Blackwater Bay
Lord Sebaston Farman yawns, stepping onto the deck of his flapship, Ironbreaker, as the early morning sun rises over the watery eastern horizon. He quickly realizes something has changed. The dragon is missing.
He pulls aside a passing sailor. "Where has King Jon gone?"
"I can't say, m'lord. Left in the night, he did."
Consternated, Lord Farman rushes to the upper deck, where he finds Yara Greyjoy waiting with Humfrey Hightower.
"Why was I not alerted of the king's departure?" he demands to know.
"We did not wish to disturb your slumber," Yara rolls her eyes, dismissively. The self-styled queen of the Iron Islands has made no attempt to hide her contempt for Sebaston, and he seethes to know Daenerys has endorsed the Islands' independence.
"It's a shame," Humfrey pouts, looking across the bay towards the city. "I would like to see a dragon fight."
"Then you are a foolish boy," Sebaston chides the youth. "Dragons are trouble enough on land. There is nothing more dangerous at sea than fire. Dragons are nothing but fire with wings. And in the height of battle, all ships, no matter what banners they fly, are just kindling."
Daenerys' Camp
Rhaegal swoops down out of the sky into the center of a huge circle of charred wood and soot at the heart of the camp. An exhausted Jon falls down from the dragon's back to find Eres waiting, with the Queensguard at attention behind her.
"Where is the queen?" he gasps for breath. He has ridden non-stop through the night. His legs gone numb, he stumbles. Ser Merlon and Bors of Skagos rush to support him.
Eres looks up to the sky as if to answer.
"What?" For a moment, Jon is confused. "Why, what happened?"
"There was an attack, your grace," Ser Osgood reports. "Ser Jorah and Sharp Fang were killed. The queen has taken flight to end this war before any more lives are lost. She will rain the lord's fire down upon the false…"
"No!" Jon shakes free of the knights. "She can't! There's wildfire!"
"We know," Ser Merlon looks to him, ashamed.
"You mean…" Jon's eyes frantically scan the faces. "Does she know?"
"R'Hllor spoke to her in the fire," Eres answers. "Sacrifices must be made for justice."
"No, I have to stop her!" Jon turns away, running back to Rhaegal. Ser Osgood and Kimbo move to stop him, but he pushes them aside to climb back atop the dragon.
"Your grace, these are not innocents!" Eres yells after him. "Have you forgotten what these people did to your family?"
For a moment, Jon pauses, remembering the years of loss, pain and anger. But he also remembers the man he loved as a father and the lessons Ned Stark had taught. He shakes his head.
"I disagree."
At that, Rhaegal's mighty wings take flight, nearly knocking over the knights and throwing snow and ash up into the air as the great beast rises into pursuit, with a half million lives at stake.
Atop Drogon
Halberd strapped to her black armor, with a flaming dragon helm over her freshly shaven head, Daenerys rides. She always feels a heat atop her dragon. But this time, it is not Drogon's fire. A new flame burns within her very soul. Zatarra had shown her visions before. But last night, naked in the ring of fire, she had at last heard the voice, the voice that had lived in her dreams since she was a little girl – the dragon within.
It had taken many forms – Jorah, Zatarra, Jon, a one-eyed man she did not know, Drogo, even Viserys. And it had shown her things, both horrid and beautiful. She had seen her past burnt away in the redeeming fire. And she had seen her future, a free world alive in endless summer, singing and dancing her praises as their chains fall, one by one.
But her destiny will come in time. For now, one image remains first in her mind – The traitors, using dark magic to steal away Cersei Lannister before she could face the justice of the true queen. She should never have let the Starks out of Winterfell. But that was then and this is now. Cersei will face justice. And so will all who stand in the way.
The Iron Throne
The doors swing open and Genna Lannister walks slowly down the long hall to where her niece sits on the bottom step of the Iron Throne, no longer able to climb to the seat. Queen Cersei Lannister is a far cry from the stern, cold woman who seized this seat so long ago. Her hair has grown out, knotted and disheveled, obscuring her red, puffy face. Her crown rests haphazardly on her head, tangled in golden strands. Swollen fingers run over her stomach as she watches Genna approach.
She speaks, dull and raspy. "You've betrayed me."
"Your grace, you should be in bed," Genna brushes away the accusation. "You're not well."
