I was in some random village, looking for work as a mercenary. Nothing much had been happening lately—no battles, no contracts, just a quiet lull that was starting to wear on my nerves. That frustration got the better of me, and I ended up spending my last few coins on ale, trying to drown the boredom. That's when the fight started, with a drunken soldier who didn't take kindly to my presence. I broke my nose in the scuffle, and now here I was, lying in this filthy alley.
Until now, I'd survived by relying on my fists and a bit of luck, but I knew I couldn't keep going like this. If I wanted more than just scraps and bruises, I needed to be more than a simple mercenary. I had to find a way to stand out, to grow stronger, and to change my fate.
'I need to get stronger and then I can become more famous and make more money… if I have enough time, perhaps I should aim for the iron throne.'
I'd played Skyrim enough times to know the tricks to get stronger faster at the start, how to grind skills, level up, and prepare for the tougher challenges ahead. But there was a problem: my magicka was recovering at a snail's pace, barely one point per minute, so relying on spells to gain experience was out of the question. Using combat skills openly wasn't much better; getting into fights risked drawing attention, and with every brawl, I'd be adding more bounty to my head, making life even harder.
That left me with one clear option: stealth. Sneaking around, picking locks, and practicing pick-pocketing wouldn't just keep me out of trouble, it would let me build up my skills quietly and efficiently. If I wanted to survive and grow stronger without getting thrown in jail or worse, I'd have to become someone who could move unseen, strike without warning, and gather resources without drawing a sword. Stealth was the path forward.
'Let me check the status screen again and everything else… yep, no quests yet, but if it is here, I should get them eventually, right? I need to prepare for it in order to increase my chances of survival.'
I slipped out of the alley and made my way toward the side of the tavern, keeping low and scanning my surroundings. Most people seemed to be avoiding this place, giving it a wide berth as if it was cursed or dangerous—and honestly, it made sense. Anywhere you find a bunch of sword-wielding mercenaries and soldiers, there's bound to be trouble. People act like jackasses when they have a blade in hand, and this tavern was no exception.
What made it even worse was the fact that this was Roose Bolton's territory. The name alone carried a weight of fear and ruthless power. Nobody crossed him without paying a heavy price. So, no wonder the locals steered clear. I had to be careful here—one wrong move, and I'd find myself on the wrong end of a Bolton knife before I even knew what hit me.
Roose Bolton is a name that carries a chill in the bones of anyone who's heard it whispered in the North. He's the head of House Bolton, one of the oldest and most feared noble families in the region. Known for his cold, calculating nature and brutal methods, Roose has earned a reputation that's as much about cunning as it is about cruelty. His banner, a flayed man, sends a clear message: he rules through terror and unforgiving discipline.
Bolton's territory lies in the lands around the Dreadfort, a fortress in the far north of the North, where winters are harsh and loyalty is often bought with fear rather than respect. The Boltons have a grim tradition of flaying their enemies alive, a practice that's both literal and symbolic of their merciless grip on power. Their rule was marked by strict control, brutal punishments, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to maintain their hold over the land. In towns and villages under Bolton's influence, people keep their heads down and avoid drawing attention, because crossing him usually means disappearing in the dead of night or worse.
'Well, if I get caught, I will probably lose my hands, but since those guys are assholes, I just don't have to be caught.'
I had to wait for a while, crouched in the shadows by the side of the tavern, watching the dim flicker of candlelight through the grimy windows. Soon enough, the first few sellswords started stumbling out, their footsteps uneven and voices slurred from drinking. This was my chance. I tested my sneaking skills, moving slowly, keeping low, and quickly confirmed I was silent enough. The drunken fools didn't notice me at all, their senses dulled by ale and exhaustion.
Still, their coin bags were cleverly tucked beneath heavy cloaks, hidden from easy reach. No way I was getting those without a fight or some serious luck. So instead, I decided to shadow them for a while, keeping to the shadows and learning their routines. If I was going to survive here, I needed to be patient, quiet, and smart about when and how I made my move.
The Stealth Skill Sneak leveled up. You received 18 experience points.
'Nice…'
The math was also mathing. In the game, experiment granted was equal to the previous level of the skill added by 25%. I could sneak around all night toward those people and get some levels, but there were other things that I could do as well, and I wanted to explore those options.
After sneaking around for a bit, my final target finally arrived. It was the guy who broke my nose before and threw me into the alley. He was boasting early about getting some promotion about serving Roose Bolton, and when I told him to lower his voice, we ended up fighting.
I looked around again and confirmed that no one could see me. The owner of the tavern was getting ready to close his shop, and that buffoon was stumbling to drink too much, so this would be easy.