章 8: Chapter 7
As Jon and Ser Arthur Dayne neared White Harbor, the city sprawled out before them like something out of a historical reenactment, only with fewer turkey legs and more people who looked like they'd stab you for looking at them wrong. The docks were a chaotic mess of shouting sailors, squawking seagulls, and the occasional smell of fish that made Jon long for a cheeseburger—something he was never going to get in this medieval hellscape. The salty sea breeze hit him like a reminder that, yes, he was still stuck in this world with no Wi-Fi or Netflix to save him.
Three days of hard riding had brought them here, to the last major city before they reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, which would take them to Castle Black. "Castle Black," Jon thought, letting the name roll around in his head like an ominous movie title. He knew exactly what awaited him there, and spoiler alert: it wasn't exactly sunshine and rainbows.
Jon's thoughts drifted back to Winterfell, where he'd left Ghost with Robb Stark. Sure, the direwolf was in good hands, but this wasn't just about making sure Ghost didn't eat someone's pet chicken. Thanks to his handy-dandy warging ability, Jon could tap into Ghost's senses, keeping tabs on things back home like some kind of medieval drone. It wasn't exactly HBO, but it'd have to do for now.
And then there was the matter of that letter Catelyn Stark received from Lysa Arryn. The thing was like a soap opera plot device, designed to stir up trouble with wild accusations against the Lannisters. Jon couldn't help but roll his eyes—he knew the real deal, and it wasn't nearly as juicy as Lysa made it out to be. Jon Arryn's death was the handiwork of one Petyr Baelish, a.k.a. Littlefinger, and this letter was just his way of tossing a match into a room full of gasoline.
Ah, Littlefinger. The man, the myth, the walking cliché of every sneaky bad guy ever. Jon knew he'd have to deal with Baelish eventually. The guy was like a cockroach—hard to kill and always hiding in the shadows, plotting his next move. Jon was already strategizing how to track down Littlefinger's hidden assets because, in this game, taking control of the money meant taking control of the board.
Of course, finding Littlefinger's stash wasn't going to be easy. The man was a master at covering his tracks. Jon would have to use all the modern-day knowledge he had—well, what little he could apply to a world where people thought leeches were cutting-edge medical treatment—and maybe a little warging on the side to figure out where Littlefinger was hiding his loot.
Jon also had plans to exploit the strained relationship between Catelyn Stark and Petyr Baelish. Catelyn might think of Baelish as a harmless old friend, but Jon knew better. He figured that if he could plant the right seeds of doubt, maybe hint at Baelish's less-than-honorable intentions toward both Tully sisters, it might just be enough to drive a wedge between them. And let's be real—who wouldn't want to knock that smug grin off Littlefinger's face?
But Jon knew he had to play it cool. You don't just go around accusing one of the most manipulative people in Westeros without some serious backup. If he was going to take Baelish down, he had to do it subtly, like the way people would secretly uninstall Candy Crush from your phone because they're tired of your notifications.
And then, of course, there was that little hiccup of Ser Arthur catching him warging into Ghost. Yeah, that was awkward. The legendary knight had walked in on Jon mid-warg, and now Jon had to figure out how to explain his magic powers without sounding like he belonged in a D&D campaign. The last thing he needed was to freak out his only ally with tales of body-snatching wolves and visions of the future.
—
Flashback time
Jon took a deep breath, mentally prepping himself for what was probably one of the most surreal moments of his life—and that was saying something, considering he was currently living in a medieval fantasy world with dragons and zombies. He was about to spill the beans on his warging abilities to Ser Arthur Dayne, a guy who was supposed to be dead but wasn't, and who probably had more experience with swords than conversations about mystical animal mind-melding.
"Ser Arthur," Jon began, trying to channel his inner Jon Snow gravitas, though the 16-year-old modern-day teenager inside him was screaming, Dude, this is nuts!. "What you saw earlier… it's called warging. It's an ability that lets me jump into the minds of animals, see what they see, and, well, kinda live through them."