"No!" Cersei points, threateningly. "I'm not your little girl anymore! I am your queen! And you will treat me as I deserve!"
"Of course," Genna vows, nervously. She has had fits before. This too shall pass. "I only ever serve for the good of the realm."
"But you do not serve me. You murdered my advisor. The only one who ever showed me the truth. You conspired with my wretched brother and defiled this keep with treason!" The doors swing open again and the Queensguard enter. "Do not try to lie again. Ser Balon has told me everything."
Genna looks back with anger at the Lord Commander, his eyes unfeeling and straight forward beneath his white helm. She notes Ser Ilyn Payne as well, his headsman's sword drawn. "Your grace, the red woman was manipulating you. We were protecting…"
"I do not need protected!" Cersei rises, shakily. "You're just like father. Just like all the others, all the men. I was never more than a pretty doll to bargain with, to sing songs and to birth heirs. I was never a person, not to you, not to any of you. Father never let me live. What I could have been…"
"You expect me to pity you?" Genna's care turns to a sneer.
"I could have been better than Jaime," Cersei grows more frantic as the knights move to her side. "Better than father! But I was cursed. Cursed to be born a woman!"
"Cursed?" Genna has finally had enough, slowly advancing on her niece. "You were only ever given everything you could desire. Money, power, beauty that never left you! Do not tell me what it is to be a woman in this world. I have lived longer than you, and I have not been so blind."
She is nearly upon Cersei now, only the knights pressed tight between them. "Tell, me, when you say you are cursed, do you think of the washerwomen, the farmer's wives and the whores, raped and killed and left to rot in the ruins of the games you play? You are not cursed. You and Tywin were very much the same. You only lack his wits. And without that, you're nothing."
She turns to storm out, but two of the knights seize her arms. Cersei shoves her, angrier than ever.
"Nothing? I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the first of my name! I planted the Lannister name on this throne, by my own hand! Had I been a man..."
"You have not failed because you are a woman! You've failed because you're vain, stubborn, arrogant and foolish. You always were, and you've only ever grown worse, because no matter what you tell yourself, no one has ever dared to tell you no! We've all seen what you would have been as a man. We all saw Joffrey!"
Cersei opens her mouth to answer, but only a scream comes out. She falls to the floor, clutching her stomach. Genna immediately realizes what is happening. She turns to Balon.
"Get the queen to her chambers. Summon the midwives. The child is coming."
The Depths of the Red Keep
Ser Henry Staedmon leads six guards in Lannister armor up out of the secret passages. But beneath the stern face of the former Master of War, Arya Stark's eyes glace furtively from side to side, trying to fight back the memories of this place, her mind focused only on the mission – Find Cersei, take her captive and flee before the battle can begin.
She notices the fellow infiltrators keep a distance from her. Brienne had not concealed her disturbance at Arya's special "gift". But there was no other way, and so they march on, silently, unnoticed as they rise further up the steps. In the back of the mind Arya hears her prayer. It has grown so short. And now she is so close to ending it.
The Mountain. Ilyn Payne. Cersei Lannister. Two will die today, she vows. And when the time comes, she will swing the executioner's blade on Cersei herself.
The City Walls
Qyburn walks along the walls of the city, followed by Alys and his undead guards – Boros and Preston. He is here to inspect the massive scorpion bolts his men have been hard at work installing from the day Daenerys Targaryen landed on their shores. But something is wrong. Something, someone, is missing.
"Where are the men of the Golden Company?" he asks a captain of the City Watch.
"They left shortly before you arrived. Said Strickland had an address to make."
"Then find Strickland and get them back here!" Qyburn dismisses the guard. He turns to find Ser Jon Bettley, Commander of the City Watch, approaching.
"Lord Hand! The fires of the Red Army have been spotted approaching in the West. The raiders out of Cracklaw Point have crawled back out of their bogs. And the Dragon's Fleet is in the mouth of the bay…"
"Alarming," Qyburn nods. "But not unexpected. We have planned for all of this."
But as he moves to dismiss Ser Jon, he notices something on the nearby scorpion. His knees creak as he bends to inspect it – a crucial bolt in the firing mechanism has been severed.
"No...," he murmurs to himself, looking down the wall at the long line of scorpions. "Alys, examine the firing mechanisms."
