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ASOIAF: Celestial Conqueror - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 17:20:57 +0000 UTCDreams Beyond Winterfell
POV: Jon Snow
Feats Achieved: Gain your own Territory (100 CP), Convince the Warden of the North to fund you (100 CP). 200 CP Granted, 200 CP total.
“Huh, so that’s how I get more CP!” Jon muttered as he shut the door behind him. He carried a stack of papers along with the materials he’d used to demonstrate his Stone Fusion Powder—something he had copied from the Numenoreans. Fortunately, the Valyrians had once used a similar mixture, which gave him a convenient excuse for how he had “developed” the powder. The One Ring probably helped as well.
Lord of the Rings was one of the few works of fiction he had both watched and read. Normally, he wasn’t that dedicated, but the franchise had been too iconic to ignore. That choice had paid off; the ring he received turned out to be a genuine Ring of Power, boosting everything he did. Even simple things like persuasion seemed stronger when he wore it.
The active abilities, however, were another story. He hadn’t dared to test them yet. The thought of overriding someone’s will was unnerving. Still, he knew there would be people worth using it on when the time came.
As that now-familiar surge of power spread through him again, Jon steadied himself, ready to take advantage of it.
[ Witcher Signs ] - 100 CP (100 CP remaining, starting another Roll.)
Source: The Witcher Novels
One of the most useful tools in a Witcher’s arsenal is the bastardized form of magic known as Signs. These simple spells can be used with one hand and require little knowledge about magical theory to use. There are a variety of Signs with various powers and you know all of them, though you start out with only a basic level of skill with them. With practise you may be able to improve their power and duration. If you also understand how to utilize magical spells you may become able to alter these spells into new signs, though they retain their relative simplicity and cost.
Once again, the strange flood of visions and memories crashed into Jon’s mind, overwhelming his senses.
It was becoming a familiar feeling by now, though no less unsettling. Images overlapped with reality, forcing him to watch scenes that clearly weren’t from his current life.
This time, he stood inside a cold, ancient castle. The walls were rough stone, scarred with age, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and steel. He wasn’t a boy of the North anymore—he was someone older, dressed in strange gear, practicing movements that seemed both martial and arcane.
His hands shifted through deliberate patterns, fingers curling and cutting through the air in ways that tugged at something deep inside him.
These weren’t spells from some old tome. They were Witcher Signs.
The memories came sharper now. Kaer Morhen. That was the name of the keep, the fortress where Witchers were forged through brutal training. He remembered fragments: lessons drilled into him again and again, the repetition of forming a Sign until the gesture became second nature.
With a sweep of his hand, fire erupted against a wooden dummy, scorching its surface. Another motion raised a shimmering barrier, a protective shield that absorbed an imagined blow. A different sign heightened his senses, letting him hear faint noises in the distance as if they were right beside him.
All of it had been training—grueling, painful, relentless. Yet the memories carried with them not only the exhaustion but also the mastery. He could do these things.
Slowly, the visions faded. The stone walls dissolved, the dummies vanished, and Jon’s true sight returned.
He was himself again, standing where he had been only moments before. But the knowledge didn’t leave him. It lingered inside his mind as if carved there, clear and undeniable.
“That will be useful,” Jon muttered under his breath, a flicker of excitement in his voice. His lips curved slightly despite himself. It might have been simple compared to what true sorcerers could accomplish, but even so—it was magic. Real magic. For someone born in Westeros, where such things were whispered about in fear or scorn, that was no small thing.
Still, the excitement faded as quickly as it had come. His expression hardened, and he exhaled a long sigh. “But I’ll have to keep that secret. Magic isn’t exactly welcomed in Westeros.” The words left him quietly, almost as if he needed to remind himself. One careless display could mark him as something unnatural, something dangerous.
Suddenly the feeling of his Celestial Abilities washed over him again.
[ Requip Magic ] - 100 CP (0 CP remaining)
Source: Fairy Tail
A small hammer space connected to your soul. In its starter phase its size is 1 cubic meter and it grows in size alongside your maximum Magical Capacity. It can not store organic living beings inside. The speed of removing or storing an item in this hammer space depends on the size and magical potency of the item involved as well as the skill of the user.
This time, the magic that had awakened inside Jon only a few days earlier stirred again. It didn’t act alone—his memories rose with it, merging together until the sensation became overwhelming. In an instant, visions pulled him away from the present.
He saw himself practicing, but unlike the Witcher training from before, this was something entirely different. This wasn’t a half-arcane trick or a borrowed technique. This was actual magic.
In the vision, Jon sat in meditation. His breathing slowed, his focus turned inward. He concentrated on forming a space inside himself, something tied directly to his soul.
