"How did you do that?"
Jon spent most of his time at Winterfell, training and studying alongside Robb. He rarely came to the Peach Garden.
He had watched the earlier scene with surprise, only snapping out of it after Fat Tom led his pony away.
"Why do they listen to you like that?"
People were inherently prejudiced against bastards. Alebelly's attitude toward Jon just moments ago was proof enough.
"Talk more, think more, read more."
Arthur walked toward the watchtower, leaving Jon staring at his broad back.
Well… the most important thing is… having a good uncle like Lord Eddard Stark.
Of course, Arthur didn't say that part out loud.
Perhaps out of familial love or simple nostalgia, when Eddard Stark's second trueborn son was born, he named the boy Brandon Stark, in memory of his late brother—Arthur's father.
That same year, Eddard Stark had authorized Arthur to manage the Peach Garden estate.
He had even privately promised Arthur that upon reaching adulthood, a portion of the Wolfswood near the garden would be granted to him. He would become a petty lord, establishing a cadet branch of House Stark.
Looking at the history of the Seven Kingdoms, for a cousin—especially a bastard cousin—this was an immense favor, a kindness beyond measure.
Becoming a lord meant more than just owning land. It meant Arthur could shed the bastard surname "Snow." He would have his own name, his own sigil, perhaps even his own house words.
Honor and respect. These were the things every bastard lacked, and the things they dreamed of most.
If anyone else had promised to make him a lord, Arthur would have called them a liar selling false hope. But the man who said it was Eddard Stark.
Arthur believed him.
Standing on the third floor of the watchtower, Arthur looked out the window at the road they had traveled.
From here, he had a clear view of the road outside and the entire estate. This was how Alebelly and Fat Tom had spotted their arrival so quickly.
Jon followed him inside. He tossed a few logs onto the dying embers in the fireplace, then found a chair and sat down.
"Why do they listen to you? I admit, when it comes to swordplay, Robb and I together couldn't beat you… and you can forge steel, your horsemanship is excellent, and you even speak High Valyrian, which I don't understand."
Jon's face was full of confusion, his eyes bright with curiosity and a hunger for answers. "But those aren't the reasons they listen to you, are they?"
Arthur glanced back at him. Jon was right.
The daily use of the [Strike], [Dodge], and [Wine] cards had allowed him to master these skills rapidly.
For smithing, he learned from the master armorer Mikken. For swordplay, he was taught by Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel.
With the boost from the [Strike] card, his swordsmanship improved at a terrifying pace. Through constant practice, he had even unlocked techniques Ser Rodrik had never taught him.
For horsemanship, he was tutored by Hullen's son, Harwin, aided by the occasional [Dodge] card.
This had allowed Arthur, at the tender age of six, to gallop through Winterfell on his pony like a centaur.
When Lord Eddard saw Arthur racing through the castle, he didn't scold him. Instead, a rare smile broke across his solemn long face.
The Duke praised Arthur, saying he had the "Wolf's Blood," just like his father, Brandon Stark.
As for High Valyrian, Arthur learned it by secretly sipping [Wine] while studying the tomes in the Library Tower.
The system-manifested [Wine] didn't intoxicate him; instead, it cleared his mind, significantly boosting his ability to read, learn, and memorize.
Of course, Arthur didn't learn in isolation. He frequently discussed history and theology with Septon Chayle, who managed the library and the sept, and sought guidance from the learned Maester Luwin.
"My parents were both highborn. I'm a 'Great Bastard,' as they say. That's why they listen."
Because they were both bastards, he empathized with Jon the most. They shared the closest bond. Arthur let out a long breath and sat down at his desk.
"People always categorize others. Highborn, lowborn. Even bastards are no exception."
In Westeros, not all bastards were created equal. Bastards born of two nobles were often jokingly referred to as "Great Bastards."
There had been many famous Great Bastards in history. The three most representative figures all came from a single house: the dragonlords, House Targaryen—the former royal dynasty that King Robert Baratheon had overthrown eight years ago.
Those three Great Bastards were:
Daemon Blackfyre, who rebelled to claim the Iron Throne, taking the name of the ancestral Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre as his house name and launching the First Blackfyre Rebellion.
"Bittersteel" Aegor Rivers, who supported Daemon and founded the Golden Company across the Narrow Sea.
