Holding onto Drogon, she ordered, "Dracarys."
Creating a wall of dragon flame. Shields melted, steel liquefied, flesh turned to blackened husks.
Below the Dothraki howling like wolves let loose in a flock of sheep, hacked and slashed.
Jaime watched in mute horror as his men were massacred.
Then in the distance, he noticed Bronn had arrived at the hidden weapon.
Bronn released a mechanism and saw the top of the wagon jettison open. Inside sat a large rotating ballista. Tightening the strings, he could feel tension in the ropes. Tracing the dragon, Bronn took aim. As the dragon came into view, he pulled the lever.
The arrow sailed through the skies, nearly missing the dragon. Bronn quickly reloaded, readying his aim and setting another arrow loose. Again, the arrow nearly missed embedding itself in the dragon's belly.
Deanery's traced the missile to the ballista. Seeing Bronn reloading a third shot, she descended with Drogon, to meet fire with steel.
This war had to end now. End her victory.
Drogon landed in front of the ballista, as Bronn readied his shot.
"Dracarys," she commanded.
Bronn released the trigger, and dove for the river as Jamie has once down. The missile met dragon fire, but the momentum was enough to carry it through, this time embedding itself in Drogon's shoulder.
Drogon, squalled in pain, sending Deanery's anger boiling over.
Climbing off Drogon, she grasped the large arrow and pulled hard trying to dislodge it.
In the distance, Jamie saw Deanery attending her dragon. Spurring his horse forward, the ground shaking beneath its hooves as he hurtled toward Daenerys Targaryen. His golden hand clenched the spear, his mind emptied of all thought but one:
'This ends now,' his thoughts narrowed on one goal.
On the ridge in the distance, Tyrion looked down at the devastation. Deanery's had earned a victory, but at what cost? This wasn't war, this was annihilation.
Then he glimpsed it. Jamie galloped hard, spear in hand, heading toward Deanery. Shaking his head, he whispered to himself, "Don't do it, you fool."
The battlefield blurred around Jamie—screams, fire, the clash of steel—none of it mattered. He saw only her.
The Dragon Queen stood ahead, her silver-gold hair whipping in the wind, her violet eyes fixed on the carnage. Drogon loomed behind her, a black mountain of muscle and fire, wings unfurled, scales glistening with the heat of battle.
Jaime raised the spear.
After removing the missile, Deanery spun around, hearing someone fast approaching. She saw him, Jamie Lannister, Kingslayer, the man who murdered her father and was responsible for her miserable childhood.
A heartbeat later, Drogon turned.
The dragon's eyes locked onto him—a cold, reptilian gaze that held no fear, no mercy.
And then the beast opened its jaws.
A blinding torrent of flame erupted, roaring toward Jaime like a vengeful god's wrath.
Time slowed.
Jaime felt the heat lick his face, the sheer force of it pressing against his chest. He barely had time to curse before—
A wall of water exploded beside him.
Jaime hit the surface hard, the weight of his armor dragging him down as the river swallowed him whole.
Deanery cared not whether he sank or swam. She would eventually eradicate him and Cersi.
Above the river, the battle was over. Tyrion watched the Dothraki gather prisoners. Corralling them like pigs for slaughter. Those who fled were hunted down like foxes.
Tyrion was prepared for war. He had seen war before, but not like this. He stepped carefully over charred corpses and shattered steel to stand alongside Deanery.
Daenerys Targaryen stood aside Drogon, watching as the last of her enemies fell to their knees in surrender.
Once all the prisoners were gathered, a remnant of the once great Lannister and Tarly army. Tyrion spoke, "Bend the knee, and your lives will be spared."
Daenerys watched in satisfaction as the soldiers knelt in submission, but her eyes focused on two men who refused to kneel.
Motioning them forward, two Dothraki brought them forward.
"You will not kneel?" Daenerys asked, spoken more as if sentencing than a question.
In a rough voice, of a grizzled veteran, Randall Tarly said, "I already have a queen."
"Yes, my sister," Tyrion sighed. "Save your house and bend the knee."
"I will not serve foreigner invaders, like that merchant Redwyne, with savages at her command," Randall spat at her feet.
"I respect your decision," she said solemnly, motioning for the Dothraki to escort a brief distance away.
"Your Grace, we could send him to the wall?" he suggested.
Randall's grizzled voice repeated, "You cannot send me to the wall; you are my queen."
Daenerys looked at Tyrion dispassionately before turning to the other man still standing. "You will not kneel either?"
"No," Dickon Tarly spoke.
"Kneel, do not have your house, ripped from the annals," Tyrion pleaded.
"I will not!" Dickon replied resolutely.
"You fool! You are the future of your house." Tyrion said frustratedly. Turning to Daenerys, he pleaded. "Your Grace, a night in the cell might clear his head."
"I told you; I am not here to put men in chains," Daenerys explained. "If I do, that many will take the option. I gave him a choice."
Tyrion looked up at the dragon and turned his head away in pain. "Your grace—"
Daenerys gazed at him unmoved. Then, he motioned to the Dothraki, who dragged the son away to join his father.
As the father and son looked at the dragon nervously, Daenerys spoke, "I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Mother of Dragons, sentence you to death. Dracarys."
Then Daenerys turned to the Dothraki and ordered, "Secure the wagons and prisoners. We return to Dragonstone."