AC 298. Winterfell.
The air in the North didn't just make you shiver; it tried to bite through your skin. But honestly? Jon Snow didn't mind it.
For as long as he could remember—since the moment he woke up in this body with memories of another life—Jon had been dedicated to the fine art of doing absolutely nothing.
In his previous life, he'd learned the hard way that hustling was a scam. Grinding away at a job didn't get you ahead; being born in the right place at the right time did. Choice beat effort, every single time. And here in Westeros? He'd hit the jackpot of mediocrity.
Sure, being the "Bastard of Winterfell" came with a stigma, but let's be real—it was a pretty sweet deal. He was a Stark in blood, if not in name. He lived in a castle, ate three square meals a day, and slept in a warm bed. And the best part? No real responsibilities.
His "father," Ned Stark, and the generation before him had already done all the heavy lifting at the Trident. They fought the war, they bled, and they secured the peace. Jon figured he was entitled to the dividends.
Plus, he had the ultimate cheat code: he knew the script.
He hadn't memorized every footnote of A Song of Ice and Fire, but he'd definitely suffered through the train wreck that was the ending of the TV show. He knew where the landmines were.
His strategy was simple. Keep his head down, pretend to be a broody, know-nothing teenager, and coast through life as a minor noble. If he stayed irrelevant, he stayed alive.
Just keep drifting, he told himself. Let the main characters stress about the Iron Throne.
Jon was lost in these pleasant thoughts of lifelong retirement when a sharp whoosh of displaced air screamed past his ear.
Instinct took over before his brain could catch up. He jerked his arm up, catching the blow on his practice sword. The impact rattled his bones, sending a jolt of numbness shooting from his wrist all the way to his shoulder.
Ow. What the hell?
Jon grit his teeth, stumbling back. That wasn't a sparring tap; that was a swing meant to break something.
Across from him, the guard grinned. It wasn't a friendly look. The man gripped his longsword with both hands, muscles bunching as he wound up for another heavy overhead chop. He was capitalizing on Jon's staggered stance, looking to put him in the dirt.
In that split second, Jon knew he couldn't block it. The guy was stronger, heavier, and actually trying.
So Jon didn't dodge. Instead, he did something stupid. He lunged forward, thrusting his blunt sword upward at a weird, desperate angle, aiming straight for the guy's throat.
It was a suicidal exchange. If the guard didn't pull back, Jon might bruise the guy's windpipe, but Jon's skull would get cracked open like an egg by the downward swing.
CLANG.
Metal shrieked against metal.
A third sword had entered the fray, catching both blades and shoving them apart with authoritative force.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, stood between them, his face flushed with irritation beneath his magnificent whiskers. "That is enough!"
The guard stepped back, looking disappointed. Jon just shook out his stinging hand, trying to get the feeling back in his fingers.
Before Jon could even mutter a thank you to the old knight, a voice—one that definitely didn't belong to anyone in the courtyard—echoed inside his skull. It was nasally, arrogant, and incredibly annoying.
[TRASH. Absolute trash! You call that fighting? All you had to do was level your blade and slide-step to the right to break his guard! Years of training, and you fight like a drunk farmer!]
Jon rolled his eyes. Here we go again.
[You think this is a game? As long as you stay in this castle, threats like that are going to keep coming! You are walking on a knife's edge!]
[This is why the Intelligent Striving System is dedicated to serving you! Just authorize the activation, and we can handle any crisis. We make winning easy.]
[Look at your performance today! Pathetic. But don't worry, the System has calibrated a "One-Click Management Mode" just for you. We'll help you dodge pitfalls, eliminate variables, get promoted, get rich, marry a smoking hot noblewoman, and reach the pinnacle of life! Start winning today!]
[Activate System? (YES / NO)]
Jon was used to the voice. It was the "perk" he got for being a transmigrator, but as far as he was concerned, it was just bloatware he couldn't uninstall.
"Intelligent Striving System"? Please. It sounded like a sketchy self-help guru stuck in his brain. Even if it could do half the things it promised, Jon didn't want it.
He stared at the mental prompt hovering in his vision. The YES button was pulsing, practically begging to be clicked.
He hesitated for a second—who wouldn't want an easy life?—but eventually, he mentally clicked NO.