The girl runs away to the left while Qyburn moves to the next bolt on the right. His heart begins to skip as he immediately sees the same damage inflicted here as well.
Ser Jon can tell something is wrong. "My lord, what is it?"
"These bolts were in perfect condition when I inspected yesterday. Who has been here since?"
"Only the king's men…"
"Then find the king and bring him to me!" Qyburn demands.
"The launching's busted on the next three, too!" Alys yells, running back.
"Damn it all! I need all of the birds here, now!" But as he turns away, something catches his eye on the northern horizon. Something in the sky. "Wait…" He squints harder, wishing his old eyes had the strength of youth. "Ser Jon, what is that?"
The knight stares at the horizon. As he does, the spear drops from his hand, ringing out hauntingly as it clatters on the ground.
"Alys," Qyburn turns to his young assistant, trying to stay calm. "Return to my laboratory. Gather my studies and get them out of the city, I don't care how. You need to leave. Now."
"But my lord…" she protests, but Qyburn shoos her away.
He turns back to Ser Jon, the knight's face drained of blood. "Sound the alarms. Ready the men. And get the gods-damned Golden Company back on these walls!"
The Black Cells
Ellaria Sand sits alone in the dark. How long it has been since she was locked away here, she cannot say. There is no sun, no moon or stars in the cells. Only the torches of those who bring her the food. She had tried to refuse it at first. Tried to starve. But they wouldn't let her die. Cersei wouldn't let her die. So she had learned to mark time by the slow, hideous rotting of her daughter's body, the once beautiful, innocent face reduced to a grinning skull, forever across from her.
She had tried to kill herself more than once. But nothing ever held. It only made her pain worse. And so she took that pain and cherished it. Because even when there is no night, eventually sleep will come. And with sleep, dreams. And in those dreams, she takes her pain and returns it to Cersei. Again and again and again.
When she hears the key turning in the lock, she thinks she is dreaming. But as the door slides open and she turns away from the light, it is Tyrion Lannister who steps into the cell, dressed in fool's motley.
The Imp does not speak, but only takes the lock of her chains in his hands and goes to work. In a moment, the chains fall away. Ellaria swears now she must surely be dreaming. It is not real until she feels the knife Tyrion presses into her hand. And then she stands, shakily at first, and follows his beckoning out of the cell and onward. To vengeance.
Qyburn's Laboratory
Missandei and Ser Argilac Horpe slip silently through the lower levels of the Keep, as children run past them. At last they reach Qyburn's laboratory, almost vacant now. The little birds are all gone. All save Alys, who stands, knives in hand, a bag overflowing with journals and scrolls strapped to her back.
"Where are the keys to the dungeons, little one?" Missandei approaches cautiously. "We're looking for someone."
"Then look on your own!" Alys lashes out with one knife and Missandei jumps back. Argilac steps between them, sword drawn. "You don't scare me. I know she won't let you hurt me. After all, I'm just a little girl…"
"Please," Missandei steps past the knight. "Where are you going with all those books?"
Alys slowly lets down her guard. "I'm leaving the city."
"Please," Missandei slowly places a hand on her shoulder. "We can help each other. Show me the keys, and we can leave together."
"I can't let you release the prisoners! Lord Qyburn…"
"Is sending you out of the city with his life's work. We both know how this battle is going to end. And he wouldn't want either of us to die over a few prisoners."
Slowly, Alys' eyes soften. Silently, she slips one knife back into her pocket. When the hand returns, it is holding the keys.
Harry Strickland's Manse
Harry Strickland is carefully placing the gilded skulls of the Captain-Generals before him into their velvet-padded case when he hears them. Low, rumbling horns from the walls high above. They can only mean one thing.
Slamming the case shut, he marches sternly into the lobby of his home, where his squire and sergeants wait for him. He hands the case to Grif, and checks to see that Heartsbane and Blackfyre are both secure at his side.
"We need to leave, now. The dragons are coming! Move!"
"The gates are barred shut, ser!" Rolly Duckfield hesitates.
"We have elephants, Duck. Elephants! Tear the bloody gates down before we're all burned to a crisp!" With that, he swings open the doors to march out into the streets beyond. The Golden Company has never broken a contract. But that ends today. Some battles are not meant to be won.
