Westeros, The Wall, Castle Black
The Wall is a titan of ice and stone, a colossal scar across the face of the North that separates the Seven Kingdoms from the savage, untamed lands of the Free Folk. It stretches from the Frostfangs in the west to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, spanning three hundred leagues of frozen desolation—a distance that takes four days of hard riding to traverse.
Below the gargantuan shadow of the ice, the training yard of Castle Black was filled with the sound of grunts and the dull thud of blunted steel. A group of raw recruits, the latest "gifts" to the Night's Watch, were undergoing "training" at the hands of Ser Alliser Thorne.
Thorne, a knight of the Crownlands and a veteran of the Rebellion, was not interested in teaching. He was interested in survival—and failing that, cruelty. His combat skills were honed to a razor's edge; even the most hardened criminals from King's Landing rarely lasted ten strokes against him. He relished the authority his position granted him, savoring the moment he could remind these "crows" that their lives were now entirely in his calloused hands.
"Watch your left, you fat pig!"
"Argh! Please... I yield! I yield!"
Hearing the high-pitched wail of the soft, pale boy before him, Thorne felt a surge of irritation. He adjusted his grip and brought his wooden practice sword down with a sickening thwack.
Truthfully, Thorne had never encountered a recruit so utterly devoid of spirit. Every time the high lords sent him another batch of "rubbish," his resentment grew.
"Useless cur!"
Thorne spat a glob of phlegm onto the boy's tunic. Samwell Tarly was a constant source of frustration; he couldn't hold a sword, he wouldn't fight back, and he did nothing but beg for mercy while consuming more rations than three able-bodied men.
As he watched the boy cower, Thorne was momentarily haunted by a shadow of his own past. He hadn't been this pathetic during the war, but when faced with the Lannister hosts at the gates of King's Landing, he hadn't chosen a hero's death. He had chosen the Black, and this frozen cage was his reward.
"You lot! Drag him and the rest of the broken ones to the cellar," Thorne barked at the other recruits. "Patch them up. You'll need to learn how to stitch skin as well as take it. Consider this a practical lesson."
The thrill of the beating had soured. Thorne turned on his heel and headed toward the common hall. He decided that after two cups of strong ale, he might find the patience to deal with these whelps again.
Hiss... huff...
As Jon's consciousness flickered to life, he was greeted by a stinging, needle-like agony. A cocktail of soreness, numbness, and sharp pain radiated through his limbs, forcing him to gasp for breath.
Almost immediately, a surge of warmth—an internal current of energy—began to circulate through his new veins. After several pulses, the worst of the pain receded into a dull throb.
"Who... who are you?! Why can't I move my arms? Seven save me! Mother have mercy!"
A frantic, stammering voice erupted within Jon's mind. At first, the boy was merely confused, but as he realized he had lost control of his own body, his mental voice escalated into a panicked shriek.
"Be silent!"
Jon's mental command reverberated like a dragon's roar through the depths of the boy's soul. The internal screaming cut off instantly, leaving behind a ringing silence. Jon ignored the lingering shock and began to unwrap the grimy bandages from his hands.
"What... what are you?" Samwell's voice returned, now hushed and trembling with the tone of a frightened child.
Jon still offered no answer. He pushed himself upright and surveyed his surroundings. He was in a drafty, cramped room. Nearby, a group of Night's Watch recruits were huddling around a central fire pit for warmth.
"Haha! Look! The fat lordling is actually moving!"
One of the recruits, a man nearly as portly as Samwell, pointed and laughed.
"Samwell Tarly! Are you sure you're of the Reach?" another jeered. "Your house words are 'First in Battle,' aren't they? Yours should be 'First to Yield'!"
"Don't go shaming the Reach now, Lord Piggy!"
The room erupted into mocking laughter. Amidst the jeers, Jon processed the reality of his situation: he was skinchanging into Samwell Tarly—Jon's future best friend and one of the few survivors of the original tragedy.
You are Samwell Tarly? Jon asked internally.
"You... you answered me! Who are you? Why am I a prisoner in my own head?"
Sam's voice held a strange note of relief. His nature was so inherently submissive that even the presence of a mental invader was preferable to the isolation of his own fear. It seemed the gods had gifted Sam a brilliant mind but stripped every ounce of warrior's blood from his veins.
I am...
[Quest Initialized...]
The System's chime vibrated in Jon's skull. He froze, wondering if Sam could hear it. This was a secret he intended to guard with his life; the knowledge of such power would tempt even the most honorable man to betrayal.
"Um... hello? Why did you stop?"
Sam's persistent questioning confirmed he was blind to the interface. Jon quickly scanned his temporary attributes.
Name: Aegon Targaryen (Skinchanging: Samwell Tarly)
Class: Fighter, Maester (Original class skills disabled)
Weapon: Wooden Sword
Strength: 5 (Native: 6)
Skill: 1 (Native: 5)
Speed: 1 (Native: 6)
Defense: 5 (Native: 3)
Magic: 5 (Native: 2)
Weapon Rank: LV1
Items: Vulnerary (3/5), Antidote (3/3)
Soul Energy: 1000 Points
Quest Objectives:
Help Samwell lose weight and achieve the rank of Ranger. ...
Explore the ruins in the Haunted Forest and eliminate a White Walker scouting party. ...
Prevent the Great Range; ensure Jeor Mormont's survival.
Skinchanging Duration: 06:58:24
The System remained as opaque as ever, simply dumping tasks onto him like an incompetent overseer. With the clock ticking, Jon knew he had to act fast.
"Listen well, young Samwell Tarly," Jon began, pitching his mental voice into a resonant, archaic chant. "Do you not feel it? The wheels of fate are turning beneath your feet."
"I... what?"
The change in Jon's tone, shifting from a sharp command to a melodic, high-born cadence, immediately captivated the bookish boy.
"Follow the whispers of your heart, child. You have been chosen. Like the heroes of the Age of Heroes, you have received a sign from the Heavens."
"Is... is that true?" Sam's mental voice wavered with a desperate, burgeoning hope.
Jon began to weave a grand deception. Using his knowledge of the future, he described events yet to pass as if they were divine prophecies. He spoke of the coming darkness and the role Sam would play. To the sheltered boy from Horn Hill, Jon's words were the ultimate validation.
"You... you are a manifestation of the Warrior? And I... I will truly become a Grand Maester?"
Poor Sam was utterly "crippled" by the lie. He spoke with a breathless reverence. Coming from the Reach, the heart of the Faith of the Seven, the idea of divine intervention was part of his very foundation.
"Samwell Tarly, I grant you the blessing of the Warrior," Jon declared. "Through me, you shall find the strength to cast a prismatic light of salvation across this frozen waste. Together, we shall purge the influence of the Dark Gods!"