The morning sun rose pale over the broken plain before King's Landing, its light veiled by a haze of dust and smoke. The land itself seemed weary — the earth scarred, the air still. The grass was dead and colorless, trampled flat beneath countless boots and hooves. Where once Robert Baratheon had broken Rhaegar Targaryen's line, the ground still bore the bones of rebellion. Now, it would decide the fate of queens.
A cold wind swept across the open field, carrying the mingled scents of soot, salt, and distant rot. Beyond it, the red walls of the capital glimmered faintly, its gates barred, its ramparts bristling with golden lions. Above the city, black plumes from smoldering ships drifted into the sky, smearing the dawn with ash.
A horn sounded.
From Daenerys Targaryen's camp, a small party rode out beneath a white banner.
She led them herself — astride a pale mare, cloaked in black and red, her silver hair braided in the fashion of conquerors. Tyrion Lannister rode at her side, his face pale, eyes shadowed with sleepless worry. Behind them came Jon Snow, silent and grim; Paxter Redwyne, his armor newly polished but still bearing scars of the sea; Prince Martell of Dorne, robed in sun-dyed silk; and Grey Worm, impassive in his helm. Missandei was not among them. She had been taken prisoner in the chaos of Euron's last ambush — and Daenerys had not seen her since.
Across the field, the gates of King's Landing groaned open. Cersei Lannister emerged on foot, her armor black as obsidian and trimmed in crimson. A golden lion crowned her chestplate. Qyburn shuffled at her elbow, and behind her loomed Ser Gregor Clegane — the Mountain, vast and inhuman in his blackened steel. No white banners flew for her, only the crimson of her house, bright against the gray morning.
They approached each other slowly, each step a measured act of will. When they stopped, less than twenty paces lay between them — fire and frost, life and death, each mirrored in the other.
Neither queen spoke. The silence stretched until even the wind seemed to die.
Tyrion was the first to move. He urged his horse forward and bowed low. "Your Grace," he said quietly, glancing between them both. "We stand upon the same ground that saw your victory once before, my sister. Let it not see your ruin as well."
Cersei's smile was brittle. "I should thank you for the reminder, brother. The ground remembers whose blood made it fertile. Perhaps it will drink yours before the day is out."
"I'm not here for my blood," Tyrion said evenly. "Only to stop more from being spilled."
Cersei's gaze slid past him to Daenerys. "You send your pet lion to beg for you? Has the dragon forgotten her own tongue?"
Daenerys's voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. "I came to offer peace. One last time."
The queen of the south laughed softly. "Peace? You've roasted fleets, burned cities, and broken every vow of mercy. You are your father's daughter in every way."
Daenerys's expression did not change. "And you are your father's — cruel, proud, and blind to the end."
Cersei took a step forward, chin lifted. "I will not kneel to a foreign queen who slaughters her enemies and calls it liberation. You would sit on my throne, my child's throne, and you call me blind?"
Tyrion raised a hand. "Enough of lineage. The dead care little for crowns. You've already lost the sea, Cersei. The Iron Fleet burns. The Reach and Dorne march beside us. Even the North fights under her banner. There is no future in defiance."
Cersei turned her glare upon him, the faintest flicker of something like pity — or disgust — in her eyes. "You betrayed your queen once. You will betray another soon enough. Always the clever dwarf, always crawling from one master to the next."
Tyrion's mouth tightened. "I learned long ago that loyalty is not a chain. It's a choice. And I choose to stop this — before there is nothing left to rule."
Her voice dripped poison. "You killed our father. You let our enemies into our home. You strangled our house in its cradle and now call it mercy. Tell me, brother — does your queen pay you in gold or guilt?"
Tyrion's composure cracked for the briefest moment. He swallowed hard. "I serve the living, Cersei. For once in your life, you might do the same."
The Lannister queen said nothing. Her eyes drifted to the walls behind her, where a small figure now stood between two Lannister guards.
Missandei.
Her wrists were bound, but her spine remained straight. Her gaze locked with Daenerys's across the distance — calm, unyielding, unbroken.
Daenerys inhaled sharply, a flicker of anguish passing through her before the steel returned.
Cersei saw it, and smiled. "You came for peace. I have your peace standing behind me."
Tyrion's voice broke through the cold. "Cersei… please. End this. The people behind your walls — they're starving, frightened, ready to surrender. Ring the bells. Open the gates. No one else has to die."
Cersei tilted her head. "And yield my throne to a Targaryen witch? Shall I send her the heads of my children too, as tribute?"
"Save your unborn child," Tyrion said softly. "I don't wish to see more of my family die."
That struck her like a lash. Her nostrils flared. "You think you know me, little brother? You never did."
