GOT: A Transmigrator's Conquest

Stannon stared at the system panel, his eyes fixed on the Boxing skill. He wondered if he should remove it. There were only so many skill slots, and who knew what skills might come his way in the future? What if something incredible appeared, something that could help him defeat someone like Oren Stone? Boxing was useful, but it was still basic. Would it really be worth keeping in the long run?

He frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of the bed. Removing it felt like a rushed decision.

'No,' Stannon thought, shaking his head. 'Not yet. Not until I'm sure.' With a thought, he closed the glowing interface and decided to leave the skill for now. He would wait until he had something better to replace it with.

Standing up, he stretched his stiff limbs. The room around him was simple but cozy, warmed by the fire in the fireplace. If it was one of those Instagram reels asking what be would you like to sleep in the hardest, Stannon would have rated this one 7 out of 10.

Still, Stannon couldn't relax. His mind kept going back to Oren Stone, the Faceless Man pretending to be Jory Cassel. The thought of the assassin made it hard to breathe, like a heavy weight pressing down on him.

Stannon walked to the window and opened it a little. The cold northern air hit his face, sharp and refreshing. He sighed deeply and leaned on the window frame. Winterfell was nothing like King's Landing. The air here was cleaner, the silence heavier, and the cold sharper. But Stannon liked it. The North reminded him of cold nights from his previous life—nights spent under a blanket with the air conditioner on as he watched horror movies. The memory brought a small smile to his face, though it also made him feel a little sad.

He missed that life, even if it was ordinary. No political schemes, no assassins in the shadows, no crown hanging over him like a threat. But he wouldn't trade this second chance for anything. Death had been final in his first life, with no way out. This world, dangerous as it was, had given him another shot to live.

But what was that second chance supposed to mean? Stannon looked at his hands, flexing his fingers as if the answers might be there. Was he really meant to be a king? Did he even want that? Kings were bound by duty, tied to the Iron Throne, and constantly under threat. If he could choose, he'd rather leave it all behind—travel through Westeros or sail beyond the known world. And maybe earn himself a funny title while he was at that.

'Stannon Baratheon, the legendary horny traveller, explorer of uncharted lands,' He smiled at that thought.

But he couldn't do that. Running away would only make him a target, a loose end for the Lannisters to tie up. They would hunt him down to protect Joffrey's claim by silencing the real heir.

'Running's not my style,' Stannon thought. He wasn't a coward and wouldn't act like one. He'd face whatever came, even if it meant walking into the lion's den.

Still, the uncertainty of what lay ahead bothered him.

'Fuck it,' he thought, pushing away the thoughts. 'I'll deal with it when the time comes.'

For now, he had a more immediate problem: Oren Stone. Stannon's eyes moved to the courtyard below, where faint voices carried through the cold night. The guards were changing shifts. Soon, Oren's shift would end, and another Stark knight would take over. Stannon watched closely, his breath fogging the glass.

Finally, he heard steps of another person getting clearer as the person approached hi room. There was a short conversation between fake Jory and him and then he heard the sound of footsteps walking away.

Stannon waited a few more minutes to be sure. Oren was clever, and the last thing Stannon wanted was for the assassin to be watching him. When he felt certain Oren was gone, he stepped away from the window and walked to the door. Taking a deep breath, he opened it quietly and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.

The knight standing guard turned to him immediately, straightening up. He was tall, with a serious face, and had a great build. Recognizing Stannon, he saluted respectfully.

"Your Grace," the knight said. "Is everything all right?"

Stannon nodded, thinking quickly. This knight was one of Ned Stark's trusted men. Stannon didn't know him well, but he felt he could trust him more than Oren.

"Yes, everything's fine," Stannon said with a small smile. "I just needed some air."

The knight nodded slightly but didn't say anything more.

"I need to speak with Ser Barristan," Stannon said after a moment of silence.

The knight looked surprised and hesitated. "Your Grace, it's quite late. Ser Barristan has retired for the night. Is it urgent?"

Stannon quickly came up with a believable excuse. "It's not an emergency," he said, his voice lighter. "But Ser Barristan is leaving Winterfell tomorrow, isn't he? I realized I hadn't properly thanked him for everything, and... I'll miss him."