Atop Drogon
King's Landing is in sight now. Daenerys remembers the stories that Viserys had told her when they were children. But she has grown up since then. She has seen the truth of the city, what does to good people. They had seen the dead themselves rise from the ground, but that was not enough to show them the error of their ways. They kept playing their game and the wheel kept turning. Until today.
The dead were not enough. She will be enough.
Drogon is nearly at the walls now, and Daenerys can see the lines of scorpion bolts. But R'Hllor has shown her they will burn all the same. The dragon rises up above the clouds. She can hear faint shouts from the guards below.
Pitiful roars to come from lions. Lions who have never seen a dragon.
With a roar, Drogon drops down out of the clouds. Daenerys sees the terror on their faces as they look up, raising useless weapons to the sky.
"Dracarys!"
The dragonfire obliterates the top of the wall, taking the scorpions with it. Drogon rises up to take another pass. Daenerys does not even notice, amidst the destruction in her wake, the first spark.
Green.
Cersei's Chambers
In her chambers within Maegor's holdfast, even Cersei's deafening screams of childbirth cannot drown out the explosions.
"What is it it?" she gasps between convulsions, sweat pouring down her face, her crown tossed aside on the floor. "What's happening?"
The midwives hush her as Genna walks slowly to the window. Her heartbeat slows to a crawl as she looks out. The dragon is here. The stories did not do this terror justice. The walls were ablaze with flame. But cutting through the city was something else. Something worse. Street by street, spurned on by the dragon's breath, buildings explode in bursts of wildfire.
"What have you done…" she whispers. And then the midwives screams join Cersei's.
"What is it?" She turns back to the queen's bed, where the nurses have turned away. One holds something close to her chest. It cries.
It's here! But something is wrong. Genna rushes forward to see.
"My lady, do not look!" the nurse protests. But she does not fight. Genna pulls the crying baby into her arms, and then she sees. Looking to Cersei, she smiles, taunting.
"A dwarf."
"No," Cersei shouts, trying to rise from her bed. "You lie! Give it to me!"
The doors swing open and Euron storms in, shoving aside Ser Henrik and Ser Tallad of the Queensguard. His crown and finery are gone, replaced with the tattered pirate's garb he first arrived in.
"Where is my son?" he demands. Without hesitation, Genna turns and flees. Euron rushes forward to give chase, drawing his sword and cutting the midwives down without hesitation. Horrified, the knights draw their own swords, turning on their king. "Stand down!" Euron orders.
"We serve the queen," Ser Tallad declares, and strikes. Euron's cutlass moves at a furious speed as the two knights circle him, jabbing in tandem, but unable to land a blow. Henrik oversteps for a moment, and Euron stabs beneath his shoulder, shoving the knight back at his brother in arms. Tallad dodges the body and lunges, raining down a series of heavy blows with impeccable form.
For only a moment, it seems as if the king has met his match. But at the bedside lies a pan of water. Grabbing it with one hand, water and bowl hit Tallad's face, offering enough of an opening for a lethal blow. As the knight drops, his spilling blood added to the gore on the floor, Euron steps over the bodies and back to Cersei.
"Where is it?" he snarls.
"Gone," Cersei chokes. "And it was never yours."
"What?" Euron tears Cersei from the bed.
"Jaime's, it was Jaime's!" She shouts, finding the strength to slap him. Her hand leaves a bloody print on his face. But he seems oddly calmed. Placing his arm around her, he walks her to the window. As she props herself against the balcony, he picks her crown from the floor and places it, still dripping with blood, atop her head.
"Then it is not king's blood," Euron sighs. "And I have no use for it. He may yet live to inherit. Look," he points out at the city. "Look at what you will leave him."
Cersei tries to look away from the devastation before her, but his hands close around her throat, forcing her to stare out at the flames – the orange, the dragon's; the green, her own.
I beat her, she thinks, as the hands tighten around her neck. She will not have my city. She will not have my throne. And as the shadows creep in, soon she can only see the fire, green and orange. It's beautiful.
And then it's nothing.
Maegor's Holdfast
Lord Commander Balon Swann stands with the remaining Queensguard at the edge of the bridge leading into the holdfast, white cloaks swaying, unaware of what has transpired with in. Before them, at the other end of the bridge, stands Ser Henry Staedmon with six Lannister guards.
