King's Landing, Great Sept of Baelor, Execution Platform
Whoosh—CRACK!
"Seven Gods above... is this truly a dragon?"
Barristan Selmy exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding as a pillar of Dragonfire shrieked overhead. Even for a man who had seen the rise and fall of kings, the events of this day were more legendary than any song he had heard in his youth. In his time, dragons were bones and dust, relics of a dynasty that had long since withered.
"F-father! Are we going to die?"
Sansa Stark clutched her father's arm, her eyes blurred with tears. The courage that had carried her across the platform had evaporated, replaced by a paralyzing awe as the heat from the dragon's breath scorched the air above them.
"Hiss... steady, Sansa. This is Jon's... his singular way of doing things. He will get us out."
Seasmoke banked in the air, the massive silver-grey body coiling into a 'C' shape to bring its ridged back level with the stone platform.
"ROAR—!"BOOM!
A thunderous, agonized bellow echoed from the square below, followed by the sickening thud of something massive hitting the earth.
"Ser Jaime actually felled the giant!" Barristan noted, his blood stirring. Seeing the Kingslayer engage a monster reminded the old knight of the fire he'd once carried in his own veins. He had grown cautious in his old age, perhaps even a bit cowardly in the face of court politics, but today, the rust was falling away.
I may be old, Barristan thought, but my honor still has teeth.
He moved with practiced efficiency, hoisting the battered Eddard Stark toward the dragon's back.
"Are you not coming with us, Ser?" Sansa asked, reaching out toward the old knight.
"I must find my own salvation, Lady Sansa," Barristan replied, his gaze firm. "I must find a King truly worthy of my steel."
"Cough... the True Dragon is right in front of you, Barristan," Ned wheezed, grabbing the knight's shoulder. "Climb up. There are only three of the blood left in this world, and Jon is one of them."
"What?!" Both Sansa and Barristan gasped in unison.
"GRRRR..."
Jon, sensing the window of opportunity closing, let out a low, impatient rumble. He snapped a warning shot of fire toward a group of approaching archers, urging his passengers to move.
Barristan didn't hesitate a second time. With the agility of a man half his age, he vaulted onto the dragon's back, securing himself behind the Warden of the North.
"ROAR!"
Feeling the weight settle, Jon beat his wings. He had wasted nearly twenty seconds waiting for Barristan's realization. Every heartbeat consumed his limited Dragonstone energy; if he didn't move now, he wouldn't make the rendezvous point across the Blackwater Bay.
Below, the Great Sept was wreathed in green smoke. He hoped his earlier strike had at least singed Joffrey and Cersei, though he felt a strange resistance to his fire within the Sept's walls—as if the ancient stone itself held a lingering, suppressive power.
"Look! It's flying!" "Did you see? The boy on the giant became the dragon!" "The Targaryens have returned for their vengeance!" "Nonsense, Targaryens are silver-haired!" "Fool! History is full of dark-haired dragons, but only a True Dragon can take to the skies!" "But he didn't ride it—he is the beast!" "Then he is the truest dragon of them all!"
As Seasmoke's shadow swept over the city, the residents of King's Landing fell into a fever of speculation. The news of the rescue would ripple through the Seven Kingdoms like a tidal wave. In the chaos, the fact that the "traitor" Eddard Stark had escaped was almost secondary to the impossible reality of the silver-grey beast in the sky.
The cold wind of the Blackwater whipped against Sansa's face. She felt as though she were dreaming. Only yesterday, she had been a prisoner in a silk-lined cage, watching Joffrey's guards mount the heads of her father's men on pikes. She had begged for mercy from a Queen who treated her like a lapdog.
Now, she was soaring. Her fine dress was stained with soot and blood, but as the Red Keep shrank into a toy castle behind them, she wanted to scream with joy. She was free.
"ROAR..."
The dragon emitted a low vibration, and Sansa heard her father's strained voice through the wind.
"Hold tight! We're descending!"
Sansa gripped the soft, leathery fins on the dragon's spine. When she had first climbed up, she thought they were bone spikes, but they were strangely pliable, providing a natural grip for a rider. Despite her "lady-like" upbringing, the Stark blood in her knew how to hold a saddle.
The pressure of the descent made her hair fly like a knight's standard. Jon was slowing his pace, fighting to keep his body stable for his inexperienced passengers. Every extra second in the air was a drain on his reserves.
THUD.
They landed in a sprawling cornfield near a small fishing village on the outskirts of the bay. It was one of the many "contingency points" Jon and Ned had mapped out weeks ago. At the time, Ned had thought Jon was being overly paranoid. Today, that paranoia had saved his life.
"Hiss..."
As the Dragonstone's power expired, the silver scales began to shrivel and retract. The transition was abrupt. Ned, Sansa, and Barristan were dumped unceremoniously into the tall stalks of corn as the dragon's form collapsed back into a human shape.
"Ah—!"
Sansa's scream was the first thing Jon heard upon returning to his human senses. He wasn't met with a "thank you," but with his cousin's high-pitched maidenly shock.
Jon stood in the center of the flattened corn, his body—now heavily muscled and scarred thanks to the System's attribute boosts—entirely bare.
"Cough... Ser Barristan," Jon rasped, trying to ignore the awkwardness. "Could I... borrow your cloak?"
"Er... of course, my Lord."
Barristan, ever the professional, unclasped his white wool cloak and handed it over. Jon wrapped it around himself in a makeshift, Greco-Roman style tunic, finally covering his dignity.
"Come," Jon said, helping a stunned Ned Stark to his feet. "The boat is waiting at the docks."
"You predicted everything," Ned sighed, leaning heavily on Jon's shoulder. "I was a fool to think honor would be enough in that city."
"It's not too late," Jon replied, handing Ned a vial of System-grade healing ointment. "You've already sent the grain and weapons north. The board is still ours. Since your 'honorable' plan failed, it's time we try mine."
Weeks ago, they had disagreed on how to handle the capital. Ned wanted to save Robert's soul; Jon wanted to build a war machine. They had made a pact: whoever's plan failed first would follow the other. Ned had hit the "wall," and though the path had been bloody, Jon now had the one thing he needed: Ned Stark's total cooperation.
"Lord Eddard!" Barristan gasped, watching the ointment work. "Your wounds... they are closing before my eyes!"