A/N: Here it is… The long awaited rewrite of Eagles of Westeros. For those of you who are new, I used to have a fanfic about a SI-OC that appeared on Westeros and decided to build a Roman civilization from scratch. I took it down because the writing was a little cringy for me. To those of you who have read the old fanfic, this is a totally new fanfic though it will still feature Romans in Westeros. Me and my life sucks so expect slow updates. And so here is the new fic. I do not own anything and this is rated M.

Chapter I

The Eagle has Landed

Romans put a lot of stock into oracles and omens. Even now, several centuries after the founding of the city, Romans still accord respect to the gods albeit a little less devoutly from how their forefathers would but respect nonetheless. Before moving to any great undertaking, a wise Roman should always inquire of what the gods have in store. It is a dark night in Massalia, a great city established by the Greeks in 600 BC, it was once a great power in Southern Gaul. That power has long since waned. For years now it has been allied, some would say vassal, to Rome.

Its forum is still as the darkness of night has cloaked the city. And yet figures still walked its streets. A group of six walked with purpose in the direction of the Temple of Apollo. Though many people tend to forget, the Oracle at Delphi was not the only temple of Apollo to have seers. After all, Apollo Truth-seeker ever seeks to guide the path of humanity. Or so legends say.

The six figures are robed with hoods raised to cover their faces as they knock on one of the side doors that allowed entrance into the temple's inner chambers. A clink of metal could be heard as they entered the sanctum of oracle.

The oracle had been standing before an altar, burning incense when the servants ushered the strangers in. She was a slight woman who wore a pure white stola with a shawl that covered her head and half of her face.

"Sit gentlemen." She motioned them to several chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of her. As they did as she bid, she turned back to the flames of the altar. Silence pervaded the room until one of the men grew impatient.

"How long must we wai-" The robed figure to his left raised his hand, cutting off the man.

"Peace, Anthony. The priestess can take all the time she needs. The gods are not bound by the whims of time like us men." The man said in a calm tone. He rose and dismissed four of their companions to await him from the courtyard of the temple. Only he and his subordinate remained.

The oracle was silent for a few more minutes before she turned back to the men. "You are wise to realize this, Son of Rome." She nodded at the man.

"What do the gods say of my endeavor?"

The priestess began to sway gently from side to side. Her eyes glowed white and her voice taking on an ethereal quality. The subordinate took a step back in fear but his superior remained calm and in control as he waited the message from the gods.

"A land lies before you. A land none of our world has seen. Falcons soar over its high mountains, lions roam its hills, roses bloom in its fields, snakes slither across its deserts and wolves prowl its snows."

A prophecy within a divination? The man steeled himself. "Will I be victorious?"

"Those born of iron shall rise to meet those of the Eagle. Much blood will flow… Much blood…"

"Will I gain the glory I seek?" He persisted.

"Glory, land, fame. A great fortress and a son to bear your name."

He smiled. A son? The priestess' next words halted him. She was not finished.

"Be warned, Son of Rome. Should you continue on this path, your fate in Rome shall be erased. Though you shall die on the Ides of Mars you shall never return to your city. Your bones and the bones of all that follow you shall be buried in that foreign land." The priestess closed her eyes and became silent.

He was undeterred. Fortuna ever favored the bold. If this was his fate, then so be it. Besides as he would have a son to carry on his name then his line would live on. He dropped a bag of gold on his chair, bowed in respect to the priestess. As he left with his subordinate in tow, both failed to notice the priestess' eyes opening once more. Her eyes still glowing with ethereal power, she whispered to the wind.

"The fate of that land will ever be changed, so too will yours and your men. Son of Rome. Son of the Julii."'


Dawn came on the 3rd of June. The sun peeked from the horizon to gaze upon a huge fleet of eight hundred ships. They sailed out the harbor of Pontus Itius towards the lands of Britain. Most of them were transports bearing the soldiers of five legions and their equipment. Among them however were about twenty purpose built Roman warships with some of them having catapults, ballistae and scorpions mounted. Another fifteen were ten heavier Gallic ships captured two years ago when the sea tribe of the Veneti rebelled against Roman rule.

At the head of the invasion fleet, heading first out of the harbor, was the flagship of the war fleet. Called the Favored, it had two large towers on its massive deck and was rowed by six rows of oarsmen. A wooden statue of Fortune, the goddess of fortune, was affixed to the prow of the mammoth hexareme. Her hand stretched out toward the horizon.

