JON VIII

The lookout's face haunted Jon's waking moments and stalked his dreams. The shock, the fear, the final, wet sound of his life ending—it was a memory branded onto his soul. He had taken a life. The System had rewarded him for it—but the boy within, raised on Lord Eddard's lessons of honor, felt only a cold, hollow sickness. Still, the situation had demanded it, and he had done what was necessary. In a way, he knew—with a chilling certainty—that it would not be the last life he would have to take. 

He had the identities of the wine merchant and the caravan guard, but the third man, the leader, remained a shadow. He spent his days in the library, not just studying history, but poring over the castle's own ledgers and supply manifests, a task he undertook under the guise of helping Maester Luwin. He cross-referenced the goods listed on the thief's parchment with the castle's own stores. And then he found it.

A discrepancy. A crate of rare Arbor Gold, a wine so expensive it was reserved only for the Lord's table, had been marked as "spoiled" and discarded. The quartermaster who had signed the order was a man named Larence. Jon had seen his face before, in the yard, a man of minor authority with an expensive ring and a cruel smile.

The pieces clicked into place. The leader wasn't in the town. He was inside the walls.

[User Initiative Recognized. New Quest Issued: Cut the Head off the Serpent]

Description: The leader of the Cracked Snowflake network operates from within Winterfell itself. Expose the traitor and dismantle the organization.

Objective: Secure the forged ledgers from the quartermaster's office and deliver them to the Steward, Vayon Poole, without revealing your identity.

Reward: 500 Experience, 2 Skill Points.

This was the final exam. That night, Jon prepared. He dressed in his darkest clothes, armed himself with his dagger. The quartermaster's office was in the First Keep, one of the most ancient and heavily patrolled parts of the castle. This was not the Winter Town; this was the heart of his home, and the guards here were not lazy.

He moved across the rooftops, a specter against the moonlit snow. His mind map, now intimately familiar, guided his path. He reached the First Keep and began his ascent. The stone was old and tricky, but his fingers and toes found purchase where others would see only a wall. He reached the window of the office, a narrow slit high above the courtyard. It was barred.

He pulled a small, sturdy pry bar from his belt—a tool he had "borrowed" from the blacksmith's forge—and began to work. The metal groaned in protest, the sound terrifyingly loud in the silence. He froze, listening, but no alarm was raised. With a final heave, one of the bars came loose. It was just enough space to squeeze through.

He dropped into the office, his [Feather Fall] turning the ten-foot drop into a silent crouch. The room smelled of old paper and cheap wine. He activated The Sight. The room was awash in the faint orange auras of its occupant, but one object glowed with a fierce, protective blue-white: a heavy, iron-bound ledger sitting on the desk. 

He had found it. He was reaching for the book when he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. He had seconds. He melted into the deep shadows behind a heavy shelf, the thick wool=d smelling of dust and ages. The door opened, and a guard stepped in, his orange aura a beacon in the darkness. The guard was making his nightly rounds, checking the locks. Jon's heart hammered against his ribs. The guard's eyes swept the room, lingering for a moment on the bent bar of the window. Jon held his breath every muscle coiled and ready.

The guard grunted, likely assuming the damage was old, and turned to leave. Just as the door was about to close, a floorboard under Jon's foot let out a faint, betraying creak.

The guard stopped. "Who's there?" he called out, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

There was no escape. The guard was between him and the door. Jon made his choice. He burst from the shadows, moving with a speed the guard which momentarily stunned the guard. It was enough. He didn't attack; he ran, straight for the wall opposite the door. The guard, startled, turned to follow. Jon hit the wall and used his momentum to perform a perfect jump, scrambling up the stone just high enough to kick off and launch himself over the guard's head.

He landed behind the man, and before the guard could even turn around, Jon brought his fist down in a single, precise strike at the base of his skull. The man crumpled, unconscious.

Jon stood over him, his chest heaving. He took the ledger, slipped back out the window, and made his way to the Steward's tower. He left the book on Vayon Poole's doorstep, along with a small piece of parchment on which he had drawn the symbol of the cracked snowflake.

The next morning, the castle was in an uproar. Jon watched from the battlements as Larence, the quartermaster, was dragged from his office in chains, his face a mask of shocked disbelief. The shadow war was over. He had won. He brought up his status screen, the glowing text a stark, emotionless accounting of his progress.

[Status]

Name: Jon Snow

Title: The Bastard of Winterfell

Rank: 3

Experience: 650/2000

Skill Points: 4

He had grown stronger, more capable. But as he looked out over the cold, grey lands of the North, he felt no triumph, only the heavy weight of the secrets he now carried and the choices that lay ahead.

Timeskip - A week

With the smuggling ring dealt with, Jon felt a strange sense of emptiness. He had won, but the victory was a hollow one. He had exposed a traitor and brought a measure of justice to the Winter Town, but he was no closer to the answer that truly mattered. He was at a dead end. He had the name "Tower of Joy," but it was just a name, a ghost on a map. 

