The ship floated in silence. The sails still hung, motionless, like surrendered flags. The waters of the Blackwater were restless, splashed with green embers and ashes that fell slowly, like flakes of a winter that no longer knew if it was its own.
King's Landing still burned in the distance, but the flames had begun to diminish. The snowstorm, which for a long time had lashed the coasts and covered the city, was weakening, as if the sacrifice in the Red Keep had broken something in the heart of winter.
The snow, once fierce and dense, now fell in gentle scattered flakes. The gusts of frozen wind calmed until they were barely a murmur over the waves. And little by little, the clouds began to open, letting pale strips of sky show through the gray. Somewhere, beyond the smoke and broken clouds, morning light tried to slip through, weak but persistent.
On deck, no one spoke. Everyone looked at the horizon. Tired. Broken. But unable to look away from what remained.
Tyrion remained at the bow, hands hanging at his sides, eyes reddened. Sansa sat next to Samwell, cradling the baby against her chest, wrapping him well while he whimpered softly, oblivious to the magnitude of what he had just lost.
Samwell stayed beside her, head down, face bathed in dried tears. Davos looked at the sea, as if searching its waters for some answer that didn't come.
Ashes fell on them like a second snow. But it was no longer cold. Just gray.
On the horizon, the last dark clouds frayed, letting a weak ray of light fall on the city's ruins. For the first time in days, the sun hinted itself. Timid, pale. But there it was.
The baby stirred in Sansa's arms and made a small sound, almost a sigh. Sansa kissed him gently on the forehead and whispered something no one heard. Samwell put an arm over her and the child, closing his eyes.
The sea now quiet. The black waters reflected the city's diminishing fire and, now, also a clear strip of sky.
The storm was fading. The last ashes mixed with the last snowflakes, falling slowly until they disappeared into the waves.
And so, in silence, the survivors stayed there, watching how night surrendered and winter dissipated. Without Jon. Without Daenerys. And without Arya. But with the certainty that, somehow, life would continue.
The ship swayed once more over the frozen waters, carrying with it the ashes of a city and the fragile promise of a new dawn.
Tyrion raised his eyes one last time toward the horizon and murmured to himself:
—We won't forget them —he said, with a hoarse and muffled voice—. Never.
The cold wind swept the deck, carrying the last ashes to the sea, while a thread of light slowly expanded between the clouds.
The mist rose like a sigh from the world awakening after pain. For an instant, the sea, sky and broken city seemed to stop, united in an ancient, almost sacred silence.
There, where kingdoms fell and gods kept silent, dawn finally found its way.
Not with glory. Not with triumph.
But with the fragile, yet invincible, promise of starting again.