Seven days later, the Wall appeared on the horizon.
It began as a pale shimmer against the gray sky, and then, as they rode closer, it became an ocean of ice carved upward toward heaven. Even from miles away, its size defied belief—an endless, gleaming rampart of white that split the world in two.
Tyrion Lannister stared, awestruck. "The edge of the world," he murmured. "I've read a hundred accounts of it, but none come close to this."
Jon Snow said nothing. His breath misted in the cold air, his heart heavy and expectant. This was it—the first step into his new life.
Lynn watched too, eyes narrowing. He could feel something stirring under his skin—a faint tremor in the dragon blood that flowed through him. It wasn't excitement. It was awareness.
The Wall was more than ice. It was alive.
And something on the far side was watching back.
Cold. Ancient. Curious.
Lynn's throat tightened. We're being observed.
When they finally reached the gates, Benjen Stark reined in his horse and said quietly, "Castle Black. Welcome to the end of the world, my lords."
The gates creaked open, and wind carrying knives of frost swept through.
Even wrapped in his furs, Tyrion shuddered. "Suddenly I'm doubting the wisdom of this expedition," he muttered, tugging the rank‑smelling bearskin closer around his shoulders.
Jon's eyes shone, untouched by the cold. To him, the desolate keep was a dream given form.
Lynn walked at Benjen's side, scanning the battered courtyard, the crumbling towers, the thinning ranks of black‑cloaked men. Castle Black looked older than the Wall itself—tired, patched, and waiting to crumble.
The Watch had sent desperate ravens for help. Seeing it now, Lynn knew the words had been no exaggeration.
"Lynn! You're alive!"
Two familiar figures ran from the armory—Gared and Will.
"Seven hells, it is you!" Gared boomed, clapping Lynn on the shoulder. His eyes went to the wolf‑headed pommel at Lynn's belt. "We heard you flattened the Hound down south! The bear's talking about it even here!"
Will leaned closer. "Lord Commander Mormont said the same thing—he regrets letting you leave when he did."
Before Lynn could reply, a hard voice sliced through the reunion. "Enough chatter!"
Alliser Thorne approached, his black cloak snapping in the wind. "I don't care what songs you tricksome Northerners sing about yourself, boy. Here, you're just another stray."
His sharp eyes gleamed cruelly. He looked from Lynn to Jon to Tyrion—lingering on the dwarf with open disgust. "You, Snow. And our esteemed guests. The Lord Commander wants to see you in his tower. Move."
Jon's jaw tightened. He could feel dozens of eyes on him—half curiosity, half resentment.
Most here were criminals, beggars, and killers. A Stark bastard, with noble manners and a lord's training, was an insult they could not stand.
Tyrion whispered behind Lynn, "I begin to sense this fellow doesn't like you much."
Lynn sighed. "Alliser only respects men who can make him feel smaller—and there are none. He already sent me to the block once without proof. Lord Eddard gave him the scolding of his life."
"Poor man," Tyrion muttered. "Imagine—humiliated by a wolf, and now haunted by a dragon."
Days passed, and Jon's unease grew heavier with each one.
Training was a joke. Many recruits were older, stronger—yet none could match his skill.
That only earned him more hate.
After one argument too many, Jon shattered a sparring partner's forearm—the man had cursed his mother. After that, vengeance became routine. Every night some drunk or bitter recruit looked for a chance to bloody him.
And every time, Jon beat them back.
By the end of the week, the yard's whispers carried a mix of grudging respect and sharper resentment.
It all came to a head when Alliser Thorne strolled in, slow claps echoing across the snow.
"Well fought, Lord Snow," he said, voice dripping contempt. "A shining example. Perhaps you should take my place and teach these wretches yourself—Gods know your noble blood must itch for command."
Jon's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blunted sword. Around him, the muttering started again—taunts, laughter, envy.
That cursed title, Lord Snow, followed him everywhere, a sneer with teeth.
He wanted to strike Thorne down and silence the sneer forever.
That evening, Tyrion found him sitting alone under the Wall's shadow, wine in hand, looking utterly miserable.
"You shouldn't let him win, you know," the dwarf said casually, plopping down beside him. Wrapped in his furs, Tyrion resembled a talking snowball with sarcasm for a soul.
Jon frowned. "Win?"
"Alliser Thorne," Tyrion said. "He keeps calling you Lord Snow because he wants you angry. Rage makes noblemen stupid—it's the one lesson your kind never learns."
Jon scowled but listened.
Tyrion took a slow sip of wine. "He insults you because you're different. You remind them that you don't belong—neither highborn nor lowborn. A sword too good for thieves, a name too tainted for lords. You burn at both ends and blind them all."
Jon looked away. He hated how right it sounded.
"Look at me." Tyrion gestured at his twisted frame. "People call me imp, half‑man, monster. It used to enrage me. Then I realized the charm of it."
He smiled faintly. "When you own the word, it ceases to own you. Every time you hear Lord Snow, smile. Nod. Say, 'thank you, ser.'"
He raised his cup in mock salute. "Turn their sneer into your banner. Take the sting from their words, and suddenly they're unarmed."
Jon blinked at him, stunned. "That… actually makes sense."
"Of course it does," Tyrion said. "I'm small, not stupid."
The next day, Alliser Thorne tried again.
"Well, Lord Snow," he drawled, loud enough for all to hear, "care to show these scoundrels how Northern lords keep their blades clean?"
Every head turned. Silence froze the yard.
Jon stepped forward, meeting the man's gaze—then smiled.
"Of course, Ser Thorne," he said pleasantly. "I'd be happy to share what Ser Rodrik Cassel taught me."
Thorne's expression flickered; the mockery fell flat. Around them, a few recruits exchanged glances—and, to Jon's surprise, smirks.
That evening, Tyrion found him again by the gate, smuggled wine in hand.
"Well?" the dwarf asked, grinning.
Jon actually laughed. "When I thanked him, he nearly choked."
"Remember that moment," Tyrion said. "The first weapon you ever forged wasn't a sword. It was yourself."
Lynn watched from the ramparts as the unlikely pair shared their drink—bastard and dwarf, teacher and pupil.
Tyrion Lannister, he thought, was more dangerous than he looked. Not for his cunning, but for his ability to see through walls other men built.
Jon, meanwhile, was learning something far greater than swordsmanship.
The boy was beginning to understand the game—how strength was power only when tempered by restraint.
Below them, the vast Wall glimmered under starlight, alive with ancient whispers.
And far to the north, beyond the frozen lakes and the forests of night, something answered those whispers with hunger.
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