THE LIONS' ESCAPE
As Daenerys continues her dance of fire and ash over King's Landing, two figures emerge from the depths of the Red Keep.
Cersei and Jaime Lannister, covered in dust and ash, hand in hand, manage to escape through the catacombs. But the city is no refuge. It's a trap. A hell with witnesses.
The people recognize them. Accusing fingers. Faces full of hatred. To them, these two are the symbol of everything wrong in Westeros. The popular fury understands nothing of tragic loves or redemptions. It only knows that the Lannisters must pay.
Jaime fights. He kills two attackers with his sword, but loses it among the bodies in the struggle. All that's left is to run and drag Cersei with him.
They run desperately through burning streets, dodging debris, until they see an ancient building. An old temple of the Faith. They pound on the door. It's closed, but the wood is old. They manage to force it open. They enter. They close it.
Inside, unlit candles. Statues of the Seven covered in dust. The two of them, alone, leaning against the door, gasping for breath.
Outside, the murmurs grow. Knocks on the door. Distant at first, then louder.
—They're in there! The Lannisters!
The temple's roof is cracked. The red sky from the fire is visible through it. The stone, wounded by the dragon, threatens to collapse. But the mob will enter much sooner.
Cersei and Jaime look at each other. They know. They've known since they left the catacombs. This is the end.
Jaime takes her face in his hands, one of flesh, one of gold. He says, with a broken voice:
—I love you. I've always loved you. For as long as I can remember. You're the only thing that matters.
Cersei replies with tears:
—I know. I love you too.
They kiss. A desperate kiss, wet with tears. She cries. He cries. When they part, she nods with her eyes. She accepts what's coming.
And then, Jaime acts. Not out of hate. Not out of vengeance. Not out of redemption. Out of love.
Jaime, tears streaming down, pushes Cersei to the ground. She falls onto her back on the cold stones. He positions himself over her.
But Jaime only has one hand of flesh. The other is cold gold, clumsy for love but useful for horror.
He places his flesh hand over Cersei's mouth to silence her last words. His golden hand presses against her throat. But it's not enough. The golden hand is strong, but has no sensitivity. It can't find the right spot.
Then he understands what he must do. He uses the ground as leverage. He tilts his entire torso, crushing his golden forearm against her neck with every gram of his desperation.
He struggles. She convulses. Both cry as he's over her, suffocating her with the weight of his own body. It's not a clean strangulation. It's clumsy, brutal, desperate.
Cersei's face slowly relaxes. Her eyes go empty. Life fades away. Jaime keeps pressing one more second, two, three... just in case, in case she comes back, in case the horror abandons him.
When Cersei stops moving, Jaime doesn't let go. He rests his forehead against hers. Their mingled tears fall to the stone floor.
With his trembling flesh fingers, he closes her eyes. The only ones that ever knew his skin with tenderness.
The valonqar prophecy is fulfilled. But it's not a vengeful brother. It's a broken man, using the floor of a temple as an altar, sacrificing his queen to save her from a worse hell.
The door bursts open. The mob enters roaring. They see Jaime kneeling, with Cersei's body in his lap, holding her.
They beat him with sticks, with stones, with whatever they have. Jaime receives each blow in silence. He feels nothing anymore. He only covers Cersei's body with his own, forming a shield with his back.
The roof, wounded by the dragon, can bear no more. It creaks. The cracks widen. And it collapses. Huge stones fall upon the crowd, upon Jaime, upon Cersei.
The entire temple crumbles over them. Over innocent and guilty. Over executioners and victims. Dust. Silence.
***
Dawn breaks. Smoke still rises. Tyrion walks among the temple's rubble. He looks for his family. He doesn't know what he expects to find.
Among the stones, he sees an arm protruding. Jaime's golden hand.
He approaches. And he finds him. Jaime covering Cersei with his body. Him over her, like a shield. Useless. Beautiful. His golden hand still extended, as if trying to protect her even from the stones.
Tyrion kneels. He takes his brother's golden hand. Then the flesh hand, cold. He rests his forehead on them.
He whispers, with a broken voice:
—Idiots. Both of you. Always the two of you.
Tyrion cries in silence. Then, carefully, he begins to remove small stones, as if he could dig them out, as if he could bring them back. But he can't. He can only cry.
Jon walks among the ruins, his face distorted. Among the crowd of refugees, he sees a familiar figure. Arya, sitting on a stone, her gaze lost.
He sits beside her. Long silence.
—Arya.
She looks up.
—Jon.
—I saw what she did. I saw everything.
—Me too.
—Our queen is a genocidal. She's worse than Cersei. She killed children. Thousands. And she smiled.
—What are you going to do?
—I don't know. I have to see her. Understand.
—There's nothing to understand. It's power. Only power. I'm leaving this place. This place is rotten. Everyone is rotten.
—Take care, sister.
She stands up.
—Trust no one, Jon. Not even yourself.
Arya walks away, disappearing among the ruins. Jon remains alone.
Jon walks through the destroyed streets. In the distance, in a square, he sees Daenerys. Surrounded by her Unsullied and Dothraki. She's laughing, giving orders, happy, triumphant.
Jon watches her from afar. The woman he loves. The woman who killed thousands. And he doesn't know what to feel.
She, as if feeling his gaze, turns. Sees him. Smiles at him. A warm, loving smile.
Jon tries to smile back, but can't.
Tyrion, after burying Jaime, walks aimlessly. Among the temple's rubble, he sees a man sitting against a wall. Dirty, beaten, his face marked by soot and dried blood. His hands tied. Two Unsullied guard him.
It's Varys.
Tyrion approaches. Varys looks up. A sad smile appears on his lips.
—My dear friend... have you come to watch the spider die too? Or are you just passing through on your horror tour?
—I didn't come to watch you die. I've seen enough death today. Jaime... Cersei...
Varys inclines his head.
—I'm sorry. Truly. He was... the best part of you.
—Why, Varys? Why did you risk everything?
