When Jon's eyes swept her way, the woman with the chestnut curls turned slightly, casually tossing her hair back. It was a calculated move, a small gift for her admirers, confident and effortless.
Jon, however, only lingered for a moment before turning his gaze elsewhere.
The young noblemen buzzed around the ladies like industrious bees, but Jon had work to do. By the time he completed his second patrol of the perimeter and returned to the center, the noisy banquet by the fire had wound down.
The lordlings and ladies had retreated into their tents, either to sleep or to continue their "labors" in private.
Listening to the faint, restless sounds drifting from the tents, Jon shook his head with a wry smile. He found his own tent, ready to call it a night.
Just as he began to unbuckle his belt, the System's alert chimed, sharp and sudden.
> [Are you joking? You plan to sleep now?]
> [Get up, you fool! If you're late, the delicate Rose will be crushed by thieves.]
Jon bolted upright, sleep vanishing instantly.
He rarely expected anything good from the "Dog System," but he never doubted its accuracy. It had proven itself to be a harbinger of doom—a crow feasting before the battle. If it spoke, trouble was already here.
Jon scrambled to dress, deciding at the last second to strap on his breastplate. It cost him precious time, but against an unknown threat, that extra layer of steel was worth its weight in gold.
Fully armored, the Baron drew his longsword and sprinted toward the noble ladies' encampment.
When he arrived, the camp looked peaceful. Silent.
Jon let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He marched over to the dying bonfire and used the flat of his blade to smack a few dozing Gold Cloaks awake, barking at them to resume their patrol.
With the guards roused, Jon felt his heart rate settle.
The System must have been wrong this time, he thought.
> [Hmph? You dare question me?]
> [Open your pathetic dog eyes and look! If you used even a fraction of your brain, you'd realize something is wrong.]
The System's mockery made Jon pause. He strained his senses, and suddenly, the "peace" felt wrong. It was too quiet.
Unlike the main soldier camp, the noble quarters had extra security. Jon had ordered the Gold Cloaks to guard the perimeter, but the nobles had their own servants and guards inside. More importantly, they had dogs.
Hunting hounds were standard for noble entourages. These loyal beasts should have been barking at the slightest disturbance. Even Jon's arrival—clanking in armor and smacking guards—should have triggered a chorus of growls.
But there was nothing. Silence.
Jon raised his sword, shifting into a combat stance.
Danger!
A chill spiked down his spine. Instinct took over, and Jon slashed his sword violently into the empty air in front of him.
CLANG!
A massive impact slammed into his chest, knocking him back a half-step.
Looking down, Jon saw a deep dent in his steel breastplate. On the ground lay two pieces of a broken arrow, thick as a man's finger.
If he hadn't slashed the arrow mid-flight, reducing its momentum, it wouldn't have just dented the steel—it would have punched through his chest and killed him instantly.
Jon opened his mouth to scream a warning.
"Enemy at—"
Whoosh!
Before the words could leave his throat, his heightened perception screamed again. A bolt of lightning was flying straight at his face.
Time seemed to slow. The glint of the arrowhead grew larger in his vision. Jon threw his body to the side in a desperate dodge.
THWACK!
The lethal arrow missed his ear by a hairbreadth and buried itself deep into a wooden post behind him.
He had survived two assassination attempts in seconds, but the darkness still hid his attacker.
Jon didn't care about dignity anymore. He dove into the shadows between the tents, rolling for cover.
Panting heavily, he realized the problem: the fire. He was illuminated; the enemy was not.
He scrambled up, slashed the supports of the bonfire to scatter the flames, and roared at the top of his lungs.
"ENEMY ATTACK! ENEMY ATTACK! MOVE, YOU DAMN CURS!"
His voice shattered the silence. The camp began to stir.
The Gold Cloaks he had just woken were the first to react. Realizing something was wrong, the shh-shh-shh of swords being drawn rang out, adding to the alarm.
Jon exhaled, thinking the worst was over now that the camp was awake.
Swish!
Another gust of wind from above. Jon's scalp tingled, and he threw himself flat on the ground, rolling frantically.
An arrow struck the earth exactly where he had been standing.
Jon realized with horror that he was facing a master archer—someone who could aim by sound alone.
If not for his unnaturally high Spirit stat giving him heightened perception, he would already be a pincushion.
Understanding this, the Baron abandoned all pretense of nobility. He crawled on his belly like a lizard, slithering silently through the shadows between the tents, daring not to make a sound.
From his vantage point on the ground, Jon saw it.
The tent bearing the Direwolf sigil of House Stark had a massive, cross-shaped tear in the fabric.
They had already struck. Sansa had been taken.
Jon's blood ran cold. He scrambled up, ignoring the risk, and sprinted toward the perimeter.
Passing Sansa's tent, he glanced at the neighboring pavilion—the one emblazoned with the Golden Rose of Highgarden.
It was empty too.
The Tyrell girl—Margaery—was gone.
Jon felt like his head was about to explode.
He was the organizer of this "Noble Youth Summer Camp." He was the Baron of Tampa. The entire point of this event was to build prestige, win over the Gold Cloaks, and prepare to seize power in King's Landing.
Instead, before the event even officially started, he had lost his sister and the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Reach.
Forget long-term goals. If he didn't fix this, he wouldn't even make it back to King's Landing alive.