The camp outside King's Landing was a living storm of banners, firelight, and war. The dragon queen's host stretched across the plain like a tide that had no shore: thousands of Northmen in furs, Unsullied in perfect black ranks, Dothraki horsemen murmuring to their steeds, and southern soldiers of the Reach and Dorne polishing spears and helms. Once, these men had been divided by centuries of blood. Now they waited under one banner — a red dragon that billowed and snapped against the ash-gray sky.
Beyond them, King's Landing loomed, black and gold in the fading daylight. The sprawl of rooftops clung to the hills below the Red Keep, smoke rising in soft, sinister threads. The city's walls were lined with the gleam of foreign shields — the Golden Company, twenty thousand strong, ranks of elephants stamping in uneasy rhythm. Between the two armies, the world stood still, holding its breath.
Inside the queen's pavilion, the air was heavy with heat and the smell of oiled leather. The great map table — newly carved from the timbers of a shattered ship — was covered with tokens: dragons, lions, and golden elephants marking a war that could end kingdoms. Candles burned low, wax running like blood.
Outside, the horns of arrival sounded.
Three shadows crossed the firelight: Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Reach, Prince Martell of Dorne, and Lord Victarion Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Enemies in another age. Brothers now, bound by the same ocean of fire and death.
Paxter moved stiffly, his arm still bound from the naval battle. Prince Martell walked with a noble limp, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. And towering above them was Victarion — his chest bare beneath a scorched leather vest, his beard matted with ash and salt, one arm dragging behind him a monstrous warhorn wrapped in gold and black steel. The runes carved along its curves shimmered faintly, as though alive.
The soldiers outside parted in awe. Even among Daenerys's mighty host, the three were legend now — men who had faced the Kraken and lived.
Inside the tent, Daenerys turned from the map as they entered. Her eyes burned with reflection from the firelight.
"Rise, my lords," she said. "You have done what no fleet in history has done. The sea bends its knee to fire."
Victarion dropped Euron's warhorn onto the map. The sound was deep and final, shaking the candles. "He thought to bind your dragons with this," he said. "Now it belongs to their queen."
The queen studied the horn, tracing a hand over its surface. The golden inlays glimmered beneath her touch, humming faintly. For an instant, the tent darkened, as if the thing remembered the screams of the drowned. Daenerys drew back. "Let it stay silent," she said softly. "No dragon shall ever bow to man again."
The rest of the council gathered — Jon Snow, grave and quiet; Tyrion, pale from sleepless nights; Varys, still and unreadable; Grey Worm and Davos, standing like iron pillars at the queen's side.
Daenerys gestured to the map. "Cersei Lannister hides behind the walls of her stolen city. Her mercenaries stand before it. Her fleet lies beneath the waves. All that remains is the final strike."
Tyrion moved a lion token toward the painted walls of King's Landing. "The Golden Company is well-positioned, Your Grace. They have elephants, siege towers, and the high ground of the southern walls. If we attack directly, we'll lose thousands before we breach the gates."
Daenerys's tone was measured, but her gaze sharp. "And what would you suggest, Lord Hand? That we wait? That we beg her to surrender?"
He hesitated. "I suggest mercy."
"Mercy?" Her voice cut the air like a blade. "My father showed mercy, and it cost him his throne and his life. My brother showed mercy, and it drowned him in molten gold. The Lannisters thrive on mercy."
"This isn't mercy for her," Tyrion said quietly. "It's mercy for the people. There are hundreds of thousands inside those walls — mothers, children, the old. Let us give them the chance to live. Ring the bells of surrender. If they sound, you stop. No fire. No dragon."
Her eyes burned like twin suns. "You would have me trust the bells of traitors?"
"They rang once before," Tyrion said, his voice trembling but firm. "When the Mad King fell. When Jaime ended your father's madness. The people remember that sound. Let them hear it again — and know that this time, mercy saved them."
The tent went deathly still. The only sound was the soft flick of the candles.
Daenerys stepped toward him, each footfall deliberate. "You speak of my father as if you understand him."
"I speak," Tyrion said, his voice cracking, "as someone who killed his own father — to stop the same madness before it swallowed the world."
Her face tightened. "And now you would stop mine?"
Jon took a step forward. "Enough. He speaks truth, Daenerys. We came here to free the living, not to slaughter them. Let her soldiers face justice, but not her people."
"Her people are not mine," Daenerys said. "They followed her. They watched as my people were butchered. They called me usurper, foreigner, madwoman. Tell me, Jon — how do you free those who have already chosen their chains?"
Jon's jaw clenched. "By showing them another way."
Her stare held him a long moment. The tension between them was no longer only political — it was something older, deeper, and impossible to mend.
Varys finally spoke, his voice a ghost among them. "The smallfolk do not understand crowns, Your Grace. They understand survival. If you give them hope, they'll crown you willingly. But if you give them fire…" His eyes flicked toward the dragon sigil on her breastplate. "They will remember the fire long after the queen is gone."
Daenerys turned from him. "I did not cross the world to win hearts. I crossed it to break chains."