—Because she is fire and ash. Because Jon Snow is the song we always hoped for. Because if she sits on that throne... she'll be worse than the Mad King. Aerys burned cities out of paranoia. She wipes them off the map and smiles.
—You know it, Tyrion. She's already done her work. She defeated Cersei. She broke the wheel. But the wheel... needs someone to guide it, not to burn it.
—And who? You, who are bound? Me, who buried my brother?
—Jon. The true heir. The one who doesn't want power. Those who want power are the ones who do the most damage. Those who reject it... they're the only ones worthy of having it.
The soldiers take Varys away. Before leaving, he looks at Tyrion:
—You can convince him. You have the words. Use them. For the living. For the dead. For Jaime.
Tyrion finds Jon, alone, looking toward where Daenerys gives orders.
—She killed my brother. Thousands. She'll be worse than Aerys.
—I know.
—Varys was right. She's already done her work. Westeros doesn't need another conqueror. It needs a good king. Someone who doesn't burn cities. Someone who rules for the living.
—It needs a king who doesn't want the throne.
—I don't want...
—That's exactly why. Go see her. Listen to what she'll say. Then decide.
Jon walks through the crowd and encounters Varys, who is being escorted. Varys tells him:
—The Mad King burned out of paranoia. She burns because she believes it's her right. She'll burn the whole realm, Jon. Don't deceive yourself.
Each step weighs heavily. Varys and Tyrion's words echo in his head like echoes in a crypt.
*She'll be worse than the Mad King... It needs a good king... He who doesn't want power is the only one worthy of having it...*
He reaches the front. Daenerys is up high. Beautiful. Powerful. Smiling. Behind her, Drogon watches.
She sees him. Smiles at him. For an instant, Jon forgets the ruins. Forgets the dead. Forgets the words.
But only for an instant.
She raises her arms. The crowd falls silent.
And then, she speaks. And Jon listens. And what he hears... will change everything.
Daenerys, up high, surrounded by Unsullied, raises her arms. The crowd falls silent. Drogon, behind her, imposing.
With the voice of a messianic leader, she proclaims:
—People of King's Landing! People of Westeros! For centuries, your lords have oppressed you. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Starks... all played the game of thrones while you starved.
—I have come to break the wheel. But the wheel is not broken with words. It's broken with fire and blood.
—Some will say I have been cruel. That I have killed innocents. LIES! There are no innocents in a world that allows injustice. Everyone who didn't fight against Cersei... was complicit with Cersei.
—The Seven Kingdoms need order. And order is built on foundations of fire. Those who kneel will live. Those who doubt... will feed my dragons.
—And to ensure that order, so that no one divides us again... I will marry Jon Snow.
Jon, among the crowd, opens his eyes in horror.
Jon pushes through the people. Daenerys descends from the platform and goes to him. When they're alone, she speaks to him in a low, intimate voice, very different from her speech:
—Jon... my love. I know. I know everything. About your father. About your blood.
Jon tenses.
—You are the rightful heir. You could claim the throne. But you won't, will you? Because you love me.
She caresses his face.
—Together we will rule. You, the wolf. Me, the dragon. Our son will unite the houses forever. And Westeros will have peace.
Jon looks at her. He sees something in her eyes that he doesn't recognize. It's not love. It's ambition disguised.
—And those who don't kneel?
Daenerys smiles, as if it were obvious:
—They will burn. But they'll be few. People learn quickly.
Jon swallows. An internal struggle on his face. Then, he kisses her.
While they kiss, his hand slowly lowers toward his belt, toward his dagger.
*Flashbacks* cross his mind like lightning: Varys saying "She'll be worse than the Mad King," Tyrion saying "It needs a good king," Arya saying "She's worse than Cersei," the faces of dead children among the ruins.
The dagger enters Daenerys's side.
She pulls back, surprised. Looks down. Sees the blood. The buried dagger.
She whispers, incredulous:
—Jon?
He holds her as she falls. Tears in his eyes. Infinite pain.
—Forgive me. For the living. For those who never asked for this.
She falls to the ground. The crowd still doesn't understand what happened. Absolute silence.
Drogon, from above, sees his mother fall. A heart-rending roar breaks the air. A sound that freezes the blood.
Drogon understands nothing of betrayals. Nothing of politics. He only understands that his mother is wounded.
He dives down. The crowd flees in terror, screaming. Chaos.
He lands beside Daenerys. He gently nudges her body with his snout. She doesn't respond.
For a moment, there is only silence. The largest dragon in the world, curled up beside the woman who raised him.
Drogon lifts his head. Looks at the Iron Throne in the distance. His eyes fill with fury. An ancient fury.
He opens his jaws. Black, dense fire ravages the Iron Throne. The iron melts, the swords fuse, the metal drips like tears.
The dragon doesn't kill Jon. Doesn't kill anyone. He kills the true culprit: the throne. The symbol of all suffering.
Then, with incredible delicacy, he takes Daenerys's body in his claws. Beats his wings and rises.
Jon remains kneeling on the ground, watching them fade away.
***
Drogon flies without rest. Not south. He flies east. Toward Dragonstone.
The fortress of Dragonstone, gray and menacing, emerges from the fog. The sea pounds the rocks.
There, something awaits him.
Drogon lands softly on the beach. But he doesn't stay on the beach. He spreads his wings and flies upward. Toward the top of the fortress.
At the summit, a wide expanse of ancient stone. In the center, a circle of darker stones, like a forgotten altar.
Drogon lands. His claws touch the stones. The impact echoes throughout the fortress. Dust rises.
On the rooftop, beside an ancient light well, a figure stands. Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Lord of Light. Her red robe billows with the sea wind.
Behind her, a dozen red priestesses form a semicircle. Some hold candles that don't extinguish in the wind. Others have bowls with fire. All stare fixedly at Drogon.
Drogon lowers his head. With utmost care, he deposits Daenerys's body in the center of the circle of dark stones.
Kinvara approaches. Looks at the body. The wound. The blood.
With a serene voice, without surprise, she says:
—We knew. The Lord of Light showed us this night. The queen would fall. And the queen would rise again.
