Morning broke with no warmth.
The light that crept over the plains before King's Landing was gray and listless, the kind that seemed to bleach color from the world. Mist swirled in the ruts of old siege lines, wrapping around pikes, wagons, and the dead earth itself.
The field had seen war before — Robert's Rebellion, the Blackwater — and now it waited again, patient as a graveyard.
Daenerys Targaryen's army stood arrayed in silence.
The Unsullied formed their wall of spears, perfect and unmoving, every man a statue. Behind them, the Dothraki muttered to their horses in low, guttural tones, eyes gleaming like embers through the mist. Northmen under the direwolf banner held the center, their cloaks stiff with frost. On the flanks, the Reachmen and Dornish spearmen shifted, awaiting signal, their banners drooping with dew.
And above them all, Drogon circled.
Each beat of his wings stirred the fog into chaos, throwing long shadows that swept across the ranks. The soldiers looked up, awed and afraid, for the sound of his roar was the sound of judgment.
Across the field, the Golden Company waited.
Their formation gleamed, gold and steel arrayed in flawless symmetry. Harry Strickland sat astride his horse at the front, helm polished to mirror sheen, his face as still as carved marble. Behind him, ranks of mercenaries stood shoulder to shoulder, pikes grounded, eyes cold. On the walls above, scorpions and ballistae gleamed, bolts already notched.
Between them stretched a vast emptiness — the breath before a scream.
In the command tent behind the lines, the air was as tense as the field outside.
Maps were spread across the table, ink bleeding into parchment from a dozen hasty revisions. Candles burned low. The shadows they cast wavered over Daenerys's face, catching the sharpness in her eyes. She looked like a woman carved from light and fire — exhausted, furious, and resolute.
Grey Worm stood to her right, armor polished black, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His hands trembled — not with fear, but rage barely held in check.
Tyrion was the first to speak. His voice was low, measured, a diplomat's tone forced into the language of desperation. "Your Grace, if they surrender, we must show mercy. Let the bells be the signal. The people will ring them when they yield. We cannot punish them for their queen's pride."
Daenerys didn't move. She stared at the map, tracing a gloved finger over the outline of the Red Keep.
Tyrion pressed on. "Your enemy is inside those walls, not beneath them. You gain nothing by fire except ashes."
Varys stepped forward, voice silk-soft. "Mercy, Your Grace, is not weakness. It is the memory that separates conquerors from monsters. If you burn this city, you will sit alone on the world you made."
The tent went silent.
Only the crackle of the candle's flame filled the space — and then it guttered, flickering as a draft swept through.
Daenerys's eyes lifted at last. They were rimmed with red. "Mercy," she said, the word tasting bitter. "That's what we gave her — my friend."
The name hung unspoken: Missandei.
Grey Worm's hands tightened on his spear. His voice came out low, shaking. "They took her from us. Mercy gave her chains. Mercy gave her death."
"Enough," Tyrion said, though his own voice trembled. "Missandei's death was—"
Grey Worm's glare cut him off. "Say it was necessary," he hissed. "Say it, Lannister. The word you love to use when it's others who die for your peace."
Tyrion took a step back, but Daenerys's voice cut across them both — soft but burning. "She was my friend. My sister. They took her head and laughed." Her hands clenched on the map, crumpling the parchment. "If mercy spared her, then mercy is a lie."
Varys swallowed, daring to speak again. "Vengeance will not bring her back, Your Grace."
"No," she said. "But it will make the world remember her name."
She turned toward them, her eyes alight. "For every chain that bound her, for every life that knelt to cruelty, I will return fire. I will free them — from Cersei's tyranny, from fear, from the lies that built that throne of swords. Fire is freedom."
Jon entered the tent then, his face shadowed by the morning light. He looked from her to the others, reading the room before speaking. "Your Grace, the men are ready. They'll follow you. But if they yield — if the bells ring — we stop. You said once you would break the wheel. Not burn it."