A man stood at the prow, gazing out into the expanse before him. He wore a leather muscle cuirass decorated with the Aquila and leaves of laurel made of gold. Underneath it, he wore a crimson tunic, its sleeves' edge embroidered with gold thread. A golden laurel crown covered his receding hairline. A crimson cloak lifted with the breeze.

"Gaius Julius Caesar, conqueror and walking dead man." A joking voice pried the man from his thoughts. He turned to face the speaker. His friend and subordinate, Mark Anthony, was dressed similarly except his cuirass was made of bronze. He clamped his hand on his friend's shoulder and turned back to the prow.

Mark Anthony jostled him as he joined him on the ship's railing. He didn't mind. Mark Anthony was one of his most loyal and able generals. He under him for more than two years, aiding in the conquest of Gaul, and while the first invasion of Britain had been little more than a scouting expedition in force it had been a failure so far as Caesar was concerned.

Gaius Julius Caesar had endured much to be where he was now. At the age of 46, he wasn't so old. In fact, he was just as fit as the 29-year-old Mark Anthony. He had come far from the arrogant young brat that had stared defiantly at Cornelius Sulla, Dictator of Rome, who had just been contemplating executing him on the spot.

He was governor of Cisalpine Gaul, Illyricum and Transalpine Gaul. Through his conquests, he was undisputable defacto ruler of all of Gaul. He had command of eight veteran legions, five of which were accompanying him on this invasion along with five thousand Gallic cavalry while the other three legions remained under the command of Gaius Trebatius Testa to keep the peace. It had been through his efforts that Gaul now bowed to Rome. Not as great a legacy as Alexander the Great but it would do.

"You're thinking of what the witch said aren't you?" Mark Anthony wasn't really an adherent to the gods. Then again, neither was Caesar however.

"Antonius, it is not wise to insult the messenger of the gods when they have given such a favorable vision."

"Favorable? Her prophecy foretells our deaths. How would that be favorable?" Anthony growled.

"All men die. It is but the manner in which we fall that differs. If you are so concerned with death in those lands, then why accompany me at all? I would understand if you asked for command of the legions left behind."

Anthony scoffed. "And leave all the fun to you? Never." They both laughed.

Anthony had had a very boring posting before he had requested a transfer to Caesar's command. He was a cavalry commander and one of the best Julius had ever seen but cavalry weren't really useful in peace time and Anthony had been stuck with construction duties for so long he complained he had grown moss. The following battles they had fought proved that this had been an exaggeration. Suffice it to say, Caesar was quite content to have Anthony in command of the legionary cavalry.

Anthony continued. "Besides, the oracle did say you would get land, fame and glory. In all the time I've known you, you've never been a miser with your humble supporters." He executed a flamboyant bow before dodging a kick from Caesar. They chuckled and Caesar gave a solemn nod in Mark Anthony's direction.

Anthony understood this as Caesar's silent thanks for his support. Caesar appreciated above all loyal men. Every single man aboard this fleet would die for Caesar, including himself and Caesar in turn took care of his men. It was their unspoken form of social contract.

Mark Anthony knew despite Caesar's words that he was still disturbed by the oracle's words. Any man would but it was the mark of a great man, he who was able to push forward, to meet his fate nonetheless. Anthony wondered though, what kind of foe would be able to fell Caesar. Despite being a bit advanced in age, Caesar was a superb fighter and horseman. He shrugged internally. This was why he left such matters as the gods to his friend. All he needed to worry was killing Caesar's enemies. If he was going to die, then so be it. It didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself before then with wine, women and fighting.

Caesar soon retired to his cabin to rest as much as he could. He had been up all night getting the fleet ready to sail and he was sure to get no immediate rest when they landed in Britain. He remained there for the rest of the day, planning and resting alternatively. The next day, he was sleeping fitfully until a knock on his door woke him.

Groaning, he rose and opened the door. Outside was a servant who delivered the captain's request for his presence. He nodded to the servant and went to splash his face in the basin of water in his room before walking to the captain's temporary quarters on the foremost tower.

The Favored's captain was a man by the name of Commander Rutilus Narbo, an able man who had commanded ships for ten years. The frown on the man's face did not bode well. Neither did the cluster on the table of officers.

