-chilling shrieks echoing from the cave mouths that pock the great cliff that looms above the settlement, a cliff where no living man or woman could be found.

After that Hardhome was shunned. The wildlings never settled the site again, and rangers roaming north of the Wall told tales of the overgrown ruins of Hardhome being haunted by ghouls, demons, and burning ghosts with an unhealthy taste for blood.

However, superstition was, at least, what all Wildlings believed to be a fact rather than fiction. Others, however, reveled in making their assumptions and theories. One such person is Ygritte.

Quick-witted, courages, wild, fierce, and stubborn, Ygritte possessed great attributes that would otherwise place her in a higher standing within what barely existed of Free folk societal structuring.

Her main physical features consisted of a round face, crooked white teeth, small hands, and a pug nose. Ygritte's most distinctive feature is her thick, shaggy mop of curly bright red hair, paired with blue eyes that distinguished her from other Free women. Considered a great beauty amongst their loose-knit community of warring tribes and peacefully coordinating clans, the Free folk claim her to be "kissed by fire."

The spearwife's everyday clothing comprises of layers of fur and wool and leather, a doeskin shirt and a sewn sheepskin helm. Ygritte wields an axe and bone dagger but prefers a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, arrows fletched with pale grey goose feathers.

She was currently in the warband of the Lord of Bones, mocked with the name of Rattleshirt due to the bones who wore as armor. At Mance Rayder's request, a party was sent from Skirling Pass to Storrhold's Point to scout a potential base of operations for the Free folk's eventual invasion of the lands south of the Wall. Led by Rattleshirt, he included Ygritte in the party. With them were Ryk Longspear, a well endowed warrior with a friendly demeanor, the spearwife Ragwyle, a man by the name of Orell, and others she couldn't quite recall seeing or even heard of. Mance Rayder understood that Eastwatch-by-the-Sea may have been an easier way across the Wall than compared to Castle Black, but with the majority of the Free folk host already condensed within their encampment in the Pass, more time would be wasted should they move the massive hundred-thousand population across the Haunted Forest. It was too suspicious as the Night's Watch would notice almost immediately. Better they stay hidden before the Seven Kingdoms does see the Free folk as a threat and destroy what Rayder has built. Every free man, woman, and child knew of the danger of the White Walkers and their undead army. The First Men fought them, and they kept the ways of the First Men. They might as well believe in their legends and stories of old.

In no time did they finally reach the ice covered shores of Storrhold's Point, sticking out like a sore thumb into the freezing waters of the Shivering Sea. Hardhome was their target, even with its stories of ghouls and ghosts with their appetites for blood and meat of Free folk. Across the cliffs and into the shoreline stood the decrepit ruins of the Free folk's "last" experiment into a fully-functioning, self-sufficient community. The dried, charred skulls of its inhabitants still rested on the permafrost while centuries-old carcasses bore little more than bones. The dockyards were shattered with the wooden carrion of ships and boats while fabrics from what looked to be sails flew with the wind, years of weather, dirt and soil having made its toll on the texture. The burned shacks were little more than planks of wood barely standing. None was left whole.

"Ain't nothing 'ere but death," inquired Rattleshirt as he fumbled a small skull with his hands. He dropped it into the ground without much regret. "They say the Old Gods cursed this place with ghouls. I see no ghouls. Only bones. Nothing but bones."

"You weren't really one to believe in tales, Lord O' Bones," Ygritte started, "and it looks like you've found your own subjects—all bones and no meat to show for."

A snort escaped from Rattleshirt's nostril.

"Cravens, all of 'em. Fishing didn't do 'em good either," he said lastly, gesturing at the pile of skeletal bodies, "we're leaving. The 'king' will be expecting us by then."

Before they could start moving, however, Ygritte spotted a shape, no, several shapes from the dull horizon.

"Lord O' Bones, look over there," she pointed out. Rattleshirt turned at her alert. His eyes narrowed from within the skull mask he fashioned himself with, trying to see. The rest followed in looking upon what the spearwife had discovered.

"Those are..." Orell began, but was immediately cut off.

"Those are ships," Ryk finished.

"They don't look like what the kneelers use," Ragwyle surmised.

And indeed, the taller and larger spearwife was correct. The ships looked quite massive even from that distance. Their hulls sported black and white stripes, making them distinct from the background. Others had black and red as their colors. Numbering in the dozens by now as they made themselves within visible eye view from Hardhome, each ship hosted three to four masts, each with square sails, and in between where them triangular sails. They were held with a complicated network of ropes and lines that managed to outline their shapes. The vessels seemed to be turning towards the shore.

Ygritte's eyes widened at that realization. Others were staring in horror as they too came to the realization that these ships, whatever they are and whoever they belonged to, were massive and heading towards the direction of Hardhome.

"We need to go. Now," Ygritte said to the rest of the party. "Mance needs to know of this."

"What's the use? We'd better run. If 'em kneelers knew of our plans, then it would be useless. They'll cut us down long before we can get a word to him!" said Rattleshirt, with his regular treachery and cowardice playing into his mind.

"Once a craven, always a craven, Lord O' Bones," quipped Ygritte, "we're going nowhere with you. Mance is King."

