The Red Keep groaned beneath its own grandeur.
Once the jewel of Westeros, its towers now wept flame. Stone split like bone; gold melted in streams along the steps. The banners of House Lannister burned, crimson lions curling into black ash as the last of Cersei's reign collapsed around her.
Daenerys's army had reached the inner gates.
The courtyards were filled with corpses and smoke, and still Grey Worm pressed forward—silent, unstoppable. The Unsullied fought without hesitation, their spears glinting red and silver in the firelight. Dothraki riders howled through the shattered archways, cutting down any who dared to stand. The Northmen came next, grim and wordless, their boots leaving prints in blood.
The gates of the Red Keep trembled once, then split apart.
A thunderous crash followed, echoing through the halls that had once hosted kings. Tapestries caught fire, the air thick with the scent of burning velvet and oil. Chandeliers crashed from the ceiling, shattering on the marble floors below.
Grey Worm strode through the smoke first, his spear in hand, eyes locked on the corridor leading to the throne room. He moved like a man already dead, marching toward the only thing left to destroy.
Behind him, Jon Snow followed, his cloak torn, his face streaked with soot. He wanted to scream for them to stop, to turn back—but there was no stopping this storm. Daenerys had unleashed it, and it moved now with a will of its own.
The throne room waited beyond—a hollow promise of peace. Its high windows glowed red with the reflection of flame. The Iron Throne stood untouched, shadowed and gleaming, as though it mocked all who had died to reach it.
Cersei stood in the Tower of the Hand.
Alone.
Her gown, once woven of black silk and gold thread, was torn and stained with ash. Her crown sat crooked atop her head. The air reeked of smoke and death, and still she clung to the balcony, refusing to look away from the city she had sworn to rule.
Below her, King's Landing was gone.
The streets burned. The bells had fallen silent. The sea was choked with smoke.
Her eyes flickered—not with tears, but with something hollow. Fear, perhaps. Or realization.
She had won every game. She had outlasted them all—until the game itself turned to fire.
The door creaked behind her. Cersei turned, her voice a whisper:
"Jaime."
He was there—limping through the smoke.
His face was bruised and bloodied, his hair matted with ash. His golden hand was blackened, melted at the edge. His armor hung in tatters. But it was him.
She ran to him before her mind could question how. "You came back," she gasped, clutching him, her fingers digging into his torn armor.
"Always," he said.
They fell together to the floor, arms tangled. He smelled of salt and soot and blood. The Keep trembled around them, dust raining from the ceiling.
"I thought…" Cersei's voice broke. "I thought you'd gone to her."
"I did," he said softly. "But I was always yours."
Her breath hitched as he brushed the ash from her hair. His touch was trembling, gentle, almost reverent.
"It's over, isn't it?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "It's time."
He drew her close.
And then the dagger slid between her ribs.
Cersei froze. The sound that escaped her lips was small, almost confused.
"Jaime…?"
Her eyes met his. But the face above her changed.
The softness faded. The blue eyes hardened, sharpened. The mouth tightened.
The golden hair darkened, turning the color of ash and blood.
It wasn't Jaime.
It was Arya Stark.
Cersei gasped as the truth struck deeper than the blade. She staggered, one hand grasping Arya's arm, the other clutching at the wound. "Why?" she rasped.
Arya's expression didn't change. "For the children you burned," she said. "For the father you killed. For the wolf you starved."
Cersei's knees buckled. Arya lowered her gently to the marble floor. The dagger slid free, its blade slick with crimson. Cersei's crown slipped from her head and rolled across the floor, clinking once before it cracked.
Arya looked down at her, the flames reflected in her eyes.
Cersei tried to speak again, but no sound came. Her fingers trembled in the air, reaching for something—or someone—who wasn't there. Then her hand fell.
Silence.
The blood spread slowly, a dark halo around the fallen crown.
Arya watched it for a long moment, her chest heaving. The heat pressed against her back, the ceiling groaning overhead.
Then footsteps.
Arya turned.
In the doorway stood Jaime Lannister.
The real one.
He was wounded, limping, one arm hanging useless at his side. His eyes widened when he saw her—then the body at her feet.
He said nothing. Neither did she.
Their gazes locked.
In his eyes, Arya saw no anger. No hatred. Only the weary acceptance of a man who had always known this day would come.
He limped forward, every step leaving a smear of blood behind. Arya stepped aside.
He knelt beside Cersei, his breath ragged. His fingers brushed her cheek. The warmth was already fading from her skin.
For the first time in years, Jaime Lannister was speechless.
He didn't weep. He simply bowed his head, pressing his forehead to hers. The crown lay between them, cracked in two.
Arya lingered in the doorway, half-shadowed. The flames painted her face red, her eyes unreadable.
Then she turned and walked away, vanishing into the ruin as quietly as she had come.
The Red Keep shook again.
Cracks split the floor beneath Jaime's knees. Dust fell in heavy curtains. The walls moaned under the strain of the fire.
Jaime stayed beside her. He didn't look up when the first stone fell.
"You always wanted to die in my arms," he murmured. "Looks like you got your wish."
The ceiling collapsed behind him. He didn't move.
He brushed a lock of hair from Cersei's face, now gray with ash. "You were right about one thing," he whispered. "We belong together."
Another tremor. A deeper crack. The columns split apart.
He smiled faintly—sadly, beautifully—and closed his eyes.
The Red Keep came down.
The weight of centuries crushed the last of House Lannister into dust and silence.
Arya stood outside as the tower fell.
The sound was deafening—the roar of stone collapsing, the hiss of flame devouring everything it touched. The sky above was choked black, a storm of ash spiraling toward the sea.
She watched without expression as the spire caved in, as the tower where kings had ruled vanished in a wave of dust.
The ground trembled under her feet. Rubble rained down like hail.
And then—stillness.
The Red Keep was gone.
Arya closed her eyes. The weight of it pressed against her chest—not triumph, not satisfaction, but something empty. She thought of her father, of Robb, of her mother's last scream. She thought of the girl she had been when she left Winterfell—the one who dreamed of heroes and justice.
That girl was gone, too.
When she opened her eyes again, the fires reflected in them had no mercy left.
She turned away from the ruins and whispered, voice hoarse but steady:
"The list ends here."
The wind shifted, carrying ash across the ruined city. The bells had fallen silent at last.
And in their place, the only sound was fire.