AN: Finally, the first chapter to the story. It has been indeed months since the last update, and for that, I apologize. Enjoy!

And, as for the disclaimer: I do not own the Napoleonic Wars, Game of Thrones, or A Song of Ice and Fire.

- - - CHAPTER I - - -

A Brave New World

JÉRÔME

Palace of Napoleonshöhe, Cassel, Kingdom of Westphalia, September of 1812

A figure stalked, blocking the irradiating rays of light from the noon sun, high in the sky. The weather has been an improvement since his arrival. And unlike that day, where the clouds were overcast, descending from the heavens unto his realm like a thick blanket of gloom, today had been clear. Now, his pathway arched, turning from corner to corner, as he made his strut across the gilded and polished halls, with chandeliers of intricate designs and glass crystals, and of tall, paned glassware set upon the walls, in which the light pooled inwards. Marble walls and artful stonework, the finest of cloths for the curtains, and palisades that were of recent renovation. Grandiose paintings of the king, along with his queen, were hung from the halls and staircases, stroking the man's ego even further. Indeed, it was known that Cassel hosted the employ of the most prominent of French artists and painters.

Guards administered security and assured safety. Servants and maids made to maintain the luxurious trappings worked tirelessly to fulfill the wish of their masters. That is, those who paid them, and generously paid were they for their hard, arduous labor. There was good coin to be made, and to be spent.

The once Neoclassical fortress of the Hessens had been turned into the king's playground, where he and his court were held, utterly unfazed by whatever extravagance the improvements and expansion may have caused. The Head Chamberlain of the residence, Heinrich von Blumenthal, was all too happy to provide for what His Majesty requested, and he did so, making it his work as governor supervise and enforce extensive enhancements. And with the furnishings of the palace, it only became right that such wealth be reflected upon the rest of the kingdom. And soon, bridges, complexes, parks, fountains, and paved roads followed. Included in these small projects was a court theatre, for exclusive use by his administration, established near the grounds of the king's chosen home. Cassel was unequivocally transformed into culture and architecture, the first representation of the modern state and its utopian values, and a model to be used and mimicked by other German states. This enormous cultural upturn would be unmatched by any other of the confederation.

From such a high pedestal, the kingdom would surely fall harder than any.

Jérôme Bonaparte, the King of Westphalia, French Prince, and Prince of Montfort, with pride that swelled at every moment, invested his days in courtly matters. That is, if the business of governing realm mostly comprised of extravagant balls, festivals, and feasts within the confines of the Germanic castle, then it would mean as much to the Emperor's youngest brother. And now, he roamed the halls freely, as would any a man of his own household would commit to, when none can be done in the course of the day. Jérôme had left the duller and monotonous affairs of the state to his secretary and ministers.

It happened that the ruler of this small, fragmented German kingdom, seemed none the wise bothered by having done what he had. He thought only right, that he had committed himself to a righteous, honest decision, in opposing his brother and running away with court and guardsmen tailing him. Let Bonaparte the Elder, the Emperor of Europe, be with his own, and Jérôme shall keep to his realm. The King of Westphalia will do as he pleased, and he would not, could not allow the French Emperor drag him on his heels to war. To allow and be contended with the man's abuse would be weakness.

He remembered as his brother had drafted him a letter, laden and ridden with as much loathing as kin to kin can muster.

"You must be a soldier, and then a soldier, and again a soldier..." he started, his script still as horrendous as a decade ago, "...bivouac with your advance guard, be in the saddle night and day, march with your advance guard to have the latest information, or else stay in your harem. You make war like a satrap. Good God, is it from me that you have learned this? From me who, with an army of 200,000 men, am at the head of my skirmishers?"