"Ser Henry!" Balon shouts. "I heard you had left the city!"
"You heard wrong!" the knight replies. "We're under attack. I must see the queen."
"The queen is in labor! She's not to be disturbed. Your place is on the walls, defending her in battle!" The group of knights pause. The largest one impulsively marches forward.
"We weren't asking!" a familiar voice bellows.
"The Hound!" Balon shouts, drawing his sword. The huge knight tears off his helmet and tosses it from the bridge, revealing the scarred face beneath.
"The Hound is dead. If you want to fight Sandor Clegane, come at me."
Balon suddenly feels himself shoved aside. The Mountain lurches forward, out onto the bridge. Somewhere in his dead and rotted brain, he recognizes his brother.
Halfway across the bridge, the Mountain halts. Brienne looks to Sandor who motions her on. She marches forward and steps past the huge knight unnoticed. Arya, Elia and Myles follow. Ben Coldwater, however, ignores Sandor's warning, yelling a battle cry and lunging forward. The Mountain does not move and Ben's sword cuts through his stomach. The knight looks up, confused, as the attack has no effect. Before he can recover, two huge hands have seized him and tossed him from the bridge like a stray toy.
Now only the Clegane brothers remain. Sandor at last draws Widow's Wail, but does not move. In response, the undead Gregor tears his breastplate off and pulls the imbedded sword free, revealing the rotted, putrid flesh beneath. Lastly, he removes his helmet, tossing it from the bridge. Sandor stares at the horrifying visage that was his brother.
"Congratulations, you're finally uglier than me. Now are you going to do something or just stand there all day?"
The Mountain lumbers forward, each pounding step shaking the bridge. Sandor dodges, cutting open his exposed side. Loose flesh and intestines slip out of the wound, but it does not stop the next attack. The brothers' swords meet, once, twice, and again. The Mountain's attack are bone-crushingly heavy, but slow and poorly aimed. Sandor cuts him again and again, to no avail. Finally, his sword misses a parry. Gregor's blade glances his shoulder, but his own is free to strike at the wrist, severing the Mountain's sword hand.
He raises the bloody stump to his face, unsure of what has happened, and Sandor plunges Widow's Wail straight through his chest with enough force to knock the huge knight to the ground and bury the Valyrian sword's tip into the stone of the bridge. He steps back, and watches his brother, pinned to the ground, struggle to break free. The rotten mouth drops in an inhuman howl, purple bile oozing out.
Strike now, Sandor thinks. Take off the head and that should kill even whatever this is Gregor's become. But instead, he turns away.
"You're no true knight. You don't deserve a knight's death. And you sure as hell won't get it from me."
At the end of the bridge, three more Queensguard stand to block the path into the Holdfast. Arya, Elia and Myles rush to meet them in battle, allowing Brienne to run on. Myles' mace and Elia's spear match against the blades of Ser Andrik the Unsmiling and Ser Josmyn Peckledon but Arya immediately chooses her foe – Ser Ilyn Payne. She has never forgotten his face.
The headsman is not so good a swordsman as an executioner, and Arya quickly pushes him onto the defensive, driving him back into a corner until she is able to cut at his legs, dropping him to the ground. Before the final blow, however, she hears a shout from Elia. Turning, she sees Ser Josymn attacking her and thrusts. Her sword sticks in him and for a moment, she sees his face through the helmet. So young… She lets go of the sword and he topples back, over the ledge into the moat. Seeing Myles has bested Andrik, she turns back to Ser Ilyn and draws Needle.
Stalking nearer to the mute knight, she marks no fear on his face. Reaching her hand to her ear, she pulls, and the face of Henry Staedmon slips away. He looks at her in confusion, and she waits until the realization of memory slowly dawns in his eyes. And then Needle cuts a thin line across his throat.
Within the entrance to the Holdfast, Ser Balon Swann is the last man in Brienne's way.
"The war is over, ser!" Brienne extends a hand to him. "It is your duty to protect your queen. Let us take her to safety. I made a vow to Jaime Lannister."
"Then your word is no better than his!" Balon attacks with his mace. "I am no Kingslayer! I will not yield!"
