ASOIAF : Creed

[A/N] - Yes, I know I completely forgot about the system inventory in the story and didn't make use of it, so it might seem abrupt to bring it up now. I apologize for the oversight and will do my best not to make such glaring mistakes again. Thanks for bearing with me!

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The days after the wight attack felt strange and unreal. Jon focused only on his purpose, the chaos of the world outside seeming distant, held back by the massive Wall. He spent his time preparing, not just for a journey, but to become someone new. The boy he had been, Jon Snow, was fading away, and Aemon Targaryen was being born in the coldest place in the world.

His mornings were spent with his uncle. On the third day, Benjen took him to the top of the Wall. They rode the winch lift, a shaky iron cage that groaned its way up the seven hundred feet of ice. As they went higher, the world below them grew smaller, looking like a map of grey and white. When they stepped out onto the top, a vast and terrifying view of endless white opened up before them. The wind was so strong and cold it felt like a solid wall, pulling at their cloaks and making it hard to breathe.

Benjen pulled his furs tighter, his face grim. "It takes your breath away, doesn't it?" he shouted over the howl of the wind. "Every time." He looked out at the vast, empty wilderness to the north. "She would have loved this view," he said, his voice softer, almost stolen by the wind. "Lyanna. She was never one for castle walls. She belonged out here, in the wild." He turned to Jon, his eyes full of a deep, sad concern. "You have that same spirit in you, Jon. Don't let the world change it."

Jon simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He felt the cold, of course, a biting sting on his exposed cheeks. But the deep, bone-aching chill he had expected wasn't there. A subtle, constant warmth emanated from his body, a quiet defiance against the wind. It was the [Cold Resistance] skill, a gift from his Stark blood, and it was the first time he had truly felt the power of his newly awakened skill.

His afternoons were spent in the quiet, cluttered warmth of Maester Aemon's solar. Their lessons were not like those he'd had with Maester Luwin. Aemon did not teach him history; he taught him family. He spoke of the Targaryen kings not as figures in a book, but as men he had known, men his father had known, or from a family history he knew with an intimate, personal detail.

Jon found himself listening not as a student, but as a descendant, feeling a strange, connection to these long-dead kings of fire and blood.

"Aegon the Conqueror was a visionary," Aemon said one afternoon, his blind eyes seeming to see a time long past. "But it was his sister Visenya who was the true warrior, stern and unforgiving. Rhaenys, the younger, ruled with her heart. Remember this, child: our family has always been a balance of duty, passion, and fire. When that balance breaks, so does the kingdom."

He spoke of Daeron the Good, who had brought Dorne into the realm with a marriage pact, not a war. He spoke of Baelor the Blessed, whose piety was a madness that nearly tore the family apart. He gave Jon not just facts, but the unwritten truths of politics: the whispers, the rivalries, the subtle currents of ambition that truly governed the great game.

He also guided Jon through the oldest, most forbidden texts in the library. One afternoon, he had Clydas bring out a crumbling scroll, its parchment as thin as a dead leaf. It was written in a forgotten dialect of the Old Tongue.

"This is from the time of the Long Night," Aemon said, his voice a low whisper. "Read to me what you can."

Jon stumbled through the strange, guttural words, the System subtly providing translations in his mind. The text was not a history; it was a desperate prayer, a plea to the Old Gods. It spoke of a "winter that never ends," of "demons of ice and shadow with eyes like blue stars," and of a hero who would come bearing a sword of fire. It was a chilling confirmation of the quest the System had given him.

His evenings were his own. He knew he could not leave for Essos unprepared. He needed tools. He went to the forge, where the one-armed smith, Donal Noye, was hammering a new set of spearheads into shape.

"Master Noye," Jon said, his tone respectful.

"Snow," Noye grunted, not looking up from his work. "What do you want?"

"I need to commission a piece," Jon said. "A custom bracer. Reinforced leather and steel. For my journey."

Noye finally looked up, his one good eye assessing. "A fancy bit of armor for a trip?"

"The lands are dangerous," Jon said smoothly. "A good bracer can turn a blade."

Noye grunted again, a sound that seemed to hold a measure of approval. "Aye, that it can. It'll cost you. In silver."

"I can pay," Jon said, placing a few of the coins he had taken from the smugglers on the anvil. Noye's eye widened slightly. He picked one up, bit it, and nodded.

"I'll have it for you in a week," he said.

A few days later, Jon returned. "I need another piece," he said. "A blade. Not a longsword. Something smaller, quicker. A stiletto, perhaps. For skinning game on the road, and for tight spaces, should the need arise."

Noye looked at him, a shrewd glint in his eye. "A lot of game to skin on the road is there?"

"You never know what you will need on a journey," Jon replied evenly.

Noye held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a short, barking laugh. "No, I suppose not many do." He nodded. "A good tool is a good tool, no matter its purpose. I'll forge you a blade that'll punch through boiled leather and bone."

He would return later for the small, intricate parts of the mechanism, under different pretexts. A spring for a snare trap. Interlocking plates for a puzzle box. Noye would find the requests odd, but a paying customer was a paying customer.

He checked his [Dragon & Wolf] branch in the System. The [Cold Resistance] was a tangible, constant presence. But the other skill, [Wolf-Dream], remained dormant. He had not had a single dream of a wolf since his awakening in the crypt. It was a quiet, unsettling absence, a part of his heritage that remained closed to him.

On one of his last few nights at the Wall, he stood in his small room, preparing for his departure. He laid his few possessions on the hard cot, and a wave of pure, practical panic washed over him. He had his new longsword, the bracer and stiletto from Noye, a small purse of coins, and the ironwood box.

The box was the true problem. It contained his secret—his mother's letter, the Targaryen banner, Rhaegar's harp. It was important to him, but it was also a death sentence. How could he possibly carry it? If his pack was ever searched by a guard, a thief, or a ship's captain, he would be discovered and his secret revealed.

He stared at the pile, a feeling of hopelessness settling over him. Leaving them wasn't an option. Getting caught with them was a death sentence. There had to be another way. As he wrestled with the impossible dilemma, a new notification chimed, different from the usual quests.

[User Intent Recognized: Secure Storage Required]

[Unused System Feature Detected: Inventory. Would you like a tutorial?]

Jon blinked, a jolt of disbelief and dawning hope running through him. The inventory. He remembered seeing the tab on his status screen but had been so overwhelmed by everything else that he had completely forgotten about it. "Yes," he thought, focusing on the word.

[Spatial Inventory Sub-Routine Activated. Capacity: 10 Slots. To store a non-living item of personal scale, focus your intent upon it. Retrieval requires a moment of concentration and is not viable in active combat.]

Tentatively, almost fearfully, Jon focused on the ironwood box. It dissolved into motes of blue light and vanished from sight. He instinctively brought up his [Status] screen and saw the [Inventory] tab glowing faintly. He focused on it, and a new screen appeared, showing a simple grid of ten empty squares. In the first slot was a perfect, glowing icon of the ironwood box. He could feel its presence, a weightless anchor in his mind.

A wave of relief washed over him. This changed everything. He quickly stored his longsword, the coins, and the new components for his hidden blade. It was a pocket storage, a perfect, untraceable hiding place. It was the ultimate tool for anyone. He had the knowledge of his past and the grim reality of the future. He had Aemon's counsel and Benjen's blessing. He was as ready as he would ever be.