Eyelids fluttered open, pulling him from a hollow void. A biting chill radiated from the gray stone walls, their silence heavy in the air.
He blinked. Dark wood furniture. A narrow window. A gray sky. This isn't my room.
Where am I? Last night...? He grasped for the memory, but the thread of thought snapped and vanished like smoke.
He pushed himself to sit, the movement clumsy and alien. The arm that shoved the blanket aside was too thin, too short. He raised it, studying the small, pale hand. Not my hand. His breath hitched.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He threw the covers aside, revealing a small, alien body.
Jon Snow.
The name surfaced in his mind, cold and meaningless. A label. He searched for his own name but found only an echo in an empty chamber.
He slipped from the bed on unsteady legs. The cold stone shocked his bare feet. In the corner, his reflection flickered in a dull mirror. He hesitated, then drew closer. A boy stared back from the tarnished surface: messy black hair, a pale face, and wide, terrified gray eyes.
He raised a hand. The boy in the mirror mimicked the motion.
The world tilted, his breath catching, when a blue panel flickered into existence before him. The frantic hammering in his chest ceased. Air rushed from his lungs.
Name: Jon Snow
Level: Lv1
Stat: Body 1 | Mind 1 | Soul 1
Skill: {
- Gamer's Mind Lv.MAX
- Inexhaustible Lv.MAX
- Skill Zenith Lv.MAX
}He stared at the panel. A wild possibility—a fantasy from stories he once read—flashed through his mind. "Status," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Menu. Help."
The panel remained motionless.
He tried again, this time without sound, screaming the commands in his head. Show description! Silence.
An hour later, he slumped to the floor, shoulders sagging. His fingers had swiped through the illusion of light again and again, but his mental commands yielded nothing. The panel was just an image, a cruel display.
He clenched his small fists, nails digging into his palms, and glared at the text: Gamer's Mind. He pleaded with the words, a silent attempt to quell the storm in his head. Nothing. No calm washed over him, only the slow, steady return of his pounding heart.
He threw himself back onto the bed, his gaze fixed on the stone ceiling. Useless. Yet, despair gave him a purpose. He could not stay here.
He rose and crossed to the heavy, iron-reinforced door. The handle was cold, and he pulled with all his might. The door groaned open, revealing a dim stone corridor scented with firewood and damp earth.
He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold, a murmur escaping his lips.
"Alright, let's see... if this is really Winterfell."Last edited: Today at 5:26 AM Like ReplyReport Reactions:TheWildBambi, Uday Sra, Dsin and 25 othersNoerSyToday at 5:15 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 2: Ghost of Winterfell View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:16 AMAdd bookmark#2A blast of cold air assaulted Jon the moment he stepped from his room. The long corridor, forged from sound-absorbing gray stone, stretched before him. Torches licked black soot onto the ceiling, their flickering light casting restless shadows into the corners.
The air was so sharp his breath plumed in a thick cloud before him. A chill tightened his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. Before a shiver could wrack him, two transparent blue panels materialized without a sound.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Cold Resistance Lv.1
*Your body now adapts to cold environments.*
}
Jon blinked, his eyes fixed on the notification. A skill? Acquired just like that? Before he could process it, the first panel vanished, replaced by a second.
{ Skill Zenith!
- Cold Resistance Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*Your body has reached the pinnacle of cold adaptation. You are immune to all non-magical cold effects.*
}
The piercing cold vanished. Jon stood motionless in the silent corridor. He could still feel the coolness on his skin, but the threatening, icy bite was gone. His body ceased its protest, as if the air had become merely temperate.
Skill Zenith... His heart hammered a little faster. Is this... some kind of cheat? If this is truly instant mastery...
He knew instinctively that the temperature hadn't changed. The air was still frigid, but his body no longer registered it as a threat. The sensation was odd, as if a switch inside him had been flipped, turning off his natural response to the cold.
Jon swallowed against a dry throat. His hands trembled, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. He didn't know whether he wanted to wake from this dream or fall deeper into it.
Propelled by a thousand unanswered questions, he forced himself to move. His gaze shifted to a large window at the hall's end, drawn by the pale light of dawn.
His steps were silent on the stone as he approached. The view outside the window brought him to a dead stop. Beneath an endless gray sky, a snow-covered castle sprawled to an unimaginable scale. Towers soared into the heavens, their roofs blanketed in thick snow, and sturdy walls stretched beyond sight. He staggered back a step, overwhelmed by the reality of it all.
