February, 1429 – The King's Solar, Chinon
The heavy oak door did not open—it exploded inward.
It slammed against the stone wall with a violence that shook dust from the ancient tapestries and rattled the teeth of the servant cowering in the corner.
In the crumbling, whisper-filled court of Chinon, only one man dared enter the King's chamber without so much as a knock: Georges de la Trémoille.
He was a mountain of suet wrapped in crimson velvet, a walking testament to gluttony in a starving kingdom. His face was a map of excess—three wobbling chins, piggy eyes buried in folds of flesh, lips slick with grease. Each jewel on his fingers, each yard of silk on his back, seemed to mock the soldiers dying in the mud at Orléans.
He smelled of expensive rosewater and stale arrogance.
Napoleon stood by the window, inspecting the Royal Wardrobe. He held a pair of silk hose between two fingers, regarding them with the same disgust one might reserve for a dead rat.
Velvet doublets. Tunics puffed to ridiculous proportions. Shoes so pointed they could stab a man.
How does one conquer Europe in tights? he mused. I need boots. I need a greatcoat. I need a uniform that says "I am the State," not "I am a court jester."
The reflection in the silver basin—the spindly legs of Charles VII—made him smirk. Pathetic. Fragile.
"Sign this."
The words crashed against the walls like artillery. La Trémoille did not bow. He strode to the table, rolling a parchment out like a carpet.
Napoleon turned slowly. His new body was weak, but his gaze dissected the fat man with the precision of a surgeon.
Look at him, Napoleon thought, a dark amusement rising in his chest. All this weight, all this gold, and not a drop of courage. History always rewards the bold... and punishes the fat.
"Leaving so soon, Georges?" he asked softly.
"To the South! To the Dauphiné!" La Trémoille bellowed, his face turning the color of Burgundy wine. He waved his ruby-encrusted hands like a conductor of doom. "Orléans is lost! The walls crumble! The citizens eat rats! We must retreat!"
Napoleon's eyes flicked to the open window. The River Vienne slouched gray beneath the sky. He inhaled deeply.
Panic, he diagnosed. The smell of a losing army. No discipline in the voice. No logic in the eyes.
"You say we have no money to fight?" Napoleon asked, walking closer.
"None," La Trémoille panted, bewildered by the lack of fear in the King's eyes. "The treasury is dust."
"Interesting," Napoleon murmured. "Liquidity is such a tricky thing."
He reached out—fast as a cobra—and flicked the heavy gold chain around La Trémoille's neck.
Clink.
"Rubies," Napoleon whispered. "Payroll for a company of Genoese crossbowmen for three months."
He tapped a diamond ring on the fat man's pinky.
"Artillery for a dozen batteries. Meanwhile, men at Orléans are boiling their leather boots for soup."
La Trémoille stepped back, swatting the King's hand away. Fear licked the corners of his eyes. Where was the cowering Charles? Where was the boy who hid behind his mother's skirts? This man looked at him not with fear, but with... calculation.
"That… that is my private property!" the Chamberlain sputtered.
"Indeed," Napoleon said. "But we are dealing with the fate of France. Private property is a luxury for peacetime."
He picked up the parchment. His grey eyes scanned the text.
Surrender the Loire. Retreat to the South. Pay tribute to the English Regent.
"This," Napoleon muttered, "is the worst deal in the history of trade deals."
He held the parchment over the flame of a wall lamp. The paper curled, blackened, and burst into fire. He dropped the burning scrap onto the stone floor and watched it turn to ash.
"You madman!" La Trémoille shrieked, his voice cracking. "That was our safety! You'll doom us all!"
The fat man lunged forward, his massive bulk threatening to crush the frail King. He was used to bullying the boy; he raised a hand to strike.
"Captain!" Napoleon said.
He didn't shout. He didn't scream. He spoke the word like a hammer striking an anvil.
From the shadows of the hallway, a giant stepped through the broken door.
Patrick Ogilvy, Captain of the Scots Guard, filled the frame. He was six foot four, bearded, carrying a Lochaber axe that looked sharp enough to shave with. He smelled of iron, wet wool, and ancient hatred.
"Seize him," La Trémoille screamed, pointing at the King. "He is mad! I command you! I pay your wages, Scot!"
The room went deadly silent.
This was the moment.The mercenary looked at the Fat Man with the gold, then at the Frail Boy with the crown.
La Trémoille's eyes darted between the King and the Scot. His mind scrambled. The years of courtly maneuvering, the bribes, the whispered alliances—all of it collapsed into panic under the weight of that axe. Every muscle screamed for flight, but every step seemed glued to the floor.
"He pays you in gold, Captain," Napoleon said quietly, locking eyes with the giant. "He pays you to run away."
Napoleon took a step forward, putting himself within reach of the axe. A gamble.
"I offer you no gold today," Napoleon whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute conviction. "But I offer you English blood. I offer you the chance to pile their corpses so high they block the sun. Follow me, and you will not just be a bodyguard. You will be a legend."
Ogilvy didn't move immediately. His hand hovered near the haft of his axe. His eyes narrowed, reading the frail boy with the crown, searching for the weakness that had always been there.
Instead, he found fire.
So this is the man, the Scot thought. This is the man who will feed us revenge.
Ogilvy smiled. It was a terrifying, toothy grin.
He stepped past La Trémoille and slammed the butt of his axe onto the stone floor. BOOM.
"Your orders, Sire?" Ogilvy rumbled.
La Trémoille collapsed against the table, his power evaporating like mist.
Napoleon leaned into the fat man's ear.
"You thought you were the master here because I was weak," Napoleon whispered. "But strength is not about weight, Georges. It is about will."
He pointed a slender finger at the door.
"I am going to build a new France. A strong France. And I am going to drain the swamp of parasites like you."
"Charles, please..." La Trémoille wept.
"You're fired."
The words cracked the air like a whip.
"Get out," Napoleon said, turning his back. "Before I let the Scotsman calculate the weight of your head."
La Trémoille fled. He scrambled out of the room, his velvet robes flapping, his dignity left in the ashes of the treaty.
Napoleon dusted his hands. His heart was racing—this body was terribly unfit—but his mind was clear. The first battle was won. Not with a cannon, but with a stare.
He walked to the window and looked north, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon.
"Ogilvy," Napoleon said.
"Sire?"
"We need cannons," Napoleon said, his voice low and hungry. "Big ones. Batteries, ramparts, siege lines. We are going to turn physics into a weapon."
He stared at the grey river, but he saw something else entirely. He envisioned the riverbanks lined with iron, the English trapped in a maze of fire and stone. A symphony of war, composed by him alone.
He smiled, a cold, sharp smile.
"And the English... will fund it with every inch of their arrogance."