The Red Keep was no longer anything but a burning corpse. Its towers, blackened and broken, rose like the teeth of a dying monster, engulfed in wildfire that kept devouring the stone with endless hunger. Kingās Landing no longer existed. And for a brief, fleeting moment... the survivors on the ship believed it was over.
But then the earth trembled.
A crack opened at the base of the fortress, deep as a bottomless wound. The ground growled as if the city itself were cursing its fate. The sea fell silent. And the skyā¦ seemed to pull away.
From the abyss, a sphere of green fire burst forth with monstrous violence. The air shattered in its wake, the sound became a sonic wave that broke the horizon. The blaze rose with arrogance, as if defying the gods, and then fell like a death sentence upon the coast.
The impact unleashed a storm of snow, smoke, and debris. Nothing remained intact. Nothing remained standing. And when the dust cloud began to dissipate, unveiled by a heat that melted even the air... a silhouette emerged.
It was Drogon.
Or what was left of him.
He dragged his mutilated body through the burning wreckage. His skin hung in shreds, scorched down to the bone. One of his legs was nothing but a bleeding stump, and his wings... hung like torn flags from an endless war. Half his face was a smoking mass, melted by fire, unrecognizable. But what made the world stop was his one intact eye.
Blue.
Cold.
Unnatural.
The survivors all understood at once. A stab of ice pierced their souls. Sansaās lips barely managed to whisper the horror.
āThe Night Kingā¦
And then they saw him.
Behind the dying dragon, a figure emerged from the flamesāstaggering, consumed by smoke and ash. The Night King was no longer the same.
Before the wildfire explosion, he had managed to turn Drogon, transforming him into his undead servant. That allowed him to use the dragonās massive body as a shield, hiding behind its scales and bones while escaping the devastation.
But not even that barrier of dead flesh and dark magic had been enough.
His armor, once flawless, was in tatters, melted in places, as if the explosion had stripped away parts of his very essence. His skin, cracked like frozen glass on the verge of collapse, revealed dark pulses beneath the surface. One of his arms hung useless, snapped at the elbow. His gait was slower. Almost human.
And yetā¦ his gaze remained unchanged.
Blue.
Cold.
Relentless.
Wounded, yes. Damaged. But not defeated.
The explosion had done the impossible: it had fractured part of what he was. But not enough. He was still there. And with him, winter.
A glacial wind descended from the skies. Drogonās final roar rose through the smoke, a howl so harrowing that the soul of every person on board seemed to shatter. The green fire fully consumed him, devouring him from within. And so, the last dragon burned until nothing remained but bone, ash... and an echo.
The Night King turned slowly toward the ships. His very presence seemed to freeze the sea itself. Everything stopped. Everythingā¦ except fear.
From the mist, an army emerged behind him. Walkers. Thousands. Countless. Their bodies marched with fury, not calm. It wasnāt a processionāit was a stampede. They advanced with jaws open, arms stretched like claws, dragging rusty weapons, deformed bodies, bones creaking with each movement. But it wasnāt random chaos. They all looked in the same direction. They all desired the same thing. When they reached the shore, they didnāt stop in silenceā¦ they unleashed.
They crashed against the coast like a frenzied wave. They screamed without voices, a spectral wail that came not from throats but from something deeper, more broken. Some threw themselves into the water only to sink like dead stones. Others knelt and pounded the ground with their fists like caged beasts. Some twisted in frustration, clawing at the sand, spitting hatred with stares that could break the will.
And all of them, without exception, did it while staring at the ships.
It was as if the seaāmere water, apparentlyāwas an invisible wall. A barrier that held them backā¦ for now.
And still, they didnāt stop. Their fury was so overwhelming it could be felt even from the ships. Their bodies kept moving, crashing into one another, pushing, seeking a crack in the impossible. As if their desire to reach the living could break even the laws of the world. As if they knew that out there, drifting away from them, floated the last heartbeat of human life.
And there stood the living, trembling as they watched. Not because of what the Walkers did. But because of what they foretold: that death never tires. That the end never retreats. That what hunted them would never stopā¦ ever.
At the bow, Tyrion understood it all. His face turned pale. There was no redemption. No escape. They had lost. Everything they had sacrificedākingdoms, names, blood, loveāhad been for nothing. Even hope... had been a mistake.
āLetās get away from hereā¦ āhe whispered, though his voice had no destination left.
The sails rose. The ropes groaned. The ships pulled away, like ghosts drifting through a mist of defeat. Behind them lay the ruins of a broken world.
And as the fog enveloped them, the truth became clear: they hadnāt just lost the warā¦ they had lost the right to dream of anything more.
Only empty specters remained, dragging the weight of failure. Because sometimes, the worst thing is not to die... but to live knowing none of it was worth it.
Before everything vanished into the mist, the Night Kingās blue eyes rose toward the endless sea... as if he knew there was still more left to conquer.