Chapter 2: Ghost of The Shadows

The days bled together in an endless cycle of pain and discipline. Jon's training under the Faceless Assassins was a brutal and relentless ordeal. Every moment was spent in darkness, both literal and metaphorical, as he learned to slip into the shadows, to kill without leaving a trace, and to become nothing.

His first lesson was simple yet profound: Let go of everything.

In the House of Black and White, Jon shed his identity like a snake shedding its skin. He no longer thought of himself as Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He no longer mourned the family he had lost. Here, he was nobody. Here, he was no one.

For years, he trained under the watchful eyes of the Faceless. The master assassin—known only as Jaqen H'ghar—taught him the art of assassination. Silence, precision, and the cold efficiency of death became second nature. Jon learned to move without a sound, his footsteps lighter than a wisp of smoke. He became a shadow, a whisper in the night.

They taught him the art of poisons and potions, the deadly brews that could kill in a heartbeat or leave a man writhing in agony. Jon's hands became skilled in the use of herbs and toxic elixirs, crafting deadly concoctions that could render a man unconscious, paralyze him, or cause him to bleed out in seconds. He learned to read the body's response to the poisons, to adjust the dosages for maximum effect.

But it was the creation of the Witcher potion that changed everything.

Years into his training, Jon stumbled upon an ancient formula hidden in the darkest recesses of the Faceless archives—a concoction rumored to have been used by the legendary Witchers. It was said to enhance the body's strength, speed, and senses, turning a man into something more than human. Something... otherworldly.

Driven by a deep, unyielding need for power and purpose, Jon set to work. Night after night, he mixed ingredients, performing the rituals, testing the poisons on rats, and finally, on himself. He pushed his body past its natural limits, enduring the pain of transformation.

The potion was dangerous. It could kill a man if prepared incorrectly. But Jon's hand was steady, and his resolve was iron.

When he drank the final vial, his body was flooded with a wave of energy, a raw, primal power that coursed through his veins. His senses sharpened to an unnatural degree. He could hear the faintest whisper in the wind, see movement in the darkest corners of a room. His strength increased tenfold. His reflexes became lightning-fast, and his wounds healed in moments. He was no longer a mere man. He was something else. Something lethal.

He was now Ghost.

With the power of the Witcher potion coursing through him, Jon became the deadliest assassin to ever walk the earth. His reputation spread quickly through the criminal underworld. No contract was too dangerous, no kill too difficult. For the right price, he would strike down anyone, anywhere, without hesitation.

Ghost was a name whispered in fear, a name that became synonymous with death. His killing style was ruthless and precise—he didn't waste time with theatrics or unnecessary brutality. A single strike, a quick death. He left no survivors, no trace of his passing. His victims never saw him coming, and by the time they knew death was near, it was too late.

Jon had become a myth, a shadow in the night, an enigma whose true identity was a well-guarded secret. He took no contracts that involved people he knew, no jobs that risked exposing him. His kills were clean, his motives clear—coin, blood, and the satisfaction of proving that he was the most dangerous man alive.

But his reputation wasn't just built on bloodshed. Jon indulged in every vice the world had to offer. After each job, he drowned himself in wine, in women, in lust. He took pleasure in the carnal delights of King's Landing's brothels, leaving a trail of beautiful women who whispered his name between moans. The whores fought for his attention, eager to be the next in line to bed the infamous Ghost. He never stayed the night, never allowed anyone to hold him. He was a man untouchable, his heart as cold as the blades he wielded.

No one knew the face behind the mask. No one knew that Ghost was Jon Snow, the bastard who had run away from Winterfell, the son of a Targaryen prince. The Faceless Assassins had erased all traces of his former self, and Jon had embraced the anonymity. Ghost was free, untethered by the past.

But even as Jon reveled in the life he had built, the question of his true identity lingered in the back of his mind. The blood of his ancestors ran through his veins, and the whispers of his true heritage—of being Aegon Targaryen—called to him in his dreams. It was a part of him he couldn't escape.

But for now, Jon Snow—the Ghost—was content to let the world believe he was nothing more than a shadow.

And shadows, he knew, were meant to remain unseen.