King's Landing, Great Sept of Baelor, Rains of Castamere Square
"Aaagh—!"
Sensing the threat from Jaime Lannister, the Cyclops beneath Jon lurched forward, swinging its massive tree-trunk club. Jon, however, didn't stay to watch the duel. He slipped from the giant's shoulder, dropping through the air like a bird of prey and landing gracefully on the steps, directly in front of the cowering Gold Cloaks.
"B-back! Get back, you terrifying sorcerer!" "You lot! Don't just stand there! Charge him!"
Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, was hyperventilating, his orders turning into incoherent babbles. He desperately wanted to impress his new King, but in the face of Jon's impossible entrance, his vaunted authority had evaporated.
"For the King!"
Driven by sheer momentum or perhaps a fool's hope, one Gold Cloak finally broke the paralysis and charged. He never made it. Just as the soldier closed the distance, a basketball-sized sphere of pure fire erupted from the tip of Jon's strange scepter.
Hiss—BOOM!
"Aaargh! My face! My eyes!"
Never having seen, much less fought, such supernatural forces, the soldier hadn't thought to dodge or parry. He had attempted to block the attack with his own flesh, with predictable, horrifying results.
"Flame" was the lowliest tier of fire-elemental magic. A skilled sorcerer or a rapid fighter might have evaded it. But to this dragon-fodder Gold Cloak, it was an unstoppable force. He had the dubious honor of becoming the first true sacrifice to Jon's newly awakened Magic Item System.
Amidst the stench of burnt hair and the shrieks of the dying, Jon stood at the base of the steps, the brilliant red scepter in his hand and his red cloak snapping like a standard in the wind.
"J-Jon?"
So visually striking was his appearance that Eddard Stark, battered and bleeding, hesitated to recognize his own blood. Like everyone else in the square, Ned had witnessed Jon channeling magic through the scepter; the only word for such a being was sorcerer.
"Of course it is, dear Uncle. I've come to get you out."
Jon's voice was level and cold as he began his ascent up the white steps. The Gold Cloaks scrambled backward, their morale shattered. These were men who bullied smallfolk and accepted bribes, the King's Landing equivalent of corrupt, petty bureaucrats. They were no match for the ragged, veteran warriors of the Night's Watch, much less a Valyrian sorcerer.
But while the City Watch cowered, Joffrey's Kingsguard held their ground.
Ser Barristan Selmy, newly dismissed, stood awkwardly on the platform. Every vow told him he should be leading these men to protect the King, but that King had just stripped him of his honor. Robert Baratheon had commanded this old knight's loyalty with his generosity and his bravery, and now, even in retirement, Barristan Bold would not stand by and watch honor be defiled.
Jon's explosive entrance had caused enough chaos that no one noticed Ned and Sansa were unguarded. When the fireball struck, Sandor Clegane, the King's towering "Hound," had flinched backward like a whipped cur.
The sudden appearance of magic made everyone forget their duties. Seizing the moment, Sansa Stark hiked up her gown and sprinted across the platform to her father's side.
"Father! Is it... is it really him?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
With Barristan's aid, a battered Eddard Stark finally stood, supported by his daughter.
Sers Alester Oakheart, Boros Blount, Mandon Moore, Meryn Trant, and Preston Greenfield—these were the Kingsguard Robert had left behind. While none could compare to the legendary knights of the Targaryen era, their loyalty to the Lannister Queen was absolute. Though they felt a sliver of dread, these battle-hardened knights had analyzed Jon's "Flame" spell. They had confidence. Magic or no, they knew their speed and combat skill were superior to any single fighter in the Seven Kingdoms.
Toot! Toot!
The sounds of frantic集合 (gathering) horns echoed around the Sept. Gold Cloaks and Red Keep household guards from the outer perimeter were finally rallying. The smallfolk in the square had long since scattered, though a few brave—or foolish—souls watched from distant rooftops. The battle between the Kingslayer and the Cyclops below them was like something out of a myth, yet the real terror was unfolding on the steps.
"What are you fools afraid of? He is only one man!" Kingsguard Ser Meryn Trant bellowed, taking command. "Form a shield wall! Lock shields and protect your faces! Let's see his 'fire' break through solid steel."
The Red Keep guards found their courage, surrounding Jon in a tightened semi-circle.
Cersei Lannister and her bastard son Joffrey, along with the Fat High Septon, had been the first to flee, retreating behind the heavy bronze doors of the Great Sept. The combination of magic and a giant was too much for them; they would not risk their royal persons on an open platform.
Hidden behind a marble pillar, Petyr Baelish glared at Varys, his eyes demanding to know, "Did you know about this?" The Spider offered only a look of pure, unhelpful ignorance.
"Charge! Kill him for the King!"
Driven by Ser Trant's roar, the bravest of the guards lunged forward. They were met by a sight that would haunt their remaining moments.
Jon raised his red scepter, pointing it toward the apex of the sky. In his grip, the strange artifact began to twist and reshape itself. The handle retracted, the tip elongated, and a double-sided blade—gleaming and impossibly sharp—erupted from the haft. It was a magnificent hands-and-a-half greatsword, its Valyrian steel hilt a masterpiece.
The guards froze in pure, unadulterated awe at the weapon's beauty. But Jon was past awe. He channeled his mental energy into the hilt, igniting the blade.
VROOOM!
A column of roaring fire erupted from the hilt, consuming the entire blade of Dark Sister. Jon didn't hesitate. He spun, bringing the burning greatsword down in a horizontal "Sweeping Scythe" strike.
Hiss—CRACK!
Amidst the sounds of kinetic impact and weapons shattering, Jon's flaming blade sliced through three armored guards in a single stroke, reducing them to six cauterized pieces. Their organs spilled onto the sacred marble steps.
The ability—[Dark Sister: Flame]—was a catastrophic, single-use effect from Jon's new Magic System. Though devastating, it had drained 5 points from the Flame Stone's 30 durability in a single second.
The price was high, but the result was perfect.
As the green flames faded from the blade, the remaining guards recoiled in absolute terror. No one moved toward him. Jon had to use this moment. He knew the Flame ability, though visually catastrophic, was functionally less powerful than a jar of wildfire. It was a bluff, and he needed to end it before someone realized he couldn't do it again.
Let's begin, Jon thought.
Seeing the guards' paralysis, Jon retrieved his Dragonstone from his inventory. At the sight of him initiating another "spell," the last fragile thread of morale broke among his opponents.
"What... what is he doing now?" "Seven Gods, protect us... is he going to curse us?" "Aaaagh—!"
The air around Jon warped. A radiant, almost dark-silver light wrapped around his body, and amidst a chorus of agonizing screams as his flesh was flayed and rewoven once more, the image of Jon Snow vanished. In his place stood a Valyrian Dragon.
[Dimensional Dragon: Seasmoke]
The beast was a magnificent entity of uniform silver-grey scales. Illuminated by the early morning sun, the scales didn't shimmer in the usual rainbow spectrum but glowed with a singular, smoky black-silver brilliance that felt ancient and ominous.
Only seven charges left, Jon thought, his focus now consuming his entire draconic entity.
He didn't feel joy; he felt only a stark, calculating resignation as his most valuable resource dwindled. But as his roar resonated through the Goblet Square, King's Landing learned that the Dragon had truly returned.