As he stood transfixed by the sight, the whisper of faint footsteps made him turn. Several maids passed him from behind, moving with silent efficiency. They offered a brief nod before continuing down the hall, their pace unbroken.
The maids were tall and graceful, dressed in simple but neat uniforms. Jon had to look up to see their faces. Their gazes were vacant, looking right through him, not truly seeing him.
Why does everything feel so real, yet I feel like a ghost? he wondered.
His mind raced. The hallway offered no answers. He returned to his room to change, pulling on simple leather trousers, a tunic, and well-worn boots. Ready, he set out once more.
He navigated the winding corridors, the echo of his footsteps his only companion. Some sections radiated a deep warmth, hinting at hidden flues or hot water pipes within the stone. He passed numerous open doorways, revealing empty chambers where dust motes danced in the dim light.
Following instinct and the body's faint memories, he eventually reached an open courtyard he recognized as the training grounds.
The muddy yard was surrounded by a wooden gallery. There, he saw a few familiar faces from the body's memories: Robb Stark, his brother, and several other Winterfell guards. They were already in motion, the clash of practice swords filling the cold morning air.
Before he could slip in unnoticed, a gruff, loud voice bellowed his name.
"Jon Snow!"
Jon flinched. Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, stood in the center of the yard, staring straight at him. Massive white sideburns framed a hard face carved by years of discipline. "Late, and empty-handed? Does the yard wait upon your leisure, Snow?"
Jon's breath caught, his stomach twisting into a knot. He knew nothing of the routines here, of what was expected of him. Damn, damn, damn! his mind cursed. He could only trust this body's instincts to guide him.
Wordlessly, instinct taking over, Jon strode toward the small armory bordering the yard. The air inside smelled of sweat, leather, and oil. Racks of wooden swords, shields, and worn-out protectors filled the cramped space. His hands moved with a will of their own, grabbing a well-balanced wooden sword.
As Jon returned to the yard, Robb approached him, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Jon? Are you well?" The Winterfell heir grinned, his auburn hair a splash of color in the pale surroundings.
Jon could only nod, his gaze fixed on the muddy ground between their boots. "I woke up late."
Robb laughed. "A first time for everything, I suppose. I cannot recall you ever being late for sword practice."
Ser Rodrik gave them no more time. "Enough talk! Back in formation!" he commanded, his sharp gaze sweeping over Jon from head to toe.
Jon took his position, mimicking the others. As he raised the wooden sword, a new notification appeared before him.
{ Skill Acquired!
- One-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.1
*You have gained basic proficiency in wielding a one-handed sword.*
}
And immediately after...
{ Skill Zenith!
- One-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*Your understanding of the one-handed sword has reached its peak. Your movements are flawless, your instincts sharpened to a razor's edge.*
}
The change was visceral, settling into his bones. As Ser Rodrik called out drills, Jon's body moved on its own. His awkward posture corrected itself into perfection. The grip on his sword felt true, and every swing cut the air with natural, powerful efficiency. It was as if he had done this a thousand times.
It all felt wrong. His body moved with an expertise that wasn't his; his mind could only watch. Jon was a passenger in his own body, watching his limbs execute maneuvers that required years of practice to master. This wasn't him.
His sudden perfection did not go unnoticed. Ser Rodrik, correcting another boy's posture, paused and stared at Jon, his eyebrows raised. After a moment of silence, he gave a brief nod. "Good, Snow. Hold that form. A marked improvement from yesterday."
The rare praise earned a few turned heads. Robb, training nearby, stared with his mouth slightly agape. He then grinned and gripped his own wooden sword tighter.
The training continued for several hours. Jon continued to adapt. As he began sparring, notifications for {Footwork} and {Blunt Damage Resistance} appeared and instantly maxed out, making him even more incomprehensible to his peers. He moved with an unnatural grace, dodging blows as if he foresaw them.
Finally, as the sun began to set, Ser Rodrik called an end to the day's training. "That's enough for today! Clean your gear and get some rest!"
Jon's stomach rumbled. A powerful hunger gnawed at him after the intense physical activity. He was about to head back to his room when Robb approached, still wearing a wide smile.
"By the gods, Jon, what has gotten into you this morning?" Robb chuckled, his eyes shining with amusement. "Come, let us head to the Great Hall together. My stomach is roaring."