Ser Arthur's eyebrows did this little dance of surprise before settling into a thoughtful furrow. "Warging," he echoed, like he was mentally flipping through a deck of medieval trading cards, trying to find the one labeled WTF Is Warging?. "I've heard tales of such powers, but never imagined I'd see them firsthand."
Jon nodded, trying to play it cool even though part of him wanted to scream, You and me both, buddy!. "It's a Stark thing," he explained, leaning into the whole brooding Northerner vibe. "It's been dormant for generations, but it's waking up now."
What Jon didn't mention—because how do you even start that conversation—was that the whole warging gig was something he knew about from binge-watching Game of Thrones. This was supposed to be fantasy fiction, and here he was, living it. Reality was officially weirder than any plot twist George R.R. Martin could come up with, and that guy had written about shadow demons and ice zombies.
As Ser Arthur processed the info, Jon couldn't help but wonder if the knight was considering his exit strategy. After all, "Hey, I can possess animals" wasn't exactly something you heard every day, even in a world with dragons and giants. But Arthur just nodded, that legendary poker face of his still firmly in place. Dude's a rock, Jon thought. Must be why they called him the Sword of the Morning—because he's stone-cold awesome.
Then came the bombshell Jon had been half-expecting: Ser Arthur's curiosity was piqued. Jon could see the gears turning in the knight's head, probably thinking about how Jon's Stark heritage was mixing with his Targaryen blood. Maybe that's why his warging seemed extra intense—like Stark wolf magic on Targaryen dragon steroids. That could mean Jon was some sort of super-Stark with a dragon bonus level. Which, honestly, sounded like something out of a fanfic, but hey, so did this entire situation.
Finally, Arthur spoke, and Jon felt like he was holding his breath for the epic judgment. "Your secret is safe with me, Jon Snow. I understand the importance of discretion in matters like this."
Jon exhaled in relief. *Whew, no beheading today*. He'd taken a gamble trusting Arthur, but it looked like the knight was on his side. For now, at least. "Thank you, Ser Arthur," Jon said, genuinely meaning it. Having someone in his corner who wasn't about to freak out over his new abilities was a big win. In a world where trust was as rare as a summer snow, Jon figured he could use all the allies he could get.
Later that evening, Jon decided to give Arthur a little show-and-tell. If you've got a cool superpower in a medieval world, might as well use it to bond with your resurrected sword-wielding buddy, right? He focused on Shadow, his trusty black steed, and dove into the warging thing like he was logging into his favorite game. One moment he was Jon Snow, brooding bastard of Winterfell, and the next, he was Shadow, seeing the world through horse eyes. Pro tip: Everything looks way bigger when you're four feet short and on four legs.
Arthur watched, clearly amazed, as Jon and Shadow synced up like a perfectly choreographed dance. Jon could feel the strength in Shadow's muscles, the rhythm of his breathing, the way the world seemed sharper, more alive. It was like switching to HD after playing on an old CRT monitor—everything was just… more.
When Jon finally came back to himself, he felt this rush of energy, like he'd just leveled up in the most epic way possible. Enhanced Speed, Heightened Senses, Increased Stamina—he was getting all the perks. And with Shadow as his partner-in-crime, Jon knew he was more ready than ever for the craziness that lay ahead.
As they prepared to continue their journey, Jon couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence. Sure, he was a 16-year-old from the modern world stuck in the body of a fantasy hero, but he was starting to get the hang of it. He wasn't just Jon Snow, and he wasn't just some random kid out of place in this world. He was something more—something that could change the game. And honestly? He was ready to see what happened next.
—
Back to our regularly scheduled program
As Jon took in the salty air of White Harbor, he felt the weight of the world—or at least, this messed-up medieval one—on his shoulders. He was playing a dangerous game, one that involved lies, betrayal, and probably a lot more sword fighting than he was comfortable with. But this was his life now, and if he was going to survive, he'd have to play smarter, not harder.
He might be stuck in a world with no electricity, no internet, and no escape, but that didn't mean he couldn't outmaneuver everyone else. After all, he'd seen the show, read the books, and knew the spoilers. And if he played his cards right, maybe—just maybe—he could write a better ending than the one he'd watched on TV.
