Although a few voices raised objections, the sight of the severed bandit heads dangling from Ghost's neck silenced almost everyone. Most chose to view the gruesome incident as an unfortunate anomaly—a rare, bloody interlude on the road from King's Landing—rather than a sign of incompetence.
After the shock wore off, the previously sluggish column found a new sense of urgency. Spurred on by Jon, they picked up the pace and arrived at the outskirts of Tampa before sunset.
Waiting to receive them was Ser Wendel Manderly.
The second son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor had been appointed by the Small Council as the official Administrator of the Royal Convalescence Center.
In reality, Wendel was a figurehead. The true orders came from Jon, and the day-to-day execution was handled by the terrifyingly efficient little girl, Arya Stark.
Yet, the stout and silent Wendel never complained. He executed every order Arya barked at him, even the ones that seemed utterly baffling.
Before leaving King's Landing, Jon had sent riders ahead with specific instructions, ensuring everything was prepared.
As the column of nearly a thousand souls marched into the sparsely populated town of Tampa, it drew stares and whispers from the locals.
Compared to the city that never sleeps, Tampa's nightlife was usually dull—a few taverns for the common folk and private salons for the gentry.
But at sunset, the streets were still busy, and all eyes were on the vanguard.
When the people realized that the leader of this massive, well-armed procession was a surprisingly young nobleman, curiosity about his identity spread like wildfire.
Jon ignored the chatter.
As his warhorse plodded forward, his gaze was fixed straight ahead—not on the road, but on the translucent interface floating in his vision.
[ CHARACTER STATUS ]
Name: Jon Stark
Gender: Male
Age: 16
Strength: 2.1 (Affects damage output and carry weight)
Constitution: 2.1 (Governs stamina and agility)
Spirit: 2.9 (Perception and world-insight)
[ TITLES ]
Bastard of Winterfell (False)
The Persuader
King's Squire
Secretary to the Hand
Tourney Champion
[ ABILITIES ]
Blood of the Dragon: (Passive Trait - Wildfire Absorption Active)
[ QUEST LOG ]
Main Quest: Winter is Coming. Rewrite the history of ice and fire. Change everything.
Side Quest I: The Tycoon of Westeros. Embrace greed. Build an impregnable territory, hoard resources, and slowly devour the Seven Kingdoms. Restore the glory of House Targaryen.
Side Quest II: A Noble's Vice. The path of indulgence. Bring the beautiful "Fiery Vixen" under your management and enjoy a life of silky comfort.
[ AVAILABLE REWARDS ]
The Queen's New Clothes: (Limited Time Experience)
The King's Grace
Bond of the Crown Prince: (Limited Time Experience)
Looking at his stats, which had broken through another threshold, Jon felt surprisingly calm. It wasn't humility; it was the realization of just how vast the gap still was.
After last night's battle, he was no longer obsessed with raw numbers. He was thinking about what they actually meant.
In a straight-up duel, even with his enhanced strength, he still couldn't match The Mountain. Gregor Clegane would likely hammer him down to the Seven Hells before Jon could land a killing blow.
And against a sniper like Anguy in a dense forest? Strength meant nothing. Unless Anguy missed on purpose, or Jon had his supernatural perception to warn him, the only strategy was to cower behind a shield and pray. Stats were not invincible armor.
Furthermore, the Wildfire incident had been a wake-up call.
If he hadn't unlocked the "Blood of the Dragon" trait and its magical resistance, the man leading this column into Tampa today would be a charred corpse in a ditch.
Jon's eyes lingered on the quest log. An itch started in his mind—a craving.
Sometimes, amidst the politics and swordplay, he forgot he was in a world of Ice and Fire.
Magic was real here. Dragons were real.
Whether it was the resurrection of R'hllor, the necromancy of the Night King, or the raw power of dragonfire, magic far outstripped the strength of any single warrior.
But even magic had limits. Dragons could be killed by scorpions. Daenerys could be betrayed by a knife in the dark.
Jon felt torn. How could he gather enough chips—enough power, magical or otherwise—to ensure his survival in the limited time he had?
Then, his gaze fell on a familiar figure ahead, and his hesitation vanished. The pragmatism of two lifetimes settled his mind.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Only children make choices. Adults take it all."
He took a deep breath, steeling his resolve. He raised a hand to halt the column and signaled for Wendel.
After instructing the White Harbor knight to handle the reception of the guests, Jon spurred his horse, breaking away from the group and galloping toward his private camp on the coast.
Behind him, the massive white shape of Ghost didn't hesitate, bounding after his master with joyful strides.
Anguy and Qyburn exchanged a glance, then kicked their own mounts into a run, following their new lord.
---
### The Masquerade
By the time the nobles from King's Landing and the grumbling Gold Cloaks were settled, darkness had fully fallen.
But Tampa was not dark.
The town was ablaze with bonfires, especially the area near the coast, which had transformed into a sea of revelry.
After two days of travel, the young noble men and women had finally escaped the stifling atmosphere of the capital. They had found a space that was entirely their own.
Although many still slept in tents, it was fitting for a "summer camp."
The highborn lords and ladies who might have complained found themselves staring in curiosity at the cluster of buildings dubbed the "Resort District."
Unlike the stone keeps they were used to, these structures were built entirely of timber, decorated with white lime and vibrant pigments imported from Essos.
To the young nobles, it was exotic. It was fresh.
The details set it apart from anything in Westeros. The interior decor, the furnishings, and even the pre-arranged wardrobes in the guest rooms highlighted Tampa's novelty.
Changing into the provided costumes, the young Westerosi nobles transformed. They became visitors from Dorne, merchants from the Free Cities, or even Dothraki horselords.
When everyone—men and women alike—donned heavy, ornate masks, the Midnight Masquerade officially began.
Swept up in the anonymity and the music, the guests quickly forgot to compare Tampa's rustic charm with the grandeur of King's Landing. They simply lost themselves in the night.