Elsie tilted her head. "Soap? What's that?"
Jon hesitated, then said, "It's something that can clean things really well. The cages, the clothes… even us." He spoke with a kind of quiet excitement, like he'd just remembered something important.
Elsie looked doubtful. "Clean us? We already have water."
Jon shook his head. "Not like that. This is different. I'm thinking of making it."
She made a face and waved her hand in front of her nose. "Whatever it is, it better not smell worse than this place."
Jon just smiled a little, not answering her directly. "You'll see. Just wait a few days," he said, turning back toward the cages.
Inside, his thoughts were already racing. Why didn't I think of this before? It's not hard. I remember watching it once — just fat, ash water… simple.
He tried to picture it in his head — a pot bubbling over the fire, the mix turning thick and sticky, maybe hardening after some time. He wasn't sure how it would look in the end. Soap bars, maybe? Just need to pour it somewhere and let it dry… somehow.
It wouldn't be perfect, but it didn't need to be. If it works, that's enough. Something useful. Something new.
The next day brought a new rhythm to Jon's life. Between his sword lessons with Robb and the quiet hours in the library, he added one more task to his growing list — gathering what he needed for the strange idea forming in his head.
After training, while the others went to wash or eat, Jon slipped into the kitchens. The air was thick with the smell of stew and roasting meat, the clatter of pans loud enough to hide his steps. He waited until the cooks were too busy shouting at one another before speaking up.
"Can I have the scraps?" he asked the nearest kitchen maid — a round-faced woman with arms dusted in flour. "The fat and bones. Whatever's left over."
She blinked at him, puzzled. "What for? You don't look like you're feeding dogs."
Jon hesitated for a heartbeat. "It's… for a small experiment. Something I want to try."
The woman frowned but, seeing the Stark look in his eyes — and remembering he was the Lord's blood, even if only by half — she didn't press him. "If you want the rubbish, take it. It's bound for the pigs anyway," she said, waving toward a wooden bucket near the back.
"Thank you," Jon said, already moving to grab it. The smell hit him first — thick, greasy, and foul enough to twist his stomach. He grimaced, wrapping it in an old bit of cloth. Gods, I'll never complain about stew again.
As he turned to leave, he paused. "Do you have an old pot? One no one uses anymore?"
The cook narrowed her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron. "What in the world do you need a pot for, boy?"
"I'll clean it and put it back," Jon promised quickly. "I just need it for a few days."
She sighed. "There's an old one in the corner, dented on the bottom. Take it — but don't burn the place down, you hear?"
Jon nodded gratefully. "I won't."
Ashes were easier to find. He scooped them from the cold hearth in the practice yard, still faintly warm, and for water, he carried a small bucket from the well — sloshing most of it on the way back.
By late afternoon, Jon had everything he needed: fat, ashes, water, and an old pot that clanked whenever he moved it. He set up behind the stables where the smell wouldn't draw too much attention.
That was where Elsie found him — crouched over a small fire pit, sleeves rolled up, face already smudged with soot.
"What are you doing now?" she asked, crossing her arms.
Jon looked up briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Making something."
"It smells like something died in there," she said, wrinkling her nose.
Jon stirred the pot again, wincing. "I knew it would smell bad," he admitted, "but not this bad. Still… it's going to work. It has to."
The fat inside the pot was melting slowly, turning from pale lumps to a shiny yellow liquid that bubbled around the edges. He poured in water mixed with ashes from the fire pit — the "ash water," he called it in his head — and the mix hissed right away, releasing a sharp, sour stink that clung to the air.
Elsie stepped back a little, covering her mouth. "Jon, you're going to make everyone sick."
He ignored her, watching closely. The liquid swirled cloudy and thin. It's too watery, he thought. I need stronger ash water. He scooped a bit more from the bucket and poured it in, stirring carefully.
A bit of memory came to him — something from long ago, from another life.
He remembered watching a man on a screen — back in his old world — explaining how to make soap. The man had called it "cold process" or something like that. Melt the fat, mix it with lye water, stir till it thickens.
Easy, the man had said, though Jon remembered him wearing gloves and smiling like it wasn't.
Jon frowned at his bubbling pot. No gloves here. Just hope.
He recalled the trick the man had shown — using an egg to test the lye. "If it floats, the mix is strong enough. If it sinks, too weak." That part had stuck with him.
He smiled faintly, grateful that memory hadn't faded. If not for this trick, I'd waste days guessing.
He stirred the pot again, watching the melted fat swirl with the cloudy ash water. The smell was sharp — like smoke and old meat. The surface glistened with greasy bubbles. He fished out a small egg from the bundle of scraps he'd taken earlier and lowered it into the mixture.
It sank straight to the bottom.
"Too weak," he muttered under his breath. He took the bowl of ash water and poured a bit more in, stirring again, slower this time. The mixture hissed and frothed as the fire licked the bottom of the pot. His eyes watered from the smell, but he kept stirring until his arm ached.
