The wind at this altitude didn't just blow; it screamed. It tore at Jon's cloak and threatened to rip him from Drogon's scales. Below them, King's Landing was nothing but a smudge of black smoke against the horizon. The city of his fathers was gone, and with it, the man Jon Snow used to be.
Jon gripped a jagged scale, his teeth gritted. His left shoulder was on fire. The guard's blade had gone deep, and every beat of his heart sent a fresh pulse of heat down his arm. He could feel the warm, sticky trail of blood soaking through his furs, turning cold the moment the wind touched it.
Daenerys sat in front of him, her back stiff as stone. She hadn't said a word since they left the balcony. Her silver hair, once braided with the pride of a conqueror, was a tangled mess of ash and knots. She looked small—not like a Queen, but like a girl lost in a storm.
Drogon banked hard to the East, flying low over the Narrow Sea. The dragon was flying erratically, his massive wings twitching as if he were fighting an invisible enemy in his own mind. Jon remembered Bran's white eyes and felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
By the time the sun began to sink, they reached a desolate stretch of the coast, far from any trade routes. Drogon slammed into the gray sand, his legs buckling. He let out a low, pained groan before collapsing onto his side.
Jon tumbled off, hitting the sand hard. He gasped, his vision swimming in white spots as his wounded shoulder took the impact.
"Jon!"
Daenerys was at his side in an instant. Her hands were shaking as she pulled back his cloak. The white fur was ruined, matted with thick, dark blood.
"You're bleeding. Because of me. Again." Her voice was a dry rasp, hollow and broken.
"It's just a cut, Dany," Jon lied, his voice strained. He looked up at her. Her face was pale, shadowed by the fading light. "Help me get the armor off. I can't... I can't move the arm."
She worked in silence, her fingers fumbling with the leather straps. When the armor finally came away, she winced at the sight of the jagged red line across his shoulder. She tore a strip from her own dirt-stained dress and began to wrap it tight.
"Why?" she whispered, not looking at him. "You saw what I did. You saw the fires. You could have stayed. You could have been the King everyone wanted. Why throw it all away for a monster?"
Jon leaned his head back against a piece of driftwood. He looked at the gray waves crashing against the shore.
"I didn't do it for a Queen," Jon said, his voice flat and honest. "And I didn't do it for justice. I did it because I'm tired of being the man who does what he's 'supposed' to do. The North, the Watch, the Throne... it's all just noise. I chose you because, without you, I'm already dead."
He looked at her then, his gray eyes piercing. "But don't lie to yourself, Dany. What happened back there... the bells, the fire... it wasn't a victory. It was a massacre. We aren't heroes. We're just two broken people running into the dark."
Daenerys flinched as if he had struck her. She looked away, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall.
A few yards away, Drogon let out a sudden, piercing shriek. The dragon's eyes were wide, glowing with an unnatural, milky light. He began to claw at the sand, his tail lashing out and shattering the rocks nearby.
"Drogon? Drogon, no!" Daenerys shouted, rushing toward him.
The dragon didn't listen. He snapped his jaws at the empty air, his neck twisting at an impossible angle. It looked like he was being puppeted by invisible strings.
Jon forced himself to stand, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He watched the dragon and felt a cold dread settle in his gut. Bran was supposed to be paralyzed, but something was wrong. The Three-Eyed Raven hadn't let go.
"He's not himself," Jon shouted over the wind. "Dany, get back!"
They were free from the city, but the shadows of the Starks and the Lannisters were long. And the North never forgets.