The priestesses begin to chant in ancient Valyrian. A low, hypnotic chant.
Kinvara raises her arms:
—Bring the fires. Bring the bloods. She who was born from salt and smoke... will be reborn from salt and smoke once more.
The priestesses place candles around the body. The fire dances. Daenerys's wound begins to close slowly, almost imperceptibly.
Drogon watches from nearby. He doesn't move. He only watches. Guards.
But not only the priestesses are there. In the shadows, hooded figures observe. Mages. Men from Qarth. People who know things no one should know.
One of them, an ancient mage, whispers:
—No one must know she's here. Not the False Three-Eyed Raven. Not his messenger crows. We will hide her. We will divert anyone who tries to find her.
Waves of energy expand from the rooftop, covering the island, blinding any magical vision.
But while her body heals, her mind burns. Daenerys sleeps, but her sleep is not peaceful. Her face twists.
Nightmares: Miri Maz Duur, laughing in the flames. The Masters' children, dead in their beds. The Lannisters, burning alive. The faces of the innocents of King's Landing. A voice that repeats: "You did this. You chose this."
Kinvara watches from the shadows:
—The lives she took pursue her. The price of power is higher than any throne. Let her face her ghosts. Only then will she truly be reborn.
One of Daenerys's eyes opens slightly for an instant. Intense red. Pure dragon fury. Then closes again.
Months have passed. Daenerys has completely recovered on Dragonstone. Her body healed. But her mind... her mind is harder, colder, more dangerous.
DAENERYS ON DRAGONSTONE
Daenerys stands on a balcony of the fortress, looking at the sea. The wind stirs her silver hair. Her face is no longer that of a girl who wanted to be loved. It's the face of an empress.
Kinvara enters.
—Khaleesi. I bring news.
—Speak.
—In King's Landing, there will be a meeting. All the lords of Westeros will be there. They're going to choose a new king.
Daenerys turns slowly.
—And they know?
Kinvara shakes her head:
—No one knows you're alive. Not the lords. Not the Unsullied. Not even... the false three-eyed raven. Bran Stark.
—Bran can't see me?
—Bran is only an apprentice. A boy who sat in a tree and believed himself a god. The ancient magic of Valyria blinds him. He doesn't see you. He won't see you. He doesn't know you exist.
Daenerys nods.
—Thank you, Kinvara.
Kinvara withdraws. Daenerys remains alone. She walks through the hall, and for the first time in months, questions devour her.
*Flashbacks*: Viserys, placing the crown on her head as a child. The wedding with Drogo, the fear. The funeral pyre, the fire. The Unsullied marching, free. The Dothraki crossing the sea.
*All of this... was a dream that wasn't mine. My brother's dream. To be queen of Westeros. I never asked for this.*
She stops before an ancient mirror. Looks at herself.
*I was sold as a slave. I loved Drogo and he died. I crossed a desert. I freed slaves. I brought my Unsullied and my Dothraki to die for people who don't even want me.*
She sees faces: the people of Westeros, with fear, with hatred.
*They preferred to serve Cersei rather than me. The lords don't want me. No one wants me.*
A tear rolls down her cheek.
*And why? Because of me. Because I was weak. Because I listened to Tyrion. Because I listened to a dwarf who played at being wise.*
Her eyes harden.
*If I had listened to Daario... if I had brought him with me... if I had been a true dragon... I would have taken Westeros in the first month. My men wouldn't have died.*
She clenches her fists.
*And now... the lords of Westeros make being a man worth more than being a dragon. They prefer any man with a cock over the blood of the dragon.*
She cries. But they're tears of rage.
***
The door opens. Kinvara enters again.
—I know. I know everything. Your doubts. Your pain. Your rage.
—And what do you want me to do? Forgive? Try again?
Kinvara approaches.
—No. I want you to remember who you are. You are the princess who will save the world. Like your ancestor Aegon did. But Aegon didn't ask. Didn't doubt. Didn't wait to be loved. Aegon was a dragon.
—You must be like him. A dragon. You must bond with Drogon. Become one. As they taught you in this time.
—And how? What must I do?
Kinvara smiles.
—You already know.
Daenerys looks at her. Something in her eyes changes. The weakness disappears. She dries her tears with the back of her hand.
Firmly, she says:
—Drogon.
Outside, Drogon lifts his head. His golden eyes open. A mental connection. And he goes to Daenerys.
***
THE MEETING IN THE COLISEUM
In King's Landing, in an ancient and semi-destroyed coliseum, the lords of Westeros are gathered. Broken stands. The central arena full of rubble.
There they are: Tyrion chained, Varys chained, Jon arrested, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Yohn Royce, Edmure Tully, Gendry, Bronn, and other lords. Unsullied watch from the edges.
Tyrion murmurs to Varys:
—Do you think they'll kill us today, or will there be dessert first?
Varys, weakly:
—If you're going to die, Tyrion, could you do it in silence?
An Unsullied strikes a gavel.
—The meeting to elect the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms will now begin.
Sansa stands. Serene, political, calculating.
—The North has suffered. But the North knows who defended it. My brother Bran saw beyond what any man has seen. He is the Three-Eyed Raven. He will guide us.
Murmurs. Yohn Royce doubts:
—A Stark? After everything that's happened? And what does he know about ruling?
Arya steps forward, hand on her sword:
—He knows enough. And those who doubt...
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.
Bronn, uncomfortable:
—I'm only here for Riverrun. Someone decide quickly.
One by one, the lords begin nodding. Fear outweighs conviction.
—We accept. Bran Stark will be king.
Bran, impassive, nods.
Just as they're about to proclaim him, the sky darkens. It's not a cloud. It's something bigger.
A deafening roar breaks the silence. Everyone looks up. The coliseum's roof is open.
And then, hell arrived.
Drogon descends slowly. His wings cover the sun. His shadow covers the entire arena.
On his back, Daenerys Targaryen, standing, with Kinvara at her side. Both dressed in red. Imposing. Terrifying.
