Hearing Theon out, both Robb and Maester Luwin had to admit he had a point.
What if Jon crashed and burned?
If some lord's man-at-arms dropped Jon in the dirt and hauled him back in front of Robb, Winterfell would look ridiculous.
Sure, Jon was very good with a blade—but that was all anyone could honestly say. He might be skilled, maybe even impressive, but "dominate every lord in the North" was a whole different claim.
Jon, however, looked Robb straight in the eye and said, "Robb. I promise you—no one in the North can beat me."
A sharp, dismissive laugh cut the air.
Theon.
Jon didn't even glance at him. "Tell you what. For the first time, we do it the safe way. We pick the right target—someone easy. A soft touch."
"Then, based on how it goes, you decide whether we take on the loud ones with real muscle."
Even if they suspected Jon was exaggerating the "unbeatable" part, they didn't have a better plan. Robb agreed and said he'd assign Jon two dozen capable men—\(24\) in total.
When the meeting ended, Jon and Theon left together.
Halfway down the hall, Theon suddenly asked, "Are you sure?"
"Sure about what?"
"You really think you can win by force against those lords and their people?"
Jon didn't answer directly. He just smiled. "Theon, honestly? I think you've got real potential."
Theon blinked. "What… what does that mean?"
"You're convincing," Jon said. "Half the time, words are sharper than steel."
"Am I?" Theon replied, suddenly uncertain, like he almost wanted to scratch the back of his head.
Watching him, Jon couldn't help remembering that infamous moment where Theon tried to give a big speech at Winterfell and got dropped with a single club to the head.
Theon wasn't rotten to the core, and Jon didn't want him as an enemy.
"I've got a proposal," Jon said. "If my plan works, you have to agree to one condition. You'll help me persuade someone."
"Who?"
"If I win, I'll tell you."
"Fine," Theon said, lifting his chin like a proud rooster. "You've got a deal."
Theon looked pleased, but also like he didn't quite know what to do with a compliment. Jon found it funny.
Young men couldn't resist a little flattery.
Jon had used the same trick in his previous life to get people to work harder.
Of course, Jon wasn't the type who only made promises and never delivered. If you fed people nothing but talk and never backed it up, they'd catch on sooner or later.
But using a little vision—and a little praise—to light a fire under people was just practical.
After he parted ways with Theon, Jon immediately called up his system interface, ready to test the limits.
All right—let's push it.
He spent one upgrade point and put it into Swordsmanship, even though it was already purple-tier.
In the next instant, the purple shifted into gold, and every drill, duel, and hard-earned lesson he'd ever had exploded through his mind at once.
His body devoured that experience, distilled it, rebuilt it—refined it into something new.
Jon had the clear sense that if this was purely sword skill, he could take on five versions of his old self attacking together.
And he was confident he could beat those "five selves" within ten minutes.
It wasn't just technique.
He could feel it in his tendons and bones—his conditioning had jumped too. His movement felt looser, lighter. His footwork came easier.
He rested his hand on the hilt and felt like the sword was part of his body.
He even had enough spare control to comfortably use a second blade in his left hand.
For a moment, he thought of the Kingsguard—then dismissed the comparison with a quiet snort. He might not be at the level of a true legend like the Sword of the Morning, but he'd crossed into an entirely different class.
Jon stared at the new tier, anticipation rising. "If gold is already like this… what's above it?"
He looked at the two upgrade points he had left and decided this wasn't the time to be stingy.
If he was going to pull this off, he needed to do it perfectly.
Plan for the worst. Hit like thunder.
Once he'd made up his mind, Jon poured both remaining upgrades into Swordsmanship.
With the next point, the golden perk changed again—turning red—and even the perk description itself rewrote.
"Red… Swordmaster."
......
In a tidy, well-appointed courtyard, a red flayed-man banner snapped hard in the northern wind.
This was where Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, was staying.
As for where the original owner of the place had gone—nobody considered that worth mentioning.
Inside, a pale-faced man with barely a wrinkle on him sat calmly placing leeches on his arm.
The leeches latched on and drank greedily.
Before long they were swollen and fat, and Roose Bolton's expression held a faint, satisfied ease.
With practiced hands, he plucked them off one by one.
Bolton believed in bloodletting. Because he so often used leeches, people called him the "Leech Lord."
"Ramsay."
"My lord."
A young man of average height stepped in from outside.
He looked stiff and cautious, but he resembled Roose Bolton in a way you couldn't miss.
Ramsay Snow was Bolton's bastard.
His mother had been the miller's wife.
Years ago, Bolton had supposedly stopped at the mill to get out of the rain… and then things happened.
Yes, it was as crude and ugly as it sounded.
In a realm where the "right of the first night" had only been outlawed a couple centuries ago, it barely even registered as scandal.
Bolton only remembered Ramsay existed after his legitimate son—his heir—died of illness.
So he brought the bastard close and started shaping him into something useful.
"My lord," Ramsay asked, respectful to the point of groveling, "are we going to see Robb again today?"
"Of course," Bolton said. "No matter what it takes, we need control of the army."
Then he looked at Ramsay. "Tell me—how long do you think this war will last? Do you think we'll march all the way to King's Landing?"
Ramsay thought it over. "My lord… if we're going to save Lord Eddard, then… yes?"
Bolton wasn't pleased with the answer.
But Ramsay hadn't been at his side long, so Bolton explained with patient condescension.
"No," Bolton said. "This war will end quickly. At its core, it's nothing more than our young lord failing to come to terms with the Lannisters in King's Landing."
"We'll fight one or two battles. A few thousand dead, maybe. Then we'll go home."
"A few thousand…" Ramsay repeated under his breath, visibly shaken by how casually Bolton could say it.
Bolton studied the bastard—so obviously unseasoned—and shook his head again.
If the war ended quickly, the chances to harvest glory would be limited.
That was exactly why Bolton needed the command.
"Come," he said. "Let's pay Robb another visit."
......
After the Boltons left Robb's presence, Robb couldn't help pressing his people—when was Jon going to act?
Jon didn't stall.
He took Theon and a group of Winterfell guards and rode straight for a minor baron's lands—someone nobody important even bothered to name.
In barely two months, the complaints of him abusing smallfolk had already piled up to more than a dozen incidents.
No powerful allies, yet bold enough to act like that?
Jon decided he'd use this man as the first example.