That was but three years ago. What more were the next set of messages? What more of the hatred he has endured, the wrath that his brother wrought upon him, even if they were kin? He stomach it any longer. The Second War for the Polish was but the final straw of this little charade. And when, ultimately, as he did as much as he could to commit himself to a war he did not want, the Emperor replaced him for incompetence. He was furious of course, glaring at that frowning, sour-faced man called Davoust, and stormed far away. Far indeed it was, as he since crossed the entirety of Europe to find himself in the comfort of his palace. And with his harem, he rested. Jérôme would stay with his trappings.

For all his false sense of pride, Jérôme thought he held power. In truth, he does not. The existence of his kingdom relied entirely upon the generous coffers of the Empire next door, the backing and might of the French realm, that could do more than him and his court with a portion of what the kingdom spent daily. How could that be so? Perhaps it was the balls, useless as they were. Was it the lavish style of his reign, that he brought a great flowering of the arts and crafts of the barbaric Saxons? Or was it the great projects he committed his architects and chiefs to improve the lives of his people, that has been loyal to him? That thought escaped his mind. Once again, he anticipated no consequence from his desertion.

And when one takes into account, supposed that Jérôme's blindness was removed, the finances of the state were as troubled as they were, even after his return. Westphalia was gripped in agitation as a result of a national sentiment. And his ministers and secretary hid from him, for they were more corrupted than Cain himself, and turned aside an eye. They stayed silent, for their lives were too comfortable. And as Jérôme remained dubious of the fact of the situation, he neglected, and moved to find his wife.

Oh, the loyal Catharina—his beautiful, faithful wife, that was willing to turn her cheek the other way, as he familiarized himself with the curved, smooth and bodily ingenuity of other women. His mistresses he met, and he sired bastards from them, and he acted to support them in finances for their futures. He and his lawfully, wedded wife, had yet to manage an heir. And many were suspecting that the king was unfaithful. For all the problems that this posed, he continued with his sin. But, he loved his wife so, that they were happy in marriage, and enjoyed each other greatly. And for that, Catharina still kept to him, unwavering and stubborn, ignoring even the pleas of her family to return and let the whoremonger rot.

Now, he looks on, searching for his wife. Perhaps he was looking for something else. Was it morality? Was it redemption? Was it salvation from the hell he now found himself in? He ponders still, for his judgement remains clouded by his own ignorance and hubris. Though, one can hope. There is a reason as to why Jérôme had opted to skip his duties for the day.

Finally, he reached his Catharina, the Queen consort of Westphalia, as she did any woman of noble birth did in their spare time. Housed in the comfort of the common rooms, the woman supped on an afternoon snack, with a cup of coffee and some breads, cheeses, and crackers, while she busied herself with a manuscript. Her white dress challenged her pale complexions, and completed the image of a true noble woman of royal birth and relation. His arrival was of notice, and Catharina turned her head, a warm smile upon seeing her kingly husband.

"Jérôme, my dear," she greeted happily, "you are here?" It was addressed instead as a question. "Is it not that the ministers need you for your expertise? Surely, the ruler must be present to rule his kingdom."

"Never mind that, my darling. I have come to spend time with my wife. Gone for nearly half a year, and received by the realm only recently. Do I not have the right to spend my days with my own queen?" He equipped, returning her soft smile. There was a giggle. He moved closer to clasp her hands.

"Such a way with words, Jérôme. Are you sure it is appropriate that the affairs of the state is left with them? You are king after all," she followed, with worried gleam in her eyes. Jérôme waved that away with a hand.

"Let them be, for I know that men such as them are capable enough to handle my kingdom, and without my every presence being needed every second," he answered truthfully, the honest reality still unbeknownst to the King of Westphalia. "I trust them to do their duty." He grabbed a chair so that he sit with his wife. It has been a long time coming that he settle these things once and for all.

"I have seen war, Catharina," Jérôme began, as his hands climbed to caress his wife's hair, "and I fear that my brother will drag me back once again. War is not my nature. I dislike like it. I only want peace and prosperity."