Arya draws her sword:
—It can't be! I saw her die!
Tyrion, mouth agape:
—This isn't possible. I was there.
Varys, with a smile for the first time in months:
—Ah. How wonderful. How absolutely wonderful.
Drogon lands in the arena. Daenerys dismounts. Walks to the center. Raises her voice:
—Unsullied! Aim!
The Unsullied, seeing her, hesitate for a second. Then, obediently, they raise their spears and point at all the lords of Westeros.
Daenerys smiles.
—Good.
Daenerys walks among the lords. Everyone retreats. Arya tries to move. Daenerys looks at her, smiles, and without saying a word...
Mentally, she orders: *Drogon.*
Drogon pokes his enormous head out. His golden eyes scan the hall.
Daenerys points:
—Bronn. The one from Riverrun, the upstart.
Bronn pales. Opens his mouth to speak, to beg. Before he can make a sound, Drogon opens his jaws and catches him. One bite. Then another.
The lords scream. Some vomit. Others faint.
Daenerys looks at everyone with terrifying calm:
—Did you see? I don't need swords. I don't need words. With just a thought, Drogon kills.
Absolute silence. Only the sound of Drogon chewing.
—I could kill you all right now. Burn this hall. Then your castles. Then let my Dothraki and Unsullied be warriors without chains. Without restraint.
She walks slowly. No one breathes.
—Open your eyes. I don't lie.
Everyone looks at Bran. After a long silence, he speaks:
—It's true. He could kill us all. But that's not why she's here.
***
Daenerys laughs bitterly:
—I'm not here to kill you? No, Bran. Not today.
She turns to everyone.
—I was a foolish woman. A girl who borrowed her brother's dream. Viserys's dream. To be queen of Westeros. I never asked for this.
She walks, and everyone moves aside.
—I listened to a dwarf. To Tyrion. The smartest man in the world, they said. And thanks to his advice, I lost my men. I lost dragons. I lost years.
Tyrion lowers his head.
—I fought for you against the Night King. I lost people. I bled for you. And what did I receive? Nothing. No one wants me here. After giving everything to defend you... no one wants me.
Sansa tries to speak, but Daenerys silences her with a look.
Sansa dares:
—Arya killed the Night King. With the dagger Bran gave her.
Bran nods.
Kinvara steps forward, powerful voice:
—Do you really believe that?
Everyone looks at Kinvara.
—The true Night King died many years ago. That's why he fell with a single blow from Aegon the Conqueror's dagger. Because he was already dead. He was an echo. A shadow.
Kinvara addresses Bran:
—Bran. Tell me, false raven... Didn't the Three-Eyed Raven, Brynden Rivers, tell you the whole truth?
Bran doesn't respond.
—The only ones who can be Three-Eyed Ravens are Targaryens. The last one died. You are merely a simple apprentice. And you never knew the whole truth.
Daenerys continues:
—I have the power to take the Seven Kingdoms. I could burn them. Burn your castles. Let my Dothraki and Unsullied be warriors without restraint. Rape. Kill. Burn.
She approaches Varys.
—Varys. You always talked about power. Where does it reside?
Varys lowers his head:
—Where men believe it resides.
Daenerys bursts into laughter.
—No. Power is not inherited. Not won by name. Not won by having balls. Power is taken. And I have more power than all of you combined.
Varys lowers his head. Says nothing.
—But I won't do it. I won't rule kingdoms that hate me. I won't rule ingrates. I'm leaving.
She turns to Tyrion.
—Tyrion. You were never smart. Just a fool. I should never have listened to you.
—Dany...
—Your father was right. You are a freak. But not because you're a dwarf. Because you're stupid. For trying to please people who hate you.
Tyrion falls silent.
Daenerys approaches Sansa.
—Sansa Stark. You think you're a queen. But a queen doesn't grovel her whole life just to survive. You survived by crawling. That's not being a queen. That's being a coward.
Sansa pales.
Daenerys turns to Arya.
—Arya Stark. The assassin. The one who killed the Night King... or so they believe.
Arya grips her sword.
—The order of the Faceless Men does not forgive. You owe them a life. And they always collect.
Arya swallows.
Daenerys faces Bran.
—And you. Useless, false raven. Sit on your throne. Play at being a god. But remember: false gods always fall. And I would have liked to meet my ancestor Brynden Rivers.
Daenerys walks toward Jon. He lifts his head. His eyes are red.
—Jon Snow. The Starks were the stupidest people I ever met.
—They died giving honor to those who didn't deserve it. And they died for not being honorable.
—Robb Stark. He married another woman. Broke his word. And died for it.
—Ned Stark. Your father. The most honorable man in Westeros. He was a fool. He didn't tell you that you were Lyanna and Rhaegar's son. He let you believe you were a bastard. And because he was stupid, because he was honorable... they beheaded him.
Jon clenches his fists.
—And you. You are the least honorable man I know.
—Me?
—You. You wanted to let the wildlings die before they crossed the Wall. You knew what was beyond. You knew about the Night King. And still... you preferred to watch them die.
—You knew who you were. You knew you were Rhaegar's son. And you said nothing. You let them call you Snow. You let others decide for you. Always belittling yourself for being a bastard, for believing you deserved nothing, despite everything you achieved.
Jon breaks down crying.
—You are a complete idiot. The least honorable man I ever met.
Daenerys walks toward the exit. Before leaving, she stops and looks at everyone.
—I would have liked to meet Tywin Lannister.
Tyrion lifts his head, surprised.
—He was interesting. With him... we would have built a great nation. But you... you don't deserve dragons.
Daenerys leaves. Drogon waits for her. She mounts. Kinvara follows.
The Unsullied, one by one, lower their spears and begin to withdraw. The Dothraki too. The city empties of their presence.
The hall remains silent. The lords dare not speak.
Yohn Royce, finally:
—Well... I suppose Bran will rule.
Arya, with a lost gaze:
—She's gone.
Sansa, trembling:
—What if she returns?
Tyrion, with a broken voice:
—She won't return. She told the truth. We're not worth it.
