Chapter 8

Jon sat alone in the tavern at White Harbor Port, trying to drown out the noise of clinking tankards and boisterous chatter. This was his life now—a medieval mash-up where he was supposed to be Jon Snow, the brooding bastard of Winterfell. Except, plot twist: he wasn't really Jon Snow. He was just a 16-year-old modern-day guy who'd binge-watched Game of Thrones one too many times and somehow ended up here, in the middle of the world's most intense LARP. No Wi-Fi, no pizza deliveries, and no running water—just endless winter metaphors and a serious shortage of basic hygiene.

It was all so... surreal. Like he'd been sucked into a live-action role-play game, but with the difficulty level cranked up to "you might actually die." And the worst part? He knew how this story was supposed to go. Spoilers weren't just a casual inconvenience anymore—they were a looming threat hanging over his head. He was living in a world where winter was always coming, and no one had a clue what a meme was.

He thought back to last night at New Castle, under the hospitality of House Manderly. If Westeros had a warm and fuzzy side, it was hiding in White Harbor. The welcome was so warm, it almost made him forget he was trapped in a deadly game of thrones. The feast laid out for them was like something out of a history channel special—except way better. Roasted meats, fresh bread that didn't taste like it was made last week, and stews so good they made him forget about all the instant noodles he used to live on.

And Lord Wyman Manderly? The guy was like a jolly, medieval Santa Claus, if Santa had a penchant for booming laughter and enough cheer to fill Winterfell twice over. For a hot second, Jon almost forgot about all the doom and gloom. Almost.

Then there was the dancing. Yeah, that's right—Jon Snow was dancing. Well, this Jon was. Back in his old life, he'd barely danced at school parties, preferring to cling to the snack table like it was the only thing keeping him alive. But here, he found himself on the dance floor, twirling around like he was auditioning for Dancing with the Westerosi Stars with the Manderly sisters. It was a scene straight out of a fairytale—minus the talking animals and happy endings.

Lady Wynafryd had this mischievous glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn't. And considering she was a native of Westeros and he was just a guy pretending to be Jon Snow, she probably did. She matched his steps with an ease that made Jon almost forget he wasn't a medieval knight born to dance in grand halls. Then there was Lady Wylla, who moved with so much grace and elegance that Jon was half-convinced she could make even the Hound look good on the dance floor.

For those few moments, Jon felt free—free from the expectations, free from the looming threats of White Walkers, and free from the constant pressure of knowing exactly how this story was supposed to end. He was just a teenager at a party, laughing and dancing like the world wasn't about to be engulfed in ice and fire.

But, of course, reality came crashing back, because this wasn't just some game. He wasn't in a school play or a fan convention—this was Westeros, where bad things happened to good people, and everyone you liked was probably going to die. Still, for those brief moments on the dance floor, Jon wasn't Jon Snow, the brooding bastard of Winterfell. He was just Jon, the guy who'd somehow ended up in the most epic, high-stakes adventure of all time—and he wasn't sure if he was ready to face what was coming next.

—

As Jon was drifting through his thoughts, mainly focused on the walking nightmare that was Ramsay Bolton, a voice sliced through the cacophony of the tavern like a hot knife through butter. Jon whipped around so fast he almost knocked over his own ale. No way. Could it be?

There, lounging at a table like he was the king of the place, was Bronn. Yes, that Bronn. The guy with a wit sharp enough to cut glass, a moral compass that wobbled like it was on a boat, and a survival instinct that could outlast a cockroach in a nuclear apocalypse.

Jon blinked, once, twice, and then a third time for good measure. Nope, Bronn was still there, larger than life. This wasn't some weird hallucination or an elaborate prank; Bronn was actually here, in the flesh, in White Harbor, commanding the room with his usual bravado. Back when Jon had been just a regular guy binging on "Game of Thrones," Bronn had been a fan favorite. Who wouldn't love a character who was unapologetically himself—whether that meant charming his way out of trouble or sticking a knife in someone's ribs?