The second time he dropped the egg, it didn't sink all the way. It floated halfway up, rocking gently in the thick gray liquid.
Jon's eyes brightened. "That's right," he whispered. "That's it."
Now came the harder part — waiting. The man in the video had said something about the "soapification process," where the fat and lye joined together to make something new. Jon didn't care for the fancy word, but he remembered the idea well enough: too much lye, and it burns your skin; too little, and it stays greasy.
He stirred for a while longer, until the mixture thickened like porridge and left trails when he pulled the spoon through it. Then he nodded to himself, relieved.
He took the pot off the fire and looked around. He didn't have proper moulds, only a few small bowls he'd borrowed from the servants' quarters.
They'd have to do. He poured the messy, bubbling mix into them, nearly spilling half of it.
When he was done, he sat back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"There," he said simply.
Elsie leaned forward and stared at the bowls. "That? That's what you said will clean everything?"
Jon nodded. "Not yet. You have to wait three or four days. It'll harden by then, and I'll show you."
She gave him a doubtful look. "If you say so. But it still stinks."
He laughed a little. "Maybe less than before."
She sniffed the air again, tilting her head. "A little less, maybe. But it still smells like bones."
Jon shrugged. "It's the fat. It'll get better once it dries."
Elsie shook her head and turned to leave. "You're strange, Jon Snow."
"I've heard that before," he said with a small grin.
The smell hung around the stables for days. Even the stable boys complained, one of them swearing the air tasted like burnt meat. Jon didn't care. He had his training in the mornings, his time in the library in the
evenings, and between those, he checked the bowls. Every day, the mixture looked a little different — duller, drier, harder.
By the end of the week, the thick lumps had hardened completely. They weren't smooth or even — more like cracked cheese — but they were solid. He tapped one against the table and smiled when it didn't bend.
It worked.
He turned one piece over in his hands. The surface was rough, still carrying the faint smell of boiled fat, but it was soap all the same. Maybe crude, but real.
That was when Elsie appeared again, basket on her arm. "You're still at it?" she asked.
Jon grinned and held up the hardened lump. "It's done."
She leaned closer, sniffing cautiously. "It smells less awful than before," she admitted, "but I can still smell the fat."
Jon nodded. "It's better than before, though. You'll see what it can do ."
Elsie raised an eyebrow. "You know, you're getting stranger by the day," she said, smirking. "First, you bring that noisy raven from the Maester's tower, now you're boiling fat and ashes till the air smells worse than the kennels. What's next? You'll start making perfume to fix your own mess?"
Jon grinned faintly. "Not perfume. Something better."
She tilted her head. "Better than perfume? That's a bold thing to say."
He picked up one of the hardened lumps and handed it to her. "Here. Try this."
Elsie held it between two fingers like it might bite her. "It's ugly."
"It works," Jon said simply. "Just try washing your hands with it. Or your face. Or even your clothes. Rub it in, rinse it with water. Then tell me if it's stupid."
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if I end up smelling worse, I'm telling everyone you cursed me."
Jon folded his arms, smiling. "Deal."
Elsie left shaking her head, muttering something about "boys and their weird experiments." Jon watched her go, half-expecting her never to actually use it. Most people in Winterfell barely washed once a month, and never by choice. Still, she was curious. And curiosity had a way of winning.
The next morning came and went, and Jon saw no sign of her. By midday, he began to think she'd tossed the lump away. But in the afternoon, he heard his name echoing from across the courtyard.
"Jon!"
He turned, blinking against the bright cold light. Elsie was running toward him, her hair still damp, cheeks glowing pink. She skidded to a stop in front of him, grinning like she'd just uncovered treasure.
"You look—different," Jon said, staring. Her hair looked softer, her face clean, her eyes brighter than he'd ever seen.
"I used it," she said, almost whispering. "That soap thing."
Jon's brow lifted. "And?"
Elsie laughed, spinning in place. "It worked! Gods, Jon, it worked! The water turned black! I mean black, like soot! I washed everything—my hands, my arms, even my hair. It felt awful at first, the smell got worse when it hit the water, but then—then the dirt just slid off!" She held up her hands, pale and spotless. "My skin's soft now! I didn't even know it could feel like this!"
Jon blinked, almost stunned. "It… actually worked this well," he murmured. "I thought it would help, but not—like this."
Elsie nodded eagerly. "Even my clothes—look!" She tugged at her sleeve. "They look new! My mother said this morning she thought I'd borrowed someone else's dress. The maid asked if I stole some perfume from Lady Stark. I told them nothing."
Jon tried not to grin too wide. "Keep it that way. For now."
Elsie laughed, then wrinkled her nose slightly. "It still smells, though. Less, but still like… fat."
