Robb and Maester Luwin sat in silence for a long while after Jon's bold proposal. The idea was cunning, but also dangerous.
What if Jon failed?
The thought lingered in Robb's mind like a shadow. If Jon were defeated by some vassal's sworn sword and dragged back humiliated, it would not be Jon's shame alone—it would stain Winterfell's name. The lords would whisper that the Starks could not even control their bastard. Robb could not afford such a blow.
Yes, Jon's swordsmanship was impressive. He had trained tirelessly for years, sparring with the Stark children, drilling with Rodrik Cassel's men. He was quick, precise, and strong. But even so, could he truly dominate hardened Northern lords and their retainers?
Robb doubted it. At best, Jon was skilled—perhaps even one of the better fighters of his age. But to claim that no man in the North was his equal? That was arrogance.
Yet Jon stood before him, his dark eyes unwavering. "Robb," he said with absolute confidence, "I promise you this: no one in the entire North is my match."
A sharp, derisive snort broke the tension.
"Hmph—" Theon sneered, his lips curling with disdain.
Jon ignored him completely, his voice calm as ever. "Still, we need not rush blindly. For the first demonstration, let's be deliberate. Choose a target carefully—a soft persimmon, one ripe for squeezing. Once I succeed, you can decide if I'm ready to handle the more powerful lords."
Robb glanced at Luwin. The Maester's brow was furrowed, but he gave a slow nod. They both knew Jon's words sounded arrogant, but no better alternative lay before them.
"Very well," Robb said at last. "I'll assign you two dozen good men. Use them wisely."
The decision was made. The meeting ended.
As Jon and Theon walked through the corridors of Winterfell together, the silence stretched until Theon could no longer hold his tongue.
"Are you confident?" he asked suddenly.
Jon turned his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" Theon hesitated, his voice carrying both curiosity and bitterness. "Do you really think you can beat those lords? By force alone?"
Jon did not answer directly. Instead, he smiled faintly. "Theon, do you know something? I think highly of you."
Theon blinked, startled. "What… what do you mean?"
"You underestimate yourself," Jon continued. "You're persuasive. You have a silver tongue. Many times, words win more battles than swords."
Theon's expression shifted awkwardly. His instinct was to scoff, but the faint warmth in Jon's voice disarmed him. "Is… is that so?" he muttered, scratching the back of his head like a boy caught off guard.
Jon chuckled inwardly. He remembered, faintly, the scene that had once defined Theon in another life—the fiery speech at Winterfell that ended with him being knocked senseless. Theon's nature was not evil; it was restless, insecure, desperate to prove itself.
Jon did not want to make an enemy of him. Not now, not yet.
"I have a proposal," Jon said softly. "If my plan works, you must agree to one condition: help me persuade someone."
Theon narrowed his eyes. "Who?"
"I'll tell you after I win."
Theon puffed out his chest, his pride returning. "Fine! I agree." He tilted his head back like a rooster preening its feathers, trying to hide how much the compliment had pleased him.
Jon found it amusing. Young men were always vulnerable to flattery. He had used such tricks often in his previous life—dangling promises to spur others to work harder. But he was never the sort to give only empty words. Promises, once made, would be honored.
When he parted ways with Theon, Jon returned to his chambers. He sat in silence, the flickering light of the hearth dancing across his face. Then, with a deep breath, he summoned the golden finger's interface into his mind.
[Upgrade points: 3]
His swordsmanship stood at purple—already formidable, already beyond the reach of most men. But he knew he needed more. To succeed, to dominate, to leave no room for doubt, he must ascend further.
"Add some for me," Jon whispered.
He willed one point into his [Swordsmanship].
At once, the entry shimmered. The purple glow deepened, flared, and then transformed into brilliant gold.
[Swordsmanship: Gold]
In an instant, Jon's body and mind were flooded with the essence of every swing, every parry, every duel he had ever fought. All the experience of his training years erupted within him, distilled into perfection. His body adjusted to match, his movements refining themselves, his bones and muscles shifting into harmony with the blade.
It was as if he faced five versions of himself from the past—yet now he could defeat them all at once. He was confident he could destroy those five shadows within minutes.
He rose from his seat, hand drifting to Longclaw's hilt. The blade felt different—lighter, swifter, an extension of his own flesh. His body moved with an agility he had never known, his steps barely touching the ground. Even his left hand yearned for a weapon, itching to wield two blades at once.
He smiled faintly. "The Kingsguard in King's Landing… are they really stronger than this?" he murmured. Perhaps only the legendary Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, stood apart.
Yet this was not enough. His eyes fell on the two points that remained. A golden entry was powerful, yes, but what lay beyond? What heights could be reached if he pushed further?
His decision came swiftly. He would not be stingy. Victory demanded perfection.
"Assume the worst of the enemy," he reminded himself. "Prepare as if defeat lurks in every shadow."
With resolve, he invested another point.
Gold blazed into crimson.
[Swordsmanship: Red — Sword Saint]
Jon gasped, his body trembling as the transformation seared through him. His mind expanded beyond mere skill. Every sword stroke was no longer just an action—it was art, philosophy, a way of life. His blade could carve through stone, sever armor, and strike faster than thought.
He stood still for a long moment, the world around him sharp and vivid, as though every heartbeat carried the rhythm of battle.
"This… this is the path of the Sword Saint."
---
Far from Jon's chamber, in an austere courtyard adorned with crimson banners, the sigil of the flayed man snapped in the northern wind.
The Dreadfort.
Here, Roose Bolton brooded. Pale-faced and ageless, he sat in silence as blood leeches crawled across his arm, sucking greedily. He watched them swell with his blood, and his lips curved in faint pleasure.
When the leeches were plump, he plucked them away with practiced ease. Bloodletting was his ritual, his belief. Men called him Lord Leech, and he did not mind.
"Ramsay," Roose said suddenly.
The door creaked open. A young man entered, his manner deferential, his eyes eager. His features bore a resemblance to Roose, though rougher, more unrefined.
"My Lord," Ramsay Snow said, bowing deeply.
He was Roose's bastard son, born of a miller's wife long ago. Only when Roose's trueborn heir died did he acknowledge Ramsay, bringing him into the shadows of the Dreadfort.
"Are we going to see Robb today?" Ramsay asked, voice low and respectful.
"Of course," Roose replied. "We must. I will have command of the Northern host."
Ramsay hesitated. "And this war, Father… how long will it last? Will we march to King's Landing itself?"
Roose's pale eyes flickered with disdain. "No. This war will not last long. At most, one or two battles, a few thousand dead. Then peace will be made. Remember, Ramsay—this war is not about honor. It is about bargaining."
Ramsay nodded quickly, though his eyes betrayed confusion. A few thousand lives meant nothing to his father. To him, it was unimaginable.
Roose dismissed him with a flick of his hand. "Come. Let us visit Robb once more."
---
Meanwhile, in Winterfell, word spread quickly. Robb grew impatient. "When will Jon act?" he muttered, pacing. His lords pressed him daily, their demands constant.
Jon did not waste time. He gathered Theon and two dozen guards, choosing his target with care.
Not a great lord. Not a powerful bannerman.
But an obscure baron—one who had, in just two months, amassed a reputation for cruelty. His men oppressed the common folk, shaking them down for coin and food, harassing merchants and peasants alike. He had no strong allies, no great lineage to shield him. Yet his arrogance burned brightly.
A perfect soft persimmon.
Jon's lips curled into a thin smile. "Let's make an example."
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