[King's Landing]

The battle for King's Landing raged like a storm, each gate a churning vortex of chaos and strategy. Robb Stark's forces surged through the Dragon Gate, their banners snapping in the wind as they clashed with the City Watch. The northerners fought with a grim determination, their steel singing against the Lannister gold. But it was the Iron Gate that held the most intrigue. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, led the Rivermen there, his tactics sharp and unyielding. He knew the Rosby road was a lifeline for the city's supplies. Cut it off, and King's Landing would starve within weeks. The Old Gate, meanwhile, became a battleground of whispers and shadows. Alysane's spies moved like ghosts, their daggers finding throats before alarms could sound. The gates creaked open, one by one, as the city's defenses began to crumble.

At the Gate of the Gods, Mance Rayder—Arthur Dayne in truth—stood like a figure from legend. His sword, Dawn, gleamed like a shard of sunlight, cutting through the Lannister ranks with a precision that left men breathless. The wildlings followed him with a ferocity born of desperation and loyalty. They had crossed the Wall for freedom, and now they fought for a cause greater than themselves. The River Gate, the Mud Gate, saw the Tyrell army pouring in, their green banners mingling with the Unsullied's disciplined ranks. The alliance was uneasy, but necessity made strange bedfellows. The Tyrells brought food and men; the Unsullied brought discipline and a reputation that made even the bravest Lannister soldier hesitate.

The Lion Gate was a different story. It was here that the Lannisters made their stand, their gold-cloaked soldiers forming a wall of steel. But Robb had anticipated this. He sent a contingent of wildlings and northerners to flank them, their axes and spears breaking through the defenses like a hammer through glass. The King's Gate, outside the tourney grounds, became a staging area for the Stormlanders. They brought with them the fury of the stormlands, their war cries echoing across the city. The tourney grounds, once a place of celebration, now bore witness to bloodshed.

The city's defenses were formidable, but Alysanne's spies had done their work well. The City Watch, infiltrated and divided, faltered at key moments. Gates meant to hold against the onslaught creaked open, and chaos spread through the streets. The Stormlands' soldiers, arriving late but with brutal efficiency, carved a path toward the Red Keep. The Tyrell army, fresh from their alliance with the Unsullied, brought both numbers and strategy. Their golden roses gleamed amidst the blood and smoke, a reminder that even beauty could be deadly.

Above it all, the dragons came. Drogon, black as night, soared with a roar that shook the earth. Beside him, Elaenys, pearl-white with eyes like amethysts, moved with a grace that belied her size. She was not as fierce as her brother, but her presence was no less commanding. Alysanne had named her for her mother and sister, a tribute to the family she had lost. Now, Elaenys fought for the family she had found. The dragons circled the city, their shadows casting dread over the defenders below.

Cersei Lannister watched from the Red Keep, her face a mask of cold fury. She had prepared for this. The scorpions, massive crossbows designed to bring down dragons, lined the battlements. But when her guards tried to fire them, nothing happened. The mechanisms jammed. The bolts refused to fly. Alysanne's spies had not only infiltrated the City Watch—they had sabotaged the scorpions. Cersei's hands clenched into fists. She had underestimated her enemies. Again.

On the ground, the battle raged. Robb Stark fought with a ferocity that inspired his men. Brynden Tully's experience turned the tide in key skirmishes. And Arthur Dayne, wielding Dawn with a skill that seemed almost otherworldly, cut through the Lannister forces like a blade through silk. The wildlings, though unruly, fought with a desperation that made them unpredictable and deadly. Together, they pushed deeper into the city, their goal clear: the Red Keep.

The dragons descended. Drogon unleashed torrents of flame, turning entire streets into infernos. Elaenys, more measured, targeted the Lannister reinforcements trying to regroup. Her fire was precise, her movements deliberate. She was not a beast of mindless destruction but a weapon of calculated wrath. The sight of her, gleaming against the smoke-filled sky, was enough to break the morale of many defenders.

The battle was far from over. The armies clashed, the dragons roared, and the fate of King's Landing hung in the balance. But one thing was certain: this was not just a fight for a throne. It was a fight for survival, for justice, for the future of a broken realm. And in the chaos, amidst the blood and fire, the seeds of a new world were being sown.