Oh how he loathed war. He never had the ambitions his brother had. It was a truly bitter taste, to experience war, to see the men die, to see the amputated carcasses, empty shells, and eyes that had lost their shine. It was not his business. And, he figured, life was too short to live it sinfully, and so plagued with his machinations and spells of damnation.

He paused for a while.

"I know that I have not been faithful to you my love, and I am frightened. Frightened that I would die in this war, or the next, without returning the favor to you. Without even consummating our marriage, even if we love one another."

Another pause. He could see the eyes of his wife glass, full of even more worry.

"I fear death, Catharina, as I have not repented for my sins. I cannot forgive myself to die in the field without fixing my faults, nor do I wish to die because of war. If there is any point to this, then, I would like you to know. I want a son, Catharina. No more mistresses. No more lies. I want this all placed pass behind us." Jérôme finished. Indeed, Catharina was now in tears, her head heavy and cheeks blushed in redness. The woman jumped to kiss him, their lips linking. They would hold each other for quite a while, and then parted. The fervor of their passion still hung in the air.

"That's all I wanted to hear," she whispered, holding him tightly. "Please don't leave me again." She could feel the pain in her voice, released. Her body trembled, but relaxed and rested on his chest.

"I will not," he responded softly, even his own voice losing composure.

It would be the last he would hold his wife so, as after his confession, Jérôme slumped to the ground. His body shook and quivered in pain, and a great Light enveloping his eyes. The last he heard of his wife was a panicked, helpless yelp, calling out his name, and then everything fading rapidly into blackness.

— — x — — X — — x — —

Somewhere in a woods, time unknown

It took long before Jérôme had awoken. His eyes fluttered open, revealing an all too familiar scene. His eyes chanced at a pale blue sky, blocked by the crown of tall forestry and their many leaves, evergreens he had surmised. He arched his upper body, releasing grunt as he got up, himself still seated on the forest floor. It was if the king had fallen from above, crashing into the ground, and breaking bones a many. Yet, there were no fractures. Simply the lingering pain from before, when his body spasmed out of control and left him on the floor of his palace. He was so sure that he had wet himself at the time, but that was not too important at the moment. With another grunt, the King of Westphalia picked himself up from the ground, with the concept walking unfathomable at the moment. His body was still in pain.

Thus, he looked around a moment, his whereabouts unknown. For what seemed like miles, there was naught but trees as far as his eyes could see, with every bark and branch revealing more darkly stems. It was freezing, not to mention that clouds of warm air that emanated from his mouth as he took deep breaths. Jérôme's dress was not sufficient, and even so, he realized it was not as cold as before. The season was still of the fall. Why did it feel like the early onset of winter?

And then it struck his mind. Why was he in a forest, of all places? He knew well that he was in the palace, as he still felt the rugged floor from his painful trance. He should be in his quarters, tended to by his physician and nurses, while his wife was beside him, praying for his return to good health. And yet, his expectations were anything but.

He was alone, freezing in the frigid weather, and not a single iota or clue as to why he was there and where he was. Jérôme was in pain, to be sure, but not much. It was a sore that encompassed his being. He supposed he could brave it. It was not long before the palace guards notice his absence. The king was sure that search parties would be sent. It would all over soon.

And so, Jérôme caught sight of a fallen log, and took lodging there, waiting patiently for any sign of his guardsmen or anyone at all, coming to his rescue. And then, his patience ran thin. The princely Frenchman, Corsican in blood and birth, limped across the forestry, calling out to whomever was out there. No answer came back, except for the critters and beasts of nature, chattering and singing, seemingly in response to his distress. And then finally, his body took the toll, and he supported himself on a trunk. He had tired himself out.

Jérôme dropped to the forest floor, disgracing his kingly attire, tainting it with a mixture of dust, grime, and dried soil. He knew not what to do. So, he sat there. He had traveled long in his trek, and that did not do him any justice. The man resolved to stay and rest for now. Before long, his eyes closed of exhaustion, and Jérôme fell into a shallow slumber.