"So be it," Brienne blocks his attack. They circle each other, each striking and parrying in turn, mace against sword. But Balon's mace is not Valyrian steel. After three blows, Oathbreaker severs the tip of his weapon, sending in clattering across the floor. Brienne looks at her foe, beaten yet standing tall between her and his master, his white cape hanging heavy. A man of honor, Jaime had said. A better wearer of the white than he had managed.
"Let it end, Balon," Brienne pleads.
"The end or no, I am no traitor." He reaches for the sword at his waist, but Brienne is faster. When the others enter, they find her standing over the Lord Commander's body. Kneeling sadly, she places her hand over his face, gently closing the knight's eyes.
Arya barely notices the solemnity. "The queen's chambers are this way."
She takes the lead, and throws open the doors to the room to reveal the carnage within. She finds Cersei's body propped up against the balcony. But after all the years of waiting, all the nights spent saying her prayer… she feels nothing. Nothing until she sees the view beyond the balcony – the dragon and a city on fire.
"We need to leave," she turns back to the others, who are kneeling by one of the midwives, still clinging to life.
"The child?" Brienne asks desperately. "Did it come?" The dying woman cannot answer her. She only points a shaking finger in the direction that Genna Lannister had disappeared. The chase goes on.
Blackwater Bay
At the sight of the dragon, the attack had begun. The Farman and Greyjoy flagships, Ironbreaker and The Salt Queen lead, neck and neck, each wishing to be the first to strike. Euron's ships guarding the harbor are slow to respond as they come under assault. The men on the decks scramble to launch jars of black fog at the approaching fleet. But it is two late. While the diversion slows the assault, Sandro Qo's small swan boats flit across the waves beneath the smoke, cutting their way swift and true to the enemy ships. Grappling hooks fly and the Summer Islanders are swarming the decks of Euron's ships before they know what's happening.
On the deck of Ironbreaker, Humfrey gags as the oily haze washes over the deck. The boat swings hard to one side as Lord Farman tries to avoid the attack. The Salt Queen presses on, disappearing into the black fog. At its helm, Yara Greyjoy thinks only of one thing – ending her uncle once and for all. Sword in one hand, she presses on at ramming speed into the smoke and flame.
The Streets of King's Landing
There is fire everywhere. The streets are overflowing with terrified civilians, fleeing their burning homes to find more carnage in the streets. The men of the Golden Company force their way through, they are nearly to the gate now. But suddenly, the panicked smallfolk are gone, and a wall of red-robed men stands in their way.
"You cannot flee the day of reckoning!" the priest leading them declares. "The Lord of Light has sent his champion to judge us all! Azor Ahai is purifying this city!"
"That thing up there?" Strickland strides to the front, pointing at the sky. "That isn't god, my friend. That's death."
"Only to those who do not believe!" the priest brandishes a smoldering knife as another explosion rocks the ground beneath their feet.
Without hesitation, Strickland draws Blackfyre and cuts down the priest before he can respond. The other followers stand back, shocked, as their leader falls to the ground.
"I guess he didn't believe hard enough," Strickland shakes his head as his men behind him lower their gilded spears. "Now kindly step out of the way before any more of you get purified."
The Depths of the Red Keep
Tyrion holds the torch high above his head, his stunted legs desperately trying to keep their footing as he moves through the passages, as fast as a dwarf and a half-dead woman can run. He knows these ways. It should not be too much further until they reach the Holdfast.
Suddenly, hearing movement in front of him, he freezes. A figure rounds the corner, but Ellaria lunges, dagger in hand. He hears a shriek and a body hitting the floor. And then a baby crying. Rushing forward, he finds the former prisoner standing over her victim. His torch illuminates the ground. As it does, his jaw drops and his throat cries out in wordless grief. His aunt Genna lies on her back, hand grasping at the wall, blood pouring out onto the ground. And clutched tightly to her chest, the tiniest bundle, that can only be one thing.
He rushes to her side, and sees her eyes widen in recognition. With faint strength, she offers up the child to him. He drops the torch to the ground and extends his hands to let the weight pass to him. He looks down. Golden hair. Green eyes. A boy. A dwarf. He looks back to Genna, and kneels to take her hand, feeling the warmth already slipping away.