"What seems to be the problem, Commander?" Caesar saw no need to beta around the bush.

The commander's frown deepened. "You have slept for nearly the entire day and thus have not noticed."

Caesar's narrowed as he closer to the table. Maps of the coast of Britannia and the northern coast of Gaul were spread on the table. A headache began to develop as he realized what the commander was pointing out.

"We should have sighted land by now."

"Aye, and yet there is none. We have made no error in navigation. It was a straight line to Britannia. No deviations where made." The commander's bafflement was plain. At least the outline of land should have been sighted by now.

"And to make matters worse, general. There's a large fog bank that has appeared out of nowhere. It is so thick that we won't be able to see clearly more than a few hundred feet around us." Caesar went to the window and saw the commander's words were true. Fog obscured the entire horizon before him. When he looked through the opposite window, he could see the fleet mustered behind him, awaiting orders. The commander had ordered the fleet to converge when he came upon the fog bank.

It was as if the gods were testing him. Here now, this is the point of no return. Enter if you dare. He smiled grimly. He turned to his officers, Anthony among them, and said, "The die is cast." Anthony grinned and ordered the men to fix a brazier atop each ship's mast. Two lanterns were latched to both the bow and stern of the ships. Men were instructed to keep the light going at all times. Once this was done, the fleet arranged itself into a wedge with the warships in the front, the slowest transports carrying equipment, supplies and horses in the middle while the troop transport ships bringing up the rear.

In this way they hoped to minimize loses if they somehow foundered on the rocks of the coast that was sure to be near. Caesar's gaze was drawn to Fortuna's outstretched hand from the prow.

"Fortune favors the bold." Mark Anthony said, reading his commander's thoughts. Caesar nodded and gave the order. With that, the fleet of 800 ships moved forward through the fog and into history.


They sailed on for three days and nights, ever growing more pensive with each passing hour. The men were sure that they had fallen off the edge of the world and were now doomed to sail endlessly until they died. The officers argued whether they should turn back or keep going, hoping to reach land.

In the midst of all this fear, Julius Caesar remained unmoved. Even Mark Anthony was a bit nervous of the unknown but Julius was resolute. His fate had been foretold. He would not die until he had achieved what he came for. For the next three days, he kept a vigil by the prow of the ship. His gaze often switched between Fortuna and ahead of the ship. His men took heart from the sight of their commander standing vigil with the lookouts. They saw how he would gaze reverently on the statue of Fortuna in front of him, they heard him order forward, to follow where the goddess pointed. So they obeyed. They kept the fires going so as to guide the rest of the ships behind them. On the third day, their faith was rewarded.

A cry from the lookout atop the mast of the flagship. "The fog is breaking up. I can see light ahead!"

The men maintained their silence, afraid that any noise would dispel their hope from their sight. As the flagship glided out of the fog, the mist clinging to the ship as if it refused to let go, a jubilant cry went out. One by one, ship by ship, the fleet sailed out of the fog. As each ship sailed out, the men aboard raised their voices in thankfulness to the gods for their mercy.

Mark Anthony stood next to Caesar. "Well. We're here." He said.

Caesar nodded. The crisis was over, for now.


The fleet came out in what they later learned was called Blackwater Bay, towards the mouth of the Blackwater Rush where it emptied into the bay and flowed out to the Narrow Sea. The Romans could see land to both their flanks. Though they scratched their heads at their location, they continued under Caesar's orders to sail a little inward and then beach their transports. The point they landed would have been, some nine hundred years later, the landing point of Aegon Targaryen and named King's Landing. However, the arrival of the Romans altered the future of the lands forever.

Caesar had his legions disembark immediately and prepare to repel an attack from the locals, who he believed were Britons. When not a single man was in sight, he ordered scouts to search the immediate area for hostiles. His officers were bewildered when they found none. Caesar and Anthony took this as divine favor. Sending further scouting groups with Anthony, Caesar ordered his legions to build a massive castra or legionary fortress. The legions were well known for constructing large forts to protect their men whether they were marching in hostile country or being tasked as occupation forces.

The castra was built in the traditional four sided square. However, since it was supposed to house an army of more than twenty thousand men, it would be an understatement if it was said that it would need to be a bit larger than normal. A ditch, ten feet deep, was dug around the circumference of the fortress. The earth was then used as the first layer of the wall.

