"Lord Tyrion, I hear you have grown tired of the Wall." Tyrion paused, as Mormont called out to him.
"I won't deny it," Tyrion grunted, taking a seat across from him and Maester Aemon, "I'm finding the routine here to be more than a little monotonous. I've already settled it with your man Yoren, we'll travel together to the capital. No use going alone, when there's fine company to be had."
"Jon Snow has told us that you intend to plead on behalf of the Wall, once you reach the capital," said Mormont, fixing Tyrion with a strong look, "is that so?"
"The boy speaks truly," said Tyrion easily, "although I don't know about 'pleading'. I will certainly bring your case before the King. Any man with eyes could see the disrepair that the Watch has fallen into. I see it now, and I will bring the Crown's attention to it."
"Why did you come here, Lord Tyrion?" inquired Maester Aemon.
"I've always wanted to see the Wall," said Tyrion resolutely, "it seemed as good an opportunity as any. I've always had a taste for stories of heroes and monsters. What better place to satisfy myself, than the Wall that stands between us and the Others? The oldest and greatest story in Westeros."
Mormont looked at Tyrion sharply. "What have you been told?"
"Fanciful stories," said Tyrion, tilting his head, "impossible tales of what lies beyond the Wall. Things I would tell children to frighten them in the safety and comfort of their warm castles."
"Is that what you intend to tell the King?" said Mormont coldly, "that we fight the fears of children? You are mistaken."
"No," said Tyrion, shaking his head soberly, "forgive me, Lord Mormont, I jest out of fear. I have every faith in the terrors that lie North of the Wall, and I intend to convince the King of this as best as I am able."
Mormont sat back, his features guarded. "You're a southern man, Lord Tyrion. The blood of Andals run through your veins. What do you know of the Others?"
Tyrion smiled grimly. "Not much," he said. The lie slid off his tongue like silk. "It's true, I am a southerner. We're too comfortable down there, I'll be the first to admit it. We've not even forgotten, like much of the North. We merely never knew what lurked beyond the Wall. The fear doesn't live in our blood."
Wight's blood runs black, dry like dust. Their touch is so cold it burns. Tyrion is going die, he's going to die, and he's going to be one of them. It terrifies him, more than anything ever has.
"Yet here you stand," said Mormont gruffly, "tell me, Lord Tyrion, What has changed?"
Everything.
Tyrion hesitated, then smiled thinly. "I'm a survivor, Lord Mormont. I was never supposed to be, yet, here I stand. If I didn't have my name, I would have never made it past my first nameday. I doubt I would have lived long enough to be named. Not only a disappointment, but a disappointment that killed my beautiful mother. So I've had to survive, and to do that I've had to be pragmatic. So when Ned Stark, looked at me, and told me that he felt fear. I listened. Men like Ned Stark, like Benjen, like you Mormont. They don't scare easily. I'd be a fool to run from something, just because I wished it was otherwise. And I've always strived to be more than just the fool."
"I didn't take you for a fool," said Mormont, "I'm glad to be proven right. You're a cunning man, Lord Tyrion. We need more of your sort on our side. We have become an army of sullen boys and tired old men. Our strength is less than a thousand now. A scant third of those are fighting men."
"And Winter is coming," finished Tyrion.
"And Winter is coming," agreed Mormont, "and when the Long Night falls, only the Night's Watch will stand between the realm and the darkness that sweeps from the North. The gods help us all if we are not ready."
"Not the gods, Lord Mormont," said Tyrion, "men beat back the dead once. Men will do it again."
Jon rose early. The crisp morning air invigorated him. He dressed warmly. The clothes that Sansa had made him were simple. For now, he needed to be unassuming.
He walked briskly from the tower. Ghost trotted swiftly beside him. Jon bent down and rubbed his ears.
"Go hunt," Jon murmured against his fur. The men were scared of Ghost. And Jon didn't want them scared today.
Ghost loped off, scattering a group of birds.
Jon watched him go, before turning towards the training yard. The brothers would just be waking, stumbling groggily into the hall to break their fast.
He grabbed a training breastplate, and slipped it over his head. It settled clunkily around his chest. Jon picked up a blunted sworded, weighing it in his hand. It was heavier than Dawnbringer, heavier than Longclaw. More like castle-forged swords. How easy it was to get used to Valyrian steel.
He hefted the blade, and attacked a practice dummy, adjusting his swings to accommodate the new weight.
Jon was breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his brow, when he heard shuffling behind him. He turned to see the new recruits, watching him. They looked wary, yet begrudgingly impressed.
Jon nodded at them, wiping the sweat from his face.
His eyes flickered to Pyp and Grenn's faces. He had forgotten the feeling, of those hard looks directed towards him.
"Early morning, Lord Snow?" sneered Rast, pushing to the front of the men, "we were beginning to think you never meant to grace us with your noble face."
Jon smiled grimly. "I'm no lord. My father may be noble, but I'll always be just a bastard."
"A lord in all but title," Toad scoffed, "will you remember us, Lord Snow, when you ride back to your warm castle, to sleep under your fine furs in front of your roaring fire?"
"I don't think I'll be going home anytime soon," said Jon neutrally, "I thought I might like to get some practice in while I'm here. It's good to keep sharp. Spar?"
He looked out over the recruits, his sword gripped lightly at his side. No one stepped forward.
Rast shoved Pyp hard, and he stumbled forward. Pyp looked furious, but he drew himself up, and held his hand out for a sword. Grenn handed him one, and the other boys threw a breastplate over his head.