Jon took the small, cracked piece from her hand and held it up. "That smell's from what it's made of. Here." He reached behind him, pulling out a piece of old, unwashed cloth from his pile and another that had been cleaned with soap. "Smell this one," he said, handing her the dirty one first.
She sniffed, grimaced, and coughed. "Ugh. That's awful."
"Now this one."
She lifted the clean cloth and sniffed again. Her expression softened. "It smells… like nothing," she said quietly. "But in a good way. It's just… clean."
Jon nodded. "That's the point."
Elsie held the clean cloth for a long moment, thoughtful. "I don't think I can go back to feeling dirty again," she said softly. "I didn't even realize how bad it was before."
Jon smiled faintly. "That's how you know it works."
She looked up at him. "If you can make it smell better, everyone will want one."
Jon's eyes lingered on her, thoughtful. "I am gona do that," he said.
That night, Jon sat on his small bed, turning one of the pale soap bars in his hands. The candle beside him burned low, the flame throwing a soft gold light across the rough surface. It still smelled faintly of fat and smoke — unpleasant, but familiar now.
He set the bar down and whispered, "System."
The faint blue shimmer appeared in the air. Lines of text floated gently before his eyes.
[Current Skills]
– Basic Swordsmanship (Lv. 3 – 67% → 92%)+
– Observation (Lv. 2 – 6% → 36%)+
– Reading & Writing (Lv. 1→ Lv 3 – 55%)+
– Soap-Making (Lv. 1 – 100%) +(new)
A soft pulse blinked beside the last one.
[Upgrade available. Cost: 200 XP]
Jon hesitated for a moment, then pressed the faint + symbol beside it.
[Upgrade . Cost: 200 XP]
(Yes/No)
Yes
The world didn't flash or shake this time — instead, Jon's mind just… cleared. Bits and pieces from another life came back to him: a man stirring melted fat in a pot, someone talking about "saponification," adding herbs to cover the smell. It all made sense now, the steps he'd only half-remembered before.
The glow faded slightly.
[Soap-Making upgraded: Lv. 2]
[Knowledge clarity increased: Fragrance blending and natural additives unlocked.]
Jon let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall. "So… that's how it works," he muttered. And for the first time, he really understood it. The system wasn't giving him power. It wasn't making him stronger or smarter in a flashy way. But it reminded him of what he already knew, made the old knowledge usable again. He could upgrade skills even if his stats didn't change. It wasn't overwhelming or too strong, but… it was quietly, unexpectedly helpful.
He pressed the upgrade button again. Nothing happened. A faint red line blinked.
[Cannot upgrade — more experience and knowledge required. Database incomplete.]
Jon blew out a breath. "Alright," he said, a little grin on his face. "I guess I have to actually do the work."
Shadow croaked beside his bed. The raven had grown over the past week, feathers smoother, body a bit stronger, but still small and weak. Jon reached out and stroked its head gently. "You're getting there," he said quietly. "I'm getting there too."
He closed the menu window, letting the room go dim. The faint smell of smoke and fat hung in the air, but now it didn't feel gross. It felt… promising. He blew out the candle and lay down, muscles aching, mind quiet.
'It's been a month,' he thought. 'Soap works, I understand it better, Shadow's doing okay, and I've actually made progress. Just… need to add a little scent to it. That's all. And then it'll be perfect.'
Shadow moved slightly, gave a soft croak, and Jon turned to look at him. The little bird blinked, bright and alert. He smiled. "One more step, then," he said.
And as the quiet of Winterfell settled around him, Jon thought about the months ahead. Nine more to go, and Aria… Aria will be born as Lady Stark, his sister in all but name. His mother's belly was heavy now, the baby almost ready, and Jon wondered what would happen next. He reached toward the soap, thinking about herbs he could add tomorrow.
"Okay," he whispered, almost to himself. "Tomorrow… scent in the soap. Let's see what happens next."
Name: Jon Snow (Aegon Targaryen)
Age: 5
Title: Bastard of Winterfell
Mother: Lyanna Stark (Hidden)
Status: Stable
Condition: Cold, Slight Fatigue
XP: 280 → 950
Level: 1
Attributes: (Locked — progression by growth only)
(Average adult 10, Max 40) (due to bloodlines and magic in this world)
Strength: Strength 3.5 → 3.8
Endurance: 3.8 → 4.2
Agility : 4.7 → 5
Intelligence: 7.5 → 8
Perception: 6.5 → 6.7
Charisma: 5.4 → 6.2
Talents:
Warg (Dormant)
Stark Bloodline
Targaryen Bloodline
Dragon Affinity (Dormant)
Skills:
– Basic Swordsmanship (Lv. 3 – 67% → 92%)+
– Observation (Lv. 2 – 6% → 36%)+
– Language: Westerosi Common (Fluent, Level 7 )+
– Reading & Writing (Lv. 1→ Lv 3 – 90%)+
– Soap-Making (Lv. 1 – 100%) +(new)
System Modules:
Training
Quests
...