The green flames crackled, dancing high in the sky, threatening to touch the airborne dragon. Daenerys Targaryen stared in horror at commoners shrieking before turning to ash, at a Dothraki horde fleeing like cats, the dreaded green streak following and consuming them. As Flea Bottom crumbled, she wondered if the fires would split the ground open.
The wildfire was dying, but it still had Drogon restless. It flew erratically, wanting to be far from the flames, away from the war. Daenerys scarce noticed it. Her eyes were fixed on the madness, on thousands of innocent lives laid waste. Even if I take the Iron Throne, this war will have been a failure.
Her five-thousand Unsullied were still standing, but the Dothraki that had chose to raid Flea Bottom were all ash. Daenerys forced Drogon to swoop low. “How many men do you think we lost?” she yelled at Grey Worm.
A raging magic fire had burned in the city, but Grey Worm’s voice was still calm. “We may have a thousand Dothraki alive, Your Grace,” he said shortly.
Six-thousand men in all. Daenerys flew in the sky, glancing at the Mud Gate, where the Sand Snakes still kept the Windblown busy. The gate would fall soon, and after the men in the Red Keep were beaten, the city would be theirs.
But for her, shock had turned into rage. She would not let Cersei Lannister’s vile tricks go unpunished. It was time to fight fire with fire.
The dragon soared up Aegon’s High Hill, approaching the keep where the liar of liars lay. A few black arrows whizzed in her direction, but Drogon was too quick for them to stand a chance. She saw the faces of a few scared men at the ramparts, at windows. They wore sigils of falcons and lions.
They are still men, a voice spoke inside her. Men with families, men with lives. They are not all Cersei Lannister. Then she remembered the smoking ruins of Flea Bottom, innocent men, women and children burned alive on the whims of a mad queen.
“Dracarys.”
The flames torched the top, roasting the roof of the Red Keep. Daenerys felt the fire melt away fallen snow, felt the morning air become warmer. Below, she saw men flee the fortress in fright, whom the Unsullied and remaining Dothraki made quick work of. She urged Drogon on. Dracarys, Dracarys!
There was a huge groan, and the scarlet bricks gave way.
Drogon stopped. Daenerys flew cautiously, her heart still thumping through her ribs. She gazed at the wrecked Great Hall from above. As the great ball of fire rose in the sky, light fell on flakes of snow, gently nestling on an empty throne of swords.
It was the seat of her father, the seat she was owed, the seat she was told she was owed. An ugly chair from where she would build a beautiful world, a world where justice prevailed, where virtue conquered vice.
Then came the screams, the yells, the toots.
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