And "Bloodraven" Brynden Rivers, who killed Daemon Blackfyre, became Hand of the King, and later Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Jon pursed his lips. This wasn't the answer he wanted. He spoke with the intensity of a vow:
"I don't know who my mother was. Maybe she was a noblewoman, maybe she was a fisherman's daughter. But it doesn't matter. I will spend my life proving that even a bastard can keep his honor and command respect!"
Jon had often heard people say that bastard blood was born of lust and lies, that they were naturally treacherous and fickle.
He wanted to prove them wrong. He wanted to show his father that he could be just as excellent and upright a son as Robb Stark.
Looking at the pure determination in Jon's eyes, Arthur felt a mix of envy and pity.
He envied Jon for having a life goal so young. In a way, that was lucky.
But Arthur also knew that reality rarely matched one's dreams. Throughout the history of this world, how many people truly lived the life they wanted?
"Jon, a lifetime is a very long time. Long enough for a Kingsguard who swore to protect the King with his life to stab that King in the back."
Arthur turned his gaze to the ledger on the table, scratching at the parchment with a quill now and then.
"Words are wind. Saying that right now doesn't carry any weight coming from your mouth. Maybe after you're dead and buried, if singers and bards tell your story, people might believe it."
Young Jon fell silent for a long moment, seemingly accepting Arthur's point. Then he asked:
"The Kingsguard who killed the King… you mean the Kingslayer? Why do you think he did something that broke such a sacred vow?"
"I'm not him. How should I know?" Arthur looked up, curling his lip. "All I know is that he's still a Kingsguard. He wears the white cloak and swears to protect the King."
Feeling his phrasing was a bit loose, Arthur added, "Swears to protect the current King, Robert Baratheon."
Seeing Jon looking thoughtful and confused, Arthur patted the stack of ledgers in front of him, signaling the end of the conversation.
"Alright, I have a mountain of accounts to check. If you want to earn my respect, get out. And close the door behind you!"
"Answer one last question, and I promise I won't bother you for the rest of the day." Jon didn't budge. He stood up, walked to the desk, and asked with anticipation:
"I see you learning everything—smithing, riding, archery, swordplay, reading. What kind of person do you actually want to become?"
Arthur gave Jon a surprised glance. He shifted in his seat, finding a more comfortable position, and answered in a joking tone:
"I always feel like this wooden chair is too soft… uncomfortable. I want to sit on the Iron Throne. I figure a chair made of a thousand swords must be hard enough? Comfortable enough?"
"You… you want to be King!"
Jon's jaw dropped. He instinctively took two steps back, tripped over his chair, and landed hard on the stone floor.
Arthur watched Jon rubbing his backside, a half-smile playing on his lips.
"The King isn't the only one who sits on the Iron Throne. The Hand of the King can sit there to dispense justice when the King is absent."
Jon swallowed hard, his surprise undiminished. "You want to be Hand of the King? If anyone else heard that, they'd laugh you out of the room."
"Laugh?"
"Ideally, dreams should be ridiculous enough to be laughed at. That makes them worth achieving." Arthur pursed his lips, eyebrows raising slightly. "Besides, there's precedent for a bastard becoming Hand. 'Bloodraven' Brynden Rivers did it."
"If a Rivers can sit on the iron chair, why not a Snow?"
'Rivers' was the surname for bastards in the Riverlands, just as Snow was for the North.
"Lord Bloodraven?" Jon realized. "I know him. Maester Luwin mentioned him. Said he became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, defending the realm against wildlings and snarks and grumkins."
"Who else has sat on that iron chair besides the King and the Hand?" Arthur put down his quill, scratching his head as if deep in thought. Then, he clapped his hands together.
"Ah… I heard Uncle say that after the Kingslayer killed the Mad King, he sat on the Iron Throne for a while. If I'm lucky enough to become a Kingsguard, that might be a convenient way to do it."
"...?"
Jon stared at Arthur, wide-eyed. He couldn't believe his cousin would say something so extreme.
"How can you even think that? That would be breaking a sacred vow! There's no honor in that. You'd be reviled by everyone!"
Arthur looked at Jon's long, serious face. He wondered how Jon would feel in the future, when he himself would have to decide whether to break a sacred vow. The thought made Arthur smirk, and he couldn't help but quote the classic line:
"You know nothing, Jon Snow."
Seeing the corner of Arthur's mouth twitch, Jon realized he was being teased. Just like the comment about the Iron Throne earlier.
Flushing red, Jon grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows from the wall…
He bolted out of the room, but paused before closing the door to shout:
"Arthur Snow, don't forget! You promised to forge me a real sword!"