The morning sun struggled to break through the clouds above Castle Black. Frost coated the yard. Recruits shivered as Ser Alliser Thorne barked orders.
Jon stood among them, Ghost watching from the shadows of the gate.
Tyrion lingered off to the side with parchment and quill, observing everything with amusement.
A — Jon Begins Training… and Shock Waves Hit Castle Black
Thorne paced in front of the recruits.
"Today we see which of you is worthless, and which of you is slightly less worthless."
He pointed his training sword at Jon.
"Snow. You think you're better because you trained in Winterfell?
We'll see about that."
Jon stepped forward quietly.
The other boys snickered: fat Samwell Tarly, grim Grenn, sly Rast.
Thorne barked—
"Rast! Spar with Snow. Teach him that bastards have no place thinking they're knights."
Rast smirked, grabbing a training sword.
The moment the fight began…
Jon moved differently.
Not like the recruits.
Not like a highborn boy.
Not even like a trained knight.
His stance was balanced.
His grip was perfect.
Footwork—precise, calm, deadly.
Rast swung wildly.
Jon slid aside, disarmed him in one movement, and dropped the wooden blade at his feet.
The yard froze.
Thorne's jaw tightened.
"Begin again," he snapped.
They did.
It ended faster.
Jon didn't even strike hard — he simply avoided every blow, until Rast tripped over his own feet and face-planted in the snow.
Men at the Wall whispered:
"Did you see that?"
"He fights like… like he's trained for years."
"No… like someone taught him secrets."
Jon stepped back, uncomfortable with the attention.
His muscles relaxed exactly like Leo had drilled into him for a month.
Breathe. Move. Flow.
Thorne stared with something between hatred and… unease.
"Again," Thorne growled.
Jon kept winning.
Every spar.
Every opponent.
Every time.
By mid-afternoon, the men were looking at Jon Snow differently—
not a bastard.
Not a boy.
A warrior.
D — Tyrion Presses for the Truth
Later, Jon escaped to the top of the Wall to clear his head.
Tyrion climbed up after him, panting.
"Gods," he wheezed. "Whoever built these stairs hated short-legged men."
Jon couldn't help a small smile.
Then he noticed Tyrion studying him. Hard.
"You're stronger than you should be," Tyrion said. "Faster too. The others noticed."
Jon said nothing.
"And," Tyrion continued, "you have a Valyrian-like sword made of a metal I have never heard of, gifted to you by a man nobody sees."
Jon stiffened.
Tyrion leaned in.
"So tell me, Jon Snow…
Who is the shadow man?"
Jon looked away toward the endless frozen north.
"I don't know what he is," Jon said quietly. "Only that he saved me. Trained me. Gave me purpose."
"And his name?" Tyrion pushed.
Jon hesitated.
"Leo… Pendragon."
Tyrion froze.
"That name is extinct," he whispered. "Older than Valyria itself. A bloodline from legends… Dragonlords before the Dragonlords."
Jon swallowed.
"I don't know what he truly is. I only know he wants me ready."
"For what?" Tyrion asked.
Jon's voice was barely a whisper.
"For a danger no one here believes in."
Tyrion looked out into the far distance with him.
"What kind of danger?" he asked softly.
Jon answered with the same tone Leo had used in his dreams:
"The kind that comes with the cold."
Ghost growled softly as if agreeing.
And far below the Wall…
Something unseen watched Jon Snow with approval.
A metal arm glinted in the dark.
Three Against the Wolf"
Castle Black's yard was bitter cold the next morning, the kind that burned the lungs and stiffened fingers. But Jon Snow stood still, calm, centered — just as Leo taught him in the dream realm.
The recruits gathered, whispering.
"He beat everyone yesterday."
"Thorne's furious."
"He fights like a knight… no, like something else."
Ghost watched from the shadows, red eyes glowing.
Then Alliser Thorne entered the yard.
His expression was pure venom.
"Snow," he said loudly, "it seems you've made quite an impression. You're quick. Skilled. Too skilled."
Thorne paced around Jon.
"Some of the boys say they can't learn anything with you beating them like children. So today… we test you properly."
Three boys stepped forward — Grenn, Rast, and a broad-shouldered older recruit called Jaremy.
Jaremy smirked.
Rast cracked his knuckles.
Grenn looked scared but ready.
Tyrion stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, watching with interest.
Jon tightened his grip on the practice blade.
Thorne raised his voice:
"Snow, today you spar three men. If you fail, you drop that bastard pride of yours.
If you succeed… then perhaps you're worth the food you eat."
The boys circled Jon.
Whispers rippled through the yard.
"He can't win that."
"Three on one?"
"Thorne wants him broken."
Jon's heart hammered.
Breathe.
Flow.
Move.
Leo's voice echoed in his mind.
He lowered into the subtle, perfect stance Leo taught him — one no Westerosi master-at-arms had ever seen.
Thorne scowled immediately.
"What stance is THAT?" he snapped.
Jon didn't answer.
The Fight Begins
Rast charged first, swinging wildly.
Jon stepped aside, grabbed Rast's wrist, and used his momentum to throw him into the snow.
Gasps erupted around the yard.
Before Jon could breathe, Jaremy came from behind with a heavy overhead strike.
Jon ducked — barely.
He felt the wind of the wooden blade rush past his head.
Grenn rushed him too.
Two on one.
Jon parried Grenn's blow, redirected Jaremy's next strike, pivoted, and landed a clean tap to Grenn's ribs.
Grenn collapsed, wheezing.
Now it was two against one… but Jon had already broken the rhythm.
Rast came again, furious.
Jon blocked once — and cracked the training sword against Rast's knuckles. Rast screamed, dropping his weapon.
The yard erupted in shock.
Now only Jaremy remained.
The biggest.
The strongest.
The most determined.
Jaremy roared and charged.
Jon didn't retreat.
He stepped into the attack, twisted, locked Jaremy's arm, and flipped him straight onto his back.
The yard went silent.
Jon stood alone in the center, breath steady.
Thorne's face turned purple with rage.
Tyrion slowly clapped.
"Well," the dwarf said lightly, "that was… educational."
Several recruits stared at Jon like he was something unreal.
A few — Pyp, Grenn, and even Sam (who had arrived earlier that morning, trembling and out of breath) — looked at him with hope.
Alliser Thorne stomped forward.
"This isn't over, Snow," he growled softly. "I don't know how you fight like that… but I'll break it out of you."
Jon bowed his head respectfully.
"I'm here to learn, ser."
But his eyes were calm.
The eyes of someone who had already faced death…
and trained under a shadow stronger than any man on the Wall.
Ghost padded to Jon's side, protective and silent.
The recruits whispered again.
"The bastard is dangerous."
"No… he's special."
"He fights like he's been trained by a ghost."
Tyrion's quill scribbled furiously.
Leo Pendragon, he thought.
Just what kind of creature taught this boy?