— — x — — X — — x — —

"Jérôme!"

The faint voice awoke him. It was Catharina, struggling, her voice frail and weak, calling to him as if he had fallen into a hole. The effeminate echoes awoke him from his descent, and rapidly, be reached out, as a Light came closer from his enclosed pupils.

"Catherina!" He called out, only to be met by the forest, the shade slightly darker from before. Precious time had passed. Weakly, he dropped his hand, his senses tuning in with the rest of the earth.

Jérôme's eyes landed on a curious bird, jet black in coat and beak, perched upon a branch close to the ground. Small black orbs floated in his direction, seemingly observing him. The crow, or perhaps even a raven, looked on without fail, even he propped himself up. It did not move, except for the occasional head turns, and did not seem too bothered when Jérôme came nearer to inspect the avian.

"You're a curious little fellow, aren't you?" Jérôme inquired to the bird. It's head angled to the side just to satiate his line of questioning. He chuckled at that.

"I don't suppose you know where the nearest sign of civilization is, bird. Will you lead me?"

The avian said nothing, as if confused, and even repulsed, that the great ape, the most advanced creature on earth, would even bother to ask the bird. Jérôme himself felt stupid to ask at all. Has the forest made him mad? Will he succumb to the insanity of isolation?

"I thought so," he surmised. He saw no further reason to continue the unnecessary conversation.

With one final look, the black bird released a screech, opening it's mighty wings, and flapping away. Now elevated well into the heights, the bird simply disappeared from sight, never to be seen again.

On the other hand, Jérôme felt trapped in this woods, with no sense of direction, nor the ability of flight for that matter. He would soon lose daylight, and he would rather not stay in the dark. He needed warmth, desperately, and some something to eat. In so far, there was nothing in the forest that looked safe enough to be edible. And so, he entrusted his chances to the uneventful journey, the lone king wandering in the woods for any sign of human society.

Jérôme's efforts would soon bear fruit, resulting in a stream of curses directed at the One Above, and then his brother the Emperor. It was his findings that he had not expected, nor was he liking it in anyway shape or form.

Emerging from the lush and dark forestry, the King of Westphalia found himself at the forefront of a decrepit, wooden village. And he, with his keen eyes, figured that was neither French nor Westphalian. Languishing to continue and hesitating to take a step forward, his stomach demanded satisfaction, and Jérôme's instincts got the better of him. With one foot after another, he approached the peculiar settlement, determined to get answers from the locals.

As he arrived, he saw the people to be filthy, as of the peasantry had been pushed back to the dark ages. Comparable are the state of the Russian people, farmers and serfs that were none too lucky to be serving their vile Slavic masters that decided to make war with his brother, dragging him their madness of blood and war. Jérôme figured they were at fault too, for the circumstances are strange, and there was not much blame to to around. He entered the village, looking as gallant as possible, patting away any vestiges of dirt and grime from his apparel, while trying to hide his limp. The pain had eased, but it was all but persistent.

The locale had started to notice him, bowing and greeting him fervently in a language that was all too familiar. English, he thought. And not the English spoken by those of noble blood, and of the courts and palaces. It was a bastardized English, similar to the growls and grunts of the more vagrant Scotsman or Irishman. As the folk gave their respects, things seemed only to have worsened. Now, more perplexed about his situation, he ignored them and he avoided to answer, for he did not how to speak the language. He understood them as clear as crystal. Damned this! He thought. This is not good!

After it seemed he escaped the suspicions of the villagers, who stole occasional glances without his knowing, realizing he wore clothing that were too foreign for a noble, Jérôme reached what looked to be one of village elders, though hopeless that he would get an answer. He doubted the man even knew France existed, with the state of disrepair the road and buildings were in.

So, he tried to communicate. Indeed, what came out of his mouth was not French.

"Excuse me, Sir," he began, in a posh accent attributed to high social prestige in the British Isles, "I am a little lost. May you help me?"

