For almost three centuries, King's Landing had been the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the largest and most powerful city in all of Westeros.
A bloated, rotting city, where thousands of people lived and died in filth as the Targaryen overlords drank and feasted and warred, uncaring of the needs of their people. Even the best of the Targaryen Kings had made only minor improvements to the city at best.
But it had been a city nevertheless. People had lived and loved, rejoiced and mourned, cheered and cried. There had been thousands upon thousands of innocent people in the city, simply living their lives as best as they could.
And now that was all over.
King's Landing had become a burning ruin of a city, the embers of the emerald inferno that had consumed it still crackling in the city's corpse. The charred bones of countless people littered the ruins, all their hopes and dreams snuffed out in an instant.
It should have been silent. There should be mourning as the world itself stood still for the death of so many people.
But the world was not so kind.
Instead, the roar of a dragon tore through the air, echoing for miles and chilling the blood of any who heard it.
The first dragon to mar the skies of Westeros in over a century flapped its massive wings, letting loose another roar. The dragon was enormous, casting a massive shadow even as its shining white scales gleamed under the moonlight. Its teeth and claws were like spears of Valyrian steel, sufficient to have torn armies apart in mere moments.
But somehow, they were not enough.
The dragon's opponent stood tall. The opponent was a knight, albeit not the kind of knight anyone had seen. The actual figure within was concealed, clad in huge, bulky armor that should have been impossible for anyone to move in.
Yet, somehow, the knight moved with inhuman speed and strength. His armor somehow withstood the fangs and claws of a dragon, and his blows crackled with blue lightning, mighty enough to even make the creature reel. The armor was not intact, far from it. The marks of the dragon's assault were clear.
But the armor refused to break.
Infuriated by this defiance, the dragon drew its head back and let loose another roar, this time punctuated by a blast of emerald flame from its mouth.
The flame consumed the knight, charring the ground below and releasing noxious green smoke that rose into the air.
But as the jet of flame ended, and the dragon was about to celebrate its victory, the smoke faded away to reveal the knight was still there.
The armor was smoking, and blackened, but it was still there, still crackling with lightning.
Howling with rage, the dragon renewed its assault. The knight raised his fists and fought once more.
And the battle continued.