The boat rocked slowly on the freezing waters of Blackwater Bay, with the sails hanging limp and the mast covered in frost.
On deck, no one spoke. Only the sound of the sea, the creaking wood, and the cold air.
The survivors stood together, motionless, eyes fixed on Kingâs Landing. All of them were waiting. Waiting to see Jon and Daenerys soar through the sky on a dragon, emerging from the shadows to bring victory. Waiting⊠hoping that hope still remained.
The city was still standing, though cloaked in a gray, deathly shroud, with its walls cracked by ice and its streets littered with corpses. The White Walkers moved through the towers like restless shadowsârelentless. The Red Keep, black and proud, dominated the horizon like an executioner waiting to strike.
Sansa held Jon and Daenerysâs baby against her chest, her hands trembling, her lips murmuring words even she couldnât hear. Despite her upright posture, her eyes never left the city, as if searching for a sign that would never come.
Samwell stood beside her, gaze lost on the horizon. Tyrion, at the bow, leaned on the railing with clenched fists, jaw tight, knuckles white.
Davos Seaworth stood near them, frowning at Kingâs Landing, lips pressed together, his sea-worn hands gripping the edge of the deck.
The baby whimpered softly, as if sensing the tension in the air. Sansa held him tighter, bowing her head for a moment, her red hair falling like a veil over the small child.
Then it happened.
First, a dull vibrationâalmost imperceptible. The kind of sound you feel before you hear it. A pressure that hit everyoneâs ears like an invisible fist.
And then, the flash.
A burst of green light erupted from deep within Kingâs Landing. It wasnât sudden, but growing. As if something swelled beneath the city, pressing against the ground, forcing its way to the surface.
A second later, the world exploded.
From the cityâs center, a brutal detonation tore through the air. The ground lifted in a wave of dirt, stone, and fire. The cityâs foundations were ripped from the earth by the force of the blast.
The roar struck like a wave of metal against rock. Wildfire spread in all directions, obliterating homes, temples, inner walls. This wasnât ethereal magic or floating mystic flames. It was a storm of chemical, ravenous, unstoppable explosions.
Within seconds, the streets were ablaze, fire coursing through the canals like veins set aflame. Wooden buildings erupted. Stone structures held for only moments longer before crumbling under the mounting pressure.
The cityâs rooftops blew away like boiler lids. Balconies, statues, bell towersâeverything that stood upright was torn down by the expanding force. Windows shattered outward, hurling glass like daggers.
The Red Keep, built with the hardest stone in Westeros, did not withstand. Its upper levels collapsed one after another, like cursed dominoes. One of its main towers burst from within, flinging burning debris beyond the walls.
The outer wall fractured. It snapped like an old spine. Massive blocks fell both inward and outward, raising clouds of dust and rubble that darkened the sky.
The city gates twisted under the heat, bending like red-hot iron. Streets near the epicenter vanished into craters of wildfire. And everything not burned⊠was buried.
The impact hit the boat with unexpected violence. A wave of heat and pressure shoved them back. The sea surged upward, displaced by the shockwave, and slammed into the shipâs hull like a desperate beast. The mast groaned. The sails shuddered. The air scorched in their lungs. Some fell to their knees. Others clung to whatever they could.
In the sky, a column of green and black smoke spiraled upward, expanding like a slow, menacing mushroom cloud. Beneath it, the city burned.
Flames consumed rooftops, raced through alleys like ravenous beasts. These werenât chaotic fires, but defined rivers of flame, following the canals, tunnels, secret passagesâspreading with lethal precision.
Wildfire left nothing unfinished. It burned bone, metal, wood. Structures collapsed upon themselves, trapping the last human screams within smoking ruins.
Thick black clouds began to cover the sky, and from within the city came secondary detonations: hidden stockpiles, sealed cellars, ancient barrels of wildfire exploding one after another like a symphony of death.
With each new explosion, the ground trembled beneath the ship, and the sea churned as if it, too, wanted to flee.
The remaining White Walkers within the city were caught by the flames and the collapse. They didnât vanish in magical dust. They were crushed, incinerated, buried. The death that came for them wasnât poetic. It was final. Brutal.
From afar, the city seemed to sink slowly into its own fire, like a statue toppling into an abyss. Kingâs Landingâs silhouette distorted second by second. Towers, bridges, rooftops⊠all became smoke.
And the roar didnât stop. It was constant. Like the breathing of a monster still feeding the inferno.
On the water, ashes floated like toxic snow. Embers fell like soft meteors onto the shipâs deck. The characters said nothing. They couldnât.
They knew. They felt it.
This fire was not a victory. It was a tomb.
And the world would know: the price of hope was everything else.