The war tent was still.
Not silent — never silent — for the canvas quivered in the wind, and the dull rumble of marching boots echoed faintly through the mist. But inside, the air was heavy, as though the world itself waited for one final breath before breaking.
Tyrion Lannister stood before the map table. The candles burned low, their wax pooling like blood around their bases. He held a small hourglass — silver-framed, delicate, the glass filled with fine black sand.
He placed it on the map and turned it over.
"Wait," he said quietly. "Let the bells ring. Give them time."
The sand began to fall, silent as snowfall.
Daenerys stood across from him, the firelight catching the edge of her face. Her eyes did not blink, did not soften. Beneath the fury that simmered there was something colder — exhaustion, perhaps, or grief so deep it had lost all shape.
Tyrion spoke again, his tone careful, pleading. "You've already won, Your Grace. The scorpions are their last hope. Once they're gone, the city will have no reason to resist. The people will surrender. They always do."
Daenerys didn't look at him. Her gaze lingered on the falling sand.
Grey Worm stood by her side, silent and rigid. The muscles in his neck tensed each time a grain dropped.
Varys lingered near the tent's entrance, hands folded, eyes shadowed with resignation. "History," he murmured, "is written by the survivors. Let yours be written in light, not ash."
Daenerys turned at that — slowly, deliberately. "Light?" she said, voice soft, dangerous. "There is no light left in me, Lord Varys. Only fire."
The air in the tent seemed to chill.
Tyrion took a step forward, desperation cracking his composure. "If the bells ring, they yield. That's all I ask. A signal of surrender. You have your vengeance — but spare the innocent."
Daenerys's jaw tightened. The candlelight flickered against her cheekbone, sharp as a blade. "Innocent? I see no innocents in that city. Every one of them cheered my father's death. Every one of them knelt for the Lannisters while children burned in Flea Bottom."
"The people don't choose their rulers," Tyrion said. "They endure them."
"And they will endure me," she replied.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then Daenerys turned away from the table, her eyes on the hourglass. The sand slipped through, steady, unstoppable.
"Until the last grain falls," she said. "But first…" Her gaze lifted, and in it burned the fury of gods long forgotten. "…burn the scorpions."
Grey Worm saluted silently. The command was given.
Moments later, Drogon rose.
The sound of his wings split the air like thunder. He climbed into the sky, cutting through low clouds that shivered in his wake. The morning mist gave way to sunlight, pale and cold, and the dragon's shadow swept over the plain below — vast, living darkness.
On King's Landing's outer walls, the scorpion ballistae turned. Crews shouted, hands trembling as they loaded the bolts. The engines groaned, the ropes straining.
But Daenerys was already diving.
Drogon struck from the sun, invisible until the last instant. A torrent of flame crashed down, molten and white-hot. The first tower vanished in fire, its wooden gears and iron bolts melting in an instant. The men atop it never screamed — they were ash before they could.
The second tower turned its weapon skyward, but the dragon veered sharply. Another roar, another burst of flame, and the scorpion folded in on itself like paper.
All along the wall, panic rippled. Arrows flew wildly into the air, some flaming, some black. A few struck scales, most fell uselessly.
On the ridge overlooking the plain, Tyrion watched through a spyglass. Paxter Redwyne stood beside him, grim and silent.
"She's… surgical," Paxter muttered. "Every strike, precise."
Tyrion lowered the glass. "Precision won't matter if her rage takes the reins."
Below them, the black sand fell — slower now, the last grains clinging to the narrow neck of glass.
Varys stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable. "Once the fire begins," he said softly, "it seldom obeys its master."
The walls of King's Landing trembled.
Drogon's shadow passed over the battlements again and again. Each time, fire followed. Towers crumbled. Scorpions melted. Men ran screaming through corridors of smoke.
From the streets below, the people of the city looked up in horror. Mothers clutched children. Old men knelt in the mud, whispering prayers to gods who did not answer.
The bells swayed in their towers, ropes pulled taut by trembling hands. But none rang. Not yet.
Outside the city, the Golden Company stood their ground.
