After hesitating for a moment, the transmigrator decided to speak.
"Hah? Even if the Lannisters are rich enough to buy the world, this favor isn't easy."
Seeing Jon being mysterious, the Imp, who had been about to walk away with his short legs, immediately stopped. He turned to look at Jon, his interest clearly piqued.
Seeing him like this, Jon pinched his forehead first, then started his performance with a tone that was half-truth, half-lie.
"It sounds funny, but just last night, I dreamed that I put on the black and stood atop the Wall..."
As he spoke, a look of reminiscence appeared on Jon's face—of course, he was recalling scenes from the show.
"In the dream, I seemed to have fought for many years, and the comrade who was always by my side was a timid, cowardly fat boy..."
"But I must say, it was precisely because of him that I was able to slay White Walkers and eventually become the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Don't you think that's strange?"
After saying all this in one breath, even Jon had a smile on his lips.
Opposite him, after listening, the Imp didn't make a mockery of it as usual. Instead, he stroked his chin and fell into deep thought.
Not long after, this well-read halfman seemed to actually think of something, and his eyes lit up.
"Wait, what you're describing might not just be a simple dream."
While making this deduction, Tyrion dug out a thick, leather-bound book with brass corners—heavy as a brick—from his saddlebag and handed it to Jon.
"Read this when you have time. The situation you described is very likely a power derived from the blood of the First Men, called warging."
After acting like an expert, the Imp didn't forget to boost himself up.
"Of course, if I really meet a fat boy like that, I'll definitely tell him your story."
After smiling at each other, the two mounted their horses, preparing to head in different directions.
The leader of the Imp's group was none other than Uncle Benjen.
The two "outcasts" of House Stark looked at each other, shared a knowing smile, then spurred their horses into different groups, heading South and North respectively.
Watching the riders galloping towards the North, a trace of longing flashed in Jon's heart.
Knowing that magic and dragons truly existed in this world, he actually deeply desired to see the seven-hundred-foot-high Wall and the legendary White Walkers with his own eyes.
Thinking of this, the transmigrator wished he could transform into a hero, wielding dragonglass weapons to kill monsters and level up.
However, his damn stat panel seemed to indicate that apart from conventional methods, killing enemies didn't yield any upgrades, which was truly regrettable.
Ignoring these messy thoughts, Jon pulled the reins and joined the tail end of the procession, beginning the journey South to King's Landing.
There, everything destined to change seemed to be waiting for his arrival.
Traveling South along the Kingsroad, it was less than a thousand leagues to reach the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the largest city in Westeros—King's Landing.
If Jon chose to let his horse run freely, he could probably arrive in less than half a month.
However, the current situation was that as the bastard Snow, even if he wasn't at the very bottom of the food chain in this noble procession, he wasn't far from it.
When the noble lords camped for rest, they always had soldiers, squires, and even maids to serve them and handle everything.
Jon, on the other hand, had to chop wood, build a fire, and pitch his own tent.
Although Lord Eddard wanted Jon by his side, he and King Robert were still in their "honeymoon phase," practically inseparable, almost sleeping in the same tent.
So, intending to protect Jon, Eddard Stark sent a few pack horses with supplies but otherwise left the bastard alone.
Jon was naturally happy with this relaxed pace.
He had no interest in surrounding the King daily with flattery, nor did he want to sit stiff-backed on a horse like a soldier acting as a guard.
Although it was only early spring, the further South they went, the more he could appreciate the distinctly different scenery.
Unlike the bitterly cold Winterfell, after just a few days of traveling South, the cold wind had faded.
The sparse grass underfoot was gradually replaced by shrubs and trees lining the Kingsroad.
Even the air carried wisps of moisture and warmth, making the transmigrator start to look forward to the destination of this journey—King's Landing.
Therefore, Jon, living his second life, once again felt the joy of a spring outing. His eyes could barely take it all in; everywhere he looked was a different landscape.
Until the ink-blue sky pressed down heavily, swallowing the last trace of the setting sun.
On the vast plain, a massive beast composed of firelight and shadows crouched—it was a camp made of countless tents.
Bonfires were like its eyes, flickering in the wind, burning like ghosts. The dancing flames cast huge, twisted, silent shadows on the canvas tent walls.
The tips of the wooden palisades were sharpened like spears, glinting with ominous cold light under the clear moonlight.
atop the rough yet sturdy wooden watchtowers, figures clad in heavy armor stood like iron nails driven into the night, with only two sharp points of light scanning the darkness like hawks.
Inside the camp, patrol squads in groups of two or three moved silently like mobile fortresses of black iron, weaving through the shadows of the tents.
Their iron armor made rhythmic, low, heart-palpitating friction sounds as they moved, like the steady breathing of a giant beast.
Logically speaking, Jon shouldn't have been in the core of the King's camp unless Robert personally summoned him.
The transmigrator had thought the Usurper might have forgotten his existence, and he was happy to be left alone, spending many leisurely days.
Until a Gold Cloak brought him to this part of the camp and left him standing there in the wind.
As maids piled food and wine onto the table by the bonfire, His Majesty the King and Lord Eddard appeared before him again.
Soon, in the open space spanning several hundred yards, only the three men remained by the fire.
Seeing this setup, Jon instinctively felt something was wrong.
But in the next moment, the Usurper's rough scolding rang in his ears.
"What are you staring at? I'm dying of thirst! Pour the wine!"
As he said this, Robert sat heavily, his obese body sinking deep into the metal chair.
Seeing the Boar King in position, Snow immediately picked up the pitcher and filled Robert's crystal goblet with Dornish Red, then turned his gaze to the Warden of the North.
"Lord Eddard, would you like some Dornish Red or Tyroshi Brandy?"
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