The Red Keep still loomed in the distance, its towers casting long shadows over the city. Robb knew what came next. The Lannisters wouldn't give up without a fight. And neither would he.

He looked at the men around him, their faces streaked with blood and sweat. They had come this far. They wouldn't stop now.

The bell was still tolling. The sound was louder now, a warning, a call to arms. Robb tightened his grip on his sword and turned toward the Red Keep.

It was time to finish this.

The Red Keep was a fortress of stone and pride. Inside, Cersei Lannister paced like a caged lion, her golden hair catching the light of the torches. She had always believed the city was hers, but now it felt like a trap. The gates were falling. The walls were breached. And the wolves were at her door.

Above it all, the dragons came. Drogon, black as night, soared with a roar that shook the earth. Beside him, Elaenys, pearl-white with eyes like amethysts, moved with a grace that belied her size. She was not as fierce as her brother, but her presence was no less commanding. Alysanne had named her for her mother and sister, a tribute to the family she had lost. Now, Elaenys fought for the family she had found. The dragons circled the city, their shadows casting dread over the defenders below.

Cersei Lannister watched from the Red Keep, her face a mask of cold fury. She had prepared for this. The scorpions, massive crossbows designed to bring down dragons, lined the battlements. But when her guards tried to fire them, nothing happened. The mechanisms jammed. The bolts refused to fly.

Alysanne's spies had not only infiltrated the City Watch—they had sabotaged the scorpions.

Cersei's guards urged her to flee, but she refused. She would not abandon the Red Keep. Not while she still had cards to play. Her mind raced. The scorpions were useless, but she had other plans. Hidden beneath the city, wildfire waited. If she could not win this battle, she would ensure no one else could either. Her lips curled into a smile. Let them take the city. They would inherit only ashes.

The streets of King's Landing ran red with blood, the air thick with smoke and the stench of death. And still, the dragons circled, their presence a reminder that this was no ordinary battle. This was the end of an era, the fall of a dynasty. And in the heart of the storm, Cersei Lannister stood alone, her defiance unbroken but her hope fading with every passing second.

Alysane's spies moved like shadows through the Red Keep, their knives sharp and their purpose sharper. They had spent months blending in, earning trust, and now their knives found their marks. Qyburn, the disgraced maester, fell first. His experiments had made him a target. The spies struck silently, leaving his body slumped over a table of twisted tools and vials. Cersei's hand was gone, and with him, her last hope of controlling the dead.

Jon's sword cut through the air, its edge catching the light of the flickering torches. A Lannister soldier lunged at him, but Jon sidestepped, his blade finding the man's throat. Blood sprayed. He didn't pause. Another soldier came at him, and another. They fell like wheat before a scythe.

Alysanne was a blur of motion beside him. Her strikes were precise, her movements fluid. She fought with a cold efficiency that left no room for error. A soldier swung at her, but she ducked low, her sword slicing upward. He crumpled. She didn't look back.

The courtyard was chaos. The clash of steel echoed off the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of blood and sweat. Jon's arms burned, but he pushed through the fatigue. He had to. There was no other choice.

A soldier charged at Jon, his sword raised high. Jon parried the blow, but the force of it sent him stumbling. He caught himself just in time, driving his blade into the man's chest. The soldier fell, but Jon felt the strain in his muscles. He couldn't keep this up forever.

Alysanne seemed to sense his exhaustion. She stepped in front of him, her sword flashing. She cut down two soldiers in quick succession, giving Jon a moment to catch his breath.

A soldier lunged at her from the side. She parried, but the force of the blow sent her stumbling. Her back hit the wall.

Suddenly, she heard a grunt.

When she turned look, Jon was on the floor. He had slipped due to the blood stained streets. Longclaw was just out of reach.

She watch as he struggled to his feet to reclaim his sword that was now in the hands of a Lannister soldier.

But, before he could, the soldier plunged it into his chest, leaving him no time to evade it.

Alysanne's scream tore through the chaos, raw and guttural. The Lannister soldier's smirk twisted her grief into rage. She moved like a storm, her blade cutting through the air, through flesh, through bone. One by one, the soldiers fell. None could match her fury. None could outrun her vengeance.