The knight's face softened slightly. Stannon might be a prince, but to the knight, he was still just a boy—a boy who'd formed a bond with the honorable old knight. The excuse seemed innocent enough, and the knight nodded. "I understand, Your Grace. I'll take you to him."

Relieved that his lie worked, Stannon followed the knight through the dim halls of Winterfell.

The knight led him down a narrow staircase, the sound of their boots echoing softly in the silence.

Finally, they stopped in front of a plain wooden door. The knight knocked softly. "Ser Barristan? I apologize for disturbing you, but His Grace wishes to speak with you."

There was a brief pause before the sound of movement came from inside. A calm, curious voice replied, "Enter."

The knight opened the door, and Stannon stepped inside. The room was simple and neat, with a small candle glowing on the table. Ser Barristan sat beside it, his white hair shining faintly in the warm light. His armor rested neatly on a stand nearby, ready for use. Despite the late hour, the old knight's sharp eyes looked as alert as ever.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, rising to his feet and offering a small bow. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

Stannon looked back at the door, ensuring the knight had stayed outside. He turned back to Ser Barristan, trying to organize his thoughts. He couldn't tell the truth—not all of it, anyway. The mention of Faceless Men or his system abilities would raise too many questions. He needed to do so carefully.

Fortunately he had an incredible excuse.

"I wanted to speak with you about something that's been bothering me," Stannon said quietly, meeting the old knight's sharp gaze.

Ser Barristan gestured for him to sit. "Of course, Your Grace. Speak freely. What troubles you?"

"It's Jory," he said slowly. "Something about him feels... wrong. I can't explain it, but it's like he's not himself anymore. Every time I see him, it feels like I'm looking at a stranger wearing his face."

Ser Barristan's expression grew serious. If it had been any other seven-year-old saying something like this, even a prince, their words wouldn't have as much weight as Stannon's.

Stannon was different. He had watched the boy grow right before his eyes, and he was unlike other children. Even though he was still young, Stannon rarely acted like one. His maturity and calmness were beyond his years, and Ser Barristan had always felt that the gods had chosen the boy for something special.

There was a sigh as he thought about the auspicious signs that had occurred at the time of Stannon's birth. The night sky had been filled with a rare alignment of stars, something talked about only in old stories. The first cry of the newborn had come just as a storm roared in the distance, a sign that made everyone pause. Even the flowers in the garden had bloomed earlier than usual, almost as if they were welcoming him. It seemed clear to Ser Barristan and everyone that the gods had blessed Stannon.

And since Stannon had said so, Ser Barristan knew he had to take the matter seriously.

He leaned forward slightly and spoke,"That is a grave thing to say, Your Grace. Jory Cassel has served you and the Starks loyally for years. What makes you feel this way?"

Stannon shook his head, clearly frustrated. "I don't know. It's not something I've seen or heard, it's just... a feeling. Like an intuition. And it won't go away." He paused, his voice softening. "Lately, I've been having these strange dreams. In them, I see a man I don't recognize. He feels wrong, like something's off about him. Then, in an instant, his face shifts, and suddenly, it's Jory's face. And every time, I hear a name echoing in my mind—Oren Stone. I think that name might belong to the man whose face turned into Jory's."

The old knight's brow furrowed as he listened, without saying a word. After a moment, he nodded. "Intuition is not to be ignored, Your Grace. Often, it's the mind picking up on things we can't see. If you feel this strongly, it's worth looking into. These dreams may be a warning. The gods speak in ways we may not always understand, but they do speak."

Stannon's shoulders relaxed a little in relief. "I thought you might think I was overreacting."

Ser Barristan shook his head. "I've learned never to ignore a feeling that something is wrong, especially in times like these. But we must be careful. If there's something wrong, pointing it out too soon could make it worse."

Stannon took a deep breath and explained the idea he had been thinking about.

As Stannon finished, Ser Barristan nodded thoughtfully. "A cautious approach. Wise. I'll speak with Lord Stark right away about this. For now, Your Grace, you should go back to your chambers and rest. I'll take care of it from here."

Stannon nodded, feeling a little lighter after speaking with someone he trusted. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I'll follow your advice."

With that, Stannon left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

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