Daenerys stared at him, and for a moment, something in her expression cracked. The grief beneath her fury flickered through, raw and human. But then it hardened again, forged anew in loss.
"You told me the North remembers," she said. "Do you think the dead remember mercy?"
Jon didn't answer.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faint tremor in her hands. "You will stand with me when the walls fall."
"I will fight for what's right," Jon said quietly.
"Then pray the right thing doesn't burn," she whispered.
The words lingered like smoke as she turned away.
Outside, the army stirred.
Ser Jorah Mormont rode the lines, his cloak snapping in the wind. His voice carried the practiced calm of a man who had fought too many battles to believe in victory.
He passed through the southern lines, where Paxter Redwyne sat tall in the saddle, his sword raised in salute.
"We stand ready," Paxter said, his voice steady though his eyes betrayed unease. "But let's hope we don't have to prove it."
Jorah offered a thin, knowing smile. "Hope is a rare luxury before a siege."
He rode on, the gray in his beard glinting in the dull morning light, and the men straightened at the sight of him — the last of Daenerys's old guard, a knight who had followed her through fire and storm.
Further down, the Northern ranks tightened. The men of Winterfell stood grim and pale, snow still clinging to their cloaks despite the southern heat. Jon rode before them, Longclaw drawn, the direwolf's pommel glinting faintly.
Arya was gone — vanished into the mist hours ago. None had seen her since.
Overhead, Drogon roared again. The sound rolled over the field like a mountain breaking. Horses reared. Even the Unsullied flinched.
Across the plain, the Golden Company remained motionless — a wall of polished death.
Inside King's Landing, the people waited.
The bells hung still in their towers, silent watchers over a city holding its breath. In the streets below, smoke drifted from cooking fires hastily doused. Mothers clutched children in shuttered houses. The smell of fear was as real as ash.
At the Sept of Baelor, a septa led a prayer for deliverance, her voice shaking as she called for the Mother's mercy. In Flea Bottom, a butcher herded his neighbors into his cellar, whispering that the dragon wouldn't see them underground.
And above, the Red Keep stood gleaming in the dull light — a crown of stone waiting for judgment.
By midday, the mists had thinned. The armies faced one another under a pale sun.
Daenerys emerged from her tent, her hair braided with silver rings that gleamed like firelight. The wind caught her cloak — red and black, torn and soot-stained — and for a heartbeat she looked less like a queen and more like the storm itself.
Grey Worm walked beside her, his face carved from stone.
Tyrion and Varys followed at a distance, their expressions heavy with dread.
Paxter watched her approach from the line, his chest tightening. He'd seen conquerors before, men who rose on victory and drowned in pride. But Daenerys was something else — grief wrapped in flame.
She walked to the front, mounted Drogon, and the air seemed to bow around her.
"Ready the signal," Grey Worm commanded.
On the far side of the field, a trumpet sounded — a single, sharp blast that cut through the silence like a blade.
Harry Strickland rode forward from the Golden Company's ranks. His armor gleamed, his banner rippled. He raised his sword high, voice carrying across the field.
"The Queen of King's Landing greets you with steel!"
He wheeled his horse and galloped back to his line.
Daenerys watched him go, her face unreadable. Then she looked at the walls — at the scorpions, the archers, the banners. Her hand tightened on Drogon's reins.
Tyrion stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let them ring the bells, Your Grace. Please. Let the city live."
She turned her head slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might listen.
Then she said, "If they wished to live, they would have freed themselves."
Her voice was quiet. Deadly.
Drogon roared, wings unfurling, the ground trembling beneath him.
Varys closed his eyes. Jon watched from below, his knuckles white on Longclaw's hilt. Paxter looked up and felt the pit in his stomach deepen — the terrible certainty that no one could stop what was coming.
The armies stood ready.
Across the field, the Golden Company began to advance. Boots thundered, banners snapped.
The sun vanished behind the shadow of wings.
Tyrion whispered almost in prayer, "Let them ring."
Daenerys's eyes burned with fire.
And Drogon screamed.
The charge began.