She swung her sword in a wide arc, forcing the soldiers around her to step back. Her movements were sharp, desperate. She fought her way toward Jon, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world seemed to slow. The clang of steel, the shouts of men—it all faded into a dull roar.

When the last man crumpled to the ground, the street fell silent. Her chest heaved, her hands trembling as she dropped her sword. She turned to Jon. His body lay still, Longclaw jutting from his chest like a cruel joke.

Jon's face was pale, his eyes half-open, unseeing. She cradled his head in her lap, her tears falling onto his bloodied tunic. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Not you. Not like this."

Ghost appeared then, a streak of white in the smoke and blood. Somehow, Jon's direwolf had made the long journey south in search of his companion.

The sound of footsteps made her look up. Melisandre emerged from the haze, her red robes untouched by the carnage. Ghost stood at her side, his eyes fixed on Jon. The priestess's gaze was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps. "He is the Prince That Was Promised," she said, her voice calm but firm. "The Lord of Light has shown me the way."

Alysanne's breath hitched. She had heard the stories, the prophecies, but they had always felt distant, like tales told to children. Now, they were here, in the blood and dirt of King's Landing.

Alysanne's heart pounded. She didn't trust Melisandre, not after everything she'd heard. But Jon was dying. She had no choice. "What do you need?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Melisandre knelt beside Jon, her hands hovering over his chest. "Fire and blood," she murmured. "The price is steep, but the Lord of Light demands it." She looked at Alysanne, her eyes piercing. "Are you willing to pay it?"

Alysanne hesitated. She didn't understand what Melisandre meant, but the thought of losing Jon was unbearable. "Do it," she said, her voice steady now. "Whatever it takes."

Melisandre nodded. She began to chant in a language Alysanne didn't recognize, her voice rising and falling like a song. The ruby at Melisandre's throat pulsed with light. The air around them grew heavy, charged with an energy that made the hair on Alysanne's arms stand on end. Ghost whined softly, his ears flattening against his head.

Then, the flames came. They erupted from Jon's chest, bright and blinding. Alysanne shielded her eyes, but she couldn't look away. The fire consumed him, but it didn't burn. It was alive, pulsing with a light that seemed to come from within. For a moment, she thought she saw something in the flames—a figure, tall and regal, with eyes like embers.

Longclaw, still embedded in Jon's chest, began to glow. The steel shimmered, then erupted into flames, the fire spreading along the blade but leaving Jon unharmed.

Alysanne stepped back, her heart pounding. She had heard the stories of Lightbringer, the sword of Azor Ahai, but seeing it now—feeling its heat—was something else entirely. The flames grew brighter, casting long shadows across the battlefield.

When the fire died down, Jon was still. Too still. Alysanne's breath caught in her throat. She reached for him, her hand trembling. "Jon?" she whispered.

His eyes snapped open. They burned red for a moment, then faded to their usual gray. He gasped, his body jerking as if waking from a nightmare, his hand instinctively reaching for Longclaw's hilt. The flames died down as he pulled the blade free, his chest unmarked.

Alysanne pulled him into her arms, tears streaming down her face. "You're alive," she said, her voice barely audible. "You're alive."

Jon looked at her, confusion and pain etched across his face. "What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Melisandre stood, her expression unreadable. "The Lord of Light has returned you to us," she said. "But remember, fire consumes. It does not give without taking."

Alysanne held Jon tighter, her mind racing. She didn't know what Melisandre's words meant, but she knew one thing: Jon was back. And she would do whatever it took to keep him that way.

Jon stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The flames of Longclaw had flickered and died, leaving the blade gleaming in the dim light. Alysanne stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. "Jon," she said softly.

He turned to her, his expression unreadable. "I saw something," he said, his voice low. "When I was... gone. I saw the Night King. And I saw what's coming." Alysanne's stomach twisted. She had heard the stories of the dead marching south, but hearing it from Jon made it real.

Melisandre approached, her gaze fixed on Jon. "The war is not over," she said. "The true enemy waits in the north. And you, Jon Snow, are the key to defeating him." Jon nodded, his jaw tightening. Alysanne felt a chill run through her. The fight for King's Landing was nothing compared to what lay ahead.