"I'm sorry," Genna whispers. "Please… be better…"
As her hand slips away, Tyrion hears more people approaching. Ellaria turns away, knife outstretched. He motions her to wait, but she ignores him, rushing on into the dark. He hears a shout and sounds of a struggle, then more torches come into view. A large blonde woman in armor is dragging Ellaria along by the wrist. Brienne of Tarth, he remembers the face. He does not know the two girls or the knight with her. But he does recognize the Hound. He turns away, nervously, shielding the babe from their eyes.
"Is that the child, imp?" Brienne asks, throwing Ellaria to the floor. "Jaime's child."
Cautiously, Tyrion nods. He can trust her, he hopes. Jaime had sworn by this woman's honor. Though he certainly does not like to see her with the Hound.
"Cersei's dead," she states, bluntly. The words hit Tyrion like a brick wall, as if someone had ripped his brain out of his skull. He does not know what to do. "The dragons are destroying the city. We have a boat waiting on the beach. I promised your brother I would bring his child to safety. You'll come with us too, if you want to live."
In a daze, with no options left, Tyrion says a silent farewell to his aunt and steps in line behind these strangers, child in his hands, following them back to the light.
Atop Drogon
The heat rising from the burning streets below does not faze Daenerys as she circles in the sky. Half the city is ablaze now, and the bursts of wildfire only spread it further. Caches they had planned to use against her men, no doubt, she thinks. But after today there will be no Lannisters left to kill any more of her friends. At long last, the debt will be paid. Spurning Drogon on, they turn and fly on to the Red Keep.
It looms up before her now, far uglier than Viserys had ever described it. A symbol of centuries of violence and oppression. This is the wheel. This is the game. And it ends today.
The Black Cells
Alys leads Missandei and Ser Argilac through the dungeons, past cells full of screaming prisoners. But they do not have time to save them all. Turning a corner, two guards try to stop them, but Argilac cuts them down before they can even draw their swords.
"It's not much further!" Alys shouts, her bare feet pattering on the stone. Missandei imagines Grey Worm in her mind, clearer now than every night they had spent apart. She remembers the way he had kissed her that last day on Dragonstone. She remembers his face in every suitor she had rejected, waiting for him. And now, just one more door. Then the building shakes. And something roars.
"What is that?" Argilac asks.
She knows the sound. It seems a lifetime away. But then she remembers. Dragons. And before she can scream, the tunnel in front of them explodes into fire.
The Walls of the Red Keep
The floor beneath Qyburn's feet shakes as dragonfire tears through the castle, but he does not look up, his aged fingers painstakingly struggling to repair the firing mechanism on the scorpion bolt before him. He had returned to find the walls abandoned, their guards fled the moment they realized their sabatogued weapons were useless. Euron's work, no doubt. But there is no time to ponder why.
"Move faster!" he shouts back at Boros and Preston, the undead knights lurching forward carrying a huge white bolt – carved from the weirwood at Raventree Hall. He points directions as they load the missile onto the scorpion, frantically keeping one eye on the sky. He cannot see the dragon. But he can see the devastation. Who knows how many are dead now? Thousands, for sure. And the rest to follow if nothing is done.
And then the dragon is back.
"Move, move!" he shouts, pushing aside the knights to climb behind the controls. He pulls back on the level and watches the beast's approach.
We could have won, he thinks. If the scorpions had worked… Perhaps my ghost will be left to haunt the walls. It would serve them all right.
"Left!" he shouts, the knights shifting the aim of the scorpion. "Hold!" It's nearly upon them now. A single bead of sweat rolls down his brow. He can feel the deathly heat from the streets below. His hands twitch at the fingers. The dragon's mouth open. He sees sparks. He prays Alys and his works have escaped. He curses Euron. And he fires.
The force of the launch throws Qyburn out of the seat and onto the ground. His skull cracks against the stone. There must be blood, but he only hears the most devastating sound he has ever known. Looking up he sees the dragon, a pure white spar piercing its breast, falling from the sky. Straight towards him.
I won. We lost, but I won.
The Beach
On the shore of the bay, beneath the blazing ruins of the Red Keep, Davos waits behind a rock, hidden with the stolen sailboat that had carried the infiltrators here. He has sat here all this while, shuddering to hear the explosions and screams from the city above, remembering that horrible night on the Blackwater, when his son had died. He prays he may yet escape to return to what is left of his family.