Bronn was spinning a yarn about some spectacularly improbable escape, his voice resonating across the room and drawing hearty laughter and applause. The guy had charisma that was off the charts. He was like the ultimate survival guide to navigating Westeros' ever-shifting alliances and backstabbings.

But Jon wasn't here to geek out over his favorite morally gray antihero. He had a real, pressing issue that made Bronn's wild tales look like a Sunday morning cartoon. Ramsay Bolton. Just thinking about that sadistic lunatic made Jon's skin crawl. Ramsay wasn't your garden-variety villain; he was the sort of psycho who made you scream at the screen, "Run! Just run!" And now, Jon was stuck in the same world as that maniac.

Going up against Ramsay alone? That was like signing up for a death wish. But with Bronn? That was a different story. Bronn was many things—cunning, ruthless, and, yes, incredibly greedy—but he was also sharp enough to spot a good deal when he saw one. Jon figured if he played his cards right, he could persuade Bronn that taking down Ramsay was worth the risk and, more importantly, worth a hefty reward.

Because if there was one thing Jon knew from his TV binge-watching days, it was that Bronn didn't work for free. He had a taste for gold, and Jon was prepared to offer him a sizeable chunk to make sure they had the best chance of dealing with Ramsay.

Taking a deep breath, Jon knew it was time to put his plan into action. He needed to see if Bronn could be as reliable a friend to him as he was to Tyrion Lannister—or at the very least, if Bronn could be convinced to join forces against the North's most deranged psychopath for the right price.

In a world filled with monsters and mayhem, Jon needed every advantage he could get. And if Bronn was as much of a survivor as Jon remembered, then he was exactly the kind of ally Jon needed to navigate this twisted, unpredictable game of thrones.

—

Jon's mind was doing that thing where it felt like it was running on a slow internet connection—everything was lagging, and he was seconds away from a total crash. So when Ser Arthur walked into the tavern, it was like someone had hit the refresh button. Jon shot him a nod, grateful for the change of pace, even if his mental browser was still struggling to catch up.

"Ser Donnel," Jon called out, his voice barely rising above the clatter of tankards and animated chatter. "How did your meeting with the captain go?"

Ser Arthur, or Ser Donnel as everyone else knew him, had the kind of serious expression that made Jon brace himself for some bad news. "Aye," Ser Arthur said, his tone carrying that classic 'Winter is coming' vibe. "The captain has agreed to take us to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but he's warned that the journey will be fraught with peril. We must prepare ourselves for whatever dangers may arise."

Jon's stomach did a backflip, and not the kind you get from a thrilling amusement park ride. This wasn't just a casual road trip; it was shaping up to be an obstacle course with more dangers than a survivalist's nightmare. They had to get to Eastwatch, then make their way to Castle Black, and eventually to Winterfell with Uncle Benjen. And right now, the path to Eastwatch looked less like a scenic route and more like a gauntlet of peril.

"Thank you, Ser Donnel," Jon said, trying to channel some epic hero vibes into his voice. He'd seen enough action flicks to know this was the moment for a rousing speech, but all he could manage was, "We'll stay sharp and watch out for trouble."

Ser Arthur gave him a solemn nod, his gaze boring into Jon with a silent 'Don't mess this up' message. "As you say, Jon," he replied, his tone making it clear that this was no game.

And that's when it hit Jon like a ton of bricks—this wasn't a video game with a 'reset' button or a movie where the hero gets a second chance. This was real life, with real stakes. No more sitting on the sidelines watching heroes do their thing. Jon was right in the thick of it, and it was time to level up from a binge-watching teen to a genuine hero. No pressure at all, right?

—

Jon and Ser Arthur huddled in their corner of the tavern, the seriousness of their conversation making the lively noise of the place seem like it was happening on another planet. Jon leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Ser Donnel," Jon said, brow furrowed in deep concern. "With Lord Stark heading south, I'm worried about House Bolton. Ramsay Snow, in particular. His cruelty is legendary. I'm afraid he might seize this chance to strike against House Stark."

Ser Arthur's face darkened, as if the mere mention of Ramsay had turned the room colder. 

