The ship floated in silence. The sails hung limp, like surrendered flags. The waters of the Blackwater stirred uneasily, scattered with green embers and falling ash, like flakes from a winter that no longer knew if it was its own.
Kingâs Landing still burned in the distance. The snowstorm that had battered the shores for weeks and buried the city was finally fading. As if the sacrifice at the Red Keep had broken something at the heart of winter.
It didnât snow anymore. Only a few stray flakes drifted down, mixed with ash. The icy wind calmed. And between the torn clouds, strips of pale sky began to break through. Overhead, sunlight teased its way through the gray veilâweak, but persistent.
On deck, no one spoke. They all stared toward the horizon. Exhausted. Broken. But unable to look away from what remained.
Tyrion still stood at the bow, hands at his sides, eyes bloodshot. Sansa sat beside Samwell, cradling the baby against her chest, wrapping him tight as he whimpered softlyâunaware of the enormity of what had just been lost.
Samwell sat close, head bowed, face streaked with dried tears. Davos looked out at the sea, as if searching its waters for an answer that never came.
Ash fell on them like a second snow. But it wasnât cold anymore. Only gray.
On the horizon, a ray of light pierced the smoky gloom. For the first time in weeks, the sun emerged. Timid. Pale. But there it was.
The baby stirred in Sansaâs arms and made a small soundâalmost a sigh. She kissed his forehead gently and whispered something no one else could hear. Samwell placed an arm around her and the child, closing his eyes.
The sea was still. The black waters reflected the dying fire of the city and a widening band of clear sky.
The storm was fading. The last ashes mixed with the last flakes, falling slowly until they vanished into the waves.
And so, in silence, the survivors remained, watching what was left. Without Jon. Without Daenerys. And without Arya. But with the quiet certainty that, somehow, life would go on.
The ship rocked once more on the frozen waters, carrying with it the ashes of a city and the fragile promise of a new beginning.
Tyrion looked up at the horizon one last time and murmured to himself:
âWe wonât forget them,â he said, voice hoarse and low. âNever.â
The wind swept the deck, carrying the last ashes into the sea, as light slowly overtook the sky.
The mist rose like a sigh from a world awakening after pain. For a moment, the sea, the sky, and the broken city seemed to pauseâunited in an ancient, almost sacred silence.
There, where kingdoms fell and gods stood silent, the light found its way.
Not with glory. Not with triumph.
But with the fragile, yet unbreakable, promise to begin again.