A sudden, sharp wind whipped across the crater. It didn't feel like a normal breeze; it felt heavy and deliberate, pushing outward in a massive circle. The thick black and green clouds violently tore apart, blowing out toward the sea and the Kingswood.
In less than a minute, the sky was completely clear. Bright, warm afternoon sunlight flooded down over the entire city. The suffocating smell of wildfire vanished, replaced by the crisp, clean scent of the ocean.
Alaric took a deep breath. He leaned back against the jagged bone of Balerion's eye socket and waited.
An hour passed. The melted green glass of the crater finally cooled enough to walk on.
The sound of heavy boots and nervous horses echoed up the Street of Seeds. The first soldiers to reach the top of the hill weren't Lannisters or Gold Cloaks. They wore the green cloaks of the Reach and the grey wool of the North.
A massive column of Tyrell and Stark men spilled into the open space where the castle gates used to be. They stopped dead in their tracks.
Mace Tyrell rode at the front of the column. He pulled so hard on his horse's reins that the animal nearly reared backward. Beside him, Ser Rodrik Cassel just stared, his mouth slightly open, completely forgetting to give any orders.
The Red Keep was entirely gone.
In its place was a massive, smooth bowl of smoking green glass.
It formed by the extreme, unnatural heat of the wildfire explosion, which was intense enough to turn solid rock into liquid. During the blast, millions of tons of dirt and stone from Aegon's High Hill were completely melted. As this superheated liquid earth cooled, it fused and hardened into a massive, smooth bowl of solid green glass.
And sitting right in the center of that impossible destruction was Alaric Thorne.
He sat casually on top of a dragon skull the size of a tavern. His new black tunic was dusted with grey ash. He rested his hands on the hilt of his broadsword, looking down at the army with calm eyes.
Behind him, standing perfectly still like ancient statues, were the two thirty-foot-tall stone gargoyles. They held their giant axes resting in the dirt, silent and terrifying.
Flanking the dragon skull, the six towering Blood Knights stood in their heavy red armor, entirely untouched by the blast.
Not a single soldier spoke. The Tyrell lords, the Northern captains, the hardened veterans who had marched for weeks—they all just stared in absolute, terrifying awe. They had seen castles fall. They had seen men burn. But they had never seen a man sit unharmed in the center of an apocalypse.
A murmur started to ripple through the front lines.
Men began to drop to their knees.
First, a group of Northern spearmen near the back hit the dirt. Then, the Tyrell guards followed. Within moments, the entire front vanguard—thousands of heavily armed men—was kneeling in the ash, bowing their heads toward the crater.
Even Mace Tyrell slipped down from his horse, his fat knees hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
Ser Rodrik stayed on his horse a moment longer, staring hard at the young ward he used to train with wooden swords. Then, with a slow, heavy sigh that sounded almost like relief, the old knight dismounted and took a knee in the dirt.
A soft rustling sound broke the heavy silence.
From behind the kneeling soldiers, a familiar figure stepped forward. It was the Blood Scout Alaric had sent away earlier. The Scout walked calmly through the ranks of kneeling men, dragging someone behind him.
It was Cersei Lannister.
Her hands were bound tight behind her back with thick rope. Her beautiful red dress was torn and covered in thick, grey soot. Her hair was wild, her face smeared with dirt and ash. She stumbled as the Scout yanked her forward, forcing her to the very edge of the green glass crater.
Cersei looked up. Her green eyes locked onto Alaric sitting on the dragon skull.
The calm, arrogant smile was entirely gone.
Alaric finally stood up. He walked slowly down the side of the massive skull, his boots clicking softly against the bone. He stopped right in front of Cersei, looking down at her soot-stained face.
"You missed," Alaric said simply.
Cersei opened her mouth, but no words came out. She just stared at the melted green glass, her breathing shallow and fast.
Before she could find her voice, a heavy clanking sound echoed from the back of the kneeling crowd. The soldiers quickly scrambled out of the way, parting to make room.
A towering Blood Knight walked through the gap. In his massive, red-armored hands, he held two small figures by the scruff of their cloaks.
It was Tommen and Myrcella.
The giant knight didn't handle them gently, but he wasn't crushing them either. He carried them like two stray pups, walked up to the edge of the crater, and dropped them into the ash right next to Cersei.
Cersei's face instantly turned to ash. All the blood completely drained from her cheeks. The last tiny spark of defiance in her green eyes died in a second.
"Tommen! Myrcella!" she gasped, dropping to her knees in the dirt.
She tried to reach out to grab them, but the thick ropes binding her hands behind her back stopped her. She pulled frantically against the knots until her wrists bled, but she couldn't break free.
Tommen was crying loudly, his face streaked with dirt and tears. He scrambled across the ash and buried his face in his mother's ruined dress. Myrcella was shaking badly, but she stood up and stepped slightly in front of her little brother. She looked up at the giant red knight, then at Alaric, her eyes wide with terror.
"We caught them on the beach, My Lord," the Blood Knight's deep, metallic voice rumbled. "The white knight guarding them tried to fight. but seeing he was no match so he ran away."
Alaric looked down at the two terrified children. Then he looked at Cersei. She was sobbing in the dirt, her head resting on Tommen's blonde hair. She was completely broken.
"Please," Cersei choked out. Her voice was just a ragged, desperate whisper. "Please, don't hurt them. You won. Kill me. Do whatever you want to me, just let them go."