At the same time, he could feel the raw magic in his body shifting to match, shaping itself into a pocket of storage that only he could reach. The effort was exhausting, yet progress came little by little, the invisible space becoming clearer and stronger each time he repeated the exercise.
Hours passed within that memory as he practiced storing and summoning items from this strange dimension—his “Requip Space.” At first it was just small things: gloves, boots, a belt buckle.
Then it became larger, sturdier pieces—armor, helmets, even a shield. Each attempt was smoother than the last. One thought, and an item vanished into the void. Another thought, and it reappeared in his hands or directly onto his body, ready for use.
The vision blurred before fading, leaving Jon blinking back into reality. His hands still held the items he had carried to his father’s solar.
Yet when he focused his will, testing what he had seen, the items vanished without a sound. A simple thought had whisked them away into his Requip Space.
Jon’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing in satisfaction. He glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching, then allowed a small grin to form. “That’s handy,” he murmured. “At least it isn’t flashy magic. I can keep it hidden while still using it as a trump card.”
With that, he gathered himself and began moving toward his chambers, his mind restless. Today had been more productive than he could have hoped. Not only had he unlocked new abilities, but he had also secured his path forward.
For the first time since waking in this new life, he felt the future truly belonged to him. He wasn’t just the poor bastard doomed for the Wall, nor was he bound to some miserable position serving others. Now, he actually had prospects.
Of course, those prospects came with conditions.
Lord Stark—his father—had agreed to grant him a stretch of land. The northern part of Reed territory, from Moat Cailin outward, along with a small portion of southern Stark territory, would be his to manage. It was, however, a test. He wouldn’t be founding a cadet branch of House Stark just yet.
That honor would have to wait until he proved himself—either by making his plans succeed or by achieving some exceptional contribution.
Until then, Jon would act as a minor retainer. He would manage the land, build it up, and do so in the name of House Stark.
And he wouldn’t be doing it alone. His father had arranged for five of his own household guards to accompany him. They would serve under the command of Hallis Mollen, one of Stark’s most trusted men.
Along with them would come five hundred settlers—enough to begin shaping a community, but not so many that Jon could grow reckless.
The guards weren’t just protection, of course. They were also watchful eyes, tasked with making sure he didn’t squander resources or indulge himself irresponsibly. It was a reasonable precaution.
To the world, Jon was still only an eight-year-old boy. No matter how cleverly he had argued his case, no matter how much the magical ring had influenced his father’s decision, he was still seen as a child being handed responsibilities beyond his years.
Jon understood that. And yet, as he walked to his room with the weight of the day’s revelations fresh in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet thrill. Everything was changing. His future was no longer a chain dragging him into misery. It was a path—one he could shape with his own hands.
———
“Do you really have to leave?” Robb’s voice was quiet, carrying a weight that made him sound older than his years. The two boys stood side by side on Winterfell’s walls, looking out across the endless white expanse of the North. The land stretched on forever, silent and cold, as if it too was listening to their conversation.
“I have to,” Jon answered after a pause, a sigh slipping out as he shifted the little girl in his arms. Arya cooed happily, tugging at his sleeve with her tiny fingers, completely oblivious to the heaviness between her brothers. “There’s no future for me if I stay here.”
Robb’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Arya will miss you.” His eyes softened as he looked at their little sister, his sadness hidden behind a small smile.
Almost as if she understood, Arya’s voice rang out in protest, “Not go, Yon!” Her childish tone made the words stumble, but the intent was clear.
Jon chuckled softly, tickling her belly until she erupted into giggles. “You can always come visit,” he said gently, forcing a smile of his own. “But I need to go. I need to build something for myself.” ‘And I refuse to waste this second chance. I won’t stay mediocre. My life won’t rot away in someone else’s shadow.’
Robb’s gaze hardened. “Is it because of Mother?” He hesitated before speaking again. “I know she doesn’t like you. She even told Sansa to stay away from you. I just… I can’t understand it. You’re my brother. Why does she hate you?” His words carried an edge of frustration, but also something else—awareness. For the first time, Jon saw a hint of the young lord Robb would someday become, not just the boy who had grown up at his side.
‘Of course,’ Jon thought. ‘He’s the heir to the North. Even at his age, he has to think about the bigger picture. He’s been raised to notice things I could ignore.’
“It’s not about your mother,” Jon replied, shaking his head firmly. “Yes, being treated like a bastard hurts. But that’s not why I’m leaving. I refuse to stay like this. I won’t let ‘bastard’ define me.”
“You could stay anyway,” Robb said stubbornly, his jaw tightening. “Mother’s feelings aside, Winterfell will always be your home. There will always be a place for you here.”
