Chapter 70: The Name I Will Make the World Fear
Fear moves faster than sound.
I learned that long ago—not in this world, but in another life. Before swords, before wolves, before snow and blood and banners, I had been someone else. A man who knew stories. A man who knew how worlds ended.
A transmigrator.
Reincarnated into the world of Game of Thrones.
I knew every secret they thought buried. I knew who betrayed whom, who would burn, who would kneel, and who would die screaming under falling castles. I knew the lies wrapped in honor, the truths hidden in shame, the wars that would come long before the first blade was drawn.
And standing now on the deck of the Winter's Titan, I felt the fear of White Harbor crawl across the sea and brush against my senses.
Through my warg abilities, fear tasted sharp—like iron and cold sweat. Tens of thousands of minds trembled together. Men on walls. Lords in halls. Children clutching mothers. Soldiers pretending their spears were enough.
I smiled.
Yes.
Fear was necessary.
Beyond the Wall, my name was spoken like a prayer.
Jon Snow.
To my people there, I was not a bastard. Not a stain. Not a mistake. I was the man who gave them warmth when winter tried to kill them. The king who broke gods and crushed the dead. The one who stood when the world ended.
They did not care about surnames.
But here?
Here, south of the Wall, blood mattered more than deeds. They looked down on me because I was a Snow. Because I was born on the wrong side of a marriage bed.
They believed that alone made me lesser.
I exhaled slowly, the cold air misting before me.
"They think I am beneath them," I murmured. "Because of a name."
I could feel it clearly now—the Northern lords. Their confusion warred with arrogance. Even now, after seeing the Titan, some still clung to old thoughts.
A bastard cannot rule.
A Snow must kneel.
Fools.
I knew the truth of my birth.
I had always known.
The system had confirmed it early, cold and absolute, like reading a line of code already written.
Aegon Targaryen.
Son of Rhaegar.
Heir of ash and madness.
Blood of dragons.
Ned Stark thought I did not know. He carried that secret like a burden meant to protect me, believing silence was mercy.
Let him believe it.
I did not care.
What was House Targaryen compared to me?
A ruined dynasty.
A story already told.
Fire that burned itself out.
I wielded power far beyond dragons.
The God-like vitality and wood-style life force of Hashirama Senju surged within me—forests answering my call, wounds closing before pain could bloom. My magic was not borrowed from bloodlines or prophecy. It was mine.
And beyond even that—
The system had gifted me something that would make gods hesitate.
King Ghidorah.
Monster Zero.
The three-headed calamity that devoured worlds in other realities.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
Bound to me alone.
If I could not make the world respect me as Jon Snow, then what was the point of having power that could erase continents?
No.
I would not take another name.
I would forge this one into legend.
"Release all fleets," I ordered.
My voice was calm, controlled, absolute.
The Winter's Titan answered.
Deep within her colossal body, mechanisms awakened. Ancient locks disengaged. Pressure seals hissed as five massive gates—two on each side, one at the stern—slowly opened.
Steel screamed against steel.
The sea below churned violently as internal docks revealed themselves, vast enough to house entire navies.
From the Titan's belly emerged ten ships.
Each one was one hundred meters long, forged for war and terror alike. Their hulls were blackened steel, reinforced with runic plating and layered armor that could shrug off ballistae like rain.
No sails.
No banners.
Steam engines thrummed, low and predatory.
Along both sides of each ship ran twenty cannons, their dark mouths angled outward like the teeth of some sea-born beast.
Each ship could carry one thousand men easily.
But I had ordered restraint.
"Five hundred soldiers per ship," I had commanded earlier. "The rest remain aboard the Titan."
Discipline was power.
Excess was weakness.
The Winter's Titan still held ten thousand soldiers, silent and ready, enough to drown kingdoms if unleashed.
I let out a soft chuckle.
"Heheheh…"
Let them see only what I wished them to see.
I boarded the lead vessel.
The moment my boots touched the deck, the ship steadied—as if acknowledging me. The connection between my will and the machines was subtle but undeniable. Magic and engineering danced together beneath my feet.
With me stood my chosen force.
Twenty giants, each towering over men like walking fortresses. They wore full steel armor etched with frost runes, their massive swords resting on shoulders thick as tree trunks. When they moved, the deck trembled.
These were not wild brutes.
They were disciplined warriors.
Beside them stood thirty elite knights—the finest blades Winter's Heaven had produced. Each had mastered breathing styles, techniques from another world that pushed human limits beyond reason. Their breaths were slow, controlled, powerful.
In their hands—
Valyrian steel swords.
Not heirlooms.
Not relics.
Weapons forged for war.
Behind them prowled twenty direwolves, enormous and silent. Their bodies were protected by fitted iron armor, light enough not to slow them, strong enough to turn blades. Their claws had been replaced with hardened steel talons, capable of ripping through mail and bone alike.
They did not growl.
They watched.
And walking at my side—
Alex.
My right hand.
My shadow.
The man who had seen me command monsters and gods—and never once stepped back.
Around us stood the rest of the soldiers, five hundred on this ship alone, formations perfect, eyes forward.
This was not a diplomatic visit.
It was a warning wrapped in courtesy.
"Two ships," I ordered. "Advance toward White Harbor."
The captains saluted instantly.
Engines roared.
The two ships surged forward, slicing through the sea with terrifying smoothness, leaving disciplined wakes behind them.
"Eight ships," I continued, turning slightly. "Form a defensive perimeter around the Winter's Titan."
The remaining ships peeled away, spreading outward in precise formation, cannons tracking the horizon.
Then I spoke the words that made several officers smile.
"There will be pirates."
There always were.
Men foolish enough to see size and think slowness. Greed twisted into courage by ignorance.
"Any pirate vessel that approaches," I said coldly, "is to be annihilated."
No warnings.
No negotiations.
"Use the cannons. Destroy their ships completely. Leave nothing floating."
Each escort ship carried forty cannons—twenty per side. The Winter's Titan herself held thousands, layered across decks and hidden behind armored ports.
If pirates came—
The sea would become a graveyard.
White Harbor grew closer.
Through my warg sight, I felt the city as if it were a living creature—its heartbeat racing, its breath shallow. Wolves paced restlessly along the walls. Horses stamped in their stables. Gulls screamed overhead, confused by the machines that defied wind and sail.
And men.
So many men.
Their thoughts were loud now.
That's,him… Gods, look at them…
Giants… wolves…
Is this really Jon Snow?
Yes.
It is.
The two ships slowed at the edge of the harbor's reach, stopping where the water was deep and clear. They did not dock. They did not anchor.
They waited.
I stepped forward to the bow.
My cloak snapped in the sea wind. Giants loomed behind me like armored mountains. Direwolves spread out, silent and deadly.
Let them see me clearly.
Not a rumor.
Not a bastard begging recognition.
But a man who knew every secret of their world—and held power that did not belong to it.
I felt Ned Stark then.
His shock.
His confusion.
And buried deep beneath it—
Pride.
He still thought I was his son.
He still thought I did not know.
I allowed myself a small smile.
This was only the opening move.
I had not come to White Harbor to ask for permission.
I had come to rewrite the balance of power in the North.
To show them that bloodlines were chains, tradition was dust, and fear was the only language the world truly understood.
Jon Snow.
A name they mocked.
A name I would turn into a legend so heavy it would crush kings.
"Forward," I said softly.
And the sea obeyed.
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