The sensation wasn't pleasant. It felt like swallowing a bucket of hot coals.
Jon's insides were screaming. His consciousness started to fray at the edges, melting under the intense heat radiating from his stomach. It was a classic overdose. He'd just slammed three vials of high-potency alchemical steroids meant to be taken over the course of months—and he'd done it in ten seconds.
Even a Witcher would probably be convulsing on the floor right now.
His skin felt tight, like a balloon about to pop. His blood felt like sludge moving too fast. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to rip his own skin off just to let the heat out.
But then, the happy little chime of the System cut through the agony like a cool breeze.
Ding-dong!
[Potion Metabolized. Strength +0.1]
Ding-dong!
[Potion Metabolized. Constitution +0.1]
The notifications kept coming, a rapid-fire cascade of digital dopamine. It sounded like a slot machine hitting the jackpot, coins spilling out in a never-ending stream. With every chime, the pain receded slightly, replaced by a terrifying sense of power.
When Jon finally blinked the spots from his eyes and regained control of his limbs, he felt... different. Lighter. Harder.
The System panel floated into view, updating in real-time.
[CHARACTER STATUS UPDATED]Name: Jon Snow Age: 16 Strength: 1.6 (Significant bonus to damage output)Constitution: 1.6 (Enhanced stamina and damage mitigation)Spirit: 2.0 (Magic affinity)Title: The Bastard of Winterfell (Pseudo) Mission: Winter is Coming. Quit hiding and show the King what you're made of! Reward Status: Pending...
Jon flexed his hand. The tendons felt like steel cables. A 1.6 score meant he was now sixty percent stronger than the average adult male. If he ran into that Riverrun guard again, Jon wouldn't just block him; he'd put the guy through a wall.
He was just about to mentally high-five himself for falling into a superpower when a sudden, blinding pain exploded in the back of his skull.
CRACK.
[ALERT: Host under attack. Combat detected.][Smart Hosting Mode deactivated to prevent liability.][We look forward to your 5-star review! Goodbye!]
The System vanished.
"You useless piece of—"
Jon stumbled forward, his vision swimming. He spun around, adrenaline instantly overriding the concussion.
There, standing in the doorway of the rookery with half a shattered clay pot in his hand, was the guard. The same trout-wearing jerk from the training yard.
The man looked shocked. He'd just smashed a heavy ceramic planter over the back of a teenager's head. That should have been lights out. Maybe even a cracked skull. But Jon was still standing.
They locked eyes.
The guard recovered first, dropping the pottery shard and reaching for the dagger at his belt. But Jon moved, too.
The fight was ugly. It wasn't a dance; it was a brawl in a closet.
Jon lunged, but the guard was experienced. He sidestepped and threw a heavy right hook that caught Jon on the jaw.
Normally, that punch would have knocked Jon out cold. But thanks to his new Constitution stat, it just felt like a dull thud. Jon shook it off, grabbing the man's wrist as the dagger came up toward his ribs.
They slammed into the wall, knocking over a shelf of dried herbs.
The guard was a grown man, a trained soldier with years of experience. Jon was a sixteen-year-old with a sudden, unearned steroid boost.
The guard gritted his teeth, his face twisting as he tried to force the knife into Jon's gut. "Die, you little bastard," he hissed.
Jon felt the tip of the blade prick his tunic. He pushed back, and to his surprise, the guard's arm stopped moving. Jon's grip tightened. He could feel the bones in the man's wrist grinding together.
I'm stronger than him, Jon realized with a jolt. I'm actually stronger.
If he hadn't chugged those potions, he'd be dead right now. He would have been overpowered in seconds, stabbed quietly in a room full of bird poop, and left to rot.
The realization brought a cold, sharp clarity.
The guard realized it too. Panic flickered in his eyes as he struggled to break Jon's grip.
Jon didn't give him the chance. He jerked his head back and slammed his forehead into the bridge of the guard's nose.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. Blood sprayed immediately. The guard's eyes rolled back, his grip loosening as the pain blinded him.
Jon didn't hesitate. He wasn't a killer by nature—he was a guy who liked to nap—but survival instinct is a hell of a drug.
He twisted the guard's own hand, forcing the dagger down, and drove it hard under the man's ribs, aiming upward.
The blade slid in.
The guard went rigid. He made a horrible wheezing sound, like a broken bellows—huff, huff, huff—and then his weight went dead.
Jon shoved him away. The body slumped to the floor, twitching once before going still.
Silence returned to the rookery, broken only by the shuffling of the ravens in their cages.
Jon leaned against the wall, gasping for air. His hands were shaking. He stared at the body. He'd seen executions before—Ned Stark didn't believe in sheltering his sons from justice—but swinging a sword at a criminal was different than stabbing a man in a frantic close-quarters struggle.
He felt sick.
Okay. Okay. Deep breaths.
He couldn't fall apart. Not here.
Jon forced himself to move. He grabbed a heavy rug from the floor and threw it over the body to catch the spreading pool of blood. He pulled the dagger out, wiped his fingerprints off the hilt using the dead man's cloak, and then shoved the weapon back into the wound.
It wasn't perfect forensics, but it muddled the scene. Was it a suicide? A fight with another guard? Who knows.
He checked the floor. No obvious drops of blood trailing away. He checked himself. His dark tunic hid any splatter well enough.
He cracked the door open. The hallway was empty.
Jon slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. He walked down the tower stairs, forcing his face into a mask of boredom. He passed through the edge of the Great Hall, where servants were still arguing about table settings, and nobody gave him a second glance.
He was just the bastard. Invisible.
Back in his room, Jon locked the door and collapsed onto his bed.
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Jon stared at the holographic prompt.
"Are you serious?" he whispered furiously. "You drug me, hijack my body, rob a senior citizen, and then abandon me the second someone tries to kill me? Zero stars! Negative stars!"
He swiped the notification away angrily.
Still, he couldn't deny the results. The stats had saved him. The System was a rogue, unreliable piece of garbage, but it was his garbage.
Now he had a bigger problem.
Who sent the assassin?
It could have been Catelyn. It wouldn't be the first time a wicked stepmother tried to off the inconvenient stepchild. She hated him enough.
Or it could be one of her loyalists acting on their own. Some Riverrun guard thinking he'd do his Lady a favor by removing the stain on her honor before the King arrived.
If it was Catelyn, he was in deep trouble. If it was a freelancer, maybe he was safe for now.
He briefly considered going back and torching the rookery. Fire destroyed evidence.
No, he thought. Too risky.
The King arrives tomorrow. If Winterfell burns down tonight, the schedule changes. The plot changes. Chaos takes over. He needed the script to stay on track so he could get the hell out of here and go to the Wall.
He had to gamble that the Starks would cover this up. A murder in the castle right before a Royal visit? Ned would want to keep that quiet. He'd bury it to avoid offending the King.
Jon convinced himself it would be okay. He just had to lay low until tomorrow.
Knock, knock, knock.
Jon jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Who is it?"
"Guard," a gruff voice called through the wood. "Lord Stark's orders. You are to report to Maester Luwin's chambers immediately."
Jon felt the blood drain from his face.
He opened the door. The guard standing there wasn't a Stark man. He wore the blue and red surcoat of Riverrun, with a silver trout stitched over the heart.
He was one of her men.
And he was summoning Jon back to the scene of the crime.
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