"I know what it is to love someone beyond reason," Tyrion said. "And I know what happens when that love turns to ashes."
Cersei's lips parted, but no words came. For an instant, something human flickered in her eyes — sorrow, maybe, or fear. But then it was gone, buried beneath her armor.
"You've always been a fool," she said. "And fools die first."
Daenerys's patience broke. She spurred her horse a step forward, eyes blazing. "Enough," she said. "You have until sunset. Surrender the city. Ring the bells. Or face the fire."
Cersei's smile returned — calm, dangerous. "And if I do nothing?"
"Then the ashes will answer for you," Daenerys said, her tone as final as a verdict.
She turned her horse sharply. The air shifted, the stench of smoke carried on a sudden gust. Jon, Paxter, and Martell followed in grim silence.
Tyrion hesitated. He looked once more at his sister. "I used to think you were the strongest woman I knew," he said. "Now I see… you're just the last."
Cersei's eyes glistened. Whether from fury or sorrow, none could tell.
Tyrion turned and rode after his queen.
Behind them, Cersei lifted her hand — a simple, casual motion.
The Mountain drew his greatsword and, without hesitation, struck.
Missandei fell, her body crumpling against the stones.
Her final words rang clear across the plain.
"Tomorrow you die."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Daenerys did not look back. She rode away with eyes that no longer blinked, no longer wept. Only burned.
The return to camp was wordless. The army, sensing something changed, parted before their queen like waves before a storm. Jon Snow followed close behind, his face pale, lips drawn tight. Tyrion's hands shook as he dismounted, dust and grief clinging to him like ash. Paxter and Martell exchanged a glance — the kind soldiers share when they've seen the shape of what's coming.
Daenerys strode through the camp, every movement measured, deliberate. Her cloak trailed behind her like a dark flame. The soldiers bowed their heads as she passed, but none dared speak.
Inside the command tent, the great map of Westeros stretched before her — a field of ink and fire. The city of King's Landing sat at its center, untouched.
Tyrion entered after her, his face hollow. "Your Grace—"
She turned on him. "Do not speak to me of grace."
He froze.
She stepped toward him, her voice trembling with the effort of control. "You offered her mercy. And what did she do with it?"
"She showed what she's always been," Tyrion said quietly. "But mercy isn't weakness, my queen. It's strength."
Daenerys's eyes flared. "Strength is what wins thrones. And what keeps them."
Varys, who had stood silent in the corner, spoke at last. "If you burn that city, you will rule a graveyard."
Daenerys turned her gaze on him. "Better a graveyard than a kingdom ruled by fear and lies."
Jon stepped forward, voice low. "You don't have to do this."
Her eyes softened — barely. "You said you'd follow me, Jon Snow."
"I said I'd follow you to build a better world," he said. "Not to burn one down."
The tent grew still. Paxter shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat in her words, the frost in his own breath.
Finally, Daenerys turned to him. "Lord Redwyne. You have seen what war costs. Tell me — how do you end it?"
Paxter bowed his head. "You end it swiftly, Your Grace. But not without choice. If the bells ring, we stand down. If not…"
Daenerys nodded. "Then let it be known. When the sun sets, if the bells have not rung, King's Landing burns."
No one spoke.
Outside, the wind shifted again. The faint toll of distant bells — not of surrender, but of the city's morning hour — echoed through the stillness, haunting and hollow.
Tyrion looked at Daenerys, his voice barely above a whisper. "The city's fate rests on the mercy of one woman. And she's already lost hers."
Daenerys turned her gaze toward the horizon, where the walls of King's Landing glimmered beneath the rising sun. Her face was carved from fire and sorrow.
"Then let the world remember this day," she said. "The day the dragon came for the lion's den."
By dusk, the army stood ready.
The Northmen at the vanguard, grim and silent. The Unsullied in perfect ranks. The Dothraki mounted and restless, their arakhs glinting like crescent moons. Behind them, the banners of the Reach and Dorne fluttered in the gathering wind.
Above it all, two dragons wheeled through the reddening sky, their roars shaking the earth.
Paxter watched from the hill beside the queen's command pavilion, his heart heavy. "So it begins," he murmured.
Beside him, Prince Martell exhaled slowly. "May the gods — old or new — forgive what's coming."
Tyrion stood a little apart from them, eyes fixed on the city's high walls. He could not see his sister from this distance, but he could feel her — like a ghost he would never escape.
Daenerys stood before them all, the wind tugging at her braid, the dying light turning her hair to molten silver. She did not speak. She only stared toward King's Landing, her eyes bright as dragonfire.
Somewhere in that vast, trembling silence, the first stars began to appear — faint, distant, and cold.
"By sunset," Tyrion whispered, "we'll know whether the Lion will bend… or the Dragon will burn."