In the midst of the strangeness, Robb's invitation was a profound anchor of normalcy in a sea of confusion. The tension in Jon's shoulders eased. For a moment, the sense of being an anomaly, an intruder, faded. He was just a boy about to eat with his brother.
Jon nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "Let's go." Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, Kavi Mazumdar, Uday Sra and 24 othersNoerSyToday at 5:16 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 3: Breakfast with Wolves View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:16 AMAdd bookmark#3The towering doors of the Great Hall swung open before Jon and Robb, unveiling a vast, echoing chamber. Dark wooden beams supported a high ceiling, and the air hung thick with the scent of fresh bread and savory smoked bacon. Long oaken tables filled the space, yet only the head table on the dais held any occupants.
There, Jon saw them—faces from stories, yet so foreign in the flesh. Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, and their children, all impossibly young. Sansa was merely three, Arya a year old, and Bran just a babe in blankets.
To see them so young...
The realization struck Jon with its full, crushing weight. He was in the distant past, years before the tragedy and war that would shatter this family.
His gaze met Catelyn Stark's. She looked at him, and the hall's warmth seemed to freeze. Her stare was a shard of ice—cold, sharp, and steeped in rejection. She made no effort to hide it. After a timeless moment, Catelyn looked away, her attention returning to her children as if Jon were something unworthy of her sight.
Catelyn Stark was younger, and frankly, more beautiful than Jon had ever imagined. Her thick auburn hair, neatly braided, framed a face whose sharp blue eyes glinted in the torchlight. Her firm jawline conveyed a pure, unyielding pride. She wore a simple but elegant dark blue gown, the attire of a noblewoman secure in her station.
Jon snapped his head down, his heart hammering against his ribs. He feared his lingering gaze would be taken as a challenge. He already knew the woman's hatred for him; there was no need to provoke the lioness in her den.
As they neared the head table, Jon slowed his pace, letting Robb move a few steps ahead. His instincts screamed at him not to sit there. He veered, intending to find a seat at an empty table in the hall's farthest corner, where shadows gathered and he could disappear.
"Jon."
Lord Eddard Stark's firm voice cut through the silence, freezing Jon in place.
Ned placed his spoon on the table, a slow, deliberate gesture that drew every eye. "Where are you going, son?" he asked, his grey eyes fixed on Jon, demanding an answer. "Sit with us."
His calm tone did little to mask the undeniable weight of a command.
The hall's murmurs vanished. Jon froze, the weight of dozens of eyes on his back. He turned to face the man who had called him.
Ned Stark was the image of his reputation—a long, solemn face, a neatly trimmed beard, and grey eyes that carried the world's burdens. He wore a simple leather doublet, the mark of a lord who disdained excessive luxury.
From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Catelyn's jaw tighten, her knuckles white on the armrest of her chair. Her lips thinned into a hard, furious line.
In that moment, two transparent blue notifications materialized before him, hovering in the air, visible only to him.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Social Perception Lv.1
*You can now perceive the surface-level emotions and social dynamics around you.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Social Perception Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You have an intuitive and flawless understanding of all social situations and dynamics.*
}{ Skill Acquired!
- Emotional Insight Lv.1
*You can now understand the deeper emotional state of others.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Emotional Insight Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You can perceive the true, unfiltered emotions of others with perfect clarity, cutting through all deception.*
}In a heartbeat, Jon's world inverted. A tidal wave of raw, unfiltered emotion crashed over him. Catelyn's fury burned like a searing heat; his own shame stabbed like shards of ice; her profound sorrow was a chasm ready to swallow him whole. Beneath Ned's steadfast firmness lay a thin layer of grief, while the confused Stark children merely radiated ripples of calm.
This... this is too much.
It was like hearing the whispers of every soul at once. The noise was deafening. Jon forced himself to focus on Ned's command, using Lord Stark's voice as an anchor against the storm in his head.
With painful clarity, Jon understood the situation. To refuse Lord Stark's command in public would be a direct insult to his authority. Though Ned might not have intended to force his hand, Jon now had no choice.
With his head bowed, Jon gave a slight nod. He walked to the end of the head table, chose the seat farthest from Catelyn Stark, and sat in heavy silence.
An awkward quiet settled over the table like a thick fog. Ned Stark cleared his throat, attempting to dispel the tension with a light conversation about his children's morning. The low hum of conversation returned, though it felt forced.