Bran, for the first time, doubts. His unchanging face shows something: confusion.
*Why didn't my master tell me the truth?*
*Why can't I know anything about Kinvara? Why can't I see Drogon? Why does their magic blind me?*
*What if I was never the Three-Eyed Raven? What if I was only an apprentice? What if the true Night King... died so long ago that no one remembers him?*
His white eyes, for the first time, seem afraid.
Daenerys left. Bran was crowned. Arya set out to see the world. But the world is cruel, and debts... debts are always collected.
THE ENCOUNTER AT SEA
Daenerys wanders aimlessly on Drogon. The sky is gray, the sea infinite. She goes alone, with a sad face, lost in her thoughts. She left Westeros behind, left her brother's dream behind. But loneliness weighs more than any crown.
Suddenly, Drogon roars. Something catches his attention. Below, on the horizon, an immense fleet appears. Thousands of ships. Tens of thousands. They cover the sea as far as the eye can see. All bear the banner of House Targaryen: the three-headed dragon.
Daenerys, surprised:
—What is this?
Drogon descends slowly. He lands softly on the deck of the largest ship, an imposing vessel with black sails and golden dragons.
On the deck, waiting with a smile and graying hair but the same intense gaze, stands Daario Naharis.
Daenerys, incredulous:
—Daario?
Daario, arms open:
—My queen. My dragon. My love.
She descends from Drogon. Runs to him. They embrace tightly.
—How? Why? How did you know?
—I thought you were dead. Everyone believed it. But I couldn't accept it.
Daario caresses her face.
—I gathered those who still love you. Those who didn't follow you out of fear, or loyalty to a house. I gathered them for one reason only: love for their queen.
Thousands of men and women on the fleet, with adoring gazes.
—We were going to Westeros. We were going to avenge you. Burn everything. Kill everyone who failed you.
Daenerys, with tears:
—Daario...
—But you're alive. And that's all that matters.
She kisses him. A long, deep kiss, of years of waiting and pain.
—I never should have left you. I'm sorry. I love you.
Daario smiles:
—And now? What do we do?
Daenerys looks toward the horizon, toward the east, toward the rising sun.
—We go home. To our true home.
She smiles. For the first time in months, it's an authentic smile, of peace.
—I've spent too long chasing other people's dreams. It's time to build my own.
TWO YEARS LATER: BRAN'S REPORT
Two years later, in King's Landing. Bran sits in a simple chair, surrounded by maesters and advisors.
A maester reports:
—Your Majesty, the Seven Kingdoms are recovering slowly. The harvests in the Vale are good.
Tyrion, as Hand of the King, asks:
—And Daenerys? Do we know anything about her? Is she seeking vengeance?
Bran looks at him. Long pause.
—I cannot see her.
—What do you mean you can't? You're the Three-Eyed Raven.
—She is too powerful. The ancient magic of her blood blinds me. I only see fog when I try to look at her.
Varys, gaunt but with a spark in his eyes, speaks:
—My little birds... they can see. And they bring news.
Everyone looks at him.
—Daenerys Targaryen has taken control of the Free Cities. All of them. Meereen, Yunkai, Astapor, Volantis, Pentos, Braavos. She united what no Targaryen had united before.
Pause for effect.
—She is pregnant. She married Daario Naharis. And Worm... Worm is now the general commander of her armies.
Tyrion, surprised:
—Worm?
—The same. Her kingdom grows as never seen before. There are no slaves. Only free soldiers who adore her. She builds, she doesn't destroy.
—And Westeros? Does she care?
—I don't think so. She doesn't look back. Why would she? She has an empire that loves her. We... we only gave her hatred.
Awkward silence.
ARYA: TRAVELING THROUGH ESSOS
Arya rides alone through Essos. She crosses deserts, mountains, enormous cities. She sees things she never imagined.
She arrives at a liberated city. She sees Daenerys's banner everywhere. People smile. Children play. There is peace.
She observes, confused:
—What is this?
An old man approaches, kindly:
—Don't you know, girl? This is Queen Daenerys's kingdom. Here there are no slaves. We are all free.
—And the people love her?
—Love her? They adore her! She came from across the sea, freed everyone, and left. But she left just rulers. Her people protect us. We eat. We live. We are happy.
Arya watches soldiers with the dragon banner. She sees peace. She sees something she never saw in Westeros: genuine happiness.
*She changed the world. And we... we hated her.*
THE PURSUIT
Arya camps alone by a river. She makes a fire. The night is calm, starry.
Suddenly, a voice behind her. Cold. Familiar. With a Braavosi accent.
—A girl has traveled far.
Arya jumps up, drawing Needle. There, in the darkness, a figure in gray robes. The Faceless Man.
—You.
—A girl broke the rules. A girl took the magic of the Faceless Men and used it for her own purposes. A girl must pay.
—I killed those I had to kill.
—A girl killed those she wanted to kill. Not those the god chose. That's not serving. That's stealing.
He advances. Arya retreats.
—Don't make me kill you.
The Faceless Man smiles:
—A girl can try.
He disappears. Arya looks everywhere. The darkness. The wind.
Suddenly, he appears behind her. Strikes her. She falls. He lifts her by the neck.
—A girl is not as special as she thinks.
Arya struggles, but he is stronger. Inhuman.
—Then... kill me.
***
He releases her. She falls to the ground, coughing.
—The god of death does not want a girl... yet. But a girl has a debt. And debts must be paid.
—What do you want?
—A girl must finish her list. The true list. The god's list.
—I killed them all.
—A girl lies. One name remains. The last. The one that always should have been.
He takes out a parchment. Shows it to her. Written in blood: SANSA STARK.
Arya, horrified:
—No. She's my sister.
—She is the last name on the girl's list. The one who didn't help her family and let them die. A girl kills her, and becomes No One. Serves the true god. Helps the world truly. Or a girl... dies.
He draws a dagger. Offers it to her.
—Choose.
Arya looks at the dagger. Looks at his face. Then, slowly, takes the dagger. Her hands tremble.