While two of the legions dug, Caesar sent another two south, over the river to where a large forest was. They were tasked with cutting down timbers for the outer walls and buildings of the fortress. In the old world, Caesar would have been famous for the siege of Alesia where he built siege fortifications eleven miles long. He did this to contain a force of eighty thousand with his forty to fifty thousand army. This was smaller in size as there was no city to encircle. It was only seven miles long as they had to build it close to the small natural harbor they had found and had beached their ships.

Within a week, a bridge across the Blackwater Rush was built. The timber from the forest saw the walls of the fort rise as if by magic. Within another week, the walls and towers were finished. Four of the legions were housed in the fortress along with three thousand of Caesar's Gallic cavalry. Another thousand with a single legion were across the river, building a smaller legion fort on the other side.

The remainder of the cavalry were being led by Mark Anthony as a reconnaissance in force out in the countryside. When the sentries alerted Caesar of the scouting expedition's return, he was expecting a report of on the location of the nearest hillforts and villages. Needless to say, the reports he received were far different.


950 BC (Westerosi) or 54 BC (Roman)

Future historians would later call it by several names. The landing of the Eagle, the Mistborn Arrival and the Founding were some of them. Nyles Rosby, heir of House Rosby, was merely fourteen name days old when the strange invaders arrived. The Rosbys were known for being sickly and Nyles was no exception. He was a thin lad, black hair atop a high forehead. Like most of his ancestors, he was prone to fevers and coughing fits. As such, his interests were more to the artistic side of things than to anything that martial that required physical fitness. He loved painting and sculpting in clay and stone. He was quite skilled, in fact, for someone of his age.

For the past few days, he felt compelled to travel to the shoreline. While the castle of Rosby was further inland, they still held in fief two villages. One of these was along the Blackwater Bay. It was to here he was drawn. Organizing a small excursion with some guards as company, he had set camp on a bluff overlooking the bay. The bluff was situated on a spur of land that pointed outward from the mainland and then in toward the Blackwater Rush. There he stayed for two days, painting sunset and sunrise, waiting for something that he himself knew not. Then on the third day, he noticed something different. There seemed to be fog gathering at the center of the bay. Now, fog wasn't unusual along the bay but it was the way this one formed that intrigued him.

The fog seemed to be guided, as if, by a sculptor's hand. Mist would rise from the waves and join the ever growing fog until it covered a significant portion of the center of the bay. It fascinated him and he painted several portraits of the fog forming. After two days, however, the fog was failing to dissipate. The fishing boats from the village were soon refusing to venture out too far. They whispered that the gods had cursed the waters and so it was not safe to venture out until that ominous fog disappeared. The Rosby guards laughed at this when they had gone into the village for supplies. They were not laughing the next day.

Nyles remembered the day clearly. It was quite late in the day but he had an umbrella lifted over his head to keep the anything dropping and ruining his painting from above. He had started a new one as a result of that strange compulsion. He had already painted the sky, the bluff and the upper parts of the fog bank but for some reason every time he attempted to continue painting the rest of the fog, he hesitated. It was as if something was missing, but he knew not what.

For hours, he agonized. What was it? What was missing? Why was he not able to complete this Seven-damned painting? Then he spotted something in the fog. A light that seemed strangely out of place in the fog as it was still the afternoon and the sun had not yet dipped behind the horizon.

As if that was a signal, a ship appeared through the fog. It was unlike any that Nyles had ever seen before. It had lines of oars on its side like the legs of a centipede. Two large towers were mounted on either ends of its deck. From the distance he was at, he could barely distinguish the towers from the mast, though the oars were quite obvious. The thought that it was a new type of trading ship out of Essos died stillborn as another ship poked its prow out of the fog. It was followed by another and another in an unending stream. This was no fishing or trading fleet.

Nyles gaped in awe and fear, his hand never ceasing to paint, moved by unconscious effort to record, to immortalize this event in painting. For it was sure that this was no mere event but one that would change the fate of Westeros forever.

A/N: I wanted to reach 4k words but I think I should end here. I will try to make this as close to historical as possible but as we are in a fantasy world, some discrepancies will exist. Also, since it will be quite hard to completely describe things without historical sources, many of the units of the Romans will be kinda ripped out of Rome 2 Total War.