The battlements, once a platform for quiet contemplation, roared with the clash of steel. The Hound, a hound of hell unleashed, snarled his way towards Jon, his cleaver a flashing nightmare in the pale moonlight. Arya, a tiny whirlwind of defiance, danced around him, her agility a flicker of lightning against the brute force.
Jon, with Icetalon circling overhead, his obsidian wings blotting out the stars, knew time was a slippery serpent. The Lannister guards, alerted by the commotion, were swarming towards them. He needed to act, and fast.
With a whispered command, Jon sent Icetalon a chilling command. The dragon dove, a plummeting shadow, his breath a torrent of frost that painted the battlements in icy rime. The Hound, caught in the icy blast, roared, his fury eclipsed by surprise. The clang of his cleaver hitting frozen stone echoed in the night.
Arya, seizing the opportunity, darted toward the Hound, her needle singing a deadly song. But before she could strike, Jon intervened. He couldn't, wouldn't, let their escape come at the cost of his sister's life. He engaged the Hound, his sword a silver arc against the brute's cleaver, each clash a thunderclap in the frozen air.
Their dance was a brutal ballet of frost and fire. The Hound, fueled by rage and ale, swung his cleaver like a madman, but Jon, his anger honed by months of despair, was a storm in human form. His Valyrian steel, sharp as dragonfire, found its mark, slicing through the Hound's leather jerkin, leaving a crimson wake.
Theon, ever the opportunist, saw his chance. With a desperate cry, he flung himself upon the Hound, a grappling hook catching on the brute's armor. Together, they toppled over the battlements, plunging into the freezing darkness below.
A scream, cut short by the splash into the moat, filled the air. Jon felt a pang of guilt, quickly swallowed by the icy grip of reality. The guards were upon them. With a final roar, Icetalon descended, a black storm against the moonlit sky.
Jon, with Arya clinging to his back, leaped aboard the dragon's obsidian back. Icetalon, wings thrashing, soared into the night, a symphony of wind and fire echoing through the castle courtyard. They were escaping, leaving behind the screams of pursuit and the echoes of shattered trust.
But freedom, Jon knew, was a fickle mistress. The Hound, though wounded, might survive. The Lannister forces would launch a relentless pursuit. The whispers of war, once a murmur on the wind, had become a roaring inferno. And amidst the flames, Jon carried a secret as heavy as ice – his true identity, whispered on the dragon's breath, a burden yet to be unleashed.