—I'll go. I'll kill her.
—A wise girl. And remember: when you do it, you will no longer be Arya Stark. You will be No One. And you will serve the god eternally.
He disappears into the darkness. Arya remains alone, looking at the dagger.
THE NORTH: JON AND SANSA
Six months later, winter approaches. In the Seven Kingdoms there is chaos, minor lords fighting among themselves for lack of a firm hand on the throne. Winter hardens. Winterfell is covered in snow. The cold is relentless.
In the main hall, Jon Snow, with grown beard and tired eyes, speaks with Sansa.
—The wildlings... the Free Folk... are moving south. The cold up there is unbearable. They're dying.
—And what do they expect? That we feed them? We barely have enough for ourselves. The North first.
—They're my people, Sansa. I promised to protect them.
Sansa, with irony:
—Always protecting those who aren't yours. Never yourself.
A messenger enters, covered in snow.
—My lord. My queen. A response arrived from Essos.
Jon takes the parchment. Reads it. His face tenses, pales.
—What does it say?
Jon, with broken voice:
—It says: "I will send no food. I will sell nothing. Fuck them all."
Sansa opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
—Signed: Daenerys of House Targaryen, Queen of Essos, Mother of Dragons.
Sansa, furious:
—See? I always said she couldn't be trusted.
Jon, tired:
—That's not it, Sansa. It's that... she's right.
He puts away the parchment.
—I'll write to Tyrion. Maybe he can...
—Tyrion? The dwarf is at Casterly Rock and has his own problems. What can he do?
—I don't know. But I have to try.
SANSA'S LAST NIGHT
Night. Winterfell in silence. Only the howling wind.
Sansa enters her chambers. Closes the door. Removes her cloak. Sighs, exhausted.
—Another day. Another struggle.
Suddenly, she freezes.
In the chair, by the fireplace, a figure sits. It has the face of Catelyn Stark.
Sansa, whispering:
—Mother?
The figure rises. It's Catelyn. Same clothes, same face.
—My daughter.
Sansa approaches, incredulous:
—How is this possible? You died. At the Red Wedding.
—Death is not the end for Starks. You know this.
Sansa moves closer. Something doesn't fit. The eyes... the eyes aren't her mother's. They're cold. Empty.
She retreats:
—No. You're not her. Who are you?
The figure smiles. Slowly, removes the face like someone removing a mask.
Beneath it, Arya Stark.
Sansa, horrified:
—Arya! What are you doing?
Arya, with terrifying calm:
—It's the last name.
—What last name?
—My list. I've had it since I was a girl. Cersei, Joffrey, Polliver, The Mountain... All dead. But one name remained.
She advances slowly.
—You.
Sansa retreats to the wall.
—Me? I'm your sister! I saved you! I protected you from the family's enemies!
Arya, with a sad smile:
—No. You protected yourself. Always yourself.
Arya leaps. Tackles Sansa to the ground. Sansa struggles, screams, but no one hears.
Arya, on top of her, drawing her knife:
—You let our family die. Father. Mother. Robb. How? By being selfish. By doing nothing. By surviving at everyone's expense.
Sansa, crying:
—I was a child...
—So was I. But I fought. I killed. I bled. You just got married, humiliated yourself, and survived.
The knife gleams.
—You were always a burden. A weak girl who dreamed of princes while the world burned.
She stabs. Slowly.
Sansa stops moving.
Arya rises. Looks at her blood-stained hands.
She whispers, but her voice changes, becomes hollow, empty:
—I am no longer Arya Stark.
Her face transforms. Emotions disappear. She becomes nothing. Expressionless. Empty.
—I am No One.
She takes Sansa's face. Puts it on. For an instant, she is Sansa again. Then removes it. Keeps it.
She leaves the room without looking back.
THE BURIAL AND THE CORONATION
Days later. A small funeral in Winterfell. Falling snow. Jon, standing by Sansa's grave.
With broken voice:
—She was... she was all that remained of my father. Of my mother. Of everyone. The last Stark.
Tormund approaches:
—Jon. The Free Folk can't wait any longer. The cold is killing the children.
Jon, without looking at him:
—I know.
He turns to those present.
—I will rule the North. Until this ends. Or until we all end.
The lords nod. There is no ceremony. No feast. Only survival.
TYRION AT CASTERLY ROCK
Casterly Rock. Snow on the coasts, something never seen. The sea is frozen at the edges.
Outside, a crowd gathers before the gates. They shout. Demand.
—Food! We're hungry! The dwarf will kill us all!
Inside, Tyrion sits on the stairs leading to his father's throne. He drinks directly from a bottle.
To himself, drunk:
—Listen to them. Like hungry dogs.
The shouts continue:
—Your father would know what to do! He would have gotten food! He would have convinced the dragon woman!
—You're a drunken dwarf! A mockery of the Lannisters! Your father was right!
Tyrion closes his eyes. The words resonate.
*My father was right. He didn't hate me for being a dwarf. He hated me because I always played the victim.*
Flashback: Tywin, with contempt: *"You are not my son. You never were."*
*I tried to please people who hated me. The lords. Daenerys. Everyone. And what did I get? Nothing.*
He looks at his hands.
*A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of sheep. But I... I was never a lion.*
He drinks. The bottle is empty. He throws it. The sound of breaking glass.
—I was just a dwarf who wanted to be loved.
He laughs bitterly.
—I should have married Sansa. Told her I loved her. Now she's dead.
BRAN AND THE TRUTH
King's Landing. The city is covered by a layer of gray snow. Bran stands atop a tower, looking out.
Varys climbs laboriously, wrapped in furs.
—Your Majesty. The news is not good.
—Tell me.
—There's no food. Reserves are running out. Winter won't leave. It's been two years. It should be ending.
—Winter can last years. Decades.
—But... why? The Night King died. The Walkers too. There's no threat. Why does the cold continue?
Bran remains silent. A long time.
—I don't know.
Varys, surprised:
—What do you mean you don't know? You are the Three-Eyed Raven.