Pyp held the sword awkwardly, his fingers stiff and tight. Too tight, Jon noted. He held the sword like it was a dagger.
"Like this," Jon said stepping forward, his voice dispassionate. He demonstrated his grip on the sword to the other boy, who glared severely at him. "Your grip needs to be firm, but malleable," Jon continued, "a longsword is different than a dagger. It requires a different sort of motion."
Pyp hesitated, turning to look at the men behind him. Swallowing, he adjusted his grip. Jon kept his face unaffected, but was pleased to see that Pyp had better control of the blade already.
"Always have a wide stance," Jon said shifting his legs apart, and planting his feet, "and keep your legs bent. You need to be able to move quickly, no matter whether you're winning or losing."
Pyp copied him, the tips of his ears turning red with concentration.
"Now swing at me," said Jon, knocking his empty fist against his breastplate, "right here."
Pyp only hesitated for a moment, before taking the sword, and jabbing hard and ungainly in the direction of Jon's stomach.
Jon deflected him easily, and stepped back.
"Your grip is good," said Jon, "but a longsword benefits from a slicing motion, not a jabbing one. The sides are the sharpest. Swing, like this."
He swung, slowly, tapping the edge of the sword against Pyp's stomach, making him flinch.
"You can do more damage this way," Jon explained, pulling his sword back and feigning the strike against his own chest, "it increases the surface area of the wounds in quick combat."
He moved back into position, and Pyp did the same. Jon guided him through the motions, instructing Pyp on how to disarm him. Pyp's sword landed with a crack on Jon's wrist, and he dropped his sword immediately.
"Good," Jon grunted, rubbing his wrist, "Pyp's just forced me to demonstrate the most important rule. Always keep hold of your weapon. You can't win without it."
Pyp stepped back, pleased.
"Here," Pyp thrust his sword at Grenn, "bet you can't disarm, Lord Snow."
Grenn came forward, unsmiling. He grabbed Pyp's blade.
"No," Pyp scolded him, "like this." He showed Grenn how to hold the sword properly. Grenn's brow furrowed as he focused.
"Now attack!" Pyp said, pointing at Jon. Jon readied himself, and Grenn charged.
"Use the side of the blade," Pyp yelled, as the other recruits circled up around Jon and Grenn, hooting and cheering.
Grenn was unbalanced, but his strikes were aggressive. Jon focused on defense, dodging and blocking Grenn's sword.
"Hit the bastard!" yelled Rast.
"What in the seven hells are you fools doing?" Alliser Thorne bellowed suddenly.
Grenn lost his grip on his sword in surprise, and Jon dropped his weapon immediately to avoid striking him.
"You," snarled Thorne pointing at Jon, "the bastard lordling. You have no right to be interfering here."
"Apologies," Jon said, the word slipping out from between gritted teeth, "I was only looking for a bit of sparring practice."
"Against this lot?" Thorne snorted, "scum, the lot of them. Farmer's sons and stable boys. Criminals. What use are they to a castle-trained fighter. Most of these men have never held a sword. But you, you were holding a sword fresh out of your swaddling clothes, weren't you, bastard?"
"Aye," said Jon, steadily, "I've been wielding a sword for most of my life. I trained under Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-At-Arms."
"And that makes you better than this lot," Thorne asked, smirking, "doesn't it, Lord Snow?"
"No," said Jon, meeting Thorne's eyes evenly, "it doesn't. Fighting's practice, not skill. These men just need more practice."
"And you think you should be the one to give it to them, do you?" Thorne's voice was dangerous, "a child, thinking he knows more than grown men.
"I presume nothing," said Jon sharply, "except that the Watch needs trained fighters."
"Which I will do my best to provide," Thorne said silkily, "despite what I am forced to work with. Without your assistance, bastard."
Don't . Jon stopped himself from responding with difficulty. He nodded, shortly. He pulled off the training breastplate, and threw it down. His sword clattered to the ground.
He stalked away, but noted with satisfaction, that the eyes of the recruits followed him.
"Jon."
Benjen reached out, and caught him.
"Uncle Benjen," Jon said, relieved to see his face. He saw his uncle so rarely now. Bejen spent his days and nights, planning with Aemon and Mormont for the ranging.
"You'd do well not to get on Thorne's bad side," his uncle chided him.
Jon smiled wanly, and shook his head. "Won't happen," he said, "he's a brute and a bully. All that time I've seen him yelling abuse at the new recruits. Not one of them knew the proper grip on a sword. He's hurting the Watch, hurting the men."
"Yet he commands respect here," Benjen reminded him, "remember that."
"I will," said Jon, looking down bitterly, "I won't ever forget the weight of his influence."
Benjen considered him. "We're waiting, to send out the ranging party," he said quietly, "Mormont has decided to wait until the dragonglass arrives. He wants every man in the party equipped with a dagger."
Jon nodded, his hand curling up into a fist. "It will be a while yet."
Benjen nodded. "Worth the wait," he said, looking at Jon, "I think you would agree."
"I do," Jon said gruffly, "it is the best course of action."
"It will be a long expedition," said Benjen, "we'll spend time preparing for the journey. We need food, clothes, horses. I hope to bring some of the new men along with us. The more eyes that see what's beyond the Wall, the better."
"Pyp and Grenn," said Jon, "they're good, loyal men of the Watch." He hesitated. "And Sam," said Jon quietly, "Sam will be here soon. He's the best of us."
Benjen smiled. "I look forward to it," he said, "I'll take every good man who comes our way."