When Robb spoke, the boy's eyes shone with innocent enthusiasm. "Father, you should have seen Jon this morning! He was incredible!" he exclaimed, his voice booming in the tense atmosphere. Catelyn set her cup down with a soft clink, a small sound laden with displeasure.
Jon tensed. He could feel Ned's sharp gaze shift to him, eyebrows raised in unspoken curiosity. Beside him, the wave of hatred from Catelyn was a piercing cold.
"His movements were perfect," Robb continued, oblivious to the emotional tempest around him. "Like a dancer! The grown men couldn't even touch him!"
"I was just... lucky today, My Lord," Jon mumbled, his eyes fixed on the plate before him. He hoped his quiet tone would extinguish the topic.
"Robb," Catelyn's voice cut in, sharp as ice. "That is enough. Remember your courtesies." Though the words were for Robb, her cold glare swept over Jon in a clear dismissal. "How was your training with Ser Rodrik?" she asked, forcing the subject to change.
The topic shifted, and Jon once again became an invisible shadow at the table's end.
He ate with his head down, tasting nothing. His fork and knife moved with mechanical precision, cutting and lifting without conscious thought. During that time, more notifications appeared, granting him passive skills that felt strangely useful.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Basic Etiquette: North Lv.1
*You now understand the basic table manners and social customs of the North.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Basic Etiquette: North Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You have a perfect and innate understanding of all Northern customs and etiquette, able to navigate any social situation with flawless grace.*
}{ Skill Acquired!
- Efficient Digestion Lv.1
*Your body now absorbs nutrients more effectively from food.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Efficient Digestion Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You can extract the maximum energy and nutrients from any organic matter consumed, requiring very little food to maintain peak physical condition.*
}The moment breakfast ended and Lord Stark rose from his chair, Jon saw his chance. Without waiting for Robb, he slipped from the table. He moved with swift silence, his body hugging the hall's wall as he tried to remain unseen. Each step was measured, avoiding a single creak on the stone floor.
As he slipped out a side door without a single head turning his way, a final notification appeared, a reward for his effort.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Sneak Lv.1
*You have learned the basics of moving quietly and avoiding notice.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Sneak Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You can move in complete silence, your presence masked from all normal senses. You are virtually undetectable when you do not wish to be seen.*
}Jon leaned against the cold corridor wall, at last able to breathe. The crisp Winterfell air filled his tight lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief washing over him.
Sigh...
The Great Hall was the true battlefield. Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, Kavi Mazumdar, Uday Sra and 28 othersNoerSyToday at 5:16 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 4: Impostor's Mind View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:17 AMAdd bookmark#4Shadows clung to Winterfell's cold corridors. Jon slipped through the gloom.
His small feet made no sound on the worn stone, a silence owed to his active {Sneak} skill.
Small for his six years, he had the long face and messy brown hair of a Stark. Yet, his grey eyes, fixed on the gloom, possessed a sharpness that defied his youth.
His chamber door whispered open, revealing a small, barren room, its confines suffocating. Sparse furniture—a bed with a thin, itchy wool blanket, a scratched wooden table, a simple wardrobe—did little to fill the space. Stale air carried the scent of dust and neglect.
Click.
The door shut, the soft sound a signal. Jon released a breath he hadn't realized he held, his tense shoulders slumping. Here, in this small cage, he could cease being a ghost.
He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, confronting the new reality. This was no dream. He was here, in Jon Snow's body, in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. This brutal world had become his home, complete with a strange gamer system humming at the edge of his consciousness.
The thought ignited a burning wave of guilt. The real Jon Snow was dead. His stomach churned. A child's soul had been extinguished for his life. The emotion crested, sharp, threatening to swallow him whole—
Then, a frigid grip seized him from within.
{Gamer's Mind} activated.
The guilt did not fade; the skill ripped it away, leaving a hollow, logical void. His body rebelled against the process's brutality. The room spun. Nausea gave way to a dizzying disorientation. His knees buckled. He staggered, grabbing the wall for support.
Yet, the same force that stole his emotions suppressed even that physical sensation. His mind became a brief, brutal battlefield—heat against cold, guilt against emptiness, dizziness against stability—before a calm nothingness erased it all.
Jon gasped, his body trembling as he stabilized. Two transparent blue notifications materialized before him, hovering with a soft, surreal glow.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Disorientation Resistance Lv.1
*Your mind can now better withstand feelings of vertigo and disorientation.*
}{ Skill Zenith!