—
As Jon and Ser Arthur navigated the winding streets of White Harbor, Jon couldn't help but feel like he'd just stepped into the pages of one of his favorite fantasy novels. Except, plot twist: he was the protagonist now, and this wasn't some escapist dream—it was real. The air was thick with the tang of salt from the nearby sea, mixed with the warm, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread and the exotic zing of spices he couldn't name if his life depended on it. It was a total sensory overload compared to the sanitized, processed smells of his old life. The streets were alive with activity: merchants shouted their wares, sailors yelled at each other over crates, and kids darted between stalls, laughing as they probably pocketed a few loose coins or apples.
And then, out of the chaos, like a friendly NPC you actually want to talk to, Ser Wylis Manderly strolled up with a grin that could've powered Winterfell through a blizzard. Jon almost sighed with relief. Finally, a familiar face in this wild medieval mess. He just hoped this encounter didn't trigger some side quest he wasn't ready for.
"Ser Wylis," Jon greeted, doing his best to channel that broody, stoic vibe Ned Stark seemed to have trademarked. "Good to see you. Thanks for letting your father know we were coming."
Ser Wylis's smile widened, and Jon couldn't help but notice how *genuine* the guy seemed. "Of course, my lord. Lord Stark speaks highly of you. He wanted to make sure you and Ser Donnel were well looked after while you're here."
Jon nodded, trying to play it cool even though his inner monologue was basically screaming OMG, I'm living in Westeros, and these people think I'm actually Jon Snow. "Please thank your father for his hospitality. We're looking forward to exploring White Harbor." *And by 'exploring,' I mean trying not to get killed or accidentally start a war.*
As they followed Ser Wylis through the thrumming heart of the city, Jon couldn't help but gawk at everything like a total tourist. The shops, the colors, the sounds—everything was just so alive. It was like someone had cranked the saturation up on reality. Back in his old life, this would've been the ultimate field trip. Now, though, it was his life, and every corner they turned felt like it could lead to a random encounter with a not-so-friendly face.
And speaking of faces, Jon noticed Ser Arthur's had that classic "something's not right" look. The knight's eyes flicked around, scanning the crowd like he was half-expecting a wild boar to come charging out of nowhere.
"Is something bothering you, Ser Donnel?" Jon asked, trying to sound casual but also low-key hoping the answer wasn't, Yes, we're about to get ambushed.
Ser Arthur hesitated, his gaze lingering on a particularly shady-looking merchant. "It's nothing serious," he said, but Jon could tell by his tone that "nothing serious" in Westeros probably translated to stay alert unless you want to end up as sword practice. "Just a general sense of unease. In these times, it's wise to keep your wits about you."
Jon nodded, trying to internalize the advice like it was just another piece of trivia he'd picked up while binge-watching Game of Thrones—except now, his life might actually depend on it. The world outside White Harbor was straight-up dangerous, and if the past few days had taught him anything, it was that paranoia wasn't just a word in Westeros; it was a survival tactic.
As they continued their tour of the city, Jon found himself genuinely impressed by the harbor's hustle and bustle. It was like watching a living, breathing organism, with ships docking and departing, and people from all walks of life mingling in a chaotic dance. The sights, the sounds—it was all so immersive that for a moment, Jon almost forgot he wasn't just watching this unfold on a screen.
But then reality kicked back in when he noticed a shop window filled with ancient maps, glinting gemstones, and intricate jewelry. It was a reminder that this world was deep, complex, and very, very real. And unlike in a TV show, there was no guarantee of a happy ending.
As the day wore on and the city's energy mellowed with the setting sun, Jon and Ser Arthur finally found a moment of peace. Ser Wylis's hospitality was a welcome relief, and for the first time since he'd ended up in this crazy world, Jon felt like he was starting to get a handle on things. With Ser Arthur watching his back and his own modern-day knowledge of Westeros tucked away in his brain, Jon was beginning to feel like he could actually survive in this world.
Maybe even thrive.
And who knows? If he played his cards right, he might even rewrite some of those spoilers into something better.
---
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