ASOIAF : Creed

Jon left the Maester's solar feeling both unburdened and heavier than ever. Aemon's words, his wisdom, had given him a strange sense of peace, a clarity of purpose. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Let the man be born. It was a hard command, but an honest one. He was Aemon Targaryen, and he would forge his own path.

As he descended the winding stairs, the main gate horn blew two sharp blasts, signaling the return of rangers. He stepped out into the courtyard just as a handful of men, their faces grey with exhaustion and frostbite, stumbled through the tunnel. They were leading two horses, each carrying a heavy, cloak-wrapped bundle. A body.

Lord Commander Mormont and Benjen were already there, their faces grim. Jon stood back, a ghost in the shadows, and watched.

"It was Othor and Jafer Flowers," the lead ranger said, his voice a ragged, terrified rasp. "We found them in the snow, two days north of the Skirling Pass. Butchered."

"Wildlings?" Mormont grunted.

"It had to be," the ranger shook his head, his eyes wide with a fear that went beyond any battle. "But it was… savage. Not like any raid I've ever seen. They were torn apart. We found no tracks but their own, and those of the attackers were scattered, as if they were trying to hide their numbers. It was a message, my lord. Mance Rayder's work. He's showing us he can strike wherever he pleases."

Jon listened, a chill that had nothing to do with the air at the Wall creeping down his spine. He saw the look that passed between his uncle and the Lord Commander, a look of grim, shared knowledge. This was the disciplined, unified wildling threat Benjen had written of.

He did not stay. This was a problem for the Night's Watch, a problem for the world he was about to leave behind. His own path was set. He continued to the small guest chamber he had been given, the ranger's terrified words echoing in his mind.

He lay on the hard cot, his mind a whirlwind. He took a moment to focus, to ground himself in the tangible. He brought up his interface. The journey north had unlocked the [Surefoot] ability. He spent the three skill points without hesitation, feeling a new certainty in his footing, a connection to the ground beneath him. It was a small comfort, but a real one. With his path forward now requiring him to traverse the unknown, it was a necessary skill. But it wasn't enough.

He felt a desperate need for control, for a problem he could solve not with words or secrets, but with the simple, honest truth of a blade. He thought of the capstone quest that had been sitting in his log, a challenge he had not felt ready for. Now, he needed it.

He brought up the interface.

[Capstone Quest Available: The Echoing Blade]

Description: A true master of the blade does not just fight; he becomes a song of steel, a perfect, flowing rhythm of death. To learn this art, you must walk in the footsteps of a master who has achieved it.

Objective: Survive the ambush at the Colosseum.

Would you like to begin?

"Begin," he whispered.

The world dissolved into white. When it reformed, he was no longer in a cold stone room at the end of the world. He was standing under the warm, golden sun of a southern city, the scent of dust and cypress in the air. He was in a vast, crumbling amphitheater—the Colosseum. He was Ezio Auditore once more, his body clad in the white and red robes of a Master Assassin.

And he was surrounded.

At least a dozen men, heavily armored Papal Guards, their faces hidden behind grim steel visors, had him cornered in the center of the ancient arena. They moved with a disciplined, professional deadliness.

[Memory Simulation: Survive]

The first two came at him at once. Jon—Ezio—reacted with the skills he knew. He used a [Perfect Parry] to deflect one man's sword, creating an opening to dispatch him, but as he did, the second man's blade slid past his guard, leaving a phantom sting of pain across his ribs. He grunted, spun, and killed the second man, but now two more were upon him. He was always a step behind, reacting, never controlling. When the third and fourth attackers joined the fray, their coordinated strikes became impossible to counter. A sword thrust he couldn't parry, a heavy blow from a poleaxe that broke his guard. The world dissolved into a screech of digital static.

[Desynchronization: Subject has failed. A master does not just survive; he dominates]

Jon gasped, his body convulsing on the hard cot. He could feel a phantom, searing agony in his chest where the final sword thrust had landed in the memory. It wasn't real, but the System made the echo of it feel terrifyingly so. For a moment, he lay there, trembling, the painful experience washing over him. But then, a cold resolve settled over him. He thought of his mother's letter, of Aemon's words. Kill the boy.

He was back at the start, the circle of guards closing in once more. He tried again. And again. And again. Each failure was a new death, a new phantom wound. A poleaxe to the skull that left his head ringing with imagined pain. A dagger in the ribs that made him clutch his side, gasping for a breath that wasn't truly gone. It was a unique kind of torture, a trial by a thousand deaths, but with each one, his will hardened. It was a testament to how broken, or how strong, he had become that he could willingly dive back into that abyss of pain, over and over, without going mad. In a way facing this pain was easier than thinking about the one the revelations had brought.

The System was not asking him to be a good swordsman. It was asking him to be perfect.

He did not know how many times he tried. He lost track of how many times he relived the same golden afternoon, the sun forever fixed in the sky above the Colosseum. He learned the attack patterns of every guard, the timing of every lunge, the arc of every swing. But it wasn't enough. He was still thinking, still calculating.

Then, on what must have been his thirtieth attempt, something inside him broke. The frustration, the fear, the grief of the past weeks—it all fell away, leaving a core of pure, cold calm. He stopped thinking. He stopped trying to win. He simply… moved.

The world seemed to slow down. The guards were no longer a dozen separate men; they were a single, flowing entity. His blade was no longer a weapon in his hand; it was a part of him. He didn't see openings; he anticipated them. He parried a blow before it was even thrown, his counter-attack already in motion. He flowed between them, his movements no longer a series of actions, but a single, unbroken line of perfect, lethal grace. It was not a fight. It was a song. The song of the sword.

One by one, they fell, not to brute force, but to a flawless, impossible efficiency. When the last man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, Jon—Ezio—stood in the center of the arena, his breathing even, his body untouched.

[Memory Synchronized. New Skill Unlocked: Sword Song]

Description: An active state where, for a limited time, every strike with a chosen weapon is a critical hit, and every parry perfectly staggers the foe. The pinnacle of martial prowess.

The world dissolved into white, and Jon snapped back to reality, gasping for air on the hard cot in his room at Castle Black. His body was drenched in sweat, his muscles aching as if he had truly fought for days. He looked out the window. The sun had barely moved. An hour, at most, had passed.

He had spent a lifetime in that memory, had died a multiple deaths, all to learn a single, perfect song.

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[A/N]: Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying the story so far!

Just wanted to add a quick note to clarify how the memory simulations work, since we just saw Jon's first capstone quest. The System chooses a "mentor" from its archives based on the best fit for the skill Jon is learning. Since Jon was mastering a longsword for the Sword Song capstone, he got a memory of Ezio Auditore.

If he had been mastering a different weapon, like a tomahawk or an axe, he might have gotten a memory of someone like Connor Kenway instead. It's all about the right tool for the job! Just a bit of detail I thought you might find interesting. Thanks for reading!