- Disorientation Resistance Lv.1 --> Lv.Max
*You are immune to all forms of non-magical disorientation, vertigo, and confusion.*
}A residue of self-loathing—a stain {Gamer's Mind} could not erase—tightened his jaw. The feeling no longer crippled him, but it remained, cold and heavy. He kicked off his shoes and dragged himself to the bed. He stared at the cold, grey stone ceiling, the isolation a palpable weight.
He longed for the escape of sleep, but the {Inexhaustible} skill left his body humming with energy. His mind, scrubbed clean by {Gamer's Mind}, remained sharp and clear—too clear for rest.
Jon sighed, the air leaving his lungs heavy. Even sleep offered no escape.
The silence in his room suffocated. He could not lie here, a prisoner of his thoughts. The memory of the boy who was gone demanded more. He would not waste this life, stolen or given, in doubt.
A cold, sharp spark of determination cut through the silence.
He rose from the bed in a single, fluid motion and changed his clothes, swapping worn training wool for a clean set. Each movement was deliberate, a silent promise. {Sneak} cloaked him as he opened his door a crack and peered into the deserted corridor.
He stepped out, a shadow hungry for knowledge.
A week later, long before dawn, a single candle on Jon's table offered the only light in Winterfell's library. Its flame flickered, casting long shadows from the surrounding book stacks.
The circular room slept. Dark oak bookshelves soared into the darkness above. The air hung thick with the scent of old parchment, dust, and beeswax. Only the rustle of a page, turned by Jon's small fingers, broke the profound silence.
For a week, he had followed the rhythm of the original Jon's life: mornings in the training yard amidst clashing steel and Robb's laughter; afternoons here, among book stacks taller than himself; evenings in solitude, observing from the shadows. His behavior went unquestioned. A trace of resolve now hardened his boyish face.
Kree.
A soft creak and muted footsteps made him look up. Maester Luwin entered, his grey robes merging with the shadows. The candlelight flickered across the maester's wrinkled face as he approached.
The old man wore the grey robes of his order, the maester's chain of varied metals clinking around his neck as he stopped near the table.
Luwin showed no surprise at seeing him. "Have a care for your eyes, boy," he said, his sigh weary. "Reading in such poor light will do them no good."
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spQljapBR7sClick to expand...
"Apologies, Maester." Jon's gaze remained on the book. "I have no time to waste."
The flat, steady tone, so strange from a boy's mouth, earned a small frown from Luwin.
"Ambition is a fine quality," Luwin noted, placing several thick tomes on the table, his movements slow and deliberate. "But childhood is a gift. Our duty is to prepare you for the world, aye, but not to force its weight upon you before your time."
Yet Jon caught the current beneath the words. {Emotional Insight} activated, translating the maester's softened tone and tired eyes into a single conclusion: genuine, deep-seated concern.
Jon returned his gaze to his book, a heavy treatise on Valyrian history. "Is it ever too early to be prepared?"
"Perhaps not," Luwin conceded. "Yet you are still a child, Jon."
Jon fell silent, his fingers tracing the ancient text. Then, in a voice barely a whisper, he answered, "But that child is dead."
Luwin froze, his hand hovering over a scroll. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the sharp gaze of a healer spotting a grave symptom. "What mean you by that?" he asked, his tone low and serious, all weariness forgotten.
"I feel a thief's guilt each day." Jon's unfocused gaze drifted into the shadows between the bookshelves. "This place... this life... it is not mine. I am the Bastard of Winterfell. My place is not here forever. I must be ready for the day I leave. I cannot waste the moments I have left."
Maester Luwin studied the boy before him. He saw past the tender age of six to the unsettling depth in his grey eyes. His heart ached to see such a burden on small shoulders.
This is not a child's grief, Luwin thought, his heart heavy. I must speak with Lord Stark.
Unaware of the storm he had triggered in the maester's mind, Jon looked back at his book. He left Luwin in a troubled silence, with only the flickering candle for company, its flame seeming to hold its breath with him. Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, Kavi Mazumdar, Hadrian.Caeser and 24 othersNoerSyToday at 5:17 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 5: The Grind View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:18 AMAdd bookmark#5Children who grow up too fast are robbed of their youth. Their souls, like gardens withered before bloom, ache for a sunlight they never knew.