"Seaworth!" He hears the shout. Moving from his hiding place, he sees Brienne, sword in hand, rushing from the mouth of the cave, kicking up sand. Behind her runs Arya and Elia, helping along a haggard woman he does not know and one he recognizes from long ago – the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. And in his arms, a baby. Sandor and Ser Myles are the last to appear.
Brienne reaches him first, throwing her sword down into the boat and takes hold of the bow, dragging it through the sand towards the water.
"My lady, the bay!" Davos points to the warships in battle.
"Can you get us past them?"
He looks out to the battle, then back at the weary and scarred faces pushing the boat. And the babe in Tyrion's arms.
"I can try."
Further down the beach, the sand shakes as a herd of battle elephants thunder down to freedom, panicked by the chaos they have escaped. Their handlers struggle to calm them as the members of the Golden Company begin to congregate around Harry Strickland, who walks to the edge of the water, his armored feet sinking into the wet sand. He notes a lone sailboat slipping away from shore.
"General!" Rolly Duckworth shouts down from atop an elephant. "Our ships in the harbor are burning!"
"Where do we go now, ser?" Grif asks.
"We stay here," Strickland sits down in the sand, at last letting his feet relax. "We wait and see who is standing when the ash settles. And then we will do what we always do. Serve the highest bidder."
Atop Rhaegal
Jon can see the smoke before he sees the city. And in that moment, his heart breaks a million times. Rhaegal lets out a mournful howl, as if the dragon can smell the death that lies ahead. He tries to justify it in his mind, any rationale but the obvious fact that lay before him. He was too late. And now he has only a short flight to decide how to face the woman he loves. One short flight that will be an eternity long.
The Ruins of the Red Keep
Half of the castle is gone, resting in a pile of rubble, fires still burning in the ruins, choked out by a heavy cloud of smoke and soot. Up from the open maw rise three figures, caked white in dust and ash – Alys, Missandei and Argilac. Distraught, Missandei runs forward, tears cutting lines through the dirt on her cheeks. She tears through the rubble with bear hands, fingers torn and bleeding from sharp rocks. She had been so close… so close…
"We can't stay here…" Alys urges, impatient.
"No!" Missandei hurls a rock in the girl's direction. "We stay until I find him!" Argilac nods solemnly in agreement, but does not move to stop the little bird from running away into the smoke. He moves to help Missandei clear rubble of what was only a short while earlier the Black Cells. And then they see him.
Grey Worm. His face is swollen, bruised and burned, but Missandei knows it is her love. She leans over the body, still half-buried, desperately wetting his face with her tears to wipe away the dust and matted blood. Slowly, his eyes crack open and his mouth parts in a smile.
"Missandei… my butterfly," he coughs, and she tries to hush him. "I swore… I swore I would not die until I saw your face again."
Desperate, Missandei tears at the rocks trapping him, but even if they could be moved, it would be no use. She grabs his free hand and holds it tight, staring into his eyes as the life blinks out of them. But the smile on his face never fades. She feels Argilac's hand on her shoulder. For a long while, she cannot say how long, they stay here like this. And then she rises. For she knows who's hand has wrought this.
She walks down through the smoke through the rubble, stepping gently across shattered glass, crumbles stones, and more burnt, crushed and mangled corpses than she cares to count. At last she arrives at the ruins of the castle walls. The heat of the smoldering wreckage here dispels any memory of the winter child. Heavy white flakes float in the air. Snow or ash, who can tell?
Missandei continues to walk, past Alys, who sits, looking lost beside a broken scorpion and the broken body of Qyburn. For above it all lies the lifeless form of a great black dragon that will never fly again. She runs her hand along the scales, now cold, their fire burnt out, tracing along the spine until she reaches the head. And there, arms draped across the closed eyes of her fallen child, Daenerys Targaryen lies, weeping, bald and covered in ash.
Daenerys looks up to see her long-lost friend appear out of the haze, looking like a ghost, covered in soot and followed by a looming specter of a knight. She wants to rise to greet them, but the weight is just too heavy. She cannot bring herself to let go of Drogon. And Missandei stops. She stands there, fists tightly clenched.
At last, her fist opens and a small object falls down into the ash before Daenerys. Dulled now, it still glistens in the rubble – the silver pin of the Queen's Hand. She looks up to see the grief on Missandei's face. And on her lips, a single word.
"Why?"
