An elegant carriage stood pulled off to the side of the road. A young noble girl and her maid climbed down to play under the watchful eyes of their guards.
"Ser, why does it feel like there are way fewer wildflowers?" the little girl asked curiously.
"Because it's autumn now, my lady. It's getting cold."
The girl was only seven or eight. After a summer that had dragged on for more than ten years, children born in endless warmth had no real idea how terrifying winter could be.
"Oh." She sounded a little disappointed.
Bored, she looked around—then suddenly spotted a teenage rider on a powerful horse, with a snow-white wolf trotting behind him.
"Ser, look!"
She pointed at the white wolf, half scared and half thrilled.
The guard looked over, then turned back and said, "Don't be afraid, my lady. He's probably Night's Watch…"
Jon rode past the carriage without paying them any attention.
If anything, he felt a spark of excitement in his chest.
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Upgrades remaining: 1
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Sensing the change in his "cheat," Jon smiled faintly.
Upgrade points could be used to enhance the perks he already had.
He gained one upgrade each month.
In other words, as long as he lived long enough, he'd eventually turn into a frighteningly well-rounded monster.
The cheat could also help him steal perks he didn't have yet by killing enemies—though he still hadn't tested that part.
Even though he'd regained an upgrade point, Jon had no intention of spending it right away.
Westeros was about to sink into a bloody, brutal chaos.
What came next would be messy and unpredictable, and if he just dumped points at random, he'd almost certainly waste them.
You used the best steel where it mattered.
In his previous life, Jon had been a businessman, and he understood the importance of cash flow.
For him, upgrade points were cash flow.
If you had reserves, you could respond to shifting পরিস্থিতions—and to people's shifting motives.
In the distance, Jon could already see Winterfell, familiar and yet strange.
Ghost seemed excited too, sprinting up a low rise to look out.
He'd grown up at Winterfell as well, after all. It felt less like returning from exile and more like coming home from a long trip.
"Ghost!" Jon called.
Ghost looked back at him.
"Let Winterfell know we're back."
"Grrr…"
The white direwolf let out a low, eager sound and took off. When he reached a higher hill, he lifted his head—
Awooooooo!
The long howl rolled across open ground. The woods rustled, the walls loomed ahead, and plenty of people heard that bright, excited call.
Theon heard it too.
"That sound…" Theon scanned the castle, quickly confirming it wasn't Robb's Grey Wind, Bran's Summer, or Rickon's Shaggydog.
And it was clearly coming from the north.
Awooooooo!
A second howl followed, and this time Ghost's call was answered.
Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog all raced up onto the battlements and called back.
Awooo—awoooooo!
Awooooooooooooo!
Even Rickon, half-asleep, stirred at the sound. Robb, Luwin, and others handling castle business all paused as if something tugged at them.
"Hodor," Bran said. "Let's go see what's going on."
"Hodor."
A boy around seven or eight rode using a special saddle.
His name was Bran—Robb's little brother, the poor kid who'd been shoved from a tower after accidentally catching the queen in bed with her brother.
Hearing the direwolves, Bran wanted to go check it out with Hodor.
That was when Theon became certain.
Jon Snow was back.
Theon had already rehearsed a whole routine—exactly how he'd scare Jon, exactly how he'd mess with him—and now he could barely contain himself.
He still remembered the day the Stark children had found their direwolf pups. Theon had been there.
He'd assumed, at the very least, that Jon the bastard would be stuck at Winterfell with him.
Instead, Jon had ended up with the most unusual one of all—the white direwolf.
Theon had been jealous enough to choke on it.
Sure enough, someone soon came to report that it was very likely Jon had returned.
Theon said, "You remember what I told you to say, right?"
"We do," a man answered. "Robb is furious that Jon left the Wall, and we're to drag him back in chains."
"Good," Theon said. "Let's go."
With a wave of his hand, Theon led a small group out of Winterfell.
Four or five of them rode hard, and before long Theon spotted a familiar figure.
Jon.
A thin, ugly grin tugged at Theon's mouth as he rode straight up to him.
"Jon, what the hell have you done?" Theon shouted on purpose, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "You deserted! You've dragged Winterfell through the mud! You've shamed Lord Stark! What are you going to do now?!"
Jon looked at the guy who always needed to feel important by stepping on him, and felt almost nothing.
On the road, Jon had spent time thinking about Theon too.
He still couldn't understand why Balon Greyjoy had chosen to harass the North—huge, empty, poor—when the Westerlands were so much richer.
Had Balon somehow seen far enough ahead to decide Robb and Stannis were doomed, and he wanted to curry favor with the Lannisters early?
Then why crown himself king at all?
Jon couldn't make sense of the way pirates thought.
So he decided something else instead.
When Robb had the upper hand, Jon would make sure Theon went to the Iron Islands—and pushed Balon to raid the Westerlands.
But that was later.
Right now, Jon understood Theon perfectly well.
Theon and the old Jon both carried insecurity.
Old Jon was a bastard, and he hid it by keeping people at arm's length. Theon was a hostage, and he hid it by constantly reminding everyone he was heir to the Iron Islands.
He wasn't evil at heart, but if he came looking for trouble, Jon wasn't going to swallow it anymore.
So Jon said calmly, "Simple. I cut off Joffrey's head."
Theon froze for a beat, then laughed coldly.
"You?" he sneered. "Cut off the king's head? Who the hell do you think you are?"
He flicked his hand at the men behind him. "Drag him off his horse and haul him back to Winterfell. If you want to be a deserter, then you'd better be ready for what deserters get. Enjoy losing your head."
As soon as he said it, the riders moved in and boxed Jon in.
Jon drew his sword at once, facing them down.
He didn't believe Robb would actually kill him.
During the war, the so-called Young Wolf could be inconsistent in all kinds of ways. Catelyn released a critical captive to try to trade for her daughters, and Robb didn't punish her.
But when another lord killed two prisoners out of rage, Robb took the man's head.
Hypocritical or not, Robb didn't turn on his own blood.
And in the original story, once the situation started spinning out of control, Robb even talked about naming Jon his heir—to his crown and to Winterfell.
To Jon, this was almost certainly Theon bluffing to scare him.
So Jon decided to answer with something sharper.
"Theon," Jon said, "you really think you're guaranteed to inherit the Iron Islands someday? Your father's lands and titles—just handed to you?"
Theon shot back without thinking, "What kind of question is that? Of course I am."
But for some reason, his voice came out a little less sure than he wanted.
Jon's pushback, one after another, made Theon realize this wasn't the same boy who used to just take it and stay quiet.
"Of course?" Jon said. "Don't be childish. You think Ironborn succession works the same way it does in the Seven Kingdoms?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You've been living at Winterfell too long. Looks like you've gone full greenlander."
"I've heard your sister is what the Iron Islands consider a real Greyjoy. When she was your age, she'd already taken a few merchant ships. And you?"
"You pay after you bed a woman. Are you even a Greyjoy at all?"
Inheritance was Theon's pride.
It was his anchor.
Hearing Jon lay it out like it made sense, Theon panicked—like Jon had stepped right on a bruise—and snapped, "You don't know a damn thing! I'm a man. I'm my father's only heir!"
Jon smiled slightly.
"Oh yeah?" he said. "Then why don't you go back to the Iron Islands, raise ships, and hit the Westerlands?"
"Tywin's leading his army through the Riverlands right now. The Westerlands are exposed. Isn't that the perfect time to raid?"
He leaned forward just a little. "Go on—try to convince your father. At the very least, you'll find out whether that inheritance you're so proud of still exists."