Frustrated and feeling more alone than ever, he found himself drawn to the one place he had been avoiding, the one person he couldn't question: his Aunt Lyanna. He descended into the cold, silent darkness of the crypts of Winterfell. The air was frigid, smelling of stone and dust and the slow decay of ages. He walked past the stone effigies of generations of Starks, their direwolves at their feet, their iron swords across their laps. He finally reached the end of the main passage, where the newer tombs were. And there she was.

Lyanna Stark. Her stone face was beautiful, just as his father had always described her, but it was a cold, sad beauty. He stood before her tomb, a hollow ache in his chest. He wasn't expecting answers. He just needed to be near her, the ghost at the center of his life.

He reached out and touched the cold stone of her effigy. Then, driven by an instinct he didn't understand, he activated The Sight. The world turned grey. The statue itself had a faint, sorrowful blue aura of [Memory. Grief.] clinging to it from all the times his father must have stood in this very spot. Driven by a sudden, desperate hope, he scanned the entire tomb, not just the statue. His Sight was designed to pick up on things with hidden intent. At the base of the tomb, behind the statue, he saw it: a faint, glowing line, a seam in the stone that was almost invisible. It glowed with a different aura, a protective blue-white. [Intent: Concealment. Protection.]

This was it. A hidden compartment. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was something his father had built, something he intended to keep secret forever. He ran his fingers along the seam until he found it—a single, loose stone. He pushed. With a low, grinding groan that echoed in the silent crypt, a section of the tomb slid open, revealing a small, hidden alcove.

Inside was a small, dark ironwood box, bound with silver. It was old, but perfectly preserved against the damp. His hands trembled as he lifted it out. He set it on the floor and slowly, reverently, lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded black velvet, were three items.

The first was a small traveler's harp, its wood the color of pale bone, its strings made of silver. It was an instrument of exquisite beauty, fit for a prince.

The second was a folded banner of black silk. As he carefully unfolded it, the sigil was revealed: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, rendered in blood-red thread.

The last item was a sealed letter. In a woman's elegant, flowing hand, it was addressed simply: For my child.

His hands shook so badly he could barely break the seal. He opened the letter.

My dearest child, it began.

If you are reading this, it means I could not be there to watch you grow, and my heart breaks at the thought. Please, never believe you were a mistake, or a secret born of shame. You are a child of love, a love that was truer than any crown or kingdom. Your father was Prince Rhaegar. He was a good and gentle man, full of songs and sorrow, and he loved you fiercely from the moment he knew you were coming. He believed you were a promise for a better world.

I don't know what world you will grow up in, my sweet child. I am giving you to my brother, your uncle Ned. He is the most honorable man I know. Trust him. He may have to make hard choices to protect you, choices you may not understand, but know he does it all for love of me, and for you.

Be brave. Be kind. And know, always, that I loved you more than my own life. You are my greatest hope.

Your Mother, Lyanna

Jon stared at the letter, his mind refusing to accept the words. It was a trick. A cruel, impossible jape. He was Jon Snow. His father was Eddard Stark, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. He looked at the items again—the harp, the banner, the letter—and a storm of denial raged within him. This couldn't be true. It was a lie, a fantasy woven by a dead woman to protect her shame.

But even as his mind recoiled, the pieces began to click into place, years of quiet hurts and confusing moments suddenly snapping into a new, terrible clarity. He thought of every time he had asked about his mother, every time Lord Stark's face had become a mask of stone.

And then, the memory hit him with the force of a physical blow. A conversation from years ago, when he had been a small boy. He had asked, his voice trembling, "Am I your son?"

And Eddard Stark, his face full of a sorrow Jon hadn't understood, had placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "You are my blood."

My blood.

The words echoed in his memory, stark and precise. He had never said "son." Not once, not ever, had the most honorable man in Westeros told that specific lie. He had only ever said, "You are my blood."

The denial shattered, replaced by a cold, horrifying certainty. It was true. He was not Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. He was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He was not a stain on his father's honor; he was the reason for it.

The world seemed to dissolve into a blaze of blue light as the System reacted to the revelation, its notifications appearing not one by one, but all at once, a tidal wave of information that overwhelmed his senses.

[Legacy Quest Complete: The Ghost of a Mother]

[Hidden Truths Revealed: You are Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne]

[Dragon & Wolf Branch Awakened!]

[Rank Up! Rank 3 -> Rank 4]

[You have 2 Skill Points.]

He fell to his knees in the cold, silent dark of the crypt, the letter in one hand, the silver harp in the other. He was no longer a bastard. He was a prince. A king. And in a world that wanted him dead for that very fact, he was more alone than he had ever been in his life.

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[A/N]

I'm really glad you all are enjoying the story so far—so here's another chapter! Honestly, I'm both excited and a little nervous about where things are heading. The scope is growing, more characters are entering the game… and it's only going to get wilder from here.