A holographic panel shimmered into existence, floating right in front of Jon's face. It was colorful, high-definition, and completely out of place in a medieval castle.
[CHARACTER STATUS]Name: Jon Snow Gender: Male Age: 16 Strength: 1.3 (Determines physical damage and carry weight)Constitution: 1.3 (Governs stamina, HP, and agility)Spirit: 2.0 (Magic affinity and mental resistance)Title: The Bastard of Winterfell (Pseudo) Current Mission: Winter is Coming. Rewrite the script and embrace your magnificent destiny! Reward Status: System Activated. Distribution in progress... Note: Baseline value for an average Westerosi adult male is 1.0.
Jon stared at the numbers, feeling a wave of secondhand embarrassment wash over him.
"One point three?" he muttered. "Are you kidding me?"
He'd spent years sweating in the training yard, swinging blunt steel until his hands blistered, and he was barely thirty percent stronger than some random turnip farmer? That was depressing. It explained why the guard earlier had tossed him around like a ragdoll.
He was just about to swipe the menu away—or maybe look for a "Report Bug" button—when the text on the screen flickered.
[Activation Mission Complete. Calculating Rewards...][Please Wait...][Optimization Complete. The Intelligent Assistant has generated a roadmap for your success.][Initiating "One-Click Hosting Mode." The Host will temporarily lose motor control to ensure optimal efficiency. Please enjoy your AFK time.]
Jon blinked. "Excuse me?"
One-Click Hosting? AFK?
"Hey, wait a minute," Jon said, panic rising in his chest. "I didn't agree to—"
He tried to step back. Instead, his legs shot forward.
His body stood up from the bed with a snap, moving with a robotic precision that felt completely alien. It wasn't a twitch or a spasm; it was like someone had just reached into his brain, unplugged his consciousness from the driver's seat, and shoved him into the passenger side.
"Whoa! Hey! Stop!"
Jon screamed internally, but his mouth remained clamped shut. His body turned on its heel and marched out of the room, moving with a silent, predatory grace he definitely didn't possess on his own.
System! Quit messing around! Where are you taking me?
No answer. Just the steady rhythm of his boots on the stone floor.
Even though evening was setting in, the Great Keep was buzzing. Servants were rushing back and forth, carrying tapestries and scrubbing floors in preparation for the King's arrival. It was chaotic, loud, and the perfect place to get caught doing something stupid.
Jon's body didn't care. It wove through the crowd like a ghost, ignoring the servants, and headed straight for the stairs.
Oh no. No, no, no.
He was heading for the Family Tower. Specifically, toward Lord Eddard's solar.
Jon's room was in the lower keep for a reason. He wasn't supposed to be up here, especially not with the mood Catelyn was in. If she caught him lurking around the family quarters uninvited, she'd skin him alive.
System! Turn around! Abort!
The System ignored his frantic mental flailing. His steps actually got lighter, quieter. He was moving like a cat now.
Jon watched, helpless, as his body approached a heavy oak door and stopped. Then, instead of knocking, he leaned in.
Great, Jon thought bitterly. I'm eavesdropping now. This is how people die in this universe.
Voices drifted through the wood, muffled but audible.
"My Lord... My Lady... the raven confirmed it. Jon Arryn has passed away. The King arrives tomorrow with the Prince and the entire court. I believe you understand the implications."
The voice was calm, rattling like dry leaves. Maester Luwin.
"Ned!" Catelyn's voice cut through, sharp and edged with panic. "Think of the children! Think of what happened to your father and brother! You cannot go south to King's Landing!"
"Cat..." Ned's voice was low, heavy with that perpetual exhaustion he carried. "Robert is the King. He is my brother in all but blood... We can discuss the politics later. First, we must survive the reception."
Jon's internal panic cooled for a second, replaced by the cold familiarity of the plot.
Right. Jon Arryn was dead. The Hand of the King. That was the domino that started the whole mess. Robert was coming to drag Ned south to take the job, and that would be the end of the Starks' peace.
The Game of Thrones was booting up. Everyone inside that room was about to be chewed up and spit out by fate.
And I need to be as far away from it as possible, Jon thought. So why are we still standing here?
As if hearing him, his body started moving again. But he didn't turn back to the stairs. He kept climbing. Up the winding steps of the turret, higher and higher, until he reached the rookery.
His hand reached out and pushed open the door to Maester Luwin's turret room.
The smell hit him instantly—a mix of bird guano, old parchment, sharp ink, and dried herbs. Dozens of ravens shuffled in their cages along the walls, their beady eyes watching him.
It was Maester Luwin's private study.
Jon actually liked the old man. Luwin was one of the few people who treated him like a human being rather than a mistake. He was the one who stitched Jon up without lecturing him and didn't drown him in milk of the poppy unless it was necessary.
Okay, Jon thought, trying to rationalize this. Maybe we're just... visiting? Luwin is nice. I can explain this. Maybe.
But then his hand moved to his belt.
Jon watched in horror as his own fingers drew a small dagger.
Don't you dare.
He didn't stab anyone. Instead, his body crouched down in front of a heavy wooden chest tucked in the corner. His hands moved with a dexterity he'd never practiced, sliding the blade into the lock mechanism.
Click.
The lock sprang open.
[Host Constitution is sub-optimal. Tailored rewards distributed.]
[Item Acquired: Maester Luwin's Secret Tonic +1][Item Acquired: Maester Luwin's Secret Tonic +1][Item Acquired: Maester Luwin's Secret Tonic +1]
Jon's mental jaw dropped. We're robbing the elderly now? That's the grand plan?
His hand reached into the chest and pulled out three small, corked vials filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid.
Jon recognized them immediately.
As a bastard, you learned to be observant. You learned to notice what the trueborn children got that you didn't.
Maester Luwin brewed this stuff once every six months. It was an alchemical masterpiece, incredibly expensive and difficult to make. Luwin usually split the batch into three parts: one for drinking, one for topical application, and one to be dissolved in a bath.
And it was exclusively for Robb.
It was a strengthening tonic, designed to build up the future Lord of Winterfell's constitution. It was why Robb grew faster, healed quicker, and had slightly better stamina than Jon, despite them doing the same training.
It had stopped arriving last year when Robb turned sixteen, presumably because he was considered "grown." But apparently, Luwin had a stash left over.
So the System is just straight-up looting Robb's buffs, Jon realized.
On one hand, he felt guilty. Stealing from his brother? That was low.
On the other hand... magic steroids.
Jon claimed he wanted to "lie flat" and be a slacker, but he wasn't stupid. In a world with ice zombies and dragons, having a stat boost wasn't just vanity; it was survival insurance. If he could have the body of a hero without doing the work of a hero, that was actually pretty on-brand for him.
The System clearly agreed.
[Hosting Mode Continuing. Initiating Intelligent Consumption...]
"Wait, consumption? All of them?"
Before Jon could protest the dosage instructions, his hand popped the cork on the first vial.
He threw his head back and downed it. Then the second. Then the third.
Glug, glug, glug.
It tasted like liquid fire mixed with mint.
The moment the last drop hit his stomach, Jon's eyes widened. It didn't feel like digestion; it felt like he'd just swallowed a lightning bolt.
A massive surge of heat exploded in his gut and rushed through his veins. Every hair on his body stood straight up. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.
Oh, Jon thought, his vision vibrating. That's the good stuff.
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