The elder had been surprised at his arrival, and observing from his accent and dress, the man quickly bowed and greeted "Milord! I did not see you there!"

Jérôme was surprised. He swore that he had spoken in French, and the man would not understand. But, to the contrary, he had spoken in the language of his brother's most hated enemy. This is not good. He tested this new found ability, despite his apprehension, fearing that he had lost the smooth, flowing and Romantic tongue of his people. This proved to be ill-conceived, as Jérôme was quick to switch between the two languages, whispering a quick merde before returning to the accursed tongue of the Anglo-Saxons.

"Don't be alarmed, Sir. I come only in askance. Provide me of my whereabouts and I shall be on my merry way," he responded, which seemed to have eased the aging man. Upon relaxing the man provided his answer.

Now introduced and familiarized with the elder whose name was Robart, the French Prince learned that he was not in some forgotten and Godforsaken hamlet in the middle of Scottish Highlands. In fact, he was nowhere near the British Isles. Rather, he was deep in a place called the "Wolfswood." That it was a massive, sprawling forest in the North, a region dominated by feudal aristocrats, with their castles, knights, and damsels. Lords and Ladies were at their height, and with a King on a throne to boot.

Jérôme was simply dumbfounded. Where had he found himself? And then, there was his anger.

"Whatever do you mean, elder?" He asked. "Do you take me for a fool? Is my brother behind this? I smell Napoleon's trickery here and I will not have it!"

The elder was confused, more so than frightened of the repercussions of an angered noble. "I tell you now, milord, we are simply south of the Wolfswood. I know not of this brother of yours!"

He was furious. What was this convoluted trickery? It was a farce if he ever saw one. If the old man was going to play by his brother's little game, so be it. Jérôme will just have to play along, until the Emperor reveals himself and makes an end to this outrage.

Visibly, he sighed. "I hear you, man. I hear. I still find myself, lost. What is the name of this village, if I may ask?"

The elder thought for a minute. It was clear, from the length at which the man pondered around the question, that a place as decrepit as this barely deserved a name. "You'll be sorely disappointed, milord. The village has no name. We just call it... well... the village. I doubt we're even on a map." That was followed by a weak chuckled. Jérôme simply glared and the man shut himself up.

Soothing his temples when another migraine threatened him, Jérôme breathed deeply. With a release, he asked to be directed to the nearest location where there were, at least, some iota or form of authority. Happily, the man provided a response.

"Torrhen's Square is the closest, milord. Just south of the Wolfswood. No use getting there on foot. Tens of leagues of frontier lies between us and them. Yes, you'll need a horse."

"Any idea where I might get a horse? Any stables around here?" Jérôme inquired.

"No, milord. We have naught but beasts of burden and little coin to spare. The summer is long, but the wolves have not been kind to us." The elder paused. "We do have a mule 'round the back."

Jérôme was almost offended, and seeing this, the elder quickly countered. "I meant well, milord. We are but humble folk. Not much goes 'round this parts, but the occasional collector from the Lords. Sometimes, we get lucky when a man and his wares wonder."

"Best we discuss this inside. Is that your home?" Jérôme inquired, gesturing at the wooden structure behind them. The man gave a nod.

"It ain't much, milord, but it's still home. Been shelterin' me family for ages now. Now, they're off with their own wives and husbands. The wife's doing some laundry by the stream."

"Mind if we step inside for a moment? There's some business I'd like to discuss with you," Jérôme responded. The old man agreed and escorted him inside.

The Prince found the interior a tad better. A little cleaner at that, compared to the pigsty that was the outside.

"Be welcome, milord. My home is yours, as it is mine. Please, take a seat."

And finally, when they were settled on individual chairs by the table side, the Prince revealed his intent.

"I'd like to purchase your mule. I hope to reach this Tohren's Square. Hopefully they will have more answers."

