When Alliser Thorne realized his favorite insult—calling Jon Snow "Lord Snow"—no longer stung, he found a new way to cause trouble: stirring up the men Jon had humiliated.
Whispers turned into glares, and glares into fights. By that afternoon, Jon found himself cornered in the yard by Grenn and Todder—the very recruits he'd thrashed in training earlier that week.
They'd watched Alliser beat Jon senseless that morning and decided the bastard might finally bleed for them.
It ended in a tangle of fists and curses until Donal Noye, the armorer, waded in like an avalanche and dragged them apart.
"Enough!" he barked.
In the warmth of the forge, Donal hammered steel back into shape, sparks showering the floor. Jon stood nearby, flushed and angry.
"Don't look at me like that," said the old smith without turning. "Beating gutter thieves won't earn you a shred of honor. All it does is rob the Watch of three half‑useful fighters."
"He called my mother—"
"—a whore?" Donal interrupted. "So what? Does that make her one? Words only have power if you lend them yours."
Jon's jaw tightened.
"Ned Stark isn't the sort to whore his seed around, sure," Donal went on, hammering a rhythm. "But he still made a bastard, didn't he? Learn to live with what you are, boy. The rest of us have."
Every strike of the hammer drove the point deeper than steel ever could.
"Out there," Donal said, nodding toward the yard, "are murderers, thieves, refugees, outcasts. Most didn't come here chasing glory. You—well‑fed, trained by Ser Rodrik, carrying noble manners—you remind them of everything they'll never have. Your skill makes enemies, not friends."
Jon stared at the floor.
"If you don't want a knife at your throat while you sleep," Donal continued, "start talking to them like brothers. Apologize—not because you were wrong, but because you embarrassed them. Ask them to teach you something. Let them feel useful."
The hammer paused mid‑air. "Sometimes the best way to calm a barking dog is to toss it a bone."
Jon did as he was told.
He found Grenn and Todder in the infirmary, bandaged and grumpy.
"I… came to apologize," Jon said awkwardly, setting a bundle of fresh bread and cheese on the table. "For hitting so hard. I'm used to training differently, that's all. In Winterfell, we always fought at full strength."
Grenn eyed him, then the food. "You're a strange one, Snow."
Todder took a bite of bread. "Apology accepted. Just—maybe pull your swings next time, yeah? You nearly broke my arm."
For the first time in days, the tension thinned—until the door swung open.
"Well, isn't this touching," came Alliser Thorne's cutting voice. "Lord Snow graces the infirmary, breaking bread with cripples. What's next—buying their loyalty, or just polishing their boots?"
The moment soured. Grinn and Todder froze halfway through chewing.
Jon's hands clenched.
Before he could speak, another voice slid through the doorway—calm, amused.
"Alliser Thorne," Lynn said, stepping inside. "I hear you're the best sword among the brothers of the Night's Watch."
Thorne's gaze snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "Lynn Auger. The deserter who somehow dodged justice. I heard you fooled Lord Eddard Stark into pardoning you. What brings the wolf's pet north again? Did you get yourself cast out of Winterfell after all?"
"I'm here on Lord Stark's orders," Lynn replied evenly. "But I thought I might use the trip to learn from the finest teacher in Castle Black."
He smiled, sharp as a blade. "If I'm to fight the Others, I should learn from a true master—don't you agree?"
The room went still.
Thorne's jaw tightened. He knew the tales—how this same man had defeated the Hound and saved a Stark boy's life.
"To challenge me," Thorne said slowly, "you must have a death wish."
"With live steel?" Lynn asked.
"With practice swords," he replied before Thorne could twist it otherwise. "Lord Commander Mormont says the Watch can't afford wasted blood."
He turned, voice carrying loud and clear: "I believe everyone could use a good lesson in silence. Ten minutes, in the yard."
Jon's heart jumped. He's serious.
Ten minutes later, nearly every man in Castle Black had gathered around the training circle. Even Lord Commander Mormont stood on the tower balcony above, arms folded, watching in silence.
Tyrion Lannister found himself a seat on a half‑collapsed barrel with a bag of peanuts—where he'd even gotten them, no one knew.
"This should be entertaining," he told Jon.
In the center, two men faced each other—Lynn with his familiar half‑sword, Thorne with a heavy training blade. Though dulled, either weapon could break bone.
"You first, Ser Thorne," Lynn said politely. "Show me what makes the black's instructor so feared."
Thorne's temper snapped. He lunged with startling speed, blade slashing for Lynn's head.
But Lynn was faster. One sidestep, one short stride forward, and his sword hilt slammed into Thorne's stomach.
The impact knocked the older man backward with a strangled grunt.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
What followed wasn't a duel—it was a lesson.
Lynn moved like the wind, his blows clean and merciless, striking arm, leg, shoulder, ribs—never killing, always reminding.
Thorne stumbled, swung wildly, missed again. The steady rhythm of humiliation echoed with every crack of wood against armor.
Lynn didn't gloat. He didn't smirk. His expression stayed cool, distant, precise. That silence—the refusal to even mock him—did more damage than any strike could.
At last, a hard block sent Thorne's sword flying. It spun end‑over‑end and buried itself upright in the frozen dirt.
Thorne dropped to one knee, clutching his wrist. Blood smeared his lip.
Lynn stepped forward, blade tip halting an inch from his throat.
"Thank you for the lesson, Master‑at‑Arms," he said calmly. "I've learned a great deal."
He turned toward the watching recruits and raised his voice. "See, Jon? That's how you shut up a noisy bird—hit it until it stops squawking. Up here on the Wall, birth doesn't matter. Titles don't matter. Only your fists—and who you'll take a blow for—matters."
He sheathed the sword and walked off, nodding toward Jon. "Come on. I could use something hot to drink before my fingers freeze."
Behind them, Alliser Thorne still knelt in the dirt, too humiliated to rise.
That evening, when Jon entered the mess hall, the air felt different.
Grenn waved him over. "Hey, Snow! Got you a seat."
Others nodded in quiet acknowledgment. The tension that once shadowed him seemed to thaw.
Across the hall, laughter echoed around the long tables.
From the commander's tower above, Lord Mormont watched through the window. "So. That's the man planning to cross the Wall and speak with the wildlings."
At the fire, blind Maester Aemon tilted his head. His voice carried the wisdom of centuries. "The world beyond the Wall is stirring, Mormont. Perhaps the gods have sent us what we needed—though not in the form we expected."
The Lord Commander grunted, thoughtful, his breath misting in the candlelight. "Then may the gods forgive us for whatever they're sending him to face."
Outside, the wind howled against the towering ice—like a thousand voices that wouldn't stay quiet.
For now, their newest brother had done the impossible: he'd finally made the Wall a little quieter.