Bran, with doubt:
—I thought I knew everything. But Kinvara was right. I was only an apprentice.
He looks at the white horizon.
—Something evil is still out there. Something I cannot see. Something that has always been.
—And what do we do?
—Survive. Or die.
THE FAR NORTH
Beyond the Wall. The Wall no longer exists. Only ice and darkness.
On a frozen plain, through the blizzard, enormous legs. Ice spiders. The size of horses. Dozens. Hundreds. A tide of legs.
The true winter had not ended. It was only waiting.
The spiders walk south.
In a frozen tomb, a hand emerges. Blue. A dead man rises. Then another. And another.
And the dead also rose. Throughout Westeros, in cemeteries, on battlefields, bodies begin to move.
THE CABIN
A small wooden cabin in the middle of the forest. Isolated. Alone. Smoke rises from the chimney.
Inside: a boy of about twelve tries to repair the door with planks. His hands are frozen.
—Almost... almost...
Behind him, on a bed, his father lies. Coughing. Sick. The mother too.
Father, weakly:
—Son... come here. The door doesn't matter.
—Dad, if I don't fix it, the cold will get in.
—The cold already got in, son. A long time ago.
The boy keeps working. Outside, the wind howls.
Suddenly, a noise. Something scratching at the wood.
The boy freezes. Listens.
Scratches. At the door. Then, at the window.
He takes his father's spear. Old. Rusty. It's all there is.
He looks through the window. Sees nothing. Only snow.
But when he turns around...
In the back wall, a hole. And through it, things enter.
Birds, insects, a fox and his dog, huddled in a corner, panicked, looking outward.
The boy turns. A ragged dead man advances slowly toward him. Behind him, the animals in panic.
The dead man walks faster.
The boy screams:
—Dad! Mom!
His father tells him to run, but the boy stands firm with the spear.
The dead man runs and lunges. The boy stops him with the fallen door and attacks him, along with the animals. But the dead man keeps coming.
The image freezes.
POST-CREDITS SCENE
Ten years later. Winter ends.
The sky over King's Landing clears for the first time in a decade. The gray storm clouds part, revealing a faint ray of sun.
But below, in the semi-ruined city, there is no celebration.
An immense army covers the streets and surroundings. Tens of thousands of perfectly formed soldiers. Unsullied with gleaming spears. Dothraki on horseback. Warriors from every corner of Essos.
And behind them, a fleet of thousands of ships docked at the port and along the coasts, all with the three-headed dragon banner waving in the wind.
Soldiers carry boxes, provisions, belongings. They prepare to depart. They haven't come to conquer. They've come to reunite, and leave with their empress.
At the frozen dock, the largest ship of the fleet is moored. An enormous vessel, with sails painted with the three-headed dragon.
On the gangplank, surrounded by a guard of Unsullied in black armor, stands Daenerys Targaryen. She doesn't dress like a queen. She wears a heavy fur coat embroidered with red thread dragons. Her gaze is serene, hard, that of an empress.
At her side, Daario Naharis. He has more gray in his hair and beard, but retains the same smile.
And between them, two adolescents:
A boy with silver hair and intense violet eyes, with a serious expression. On his shoulder, he carries a small dragon the size of a hawk, playfully spitting tiny sparks.
A girl with silver and blue hair like her father, in a red priestess's robe, observing everything with a disturbing calm.
Before them, a group of Westerosi nobles, gaunt and frightened, wrapped in rags and worn furs. At the front, Jon Snow. He has aged before his time. He wears no crown. No pride.
Lord Yohn Royce, with trembling voice, almost pleading:
—Your Majesty... Thank you. For the ships of grain and food. For containment.
Daenerys nods, without emotion. Looks at Jon. There is an awkward silence where once there was something more.
Cold, professional:
—It's not for you. It's for the line. If winter consumes this continent, it will come for ours next. This is... border management.
Daario smiles and addresses Jon:
—Think of it as pest control. You are the trap. We provide the cheese.
The nobles frown, not quite understanding, but too hungry to protest.
Suddenly, Daenerys's personal guard descends from the ship. About ten warriors, moving with unsettling synchronicity, their faces hidden under closed helmets without slits. Silent as shadows.
One of them passes by Varys. Varys survived like a ghost in Jon's court. He is gaunt, hunched, his eyes full of ancient terror.
For a second, the wind lifts the edge of the guard's helmet.
Varys sees a face that is not a face. It's an expressionless flesh mask, pale, without emotions. But the eyes... the instant they meet his, there's a flash of recognition. Empty. Professional. Of a craftsman recognizing his work.
It's Arya. Or what remains of her. No One.
The guard adjusts the helmet and continues. But before doing so, his lips, beneath the metal, curve into a smile. It's not a smile of joy. It's a smile of cruel knowledge.
Varys freezes. His breath catches.
Drogon, now colossal in size, forty meters wingspan, perches on a cliff above the city. He lowers his head, the size of a house, and his golden eyes scan the scene.
Varys, still trembling, looks up. And his eyes meet Drogon's.
No one else looks. The nobles look at the ship. Jon looks at Daenerys. The Unsullied look forward. Only Varys and Drogon look at each other.
And then, Drogon opens his jaws. An infernal fire burns within. And a sinister voice says:
—I know who you are. I know what you fear. I know what you heard as a child.
Varys sees writhing souls. Silent screams. A miniature hell. Faces he recognizes: people who died, people he betrayed.
And then, he hears it.
A voice. The voice. The one he heard as a child. The one that tormented him in the temples. The voice of fire, whispering, ancient, malignant:
—We remember you, little one. We always remember you. Your secrets are ours. Your fears are ours. And we... are yours.
Varys's eyes widen like plates. He trembles uncontrollably. His legs give way.
But then...
Daenerys's son raises his voice, with youthful but firm authority:
—Drogon. Enough. Don't bother.
Drogon closes his mouth and turns his enormous head toward the boy. The boy scolds him with a look.
The image of hell disappears. The voice falls silent.
