The glowing words suspended before Jon Snow steadied his heart. They were not just a strange phenomenon but his confidence, his lifeline for heading south and surviving what lay ahead.
Each entry gleamed in a different color, their hues representing qualities—strength, talent, mastery. Among them, the one that shone brightest was Swordsmanship, dyed a vivid blue.
It made sense. From the time he could first grip a wooden stick, Jon had been inseparable from the idea of the sword. Even before he could walk properly, he had toddled about Winterfell's yard with a makeshift blade, imitating knights and heroes from the stories Old Nan used to tell.
More than anything, Jon had admired the "Young Dragon King," that Targaryen monarch who had risen to glory at a tender age. The boy-king's legend had carved itself into Jon's heart, igniting an obsession to master the sword and carve a destiny beyond the title of "bastard."
His diligence had borne fruit. At just fifteen, his Swordsmanship had already reached blue. Even within that hue, there was a subtle shimmer of purple pushing through, like dawn breaking over the horizon.
From his observations, purple-level skill was the mark of a true first-rate swordsman, the kind whose name would echo across taverns and battlefields alike.
And yet… Jon did not intend to spend his precious upgrade on Swordsmanship.
For one, he believed he could reach purple on his own, through sweat, grit, and endless practice. Using a once-in-a-lifetime chance for something he could achieve by effort alone felt wasteful.
Secondly, Swordsmanship had its limits. Even a great swordsman, unless blessed with inhuman speed or clad in impenetrable armor, could not face a dozen enemies at once. Not unless they were like the legendary Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself.
Jon glanced at the other entries.
Archery was out of the question. He hadn't brought a bow or arrows when he left the Wall. Even if he had, it was not as if he could rain arrows upon his former brothers.
Warging offered another option. Through it, Jon could project his mind into Ghost, see through the direwolf's eyes, hunt through his fangs. But while his spirit roamed, his body would be left vulnerable—immobile, exposed to a single knife thrust. That, too, was impractical.
Which left only one true choice: God's Perspective.
Jon's lips pressed together in a tight line. God's Perspective—it was, simply put, a kind of map hack.
But unlike a crude trick, this entry offered both clarity and strategy. He could not only "see" the terrain around him but also sense the placement of friend and foe. If close enough, he could even glean fragments of information about the enemy—numbers, direction, perhaps even intent. His mind, as if guided by invisible hands, would instinctively weave strategies most suited to the battlefield.
At present, its range was limited—two to three hundred meters. But Jon suspected that with an upgrade, the ability would sharpen and expand. If he was already being hunted, if the encirclement had yet to tighten, this was his one chance to slip the noose.
He did not hesitate.
The moment he triggered the upgrade, the text before him shifted. New words, almost solemn in their poetry, unfolded:
[God's Perspective — Soldiers need only follow their lord's banner, but officers must weigh the clash of formations. A true commander carries the land within his heart. To overlook the battlefield as the gods do, with an army at one's back, is to walk as a deity among men.]
The pale green faded, replaced by a deep, ocean-like blue.
A shiver coursed down Jon's spine as the world around him changed. It was as if a thousand candles had been lit in his mind. He could feel the terrain for nearly a kilometer—every ridge, every hollow, every tangled tree. More than that, he sensed the presence of people like sparks in the dark. Clusters here, lone figures there. Even their numbers revealed themselves faintly to him.
His lips curled into something between awe and disbelief. This is only blue. What if it were purple? Or higher? Would I see the whole of the battlefield as if spread upon a painted map? Would victory be no different from moving pieces on a board?
For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself on some vast plain, armies at his command, breaking foes twice or thrice his number. His name—Jon Snow—etched into history as one of Westeros' great commanders.
But he shook his head sharply. Fantasies would not save him now.
He focused, scanning the field.
Six or seven figures to the east. Too many. Even if their skill was not great, their sheer numbers risked exposing him.
Three to five in the north. Three more to the west. But west led to the sea. If he went that way, he'd be cornered against the waves, his room to maneuver shrinking with every step.
The north, then. Risky, but the best option. He could feign retreat, lure them, and counterattack. Such tactics were difficult to predict, and Jon trusted his instincts.
Then his perception flickered, catching on a lone spark to the southeast. One figure. Stronger than the rest. Jon's brows furrowed. A Ranger.
Rangers of the Night's Watch were shadows in the wilds, ghosts feared by wildlings. Each one skilled beyond doubt, armed, armored, mounted. Against Jon—tired, half-starved, lacking armor—it was a deadly matchup.
If I had not known their habits… another man might have walked straight into death.
He crouched and called softly, "Ghost."
The white direwolf padded to his side, silent as snowfall, eyes gleaming red. Jon stroked the thick fur of his neck. "I need you to run ahead. Scare their warhorses. Howl, then vanish. Understand?"
Ghost wagged his tail, pressed his wet nose into Jon's palm, then slipped into the shadows, a phantom in the underbrush.
Moments later, a howl split the forest—deep, haunting, echoing through the trees. Horses whinnied in alarm.
Far away, voices rose.
"Jon—!"
"Jon, where are you?"
"Jon, it's Grenn!"
The familiar rough voice carried clumsily across the woods.
Jon stiffened, a pang twisting in his chest. Grenn. Loyal, simple-minded Grenn. And Pypar was surely with him.
But voices carried, and in their recklessness, they endangered themselves.
Sure enough, Pypar's anxious whisper cut in, "Grenn! Stop shouting like that. If Jon hears you, he won't come!"
"What? Why not?"
"Because of pride, you oaf! If he's desperate, he won't risk dragging us down. He won't… ask for help."
Grenn scratched his head audibly. "Don't use my own voice? Then whose voice should I use?"
Before Pypar could explain further, a stern Night's Watch soldier snapped, "You two! Quiet. Search properly."
The pair fell silent, shame-faced, and followed as the group pressed northward.
Then came the cry: "We found the deserter! Hurry!"
Their hearts lurched. The deserter. Jon. And the direction… Pypar realized with dread… was north. Exactly where Alliser Thorne was hunting.
---
Fifteen minutes earlier, Ser Alliser Thorne had been combing the woods, his patience thinning. He hated Jon Snow with a bitterness that clung to his very bones. The boy's talent, his airs, his direwolf—all of it grated against him.
Then he heard it: the low, chilling howl of a wolf.
His lips peeled back in a sneer. A direwolf. Snow's direwolf.
Hatred flared hot. I'll skin that beast and make myself a coat worthy of a lord.
He spurred his horse. "After it! The wolf leads us to the boy!"
But the wolf was fast, weaving through trees, a white blur impossible for horses to catch. Yet Alliser caught glimpses now and then—a flash of fur, a tail vanishing into brush. Ghost even paused once, scratching the ground almost mockingly, his red eyes glowing.
Rage blinded Thorne. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and rode hard. "I'll have your pelt, beast!"
He closed in, raising the bowstring, when suddenly the world turned upside down.
Something crashed down from above, slamming into him with brutal force. He toppled from his saddle, his breath punched out. Before he could recover, his arms were wrenched behind him, rope biting into his wrists.
Blinking, gasping, he twisted his head—only to see a pale face, grim and unyielding.
Jon Snow.
"You… bastard!" Alliser spat, fury boiling. "Maester Aemon has already written to Winterfell! Even if you crawl back, you'll find only death waiting!"
Jon's jaw tightened. His eyes, though, were steady—harder than Alliser had ever seen before.
The hunter had become the hunted.
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