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Lynn stood in the training yard. The air reeked of ice and horse dung. Ravens shrieked from the walls.
This winter was colder than most. Without moleskin gloves, fingers would freeze and snap off.
Alliser Thorne waited, flanked by twenty brothers. Their faces were twisted with hate.
"Today, this deserter learns what rules mean."
Thorne's voice cut like a blade. The men behind him nodded, gripping their weapons.
Lynn drew his sword slowly. The steel caught the pale morning light.
Everything feels different now. Every swing, every stepâsharper, deadlier.
"Who's first?"
Lynn pointed his blade at the crowd. The disrespect ignited their fury.
A bearded brute stepped forward, gripping a two-handed axe. "I'll cut off your head and kick it like a ball!"
He charged. The axe carved a vicious arc through the air.
Lynn sidestepped. The axe screamed past his shoulder, missing by inches.
His sword was at the brute's throat before anyone could blink.
The brute froze, eyes wide, sweat dripping.
"Next."
Lynn lowered his blade. The brute slunk away, face burning.
The second challenger was a tall, thin man with a spear. He tried to use reach, keeping distance.
But Lynn wove through his attacks, closing in. When the spear thrust at his chest, Lynn twisted, dodging the point. His sword chopped the shaft.
CRACK.
The spear snapped. The man stared at the broken wood in his hands.
"I yield."
He dropped it and retreated.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Every challenger fell cleanly. Lynn's upgraded skills crushed them. Simple techniques became unpredictable in his hands.
The crowd's jeers turned to shock, then fear.
Thorne's face darkened. "Damn it. How did he get this strong? He wasn't like this before."
After another man fell, the yard went silent. Lynn stood among the defeated. The rest gripped their weapons but didn't move.
His breathing was only slightly labored, as if he'd just finished morning drills.
"Anyone else?"
His gaze swept the remaining brothers. Each one stepped back.
Thorne took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Looks like I'll have to teach you myself."
He drew his swordâfinely crafted, etched with intricate patterns. Not a common blade.
"Ser Thorne, are you sure?" Tyrion's voice called from the gate. He, Jon, and Arya approached, concern on their faces.
If Lynn dies, so do my answers, Tyrion thought.
"This is Watch business." Thorne didn't turn. "You have no say."
Tyrion frowned but didn't interfere. The Watch had its own rules.
Arya clutched Benjen's sleeve. "Uncle, will Lynn be okay?"
Benjen shook his head. "Thorne's stronger than most. Older. More experienced. Lynn's at a disadvantage." He paused. "But I don't think Thorne will win."
He remembered teaching Lynn archery. The boy's a natural.
Thorne raised his sword, stance perfect. He was the master-at-arms, after all. Stronger than common brothers.
"Boy, let me show you real swordplay!"
He charged. His strikes were sharp, precise, aimed at vital points. No mercy.
Lynn retreated, focusing. Thorne was skilledâveteran technique, ruthless.
But Lynn's skills were Proficient now. His mastery matched Thorne's.
Their blades clashed. Steel rang. Sparks flew, lighting their focused faces.
One minute. Two minutes.
Thorne's alarm grew. He's improving mid-fight! Every move was sharper than the last. What kind of monstrous talent is this?
Lynn even mimicked Thorne's techniques!
"Impossible!"
Both were tiring. Thorne launched a desperate assault.
But Lynn had adapted to his rhythm. He remembered his father's words from childhood:
"When you fight, don't be fooled. You're tired? He's tired. You hurt? He hurts. Never give up. Only persistence wins. Quitters get trampled."
From that day, no one bullied Lynn again. He fought like a mad dogâeither he dropped them, or they dropped him. Only one could stand.
Lynn gritted his teeth and met Thorne's attack head-on. He learned. Countered. Pressed his advantage.
Finally, after a clever parry, Lynn's sword rested at Thorne's throat.
Silence.
Alliser Thorne, master-at-arms of Castle Black, defeated by a "deserter."
"Yield?"
Thorne's face flushed red. Veins bulged on his forehead. But the blade was at his throat. One push, and he'd die.
"I... yield."
Lynn sheathed his sword and faced the Watch.
"Anyone else?"
No answer. Every head bowed.
"Good. From now on, if you have a problem, come find me."
He turned and left.
Mormont watched from the tower window. He'd seen everything.
"This young man..." The Old Bear murmured. "Perhaps letting him leave is best."
That afternoon, Mormont summoned Lynn. The room was plain. The fire roared. The raven perched on Mormont's shoulder, eyeing Lynn.
"Sit."
Lynn sat.
"Impressive display this morning. I haven't seen swordplay like that in years."
"Thank you, Lord Commander."
"But I'm more curious about your growth rate." Mormont's gaze sharpened. "Not long ago, you were average. Today, you beat Thorne. That's... unusual."
Lynn's heart skipped, but his face stayed calm. "Perhaps the Old Gods blessed me."
Mormont stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Whatever the reason, you've earned their silence. I'll keep my promise."
Lynn waited.
Mormont stood and walked to the window. "You can go to King's Landing with Lord Stark. But in name, you're still a Ranger. That's the best I can do."
Lynn's heart leapt. "Yes, Lord Commander."
"However..." Mormont turned. "Before you leave, I need you to do something."
"What?"
"Wildling activity is increasing." Mormont returned to the desk and unrolled a map. "I need you to clear this area."
He pointed to several marked locations. "Wildling bands have been spotted here. With your skill, you can handle it."
Lynn studied the map. Close to the Wall, but potentially many wildlings.
Mormont sat. "Take extra men. Wildlings are poorly armed, but dangerous."
Lynn nodded. More wildlings. More experience.
And more time meant a better chance at Longclawâthe Mormont ancestral Valyrian steel sword. The Old Bear would gift it to someone who saved his life.
Sorry, Jon. I need that blade.
"I need three days to prepare."
"Granted. Go. Return safely."
~~~~ââ~~~~~~~~ââ~~~~
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