Daenerys's daughter, with her unsettling calm, almost amused:
—Always so dramatic, Drogon. Leave them alone.
Drogon exhales a small puff of smoke through his nose, like a scolded child. But before looking away...
For the last time, Drogon looks at Varys. Only Varys. And gives him another smile. Brief. Almost imperceptible. But it's there. A macabre smile of perverse complicity.
Varys staggers. No one around him notices. Only Varys knows.
Drogon looks away and stands tall on the cliff, majestic.
Jon approaches Kinvara, who watches the scene from the side.
—Tyrion died drunk. Bran... Bran died in the war. But... why? Why weren't there White Walkers? We only saw dead from the graves. A few ice spiders. There was no Night King. No army.
Kinvara looks at him with a mixture of compassion and ancient wisdom.
—Because the true Night King died many years ago. Along with his entire army.
Samwell Tarly, gaunt but with his books under his arm, steps forward:
—Then... what were we fighting? Who did we kill?
Kinvara smiles sadly:
—Only an empty shell. An echo. A shadow left behind. The true Night King fell long ago. By a Targaryen. It's something I also learned, and not much is known about what happened.
Absolute silence. Everyone looks at Daenerys.
Lord Yohn Royce falls to his knees in the snow:
—Then you are the only one. The blood of the dragon. Be our queen! Rule Westeros!
Other nobles begin to kneel. One after another.
—You and Jon! Together unite the houses!
Daenerys observes them. Her face is an impenetrable mask. Then she looks at Jon. Then looks at the ruined city, the gray snow, the hungry people.
With an ironic smile that freezes more than the wind:
—Rule... this?
She takes a deep breath. Makes a face of disgust.
—No. It smells like shit. And I have my man.
Daario bursts into laughter that echoes across the dock.
Daenerys's children smile with pride.
Daenerys continues:
—I built an empire where they love me. Where the sun is warm. Where my children grow without fear. Where people don't kneel from hunger, but from gratitude. Why would I trade that for a pile of snow and bad memories?
While Daenerys speaks, Jon sees the faceless guard. One figure has lingered behind. He recognizes her. Not by her face, but by the way she moves.
He approaches:
—Arya.
The figure stops. Doesn't turn.
—I know it's you. I always know.
Silence. Then, slowly, the figure removes her helmet.
It's Arya. But her eyes are empty. There's nothing behind them. No hate, no love, no memory.
Jon, with pain:
—Why? Why did you kill Sansa?
Arya, with a voice that is no longer hers, flat, hollow, mechanical:
—I didn't kill Sansa.
—I saw you. You used mother's face. You stabbed her.
—That wasn't me. That was No One.
Jon looks at her, trying to find his sister in that empty face.
—Arya Stark died when she accepted the mission. Only the debt remained. And the debt was paid.
Jon, with tears:
—She was our blood.
Arya, for the first time, a flicker of something in her eyes, but it fades quickly:
—Blood doesn't matter. Only the god matters. And the god collects.
She turns toward the ship.
—Goodbye, Jon. Remember: you were never Snow. You were a dragon who chose to be a wolf. How stupid.
Arya walks away. Climbs onto Drogon, alongside Daenerys and Kinvara. Positions herself behind them, as a guardian. As No One. Without looking back.
Jon remains alone, watching his last sister disappear.
From the sky, two shadows descend. Two young dragons. Each about fifteen meters wingspan. Majestic. Terrifying. One with golden scales, like gold. Another red like blood.
Daenerys's son, silver hair, violet eyes, mounts the dark dragon with feline agility. The small dragon on his shoulder jumps onto the large one's back.
Daenerys's daughter, silver and blue hair, red robe, mounts the reddish dragon with the serenity of a priestess. She needs to say nothing. The dragon obeys with a look.
Daario helps Daenerys onto Drogon:
—See? We made good children.
Daenerys smiles, for the first time with authentic happiness:
—We did everything right.
Daario mounts the dragon with his daughter.
Daenerys mounts Drogon. Kinvara climbs up too. Arya positions herself behind, as a silent guardian, with an expression of peace on her empty face. Finally, she travels the world as she dreamed. As No One.
The two young dragons position themselves on either side of Drogon. The Targaryen family, complete. Powerful. Invincible.
The son, to the small dragon on his shoulder:
—Ready to go home?
The small dragon spits a playful spark.
The daughter, with her unsettling calm:
—Always so impatient.
Drogon beats his enormous wings. The other dragons follow. The fleet begins to move.
Jon remains on the dock, alone, watching them fade away.
IN THE FARTHEST NORTH
The deepest north. Beyond what was once the Wall. Eternal darkness. Perpetual ice. Wind that cuts like knives.
A figure moves through the blizzard. It's a dead man. A common wight. Dirty. Broken. But moving.
It drags something behind it. Something heavy.
The image slowly approaches what it drags.
It's a body. A corpse in fine clothes, now torn to shreds. A white cloak, dirty with frozen blood and ice.
The body turns. We see the face.
It's Bran Stark.
The dead man releases the body. Drags himself away, disappearing into the blizzard.
Silence. Only the wind.
Minutes. Hours. Days. Years. No one knows.
Suddenly...
The eyes of Bran's frozen body open.
They are not white. Not the eyes of the Three-Eyed Raven.
They are blue. Bright. Icy. Like frozen sapphires in hell.
*Jaime and Cersei, united until death in an act of tragic love. Daenerys, building her empire where she is loved. Arya, turned into No One, serving a new queen. Tyrion, accepting he was never a lion. Bran, the false king... turned into something worse.*
*This is my version of Game of Thrones.*
*If you made it this far, thank you for giving a chance to a fan who only wanted to close this story with the respect it deserved.*
*Winter always wins.*
*"This chapter is also available narrated on my YouTube channel: fanfics.alternos. You can find it in my profile."*
If you liked the story, leave me a comment. And if you wondered about the things I added in my alternate ending, like the false raven or the Night King dying long ago... I also have an alternate story of Aegon the Conqueror, and I'll upload it soon.