JON V

Night fell over Winterfell, cloaking the castle in deep shadows and a profound silence. For most, it was a time for rest. For Jon, it was when his work began. He dressed in his darkest, most practical clothes, the roughspun fabric making no sound as he moved.

He pulled a strip of dark grey cloth from his pack, wrapping it around the lower half of his face, obscuring his features and leaving only his eyes visible. In a place as small as the Winter Town, his face was recognizable, and anonymity was his most important tool. 

He didn't use the gates. The guards were lax, but not blind. Instead, he slipped out his window and made his way along the rooftops, his [Silent Step] rendering him a whisper on the cold stone. He reached the eastern wall, the lowest and least patrolled section of the castle's perimeter. With a practiced grace born of his new routine, he scaled the wall and dropped silently into the snow on the other side.

The Winter Town lay sprawled before him, a collection of humble, snow-dusted buildings huddled together for warmth, the smoke from their hearths curling lazily into the black sky.

His first stop was the stall of a fur trapper, the site of the most recent theft according to the castle gossip he'd been monitoring. The stall was closed up for the night, a simple wooden shutter barred from the inside.

To a normal eye, the scene was unremarkable, the snow around it trampled by the day's business. But when Jon activated The Sight, the world bled into shades of grey, and the scene came alive with information. He saw the faint, ethereal trail immediately, an echo of passage left behind by someone moving with haste and purpose.

It glowed with a faint, murky orange aura. But there was more. A small, almost invisible scuff mark on the wooden shutter glowed faintly, indicating where a tool had been used to jimmy it open. A single, dropped copper penny lay half-buried in the snow nearby, overlooked in the thief's haste.

The trail was his guide. It led him away from the marketplace, down a series of narrow, winding alleys that smelled of woodsmoke, cheap ale, and frozen mud. He moved like a shadow, his mind map of Winterfell now extending to the town, allowing him to anticipate dead ends and choose the most secluded routes. The trail ended at the door of the town's largest tavern, "The Hunter's Horn," a noisy, cheerful place spilling yellow light and raucous laughter into the street.

Jon didn't enter. He scaled the wall of the adjacent tannery, the smell of the curing hides sharp in the cold air, and found a perch on its roof. It was a dark vantage point overlooking the tavern's entrance. From here, he could watch and wait. Patience, he was learning, was a weapon all its own. He settled in, the cold barely touching him, his focus absolute.

An hour passed, a slow crawl of time marked by the drunken exits of patrons. He watched them all, his Sight sorting through their intentions. He saw the angry red of a man spoiling for a fight, the hazy purple of a lovelorn boy, and the simple, tired grey of men heading home to their families. None of them matched the trail. He had to shift his position twice, melting back into the shadows as a pair of guards made their rounds, their own orange auras a steady, bored glow against the night.

Then, finally, a man emerged alone. He was of medium height, wiry, and moved with a quick, nervous energy that set him apart from the lumbering drunks. He clutched a half-eaten meat pie in one hand. As he stepped into the street, Jon saw it: the same murky orange aura clung to him like a shroud. [Intent: Wary]

This was his man.

Jon melted back into the shadows, a phantom flitting from one rooftop to the next as he followed the thief through the town. The man was cautious, constantly looking over his shoulder, but he never looked up. He eventually came to a small, dilapidated shack at the very edge of the town, set apart from the others, where the forest began to press in. It was the perfect den for a man with secrets. The thief unlocked the door, slipped inside, and barred it behind him.

Jon waited. He circled the shack from above, noting its single grimy window and crumbling chimney. The area was secluded; no one would witness what was about to happen. He positioned himself on the roof directly above the door, his body coiled like a patient shadowcat.

He waited for what felt like another hour, his breathing slow and steady, listening to the muffled sounds from within. He heard the clink of a bottle, a muttered curse, then silence. Finally, the door below creaked open again. The thief stepped out, perhaps to relieve himself or check if he'd been followed.

That was the moment.

Jon dropped. His [Feather Fall] skill worked perfectly, his body absorbing the impact, but the old snow on the ground gave an audible crunch under his weight. It was a small sound, but in the dead silence of the night, it was as loud as a cracking branch.

The thief froze, whirling around, his eyes wide with fear. "Who's there?" he hissed, his hand darting to a small dirk at his belt.

There was no time for stealth now. Jon lunged forward, his inexperience showing. He didn't go for a disabling strike; he went to grapple, to silence the man before he could shout. The thief was wiry and surprisingly strong, twisting in Jon's grip. They stumbled together, a clumsy, desperate dance in the dark. The man's elbow caught Jon square in his still-healing ribs, and a jolt of white-hot pain flared through his side, making him gasp.

The thief opened his mouth to yell for the guards, but Jon, fueled by adrenaline, reacted instantly. He slammed his body into the man's, driving him back against the rough wood of the shack.

He got one hand over the man's mouth while his other arm wrapped around his neck. It was a sloppy, brutal struggle, nothing like the clean takedowns he had imagined. For a terrifying second, Jon felt the man's strength resisting him, and he feared he would fail. He squeezed harder, pouring all his focus into the chokehold, just as Ser Rodrik had taught them for disarming an opponent. The man's struggles weakened, his body going limp. After a few more seconds, he slumped, unconscious.

Jon let him fall to the ground, his own chest heaving, the pain in his ribs a sharp, throbbing reminder of how close he had come to failure. A notification, less triumphant and more a simple statement of fact, appeared in his vision.

[Objective Complete: 

(1/2) Identify the thief — ✅

(2/2) Subdue him without being seen — ✅]

Reward: +150 XP | [Ghost] Proficiency Unlocked

Jon dragged the man's limp body back inside the shack. The stench of stale sweat and cheap ale hit him immediately. He quickly searched the small, squalid room. Pried up floorboards revealed a hidden cache. It was filled with stolen goods: a few silver stags, a bolt of fine wool, cured meats, and the trapper's missing furs. He had the right man.

Now for the final step. He couldn't simply leave the thief here for the guards to find; they might think he was just drunk. He needed to draw their attention in a way that left no doubt. He looked around the den, his eyes landing on a stack of firewood and a half-empty jug of cheap, flammable oil. An idea took shape.

He dragged the stolen goods out from under the floor, piling them in the center of the room. He doused the pile—and the unconscious thief's cloak—with the oil. Then, he went outside, found a loose pile of barrels and crates behind a nearby building, and with a powerful shove, sent them crashing to the ground with a tremendous, echoing boom that shattered the night's silence.

Lights began to flicker on in nearby windows. Shouts of alarm echoed through the town. He heard the distant, urgent cry of a castle guard. That was his cue.

He didn't wait to see the result. He sprinted away, using the chaos as cover. He flowed over rooftops and across fences, a phantom moving through the night. He reached the east gate wall just as the first guards with torches began to swarm the area around the thief's shack. With a final, powerful climb, he hauled himself over the wall and dropped back into the familiar, silent grounds of Winterfell.

He slipped back into his room, his heart pounding not with fear, but with the pure, cold thrill of a successful mission. He had been a ghost, an agent of justice moving unseen. He had tested his skills, and they had not been found wanting.