Harry Strickland squinted through the haze, his polished armor already coated in soot. He barked orders, reforming the line. "Hold ranks! Archers forward!"
Behind him, mounted officers repeated the command in a dozen accents. The mercenaries were professionals — they did not break easily. But when the sky darkened, even they began to falter.
Drogon screamed.
The air itself seemed to ignite.
Strickland turned his horse — too late. The dragon's fire struck the front line, sweeping left to right like the scythe of death itself. Horses reared, their flesh melting from bone. Men dropped their pikes and ran, only to be consumed mid-stride.
The second pass finished what the first had begun. The field outside the city became a sea of fire and twisted metal.
Strickland's horse bolted; he fell, rising just long enough to see the wall of flame bearing down. The last thing he heard was the roar — not of the dragon, but of the gates themselves, splintering apart as Drogon's fire tore them open.
The great bronze doors of King's Landing melted like wax.
And the dragon roared victory.
The gatehouse was gone, reduced to smoldering ruin. Beyond it, the city stretched inward — a maze of alleys and red roofs and terrified faces.
Daenerys guided Drogon down, landing amidst the wreckage. Smoke curled around her armor; ash clung to her hair. She dismounted in one fluid motion, boots crunching against blackened stone.
Grey Worm approached with his captains. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned.
"Go," she said. "Take the city."
He saluted and turned.
Trumpets blared. The Unsullied surged forward, their formation perfect even as flames licked at their flanks. Northmen followed, shields raised, their boots pounding against the scorched earth. The Dothraki screamed behind them, hooves thundering, arakhs blazing like comets.
The last of the black sand fell.
Tyrion watched it settle in the lower bulb of the hourglass. The sound it made — soft, final — was almost lost to the roar of distant fire.
Varys exhaled. "It's begun."
Paxter lowered his spyglass. "May the gods help them all."
Within the city, chaos reigned.
The first to see the breach were the goldcloaks. They fled their posts before the Unsullied reached them, casting down their spears. The streets erupted into panic — people running in every direction, some toward the gates, most away.
Jon Snow entered with the first wave, sword drawn, shouting for the men to hold formation. Grey Worm pressed forward at his side, silent, deadly efficient.
Through the smoke, Jon saw children cowering beneath carts, women dragging wounded from doorways, men throwing down their arms in surrender.
He raised a hand. "Stop! They yield!"
The Northmen hesitated.
But the Unsullied did not. Grey Worm's spear struck a kneeling soldier through the chest. Then another. The line advanced without pause.
Jon's voice cracked. "Grey Worm!"
But the commander did not hear him — or chose not to. The roar of fire drowned everything.
Overhead, Drogon swept low, burning through another street of scorpions and catapults. The shockwave flattened roofs, sending tiles scattering like dead leaves.
The bells swayed again — louder this time.
Somewhere in the city, an old man climbed the tower steps of the Great Sept, his knees trembling. Smoke stung his eyes. He reached the rope, wrapped it around his arms, and pulled.
The first bell rang.
Its sound rolled through the city — heavy, ancient, a plea.
One by one, other towers joined in. Bells echoed across the rooftops, through the Red Keep, over the harbor. The city was surrendering.
Tyrion heard it from the ridge. His knees gave way, and he pressed a hand to his chest, almost sobbing with relief. "They did it," he whispered. "They rang."
Paxter crossed himself in silent prayer. Varys only watched the horizon, the fire, the dragon circling still.
But Daenerys did not move.
She sat astride Drogon atop the gatehouse ruins, her eyes fixed on the Red Keep rising through the smoke — the tower where Missandei had died, where her father had fallen, where every betrayal of her life had begun.
The bells rang.
Still she did not move.
Grey Worm paused mid-stride, looking up. Even he hesitated, for the sound was universal — the one law of surrender older than any crown.
The army stopped. The Dothraki drew their horses to a halt. The Unsullied lowered their spears.
Jon breathed. "It's over."
Daenerys closed her eyes.
She could hear Missandei's voice — the last word she ever spoke.
Dracarys.
Her eyes opened.
There were tears there — and fire.
Drogon roared, and the sound swallowed the bells.
The hourglass was empty.