The strings of text floating in front of Jon were exactly what gave him the confidence to head south.
Different colors meant different quality tiers.
Right now, his best one was the blue-tier perk under Swordsmanship.
When Jon was little, he practically held a sword before he could even walk. On top of that, he'd grown up idolizing the "Young Dragon"—a Targaryen king who built a legacy while still young—so he trained harder than anyone.
By fifteen, his sword skill had already reached blue, and it even carried a noticeable hint of purple.
From what Jon had seen, purple-tier swordsmanship was basically "top-class duelist" territory.
But he wasn't planning to spend his precious upgrade on Swordsmanship.
For one thing, with hard training, he could push it to purple on his own pretty quickly, so burning an upgrade on it would be a waste. And even a top-tier swordsman taking on a dozen enemies at once wasn't realistic.
Especially not when he didn't even have armor.
Unless he happened to be some legendary blade like the Sword of the Morning.
Archery was even less of an option—he hadn't brought a bow when he left the Wall. And he wasn't about to start shooting former brothers anyway.
As for Skinchanging, it meant Jon could push his mind into Ghost's body—but while he did that, his own body couldn't move at all.
So that was out too.
After turning it over in his head, only one choice made sense: Gods'-Eye View.
Put simply, it was a built-in map hack.
The difference was, Jon didn't just "see" the terrain and who was where. If someone was close enough, he could also pick up bits of information about them.
And his brain would automatically start assembling the best plan of action.
Right now, Jon could only pull in information from about two to three hundred meters around him—basically what you could plausibly see.
But he knew that if he upgraded it, he'd be able to judge the situation faster, more accurately, and across a wider area.
His position might already be known, but the net hadn't fully tightened yet.
That meant he could still find a thin spot and punch through.
He didn't hesitate. He upgraded the perk.
The next second, new text surfaced in front of him—tied to Gods'-Eye View:
```text
[Gods'-Eye View — A common soldier only needs to charge when he sees his lord's banner,
but an officer has to read the clash of formations.
A true commander carries the very ground beneath his feet inside his chest.
If he can look down on the land the way the gods do,
then with an army in hand, he's not much different from a god himself.]
```
Almost immediately, the pale green-white perk shifted into a deep ocean blue.
Jon felt the change with a jolt of surprise.
It was like someone had installed a radar in his skull. He looked around, and the terrain within roughly a kilometer snapped into focus.
He could even sense, in a rough way, how many people were in different directions.
"If this is only blue… then purple should cover even more ground, and the readout should be sharper too."
Jon couldn't help wondering—what if the level kept going up?
Based on how the perk described itself, would he eventually be running around with something like a full-map cheat?
On a battlefield, he'd be able to spot weak points instantly and seize the moment.
If he ever reached that day, he could become one of Westeros's great commanders.
Winning outnumbered fights would be routine.
But this wasn't the time to daydream. He needed an escape route, fast.
"Six or seven to the east. Three to five to the north. Three to the west… huh? And one in the southeast—looks like a ranger?"
The moment he realized that, Jon's expression hardened.
Rangers were the Night's Watch's elite—close to ghosts, if you asked the wildlings.
Their individual skill was no joke.
And this one had food, rest, and better condition than Jon—plus a warhorse and armor.
He was sitting right on Jon's most direct path. Going straight at him would be suicide.
Thank gods Jon understood how the Watch operated. If someone else had gotten this "cheat," they might've barreled right into that trap and died.
If he couldn't go straight through, he'd have to detour.
Too many men were to the east. Maybe they weren't all strong, and maybe he wouldn't be caught, but the odds of exposing himself would shoot way up.
The west and north had similar numbers, but if he ran west, they'd probably drive him toward the coast and keep shrinking his room to maneuver.
So the only real option was north.
Breaking out to the north meant doubling back—hitting them with a hard, unexpected turn.
That kind of move was notoriously difficult to guard against, and Jon liked his odds.
He lifted a hand, and the snow-white direwolf padded to his side.
"Ghost, I need you to get ahead and spook their horses. Just howl once from a distance, then run—got it?"
Ghost flicked his tail, gave Jon's hand one quick lick with a damp tongue, and took off north.
......
"Jon—!"
"Jon, where are you?!"
"Jon, it's me, Grenn!"
Grenn shouted without thinking, and Pyp immediately stopped him.
"Grenn! If you yell like that, do you really think Jon's going to come toward us?!"
"Huh? Why not?"
Pyp was the thoughtful one. In their little circle, Jon had always been the center of gravity—and on top of that, Jon was noble-born.
Pyp figured that if Jon truly got cornered, he probably wouldn't ask them for help.
It was pride, plain and simple, but Pyp wasn't educated enough to put that worry into words in a way Grenn would understand.
"Just—don't shout like that, all right? And don't use your normal voice!"
"Don't use my normal voice?"
Grenn scratched his head, completely lost.
"You two."
Pyp and Grenn turned. The Night's Watch man traveling with them was staring them down with a warning look.
Pyp stopped talking and went back to searching.
Just as they were about to push deeper, someone ran over and said, "Move! We found the deserter!"
Pyp and Grenn's hearts clenched, and they hurried after him.
Then Pyp hesitated—because the direction they were heading was north.
And north… was where Alliser was.
Rewind fifteen minutes.
Alliser had been searching from north to south when he suddenly heard a wolf howl. He recognized it immediately—a direwolf.
And everyone knew Jon Snow had a direwolf with pure white fur.
In private, Alliser had even fantasized about skinning the beast and turning it into a fancy cloak.
He ordered his men to chase toward the howl.
But a wolf moved through forest faster than any horse. Before long, it vanished.
"Damn beast. One day I'll peel your hide off myself!"
Alliser rode up under a large tree, staring as that white blur disappeared between the trunks—only to catch sight of it again, bounding through the brush.
The white direwolf even struck a taunting pose, scratching itself right in front of him like it didn't have a care in the world.
Alliser's anger flared hotter.
He urged his horse closer, drew his bow, and nocked an arrow.
But as he closed in, something slammed down from above and knocked him clean off the saddle.
By the time he processed what had happened, his arms were already wrenched behind his back and bound.
Alliser panted hard and twisted his head—and when he saw who'd attacked him, he snarled, "Jon! You little bastard! Maester Aemon has already written to Winterfell. Even if you go back, there's only one road left for you—death!"