The thought haunted Maester Luwin as he paced Winterfell's cold stone corridors, his grey robes whispering against the floor. Jon's words from that morning—calm, logical, yet utterly unnatural for a boy his age—echoed in his thoughts.
I am an impostor.
Each step toward Lord Stark's solar felt heavy, burdened by duty. He paused before the heavy oak door and straightened his robes. The task ahead was unpleasant but necessary. As a maester of the Citadel, he was bound to serve and advise. What he saw in Jon was a disquieting stillness, a void deeper than a child's sorrow.
Ned Stark's solar mirrored its owner: functional, stern, and devoid of luxury. Worn maps of the North adorned the sturdy stone walls. Scrolls and leather-bound reports formed neat stacks on the large oak desk, a testament to the Warden's endless burdens. In the corner, the Valyrian greatsword, Ice, leaned against the wall. It's dark, spell-forged steel seemed to drink the room's light, a silent reminder of justice and power's price.
Ned Stark was not alone. He sat at his desk, his Stark features—dark hair, sharp grey eyes—weary but focused. Across from him, Catelyn Stark sat erect, her blue eyes sharp and alert. Near the hearth, Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, stood in patient silence.
They discussed intelligence reports: Ironborn activity off the west coast, raids on Bear Island, suspicious ships near the Three Sisters. It was the familiar litany of pressures on the North, a reminder that peace remained fragile, preserved only by vigilance.
"The reavers are getting bolder," Ser Rodrik said, his voice raspy. "They are testing our defenses, my lord."
"They have been for years," Ned replied, his eyes fixed on the map. "As long as we hold Moat Cailin, they are a nuisance, nothing more. But keep watch. Double the patrols along the Stony Shore."
When the meeting concluded and Ser Rodrik made to depart, Luwin cleared his throat. "My Lord," he began, his voice more hesitant than he intended. "A private matter, if I may." His gaze flickered toward Catelyn, a silent, deferential apology.
Ned, ever observant, caught the signal. He gave his wife a look that was both a request and a gentle command. Catelyn's back stiffened. To be dismissed, even politely, from her husband's solar—the heart of Winterfell's governance—was a slight she felt keenly. A flicker of resentment hardened her blue eyes, but she would not display dissent in front of the maester.
The door clicked shut, leaving a thick silence. Ned set down his quill. "What is it, Luwin? You look troubled."
Luwin chose his words with care. "My Lord, it is about Jon."
The name hung in the air. Ned remained silent, but Luwin saw his posture shift, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
"I have been observing him," Luwin continued. "There is a change in him, unnatural maturity. He devours books in the library—history, languages, even mathematics—knowledge far beyond his years. I was lopsided aware he could read."
"I have felt it too," Ned admitted, his voice low. "He is quieter. More withdrawn."
Luwin hesitated. "This morning, I found him in the library at dawn. When I suggested he rest, he said something that disturbed me." Luwin met Lord Stark's gaze. "He said, 'I am an impostor, Maester. I do not deserve this place.' My Lord, he meant it."
Ned's expression hardened into a granite mask. Those words from his son—his blood—were a grim omen.
"I fear he suffers from a deep melancholy, or perhaps bullying," Luwin offered in a low voice. "He feels like an outsider. Fostering him with another noble house might offer a fresh start—a chance to be a child, away from Winterfell's shadows."
The suggestion was sensible, and compassionate.
Ned rose and walked to the window, turning his back to Luwin as if the maester's words were a physical blow. He stared down into the courtyard, but his gaze was distant, lost in a landscape of memory and regret. Promise me, Ned. The words were a ghost in his heart, a vow made in a room that smelled of blood and roses. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, the knuckles stark against his leather tunic. The silence stretched thick with unspoken grief.
After a long moment, he turned. His grey eyes were a winter storm of guilt, anger, and a sorrow so profound it made Luwin flinch.
"No," Ned said, his voice low and hard as iron, leaving no room for debate. "He is my blood. His place is here."
He returned to his desk, his gaze softening. "Thank you, Luwin. You were right to bring this to me. I will handle it." He paused. "Watch over him, but be discreet. This remains between us."
Sometimes, Jon no longer felt human. He was a machine built for one purpose: optimization. Every day was a relentless cycle of grinding.
The past week was a blur of systematic experimentation. He held his breath in a frigid pond until the notifications appeared: {Drowned Resistance Acquired!}, then {Water Breathing Acquired!}. The memory of water flooding his lungs—a horrifying, near-fatal sensation—remained. He cut himself to gain {Laceration Resistance}. He mastered the dagger, the shield, the two hand sword, and unarmed combat.