"Jon," Ser Arthur replied, his voice carrying the gravity of a bad omen. "You're right to be concerned. Ramsay Snow is no ordinary threat. His cruelty is well-known, and his ambitions could spell disaster for the North. We need to prepare ourselves for whatever he might unleash."

Jon nodded, feeling the seriousness of the situation weigh on him. Confronting Ramsay Bolton wouldn't be a walk in the park—it would require more than just swords and shields; it would need careful strategy and a hefty dose of bravery.

"Ser Donnel," Jon continued, "what do you suggest we do? How should we handle Ramsay and the threat he poses?"

Ser Arthur took a moment to consider his response, as if weighing the fate of the North on a scale. "Jon," he said finally, "we can't let Ramsay Snow or House Bolton wreak havoc without consequences. It might be wise to make a strong example of him."

The idea hit Jon like a ton of bricks. Making an example of Ramsay would send a clear message that House Stark wouldn't tolerate such cruelty and treachery.

"You're right," Jon said with renewed determination. "Ramsay's actions can't go unpunished. It's time to show that House Stark stands firm against his kind of cruelty."

Ser Arthur met Jon's gaze with a resolute look that matched his own. "Agreed," he said firmly.

"Speaking of getting things done," Jon said, nodding toward Bronn across the room, "I've found someone who could be of help. That's Bronn. He's known for his skill and ruthlessness, but getting him on our side won't be cheap."

Ser Arthur glanced at Bronn, considering the potential value of the sellsword. The man's reputation for getting things done made him a significant ally.

"Very well," Ser Arthur said. "If Bronn is the man for the job, we should approach him and negotiate. I have a stash of gold left to me by Rhaegar. We can use that to secure his services."

Jon's eyes widened at the mention of Rhaegar's gold.

"Rhaegar also had a secret account with the Iron Bank of Braavos," Ser Arthur added. "I have the letters for its transfer. So, gold won't be an issue—we have more than enough resources."

Jon's mind raced with possibilities. Access to Rhaegar's secret account meant they had the financial power to back their plans and confront Ramsay Snow with real might.

"Ser Donnel," Jon said with determination. "Let's put that gold to good use and get Bronn on our side to deal with Ramsay Snow."

Ser Arthur gave a firm nod. "Agreed," he said.

They approached Bronn's table, where the sellsword looked up with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Jon stepped forward, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"Bronn," Jon began, "we need someone with your skills. We've got a serious problem in the North."

Bronn raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but cautious. "Oh? And what kind of trouble are we talking about?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

Jon met Bronn's gaze with a serious look. "Ramsay Snow. The Bastard of Bolton. He's notorious for his cruelty—he's done some truly awful things."

Bronn's casual demeanor shifted immediately. At the mention of Ramsay Snow, his eyes narrowed, showing he was taking this seriously.

"Ramsay Snow, huh?" Bronn said, his tone dropping into a low, almost disgusted growl. "I've heard the stories. Sounds like a real piece of work."

Jon nodded, his expression resolute. "Exactly. His cruelty knows no bounds, and it's time he's held accountable for his actions."

Bronn's gaze turned steely, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation. He was now fully engaged, the seriousness of their mission reflected in his eyes.

Ser Arthur's jaw tightened as he added, "We can't let Ramsay Snow's cruelties go unchallenged. He needs to be stopped, and soon."

Bronn studied them, his serious expression softening into a grim smile. "If you want to take down someone like Ramsay Snow," he said, his voice steady, "you're going to need someone who doesn't mind getting their hands dirty. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. But it's going to cost you."

Ser Arthur's smile widened, and with a flourish, he pulled a sack of gold dragons from his cloak and dropped it onto the table. The coins spilled out with a satisfying clink, catching the attention of nearby patrons.

"There you go," Ser Arthur said smoothly. "Consider this your payment."

Bronn's eyes lit up as he saw the gold. He scooped up a handful of coins, letting them fall through his fingers while he weighed their worth. His skepticism faded, replaced by a satisfied grin.

"Well, well," Bronn said, clearly impressed. "You had me intrigued before, but now you've got my full attention. Let's make a deal."

---

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