Ned Stark didn't explain the extra security. He just gave the order and let people fill in the blanks.
It was smart, in a way. If he told the truth—that someone had been murdered in the rookery—panic would spread like wildfire. But keeping it secret had a downside: it left the killer in the shadows, unexposed and dangerous.
If whoever ordered the hit on Jon decided to try again, they could just blame it on "security threats" or accidents. If Jon died now, it would be just another footnote in the preparations for the Royal visit.
So Jon didn't take chances.
He armored up like he was going to war. Leather jerkin, chainmail hauberk, boiled leather breastplate. The only thing missing was a lance and a warhorse. He looked ridiculous for a simple perimeter patrol, but he felt a hell of a lot safer.
The castle was lit up like a Christmas tree. Torches burned on every wall and in every courtyard, turning night into day. The servants whispered, wondering if Wildlings had breached the Wall or if Ironborn were raiding again.
Maester Luwin eventually smoothed things over, explaining that the heightened security was simply standard protocol for the King's arrival. The tension melted into understanding, then excitement.
Dawn broke. Outriders returned with the news: the King was an hour away.
The rest of the day was a blur of pageantry. Jon watched from a distance—bastards weren't part of the receiving line—as King Robert Baratheon, fat and loud, rolled into Winterfell like a thunderstorm. He saw the beautiful, cold Queen Cersei. He saw the golden-haired "Prince" Joffrey.
Jon kept his head down, did his patrols, and stayed out of sight.
By nightfall, the feast was in full swing. Laughter and music spilled out of the Great Hall, along with the smell of roasted meat and strong wine.
The castle relaxed. The guards relaxed.
But Jon didn't. He was patrolling the outer walls with Theon, and while Jon was relieved to be outside the blast radius of the politics, Theon was miserable.
"Can you believe this?" Theon grumbled, kicking a loose stone. "They're in there drinking Arbor Gold and looking at Southern girls, and we're out here freezing our balls off."
Theon's eyes were practically glowing with FOMO. He was desperate to see the Southern ladies. To him, Northern women were sturdy and plain; Southern women were delicate flowers waiting to be plucked by a dashing Ironborn prince.
Jon saw an opportunity.
"Go," Jon said quietly, checking to make sure no other guards were near. "Sneak into the feast. Nobody will notice if one patrolman is missing for an hour. I can handle this sector alone."
Theon's face lit up. "You serious? You won't rat me out?"
"I'm a bastard, remember? I'm not supposed to be there anyway. But you... you're a ward. You should be inside."
Theon didn't need to be told twice. "You're a good lad, Snow. I owe you one."
He vanished into the shadows, heading for the side entrance of the Great Hall.
Good riddance, Jon thought.
Alone at last.
He drew his longsword and approached a training dummy set up near the guard post. He needed to burn off some nervous energy.
Thwack. Thwack. Crack.
The wood splintered. With three heavy swings, he chopped the dummy clean in half.
Jon paused, looking at the wreckage. Okay. That's new.
The system's strength boost was real. He was hitting harder, faster. The sword felt lighter in his hand.
But the satisfaction was short-lived.
Sure, he was stronger than a dummy. Maybe he was even stronger than the average guard now. But compared to Robb? Or Ser Rodrik? He was still at the bottom of the food chain.
And compared to the monsters of this world—The Mountain, The Hound, the Kingslayer? He was a bug.
And above them were the real monsters. Dragons. White Walkers. Shadow babies.
Stats or no stats, the plan remains the same, Jon told himself. Play it safe. Low profile. Survive.
He sheathed his sword, feeling a bit better. He turned to resume his patrol along the walkway.
That's when he saw them.
Two figures, cloaked in expensive fabric, slipping out of the side door of the Guest House. Even in the dim torchlight, the glint of golden hair was unmistakable.
They moved quickly, heading toward the abandoned Broken Tower.
Jon froze.
Oh no.
He knew exactly who they were. He knew exactly where they were going. And he knew exactly what they were going to do.
Don't look. Just walk away, Jon told himself. This is the catalyst for the entire series. Bran falls, war starts. It has nothing to do with me.
[DING.]
The mechanical voice echoed in his skull, cold and unwelcome.
[CRITICAL FATE NODE DETECTED.][Do you wish to enable Smart One-Click Hosting for worry-free advancement?]
Jon's blood ran cold.
"No," he whispered. "Don't you dare."
[The Gods have opened a gate. The world is changing. Please stand at the forefront, strive diligently, and rewrite your destiny...]
"NO! Cancel! Stop!"
[Initiating Smart Hosting.]
Jon's body jerked forward.
"Holy crap! Again?!"
His legs took off. He wasn't walking; he was sprinting. He blurred across the courtyard, moving with a speed that shouldn't have been possible in heavy armor.
Where are you going?! Not there! Anywhere but there!
His body ignored him. He rushed out of the shadows, trailing an afterimage like a superhero, and headed straight for the Broken Tower.
He reached the base of the tower in seconds.
Just ahead, in the shadows of the doorway, two people were embracing. They were frantic, hands roaming, lips locked.
It was the Lannister twins. Jaime and Cersei.
Jon's heart hammered against his ribs. This was a death sentence. Knowing this secret got Jon Arryn killed. It got Bran thrown out a window. It got Ned Stark beheaded.
Stop looking! Turn around! Run away!
[The Intelligent Striving System is at your service! One-Click Hosting: upgrading your life!]
"You're not upgrading my life, you're ending it!" Jon screamed internally.
His body didn't stop. He slowed down, entering "stealth mode" again. He crept toward the tower entrance, silent as a ghost.
The twins were too busy to notice. They were stumbling inside, half-undressed.
Jon's hand reached down.
What are you doing?
His hand picked up a rock. A heavy, jagged rock.
System?! Are you insane?!
His body began to stalk Jaime Lannister.
Jon felt like his mind was going to snap. That was the Kingslayer. One of the deadliest swordsmen in Westeros. Even if he was distracted, even if he was unarmored... sneaking up on him with a rock was suicide.
And if Jon actually killed him?
The plot would explode. The timeline would shatter. The North would be blamed for murdering a Kingsguard and the Queen's brother inside Winterfell. Tywin Lannister would burn the North to the ground.
We are all going to die, Jon thought, watching his own hand grip the rock tighter.
He was five steps away. Three steps.
Suddenly, the couple stopped.
Jaime broke the kiss. He shoved Cersei back, hard.
"Time is up," Jaime said, his voice rough but firm. "I must return to the feast."
Cersei grabbed his arm, her face flushed and angry. She cursed him, demanding he stay, but Jaime shook his head.
"Too risky," he muttered.
He turned around.
He walked straight toward the doorway. Straight toward Jon.
Jon stood there, frozen by the System, clutching a rock like a caveman.
Turn around! Jon screamed at his body. Turn around, hide, run, do something!
Jaime took a step closer. He was looking down, adjusting his tunic, but in two seconds, he would look up. And he would see Jon Snow standing there with a rock.
And then Jon Snow would die.
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