Activating this thing went against his entire brand. His goal was to do the bare minimum. The System wanted him to "strive," to "climb," to "reach the pinnacle." That sounded exhausting.
Those "Type A" try-hards who played the Game of Thrones usually ended up shorter by a head. Jon's philosophy was survival through irrelevance.
Besides, the name "Intelligent Striving System" sounded suspicious as hell. If this thing started messing with the plot, changing events Jon relied on for his safety, he'd be flying blind. The unknown was dangerous. The known script was safe.
He dismissed the glowing blue panel with a mental swipe. Maybe later, he thought. Like, never.
He looked up toward the wooden gallery overlooking the yard. He hadn't noticed them before, but Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn were standing there, watching.
Instantly, Jon felt the weight of their gazes. It was a tangible thing.
Ned looked at him with that classic Stark expression: a mix of love, worry, and a heavy, inexplicable guilt. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Then there was Catelyn.
If looks could kill, Jon would have been dead ten years ago. Her eyes were cold, filled with disgust and a sharp wariness. She looked at him like he was a stain on a perfectly good rug that she couldn't scrub out.
Next to them, Robb watched with a sort of blank indifference, while Arya and Bran looked excited by the swordplay. Sansa just looked polite and distant, like Jon was a guest she barely knew.
Jon glanced back at the guard he'd just fought. The guy was glaring daggers at him. Then Jon noticed the emblem stitched on the man's tunic—a silver trout.
Ah. That explains it.
One of Catelyn's men from the Riverlands. The guy was probably trying to score points with the Lady of Winterfell by roughing up the bastard.
Yep, time to go, Jon decided.
He wasn't going to stick around and be the tension in the room. He sheathed his practice sword and walked off the field, heading for the sanctuary of his quarters.
The System wasn't wrong about one thing: as long as he breathed, people in this castle wanted him gone. Just being a "Snow" put a target on his back.
Though Ned tried to be fair, the prejudice was heavy. It was like walking around with a weighted vest. But honestly? Jon didn't let it get to him. In fact, his lack of reaction seemed to piss Catelyn off even more.
To her, and to the people loyal to Robb, Jon's relaxed attitude looked like arrogance. They saw a bastard who wasn't ashamed, who walked around with the confidence of a trueborn son.
It didn't help that Ned clearly favored him in some ways. Jon got the same education as Robb, the same food, the same training.
And then there were the rumors about his mother.
The whispers in the servants' hall said his mother was Ashara Dayne—a highborn beauty, sister to the legendary Sword of the Morning. If that was true, and with Ned's obvious soft spot for him, people worried that when King Robert arrived, Ned might ask for Jon to be legitimized.
If Jon became a Stark, he'd be a threat to Robb's inheritance.
That rumor was dangerous. It was the kind of thing that caused "hunting accidents."
Jon reached his room and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. I need to get out of here before the King shows up, he thought.
His plan was solid. Join the Night's Watch. Take the black. It sounded grim to everyone else, but to Jon, it sounded like a secure government job with tenure. He could go North, swear off family politics, and just chill at Castle Black while the rest of the idiots fought the War of the Five Kings.
Once everyone was busy killing each other down south, he could just hang out on the Wall. Maybe, eventually, he'd use his knowledge to make a move. He could seize the opportunity when the timing was perfect, maybe strategize a way to win from the sidelines without ever getting his hands dirty...
Ding.
The mechanical voice in his head suddenly sounded ecstatic.
[Keyword detected. System Status: ACTIVATED.]
[Welcome, Host! Thank you for binding the Intelligent Striving System. The Gods have opened a door, and the world is shifting beneath your feet! Please stand tall, strive for greatness, and rewrite your destiny!]
Jon froze. He blinked. "Wait, what?"
He sat up, panic rising. "Strive for what? Rewrite who? I didn't click anything! If I can lie down, why would I want to stand up?"
[Confirmation received. Initiating...]
"Huh? Hey! Who said I wanted to activate this? You rogue piece of software!"
Before Jon could officially lodge a complaint about consumer fraud, the blue panel in his vision glitched. The screen twisted, and then, like a computer infected with a thousand viruses, pop-up windows began exploding across his field of view.
Dialogue boxes, stats, and mission parameters flashed by so fast they blurred together, dazzling him until he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the glare.
Oh, this can't be good.
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