Jérôme reached into his pockets, fumbling for some coin. He came up with a few Napoléons, each numbering to a hundred francs in value. He kept these for his personal expenses, when oft, he wondered the streets of Cassel with his wife, or, painfully as a he remembered, when he entertained his mistresses. Truthfully, he did not need them as Prince, but with his father's history of losing the family fortune, he saw to his mother's suffering resolved to keep extra funds on his person. And yet, he still couldn't figure our why he spent carelessly. That thought eventually passed.

And then, his mind wondered about the condition of the village. Jérôme remembered well of the scene from whence he came. It was dirt, mud, and dust, and not much else. The people were desperate, barely managing to survive day and night. It reminded him of those dark times. When mother cried, and Nabulio comforted her. When nothing was left, his brother was the one who comforted. While he hated him, Jérôme was no monster. He is human. And then his promises to Catharina came to mind. He wanted to change. Perhaps this was his chance?

Was he not known as Jérôme the Extravagant? Even his brother would insult him as such. If he indeed was as extravagant as they all say, then better to spend on the wellbeing of these people.

There he lay still and thought. He grabbed several coins from his palm and pocketed the rest.

"Will this be enough ?" He asked the elder. The man's eyes widened at the golden coin.

"M-milord! That is far too much!" The man muttered weakly. "He's but a mule. He only cost us a s-single stag."

Jérôme was taken aback. This man would refuse hundreds of francs, just because his mule cost significantly less than that? He shook his head. The man remained confounded, insisting the mule costed less for him. That the gold was better spent on something else rather the old beast.

"Listen, Robart. Take the coin. Help your village. It matters not the cost of your mule," Jérôme offered. "I know I may come to you as a stranger. I have come unannounced, demanding answers for questions you do not know of. You have handed me well enough."

"I come to you with this offer. It's rare for the likes of me to bargain, even more so, with someone I have only met moments. I say, you are a Godsend in this place. You're the only person I trust, for now. You seem likable, and as the man of authority around these parts. Moreover, I don't have a choice. This is the only funds I have." He held out a palm full of the coinage. Hesitantly, Robart accepted it.

The old man inspected the gold, with it's near-perfect circumference. It neither too small or too big, and dozens could easily fit his palm. The inscriptions on it he did not understand. On one side, the depiction of a head's side, with the words "NAPOLEON" and "EMPEREUR" flanking it. The head wore an olive branch. On the other, there it was engraved two olive branches tied onto each other, curving the words "100 FRANCS" and around the side, the inscription "REPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE." On the bottom of the coin, it held a detailed mark of a chicken's silhouette, the numbers "1807." and a single "A". To further emphasize upon the detail of the coin, small grooves went across the edges. He could read only little, and only from counting coppers. But he knew that this was not a gold dragon. It was foreign, but by the Gods of the Forests and the Stone, it was gold. It was more coin than he could ever hope to see in a lifetime, let alone someone in his station. Smallfolk don't have much, and don't get much in the way of things.

Jérôme could simply not understand. Almost, the man's eyes reddened. It pained him to see such gold at his grasp. And then finally, dark brown orbs on white began to gloss. Tears were forming, only stoppered by the wrinkles that stretched across his cheeks, which slowed the trails considerably. Quickly, he composed himself, raising his empty hand to release a restrained cough.

"This is... too much..." He weakly whimpered. But Jérôme would have not of it, shaking his head.

"Take it, or by God, I will force it upon you," Jérôme enforced, with his voice hinting a little more aggression. This village couldn't get any more decrepit. This time, the man backed down.

Finally, he surrendered. He decide he would accept this stranger's coin. Despite the fact, the old man felt no hostility from the noble. Jérôme was not one who irradiated any form of hostility. The Prince's generosity was of compassion, and Robart can see.

"Are you alright, elder? You seem unwell." Jérôme asked, slightly concerned. Perhaps the pressure of this much wealth was too much?

