And then, the day arrived.
The sky never cleared. There was no dawn, no birdsong. Just a sickly gray light leaking through the clouds, as if the sun had run away too.
From beyond the frozen walls and stopped rivers, the mist rolled in.
It brought no wind, no sound. Only stillness. And death.
The army of the dead marched. As they passed, the world went silent.
Hundreds. Thousands. They didnât run or scream. They just walked. Unstoppable.
Kingâs Landing waited for them.
The city was abandoned. Streets deserted. Gates shut. The echoes of life had vanished.
The city was silent.
Not a peaceful silence, but an unnatural void, thick and heavy, as if the air itself refused to move. Kingâs Landing had been many things: capital, battlefield, symbol of power. Now, it was just a trap. Cold. Empty. Deadly.
Underground, through collapsed tunnels, Arya Stark moved alone. Her face was streaked with ash and frost, her body pressed to the wall. Every step was a choice. Every shadow, a threat.
She carried the candle. Sam and Tyrion had prepared it with obsessive care. Its length was measured to the second. Its thickness, to the millimeter. It would burn just long enough to give her a chance to escape.
Only one chance.
Above, atop the Red Keep, Jon and Daenerys waited beside Drogon. The dragon rested with effort, wounded, his wings trembling in the icy wind. From there, the city stretched out like an open corpse: empty streets, frozen houses, collapsed temples.
The enemy hadnât arrived yet.
But it would.
They both knew everything depended on the next few minutes. One chance. One mistake. One spark.
Meanwhile, in the bay, the command ship of the evacuation fleetâhidden in mistâkept watch on the city. On board, Tyrion, Sansa, Sam, Ser Davos, and little Jonaerys waited in silence, while the rest of the ships with refugees stayed at sea, ready to turn at the first signal. The baby slept, unaware of the fate hanging over them all.
Now, everything depended on the Night King entering the city.
The sky was gray. The air, still. From the heights of the Red Keep, Daenerys and Jon watched in silence.
Then, they saw it. Hordes of wights began to pour through the broken gates, crossing the outer fields like a devouring shadow. Twisted creatures, ice spiders, giant skeletons. All moved toward the center.
But not the Night King.
They waited. And kept waiting. The dead kept coming. Too many. If they reached the tunnels and cellars where Arya was hiding, they could destroy the barrels or set everything off too soon.
âHeâs not here,â Jon muttered, frowning. âWhy hasnât he appeared?â
âMaybe he knows itâs a trap,â Daenerys replied, tense, eyes fixed on the frozen streets.
Time was ticking. And with each second, the wights got closer to the cellar.
Then Daenerys made her decision.
âI have to draw him out,â she said, eyes forward. âIf he sees Drogon, if he sees us attacking directly⊠heâll show himself.â
âThere are too many down there,â Jon warned. âDrogonâs wounded. He wonât last long.â
âIt doesnât matter. I canât just stand here and watch everything slip away. Not now.â
âThen Iâm going with you,â Jon said, without hesitation.
Both climbed onto Drogonâs back. The dragon roared loudly as he descended over the city, opening a path of fire through the horde of the dead. The creatures turned, raised their heads, prepared to attack.
Drogon blasted flames at towers and ruined buildings, carefully avoiding any area near the wildfire. They werenât trying to trigger the trap early, just to lure the wights and force the Night King out of hiding.
It was not yet the time to ignite the wildfire.
Just to buy time.
To scatter the dead.
To force the Night King to show himself.
And for a moment⊠it seemed to work.
âTheyâre falling into the trap,â Daenerys murmured, eyes locked on the streets. âTheyâre concentrating⊠right where we want them.â
From above, Jon saw the tunnel entrances clearing. The dead werenât retreating, but now they were focused on a different prey: them.
Drogon circled among fallen towers, drawing every wightâs attention with his roar and his fire.
And yetâŠ
âDo you see him?â Jon asked. âHe⊠where is he?â
âHe must be near. This is exactly what he wanted. Heâs watching us.â
The cold grew denser. The snow fell slower. The silence became unbearable.
Then, from the ruins of the old Great Sept, something emerged.
It wasnât the Night King.
It was worse.
A giant ice spider, legs sharp as blades and multiple blue eyes. Its body was a dome of living ice. Its breath, frost.
It hurled a frozen web violently. Drogon dodged, but the forced movement threw him off. A second web hit his left wing, clinging like burning crystal. The dragon roared, unbalanced.
âHold on!â Daenerys shouted.
Drogon tried to rise, but a spear of ice, launched from the ground, struck his hind leg. It was too much.
The dragon let out a roar of pain so raw and powerful it echoed through all of Kingâs Landing. The sound passed through the ruins, the underground tunnels, reached the bay where the ship waited, and resounded against distant mountains like the cry of an ancient beast wounded to death.
The beast plummeted. Wings folded. Fire gone. The city blurred as they fell. Jon held Daenerys tightly, knowing there was nothing they could do but brace for impact.
The dragon crashed into the remains of the Red Keep. The explosion of rubble and fire shook the entire city. Stone and metal fragments flew. Columns collapsed. Snow turned to ash.
From the bay, Tyrion watched in horror.
The plan depended on Drogon flying them out before the detonation. Now⊠they were trapped.
âNoâŠâ Tyrion murmured, breathless.
Underground, among shadows and damp stones, Arya heard the roar.
It wasnât a call.
It was a farewell.
The agreed signal never came. No bell. Only uncertainty. Only silence.
Before her, the candle waited, motionless. Fragile. Lethal.
All she had to do was light it⊠and run.
But something felt wrong.
Was this the moment?
Was it too soon?
Were Jon and Daenerys safe?
Had the Night King arrived?
She didnât know.
No one knew.
Only silence.
Only uncertainty.
Only her⊠and the flame still asleep.