Tyrion's hands trembled at his sides. "You can't break them if you burn them."
Her patience snapped. "Enough. I am not here to debate the weakness of men. I am here to destroy those who enslave them."
She turned to Paxter. "Lord Redwyne, what is your counsel?"
Paxter straightened. "Your Grace, we hold the seas. If you wish to end this war swiftly, I can send half the fleet to blockade the river mouths and harbor. Prince Martell can hold the southern shore. Cut off food and trade. Starve the city before we strike. It will fall within a fortnight."
Daenerys nodded slightly. "A siege."
Paxter nodded back. "A short one. Let hunger fight for us, not blood."
Tyrion exhaled in relief. "And I'll send word to the Golden Company. Their loyalty is to gold, not Cersei. They may surrender before the people starve."
Daenerys turned her gaze on him again, unreadable. "You think they can be bought?"
"I think even sellswords prefer life to death."
She regarded him for a long, cold heartbeat. "Send your envoys. But if the bells do not ring…" She leaned forward, eyes blazing. "Then I will make them ring with fire."
When the council adjourned, Tyrion lingered behind as the others filed out. The tent was quiet now, shadows long.
He spoke softly. "Your Grace, you've come further than any before you. Don't throw it away in smoke."
She turned slowly. "You think I will become my father."
"I think," he said, "you are more dangerous than your father ever was — because you believe it's justice."
For a heartbeat, the mask cracked. Hurt flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone. "Leave me, Lord Tyrion. Before your words try my mercy."
He bowed, trembling, and left.
Outside, the night had deepened. The campfires stretched across the hills, a constellation of weary victory. Jon walked beside Tyrion for a time, both silent.
"She won't listen," Tyrion said finally. "Not to reason, not to mercy. She's convinced the gods sent her to cleanse the world."
Jon stared toward the city's silhouette. "Maybe they did. But gods don't have to live with what they've done."
In the shadows near the edge of the encampment, Varys appeared, cloak drawn close. "Then it falls to men," he said softly, "to decide when a god must be stopped."
Neither answered.
Later, Paxter, Martell, and Victarion walked together toward the shoreline. The tide whispered against the rocks. The warhorn on Victarion's shoulder glimmered faintly in the moonlight.
Martell broke the silence first. "Strange bedfellows, aren't we? Dorne, the Reach, and the Iron Islands — standing beneath the same banner."
Paxter smiled faintly. "Enemies in every century but this one. Seems we needed dragons to remember what it means to stand together."
Victarion grunted. "Aye. But dragons don't stand with men. They fly above them."
Martell looked at him. "You doubt her?"
"I've seen what happens when a godling believes herself immortal." Victarion's grip tightened on the horn. "Euron thought he could own the sea. The sea owned him instead."
Paxter gazed out over the dark waves. "Let's hope the fire remembers mercy better than the sea."
Far above the camp, Drogon crouched upon a ridge, his black wings folded like mountains. Daenerys stood before him, looking toward the distant city. The moonlight painted her face in silver and shadow.
Beneath her armor, her heart thundered — not from fear, but from something deeper. She could almost feel the throne waiting for her, calling her name.
Behind her, the army of the living dreamed of peace.
Before her, the city of the dead waited for fire.
Silence settled over the tent after the council dispersed. The candles burned low, and Daenerys stood alone at the table, eyes fixed on the carved map of King's Landing. Her reflection wavered in the polished wood — the image of a queen torn between vengeance and restraint.
The tent flap rustled. Varys stepped inside, his voice soft but insistent. "Your Grace. I beg you to reconsider. Give them one chance. Let the Hand go to the gates — offer surrender. If the city rings the bells, there will be no bloodshed. You'll be hailed as a liberator, not a conqueror."
Jon entered beside him, his expression weary but resolute. "He's right. The dead are behind us, Daenerys. Let this be the moment we prove the living can be better."
Paxter followed, hands clasped respectfully. "Your Grace, your fleet commands the sea, your dragons command the sky. There is no need to rush victory. A single gesture of mercy now will win you a hundred years of peace."
For a long moment, Daenerys said nothing. The sound of the wind outside — the flapping of dragon wings — filled the silence. Her eyes flicked between them: the spider, the wolf, the admiral. Three men of different worlds, united by reason.
Her voice, when it came, was low and taut. "You all would have me trust Cersei Lannister's word? You think she will surrender?"
Varys bowed his head. "No. But her people might. And when they do, history will remember that the Dragon Queen gave them that choice."
Daenerys turned away, her jaw set. The firelight played across her armor, throwing molten light on the dragon etched into her breastplate. At last, she exhaled, a slow release of fury restrained.
"Very well," she said. "Let Tyrion make his offer. One chance. One final chance. If the bells ring — the city lives."
Her eyes met Jon's, then Paxter's. "But if they do not…"
The candles guttered in the draft as she whispered, "Then fire will answer fire."
And with that, she turned from them, her shadow long against the tent walls — a queen standing between mercy and madness, between peace and ash.