Rattleshirt gritted his teeth, his ears steaming red.

"All if you lot are insane. You belong to me! Not to him! Not to Mance fucking Rayder," he yelled.

"We are Free folk, we belong to no one," Ryk followed, "but Mance owns our loyalty. We follow him to the South."

Still angered, he approached Longspear, "I will get my warband and will be leaving with them. I'll find a way south on my own, without Mance Rayder and his kingly nonesense."

The Lord of Bones turned and left the town, along with at least half the party. The other half remained with Ygritte.

"We head for the Thenns and alert Mance. Hopefully, they are with us. If those things," she began, gesturing at the ships faraway, getting ever closer, "do come ashore, then we'll need to let him know. We'll need the might of the Free folk to repel 'em. Kneelers or not, we'll make 'em bleed for the lands of the First Men. Let them come, and we'll give 'em a bloody jostle before we go down."

The remaining, former warband members of the party made war cries and raised their makeshift blades, climbs, and daggers. The group made their departure away from Hardhome.

An Admiral

He studied the maps nervously, unsure of what to do. The joint fleet faced a dire situation at their hands—they were lost, with no guide or landmark to hint of their whereabouts. It was getting desperate.

He didn't remember the Mediterranean Sea being so cold, especially this early into autumn. He held on the hope that it was simply a breeze, but then sheets of ice appeared over the seas. It was bizarre.

The flagship of the fleet, the Bucantaure, rocked as its hull buckled and crashed against the frosty seas. The superstructure creaked and cracked as if it would all fall apart as soon as he moved. But, no, it was all an illusion, enhanced with this sense of dread and uselessness. With the fleet lost, and him commanding it, could it be that he had failed the Emperor? His orders were crystal clear. Bring the reinforcing troops from Cádiz, Spain and drop them off in Naples. Only leave under the condition that the English have fielded inferior numbers in ships should they start a pursuit.

This failure may be the greatest disaster of his career, and one that would mean his doom. He will be shunned for his poor leadership, stripped of his ranks, and sent home back in France. He was ashamed it all had to come to this. After learning about that an officer would supersede him, he planned to bring glory to the Empire. But, things hadn't gone according to plan. Leaving Cádiz way have been a mistake on his part, especially knowing that defeat was inevitable.

Collecting all the courage he muster, he sat up from the depressing state of his desk and donned his coat and cap. He slid it to the side of his for extra measure. After making sure his uniform was in order, he retreated to the door and left the cabin.

Eventually, he emerged from the stern of the ship into the quarter deck. It was crowded. Soldiers stood in clusters as they conversed with one another, shivering under the cold. Some wandered aimlessly, trying to loosen grip of the weather on their minds. Others were slumped to the deck, cold and tired. Medics and nurses checked up on them every so often.

The crewmen, on the other hand, maintained the ship—a nominal procedure during the course of the vessel's journey. They pulled ropes, hauled barrels, and went up the masts. The crow's nest were occupied daily, telescopes turning here and there, looking for a sign of land in the vicinity of the fleet.

Speaking of the fleet, it all but sailed on the same direction. It sported some of the largest ship of the lines in the world. In particular were the massive Spanish galleons, with its hundred-gun arsenals and frightening color scheme. He had to give it to the Spanish—they were once a mighty empire like France, but they overstretched themselves. While France gave up its colonial ambitions for now, it was the mightiest nation in Europe. It was without rival.

Side by side, the fleet of forty-one first-, second-, and third-rates, as well as frigates and brigs, coasted the waters in three parallel lines, each column containing between 13 and 14 ships. It was an irregular formation, but it equalized the presence of the vessels throughout its vicinity nonetheless. He managed that a straight line of ships would be disastrous—the fleet could be devastated if the opposing enemy simply sailed perpendicular to them and cut off sections of the formation. They would be encircled. He had heard that the English dog Horatio Nelson would be the one chosen to pursuit the joint fleet. He would not let that man catch the fleet off guard, not while he breathes.

He steadily paced himself towards the upper poop deck, the ship's wheel currently steered by the helmsman, and the captain right behind. Other officers were either roaming around to make sure things were in order, or, stood by the captain, making their observations and helping with whatever they can. Mixed with the command staff were army officers as well, who led the troops on board.

"Captain," he greeted.

"Admiral, you have come, we were just about to tell you that—"

"Land ho!" a sailor screamed from the top of his lungs, currently keeping himself at the crow's nest on the main mast.

He practically rushed towards the main deck and looked up, the Captain and officer following him. Troops and crewmen alike stared up. The sailor pointed towards the starboard side of the ship, into the dull horizon. From the white misty fog emerged a white-covered landmass.

He looked on and his eyes widened.

"Admiral! We're saved!" the captain beamed. He heard shouting from the other ships arranged in the formation. There were sounds of celebration and glee, both from the French and the Spanish. The Bucantaure itself thundered with the claps and yells, hope returning to them.

For the first time since the event, Vice-Admiral Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve of the French Empire smiled. His hope and confidence was restored. Whatever he was thinking of at the moment was gone. He was yet to fail his people, Emperor, or nation.

The fleet will succeed in due course.

For France.