Jon’s chest tightened at the words. “I know. And you, Arya, Sansa, Bran… you’re my siblings. I love you all. But I want more than just a place to exist. I want to shape something for myself.” His voice grew firmer, his eyes brightening with determination. “The North has so much potential, Robb. We have land as vast as all the other kingdoms combined, yet our population is smaller than most of them. So much of our territory lies unused, empty, wasted. I want to change that. I want to make the North the strongest kingdom in the world.”
Robb blinked at him, stunned by the passion in Jon’s voice.
“I can’t do that if I stay here,” Jon continued. “But I can if I build something of my own. You’ll rule Winterfell, and I’ll stand beside you as your bannerman. Together, we’ll turn the North into something unshakable. You’ll be Lord of the Strongest Kingdom in the world, and I’ll be the strongest lord within it.”
The conviction in his tone left no room for doubt. His eyes shone, not with childish fantasy, but with fierce anticipation.
Deep down, Jon admitted the truth to himself. He would have liked to rule. He would have liked to be the one standing at the very top. But he would never usurp his siblings. He loved them too much for that.
Being the most powerful lord, second only to Robb, was more than enough. That position would still grant him what he craved: security, strength, a life where no one could threaten or belittle him again.
“I see,” Robb muttered finally, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I still would have rather had my brother here with me.”
Jon reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you still do. I’ll always be your brother. That’s something no one can take away from us.” His tone softened, carrying a warmth that steadied the air between them. “Besides, don’t be so gloomy. You’ll see me often enough. Father made it part of the agreement. I have to visit at least once a year, attend major namedays, and be present for every harvest feast.”
Jon laughed, shaking his head at the memory of his father’s stern voice laying out the rules. Arya, still perched happily in his arms, joined in with her own bubbly giggle, as if the heaviness of the moment had already vanished for her.
For Robb and Jon, however, the weight lingered. The North stretched out endlessly before them, and for the first time, the future felt vast enough to change.
———
POV: Catelyn Stark
The Lady of Winterfell hummed softly to herself, content as the needle moved through her stitchwork. Her daughter Sansa sat beside her, concentrating hard as she practiced her own stitches with careful little hands.
Catelyn’s lips curved faintly at the sight. Sansa was such a sweet child, so diligent, so graceful even at her young age. One day, she would be the perfect wife for a powerful lord—perhaps even for the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Yes, things were finally looking as they should for her children.
That… boy… was leaving. At last. The bastard was finally being sent away, no longer allowed to linger in Winterfell where his very presence was a stain upon her household. Catelyn could almost feel the weight lifting from her chest just thinking about it.
The chance of him ever growing into a threat for her family’s rightful rule was being stripped away before it could even take root.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she worked another line of thread. How she despised him. How much she despised the woman who had borne him, a nameless shadow who had once stolen her husband’s affection during the war. That betrayal had cut deeper than anything else, and the boy was the living reminder of it.
Every time she looked at him, every time she heard his name, it was like reopening that wound. Finally, finally, that imperfection in her life would be gone. No longer would he taint the image of her perfect home.
Of course, the arrangement was far from perfect. Catelyn had argued it silently, over and over, in the privacy of her own thoughts.
Giving a bastard lands, gold, and people? That was the kind of decision that planted seeds for rebellion years down the line. When Ned had told her, she had honestly questioned his sanity. Yet she had not dared voice her anger openly. He was too stubborn, too unyielding when his mind was set. This compromise was the best she could hope for.
And truthfully, the boy would fail. He had to. The idea of an eight-year-old ruling over land was laughable. What was Ned thinking? No matter how gifted Jon might think himself, a child was still a child.
He had been handed a handful of smallfolk, a chest of gold, and the ruins of a keep so broken that two of its three remaining towers leaned like they were about to collapse. A wasteland of desolate soil, scattered settlers, and little else. That was no lord’s domain. That was punishment dressed as reward.
In the privacy of her thoughts, she almost allowed herself to smile. Leaving the bastard to fend for himself among the dregs of the North was close enough to what she had always wanted. He would struggle, he would stumble, and eventually, he would fall.
When that happened, the gold would return to their coffers, the smallfolk would find their way back to Winterfell, and the boy would be nothing more than a bitter memory, scattered with the ruins he had failed to raise.
Jon’s wild talk of wondrous machines and magical construction methods? At that she scoffed aloud, though Sansa did not notice. As if she could believe such nonsense. It was childish fantasy, the kind of story better suited for Sansa’s fairytale songs than for the reality of the North.
No, she did not care what dreams he chased. Her family was what mattered. Her children’s futures were what mattered. And now, for the first time in years, they were secure. That bastard could rot in his three broken towers for all she cared.
And if—when—he failed, Catelyn Stark would make certain he was never allowed back into Winterfell again.
That Chapter of their Life was done.