Though the pace of skill acquisition slowed, new abilities still manifested each day.
He discovered the system's limits. Book knowledge was insufficient. He could read of sword techniques for days, but the {Sword Mastery} skill remained locked until he held a blade. Physical action was the key.
Then there was {Inexhaustible}, his greatest boon and strangest curse. He required no food, sleep, or relief; his body was a perpetual engine. Yet, he performed the actions anyway. He ate for the taste of roasted meat. He slept for the respite of dreams. He did it all to maintain the mask of a normal human.
Name: Jon Snow
Level: Lv1
Stat: Body 1 | Mind 1 | Soul 1
Skill: {
- Archery Lv.max
- Basic Etiquette: North Lv.max
- Blindness Resistance Lv.max
- Blunt Damage Resistance Lv.max
- Climbing Lv.max
- Cold Resistance Lv.max
- Common Language Lv.max
- Cooking Lv.max
- Crafting Lv.max
- Dagger Mastery Lv.max
- Dash Lv.max
- Disease Resistance Lv.max
- Drowned Resistance Lv.max
- Emotional Insight Lv.max
- Exercise Lv.max
- Fire Resistance Lv.max
- First Aid Lv.max
- Footwork Lv.max
- Gamer's Mind Lv.max
- Germ Resistance Lv.max
- Hand-to-Hand Combat Lv.max
- Heat Resistance Lv.max
- Hiding Lv.max
- High Valyrian Language Lv.max
- Inexhaustible Lv.max
- Infection Resistance Lv.max
- Laceration Resistance Lv.max
- Mathematics Lv.max
- Night Vision Lv.max
- One-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.max
- Poison Resistance Lv.max
- Running Lv.max
- Scratch Resistance Lv.max
- Sculpting Lv.max
- Skill Zenith Lv.max
- Sleeping Lv.max
- Social Perception Lv.max
- Tailoring Lv.max
- Two-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.max
- Valyrian Language Lv.max
- Water Breathing Lv.max
- Wound Resistance Lv.max
}Click to expand...Jon smirked with satisfaction as he closed his status panel. His base stats were unchanged, but his collection of skills gave him confidence. He might look like a six-year-old boy, but he was certain he could defeat any unsuspecting adult.
With new purpose, he crossed the castle courtyard toward the Godswood. His system felt like magic, but not the kind he sought. He wanted the world's true magic—the power to manipulate elements, or perhaps the ancient arts of the First Men, like warging.
The moment he stepped among the trees, the world outside vanished. A deep, ancient silence replaced the courtyard's whispered sounds. The air grew colder, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.
Here lies humanity's greatest fear, Jon thought. Not monsters, but the unknown. Humans craved order, predictable patterns, and his Gamer system was the embodiment of that order. The Godswood, however, was something else—wild, primal, and unquantifiable.
In the center of the grove stood the Heart Tree. Its bone-white trunk was a stark contrast to the darker woods. Its blood-red leaves resembled a thousand tiny hands. A face was carved into the trunk—a sad visage with deep, red eyes from which crimson sap wept like tears of blood.
His heart, usually steady, beat faster. The tree's presence was a potent, silent magic that offered no notifications, no status windows. A cold doubt seeped into his thoughts, a whisper questioning if he was ready to touch such an ancient power.
But curiosity—a hunger for power—overwhelmed his fear. He had grown greedy, and Gamer's Mind assured him of his safety.
He approached the ancient tree with deliberate steps. He reached out, hesitated, then placed his hand on the bark. It felt cold, unnaturally smooth. He closed his eyes, searching for a sensation—a whisper, a vision, a link to the three-eyed raven.
Silence.
The silence was empty. No whispers from the old gods, no visions. Just the forest's stillness and the beat of his own heart.
"Why is nothing happening?" he muttered, opening his eyes in frustration. He tried again, pouring more concentration into the effort, but the result was the same.
After several attempts, he sighed in disappointment. Something is missing. A trigger or a condition I haven't met.
Despite his disappointment, he was not discouraged. This was just another puzzle to solve. He decided to postpone his search for magic and move on to his next objective: the blacksmith. Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, DahakStaz, Uday Sra and 24 othersNoerSyToday at 5:18 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 6: The Forge and the Father View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?