"No, milord. No. It is simply too... unreal. And you, for a stranger to offer coin beyond the price we want. It... it is simply unheard of!" The man wiped his face with a free hand to make away with the tears. It was not of a man to cry in front of another.

"T-thank you, milord. I shan't forget of your generosity today!" He announced proudly. "The village will always welcome you here. We are indebted to you."

"Think none of it, elder," Jérôme replied. "Now, congregate with your council. There are other elders, aren't there?"

The man gave a firm nod. "Good. Share to the village this wealth. I shall not waste anymore of your time."

"But milord!" The man followed immediately. "I am yet to know your name. What is it? What house do you belong?"

Jérôme was halfway from standing upwards, and with the man's inquiry, he quickly settled back down. "It is Jérôme. Prince Jérôme of the House of Bonaparte."

Robart was again, surprised. The strange questions, the gold coins, and now, a Prince? It was a bold move to claim yourself as a Prince, but from where? Of what realm? Jérôme were wary of such thoughts, knowing that he did not belong here. Robart knew as much. The elder began his reply.

"Well met, Your Grace. It has been an honor to know of your generosity," Robart said in return. "Please, find it in yourself to accept my invitation. I welcome you to my home to lodge for the night. And if you would allow it, I would like to let the village know of your gift. They would surely rejoice. The mule'll be ready for you on the morrow. I will make sure of it."

That far too fast for his liking. Robart had accepted his rank of Prince. But for all intents and purposes, he will have to investigate that later. Indeed, he pondered around the offer.

The French Prince concluded that it has been a rather long day. He needed rest for the journey ahead, and the sun was on the horizon. Figuring that traveling by day was safer than night, Jérôme accepted the man's offer. "Thank you, Robart. I will gladly accept your offer."

The elder hurried to put away with the coin that were still on his full hand, and rushed to other side of the shack. He returned with a wooden plate of salt and a sliced loaf of bread.

"What are you doing with those?" Jérôme asked, quite perplexed.

"I'm offering guest rights, Your Grace," the man explained, "I understand. You don't hail from 'ere, but you still sound like a Prince should. Please, accept it. It is all we can do for now to repay your generosity."

It was at this point the Prince realized, this was no trick by Napoleon. Could it be that he in another place and another time? He didn't know for sure. While he could continue to think more of it, he was far too weak to do so. He needed some damned rest. Jérôme relented and teared off a piece of bread, dipping into the salt, shaking off any excess grains, and plucked the large crumb into his mouth. He chewed, and swallowed. The bread was, to be honest, poor in texture and taste. It was weak in its flavor. But, who was he to judge the means of the common man? At least they made a living with what little they had. He'll have to ask about the export later.

As the procession came to completion, Robart smiled. "None shall harm you in my household, nor in the confines of this village. You may rest at our hearths. You may eat at our tables. This village is yours, Your Grace, until you make do with your travels."

Jérôme nodded in agreement. Hospitality was something he needed now.

"Now, if you could follow me outside, Your Grace. The village would like to know of you, our benefactor. And then, dinner," Robart conveyed happily. The sound of food was so enticing, Jérôme could hear and feel his demanding stomach growl from the inside of his body. There was a quick, sharp pain. The Prince had forgotten he starving.

"My dear man, food sounds heavenly," Jérôme said, his stomach still growling.

Wolfswood? Tohren's Square? Lords and Ladies? The Kingdom of the North? He begun to shake his head, as if he was in a nightmare. They left the shack soon after, with the elder calling the crowd to the village square.

Where the fuck is he?

AN: A little unorthodox to begin the story with someone other than Napoleon, but he will come next update. Jérôme will certainly be a centerpiece in the story, and have a role as large as Napoleon. Originally, I wanted him to come with his retinue. But, I have other plans.

As the only blood-relative of Napoleon transported along with the Grande Armée into Westeros, he will be a key figure in the many, many things to change. Already, he realizes that this was not his brother's trickery. But rather, he has found himself in something else. Something... alien.