A delicate carriage came to a halt by the roadside, its wheels crunching softly over fallen leaves. From within stepped a young noble lady and her maid, their steps light and careful, while a group of armed guards kept a watchful eye over the surroundings.
The girl's wide eyes scanned the open field, disappointment quickly surfacing in her voice.
"Ser, why do I feel like there are far fewer wildflowers than before?" she asked curiously, tilting her head.
Her guard, a weathered knight with graying hair at his temples, smiled patiently.
"Because, My Lady, autumn has arrived. The long summer is ending, and the chill of winter approaches. Flowers are scarce once the cold sets in."
The young noble was only seven or eight years old, a child of the long summer that had lasted for over a decade. Like most born in those years, she had never truly experienced winter's cruel bite. To her, the coming cold was an abstract thing, a story told by elders rather than a terror carved into memory.
"Oh, I see…" she said softly, her lips pursed in disappointment. Her gaze wandered aimlessly across the fields, but suddenly her eyes lit up. She tugged at her maid's sleeve and pointed.
"Ser, look! Over there!"
The guards turned at once. From the north, a young rider approached on horseback, his posture tall and calm. His mount was magnificent—broad-chested, strong-limbed, and steady beneath him. But what caught the little lady's attention most was not the rider, but the creature that followed at his heels: a direwolf with snow-white fur, its stride silent yet commanding.
"Don't be afraid, My Lady," one of the guards said reassuringly. "That must be a man of the Night's Watch… and his beast."
The girl's excitement warred with her timidness. She clutched her maid's hand as the rider passed them without pause, his expression distant, his eyes fixed ahead.
Jon Snow rode past the carriage with Ghost trotting loyally beside him, ignoring the curious stares. Inwardly, however, his heart lightened.
[Upgrade count: 1]
The words flickered across his mind, and a faint smile curved his lips. His golden finger had granted him another upgrade. Each month, one count was added—an inexhaustible stream of potential growth, so long as he continued to live.
He could use it to strengthen any of his existing entries, sharpening them into formidable weapons. Another path, riskier yet promising, was to earn entries through battle—by killing enemies and claiming their essence. But that method he had yet to test.
For now, Jon chose restraint. Though the temptation to strengthen himself further was strong, he knew the storm looming over Westeros was vast and bloody. Misusing an upgrade on trivial matters would be wasteful.
In his past life as a businessman, he had learned the importance of liquidity. Cash flow meant survival—flexibility to adapt to shifting markets and unpredictable human hearts. Here, in this brutal world, upgrade counts were his cash flow. They must be saved for decisive moments, when a single investment could turn defeat into victory.
The road stretched onward, and soon the familiar silhouette of Winterfell rose before him. High stone walls, ancient towers, smoke rising from hearths—it was a sight both familiar and strange after his long absence.
Ghost bounded ahead, excitement visible even in the beast's measured gait. The direwolf raced up a small hill, ears pricked forward, eyes gleaming.
"Ghost!" Jon called, his voice steady but carrying warmth. The direwolf turned at the sound. "Let Winterfell know we've returned."
Ghost whined low in his throat, then turned and sprinted higher. He threw back his great head and loosed a long, rolling howl.
Awooooo—
The sound echoed across the forests and fields, reverberating against Winterfell's walls. Leaves shivered in the trees, birds startled into flight, and across the castle people paused, heads lifting at the ancient, wild cry.
Theon Greyjoy was one of them. He stiffened, his hand tightening around his sword hilt as the sound struck something deep inside him.
"That howl…" he muttered. It wasn't Grey Wind's, nor Summer's, nor Shaggydog's. This voice came from the north.
Awooooo—
Ghost howled again, and this time the call was answered. Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog all raised their voices, the chorus of direwolves ringing across Winterfell.
Awooooo— awooooo— awooooo—
The cries stirred the hearts of all who heard them. Rickon woke from a nap, clutching his blanket, while Robb and Maester Luwin exchanged uneasy glances over a table piled with documents. Bran, sitting in his saddle strapped atop Hodor's massive back, turned his head eagerly.
