The ship rocked gently on the frozen waters of the Blackwater, its sails down and its mast coated in frost.
On deck, no one spoke. Only the sound of the sea, creaking wood, and the cold wind.
The survivors stood close together, unmoving, eyes fixed on Kingâs Landing. They waited. Waited to see Jon and Daenerys soaring through the sky on a dragon, emerging from the shadows to bring victory. They waited⊠for hope.
The city still stood, though wrapped in a gray, grim veil, its walls cracked by ice and streets littered with corpses. Wights moved through the towers like restless shadows, relentless. The Red Keep, black and proud, loomed on the horizon like an executioner watching from above.
Sansa held Jon and Daenerysâs baby to her chest, her hands trembling, her lips murmuring words even she couldnât hear. Despite her upright posture, she never took her eyes off the city, as if searching for a sign that would never come.
Samwell stood beside her, his gaze lost on the horizon. Tyrion, at the bow, gripped the railing with white knuckles, jaw clenched.
Davos Seaworth stood near them, frowning at Kingâs Landing, his sea-worn hands gripping the edge of the deck.
The baby whimpered softly, sensing the tension in the air. Sansa cradled him tighter, lowering her head for a moment, her red hair falling like a veil over the small child.
Then it happened.
First, a dull vibration, barely perceptible. The kind of sound you feel before you hear. A pressure that struck everyoneâs ears like an invisible fist.
And then, the flash.
A green flare erupted from the bowels of Kingâs Landing. It wasnât sudden, but swelling. As if something were inflating beneath the city, pushing upward, forcing its way to the surface.
A second later, the world exploded.
From the cityâs center, a brutal detonation ripped through the air. The ground lifted in a wave of earth, stone, and fire. The cityâs foundations were torn away by the sheer force of the blast.
The roar hit like a wave of metal crashing against rock. Wildfire spread in every direction, destroying homes, temples, inner walls. It wasnât ethereal magic or mystical floating flames. It was a storm of chemical fireâsearing, devouring.
Streets filled with flames in seconds, surging through canals like inflamed veins. Wooden buildings exploded. Stone structures lasted a few seconds longer before crumbling under the pressure.
The cityâs rooftops flew off like boiler lids. Balconies, statues, bell towersâanything vertical was flattened by the shockwave. Windows burst outward, flinging shards of glass like daggers.
The Red Keep, built with the hardest stone in Westeros, did not endure. Its upper levels collapsed one after the other like cursed dominoes. One main tower burst from within, hurling flaming debris beyond the walls.
The outer wall cracked. It shattered like an old spine. Massive blocks fell in and out of the city, raising clouds of dust and rubble that darkened the sky.
The city gates twisted in the heat, bent like red-hot iron. Streets near the epicenter vanished into wildfire cratersâeverything not burned was buried.
The impact hit the ship with unexpected force. A wave of heat and pressure pushed them back. The water surged, displaced by the blast, and slammed into the hull like a desperate beast. The mast groaned. The sails shook. Air burned in their lungs. Some dropped to their knees. Others clung to whatever they could.
In the sky, a spiral of green and black smoke rose like a slow, menacing mushroom cloud. Beneath it, the city burned.
Flames devoured rooftops, surged down alleys like ravenous beasts. Not chaotic flaresâbut precise rivers of fireâcoursing through canals, tunnels, hidden passages. Spreading with surgical lethality.
Wildfire left nothing halfway. It burned bone, metal, wood. Structures collapsed in on themselves, trapping the last human screams within smoldering ruins.
Thick, black smoke began to cover the sky, and from within the city, secondary detonations rang outâhidden stockpiles, sealed basements, ancient barrels of fire exploding one by one in a symphony of death.
With each new blast, the ship trembled, and the sea churned as if trying to flee.
The wights still inside the city were consumed by flames and rubble. They didnât vanish in magical dust. They were crushed, incinerated, buried. The death that came for them wasnât poetic. It was final. Brutal.
From a distance, the city seemed to sink into its own fire, like a statue falling into an abyss. Kingâs Landingâs silhouette warped with each passing second. The towers, bridges, rooftopsâeverything became smoke.
And the roar didnât stop. It was constant. Like the breath 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 didnât speak. They couldnât.
They knew. They felt it.
This fire wasnât a victory. It was a tomb.
And the world would know: the price of hope was everything else.