"Hodor, let's go see what's happening."
"Hodor," the gentle giant replied, lumbering toward the courtyard with Bran perched high.
Theon's heart pounded. A grin split his face as realization dawned. "Jon… he's returned."
He had prepared for this. For months, he had replayed the moment in his mind: what he would say, how he would confront his foster-brother. A whole script was ready, sharpened into cutting words designed to sting.
"Do you remember what I told you?" Theon asked his companions.
"Yes, Lord Robb was furious about Jon's desertion from the Wall," one guard answered. "He commanded that we bring him back."
"Good." Theon's grin widened. "Then let's ride."
A handful of men mounted quickly, and together they galloped out of Winterfell, hooves thundering across the packed earth. It wasn't long before Theon spotted him: a lone rider with a white wolf at his side.
Jon Snow.
A sinister smile curved Theon's lips as he spurred his horse forward. He raised his voice loudly enough for nearby farmers to hear, his words edged with scorn.
"Jon! What have you done? You're a deserter of the Night's Watch! You've disgraced Winterfell! You've shamed Lord Stark himself! Tell me, bastard—what will you do now?"
Jon regarded Theon with calm, unflinching eyes. This boy—this man who had always sought validation by belittling him—no longer stirred any ripple in Jon's heart. He had already thought long and hard about Theon during his journey home.
Why had Balon Greyjoy, Theon's father, attacked the North of all places? Why squander his fleet on the cold and poor coastlines, when the golden Westerlands lay ripe for plunder? Was his vision so warped that he thought Robb and Stannis doomed to fail, seeking favor with the Lannisters early? Yet if that was the case, why declare himself king?
The more Jon considered it, the less sense it made. Pirates were simple men, driven by plunder, not politics. Balon's choice had always baffled him.
No matter. Theon was a piece to be moved, not an opponent to waste anger on.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," Jon said at last, his voice sharp with cold resolve. "I'll cut off Joffrey's head."
Theon blinked, startled, before barking a laugh. "You? Cut off the King's head? Do you even know who you are? You're nothing!" He turned to his men, waving his hand. "Seize him! Deserters face the same fate everywhere—prepare for his beheading!"
The guards urged their horses forward, surrounding Jon with drawn steel. But Jon's hand was already on his sword, calm and steady. He doubted Robb would ever truly condemn him. Robb Stark, for all his youthful pride, could not bear to punish family as he did strangers.
Theon's attempt was nothing but bluster.
Jon's lips twisted into a thin smile. "Tell me, Theon—do you truly believe you'll inherit the Iron Islands? That your father's lands and title will pass to you?"
Theon stiffened, his smug expression faltering. "What do you mean? Of course they will!" His voice cracked with an edge of doubt he could not hide.
Jon's eyes narrowed. "You've stayed in Winterfell too long. Your thinking has become westernized." His voice dripped disdain on the word. "The Ironborn do not inherit like the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Do you truly believe your claim is uncontested? Your sister, Asha—by your age, she had already taken ships, raided merchants, spilled blood for her people. And you? You still pay for women's company. Tell me, Theon… are you even a Greyjoy?"
Theon's face reddened, his pride pricked where it hurt most. "What do you know? I am male! I am my father's only son! That makes me heir!"
Jon's smile deepened, cold as the winds sweeping off the Wall. "Is that so? Then prove it. Go to the Iron Islands. Raise your banners. Sail against the Westerlands while Tywin bleeds himself in the Riverlands. The gold mines lie undefended. Isn't that a prize worth seizing? Convince your father, if you can. Or find out whether your inheritance is still yours at all."
The words struck like a hammer. Theon's bluster faltered, uncertainty flashing across his eyes. For the first time, he realized that the bastard he had once mocked was no longer content to be his target. Jon Snow had changed.
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