Castle Black, The Training Yard
"Victory! Long live the Slayer!"
In the muddy training yard of Castle Black, Samwell—his body currently a vessel for Jon's consciousness—was being hoisted into the air by a chaotic swarm of Night's Watch recruits.
Jon felt himself soaring. He was tossed upward again and again, a newly forged hero in the eyes of the brotherhood. Those who couldn't reach him to lift him made up for it with a deafening roar of applause and whistles, their cheers turning the freezing air electric. Despite Sam's considerable girth, he was at this moment light as a feather in the hearts of his comrades.
His body traced round arcs against the grey sky, falling into a sea of outstretched, calloused hands only to be propelled upward once more. It was a sight that bordered on the surreal—the "Lord Piggy" of yesterday now a soaring icon of defiance. But the warmth of their fervor was undeniable; it was a fire that even the Wall's shadow could not dampen.
Nearly every man in this yard had tasted the bitter gall of Ser Alliser Thorne's iron-fisted rule. They had been mocked, broken, and spat upon. Among them, the cold-eyed killers from King's Landing had spent many a silent night sharpening shivs, dreaming of the moment they could end the master-at-arms' life.
Yet, Thorne's prowess was a wall they could not climb. Combined with the crushing weight of their new, frozen reality, their resentment had been buried deep, festering like a wound. Until now. Jon's victory had acted as a sudden, sharp intake of fresh air, purging the miasma of their shared humiliation. He hadn't just won a duel; he had reclaimed their dignity. Every cheer was a release of that long-held pressure, a genuine celebration of a triumph that felt as much theirs as it was his.
However, gravity and mass eventually reclaimed their due. The recruits began to heave under the strain of Sam's weight, their breaths coming in thick, labored plumes of white.
"Enough! Set me down!" Jon shouted as the height of his "flights" began to dwindle.
Inside the shared headspace, Samwell was laughing—a high, giddy sound. He had abandoned all doubt. The physical changes were too real to ignore; the surging strength in his limbs and the newfound clarity in his mind were undeniable. He knew that when he regained the reins of his body, he would be transformed. Yet, when his eyes fell upon the fallen Ser Alliser Thorne, a chill unrelated to the weather seeped into his spirit. Thorne's face was a mask of icy, murderous promise.
"My Lord… what if Thorne seeks his revenge?" Sam whispered internally.
"Do you fear him, child?" Jon's mental voice resonated with a cool, archaic detachment.
"I… I don't know. I only fear that when you depart, this power will leave with you."
"That lies with you. If you hold fast to the blessing, the fire will not go out."
Jon's internal reassurance was interrupted by the arrival of Dolorous Edd Tollett. Under the lean man's guidance, Jon was led from the yard to the solar of the Lord Commander.
There sat Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear. In the tapestry of the original tragedy, Mormont was a rarity—a man of true honor and unwavering knightly spirit. He was a creature as precious and endangered as a direwolf, and Jon knew he had to protect him. To hold the Wall, the Watch needed a leader whose back was as straight as a weirwood.
"Lord Commander," Jon said, offering a bow that was perfectly measured.
"A fine show, lad," Mormont said, his eyes scanning Jon with the intensity of a predator. "Tell me: what manner of spirit drives a boy to stand after a beating like that?"
Mormont had seen Samwell on the day he arrived—a trembling, discarded heir from the Reach. But the boy standing before him now possessed a gaze that was steady, almost hauntingly ancient. He wanted to know what forge had turned a coward into a fighter.
"Perhaps the Warrior gave me the strength," Jon replied, leaning into the divine narrative. "In the dark of my faint, a voice spoke of the Great Cold. It told me that Winter has truly come, and that those who shrink from the fight will find only a frozen grave."
"Hah! Listen to the lad," a small, sharp voice piped up from the shadows. "Quite the poet, our Lord Piggy. You sure you haven't been dipping into the poppy milk, Tarly?"
Jon turned his head toward the dwarf sitting by the hearth. Tyrion Lannister's eyes were narrowed, his wit as sharp as a Valyrian blade.
"Perhaps we shall find time to speak of poems and shadows, My Lord," Jon said, meeting Tyrion's mismatched gaze. "The wise often find themselves lost in the dark before they see the light."
Tyrion's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. As a man accustomed to being the smartest—and the most hated—person in any room, he recognized a challenge when he heard one. This boy wasn't looking at him with pity or disgust; he was looking at him with recognition.
"I hear you have a mind to be a Ranger," Mormont interrupted, bringing the focus back to the business of the Watch.
Jon's victory over Thorne had created a dangerous ripple. A recruit who could best the master-at-arms was a beacon for envy and target for the bitter. Mormont, a veteran of a thousand political skirmishes, knew he had to pull the boy into his inner circle before the wolves tore him apart.
"I am assigning you to Benjen Stark's troop," Mormont declared. "But he is currently on range. Until his return, you will serve as my personal steward. Tell me... can you ride?"
"I… the horses… my father used to…" A wave of Sam's childhood trauma surged through their shared consciousness.
"I will learn to ride as a Ranger must, My Lord," Jon answered firmly, suppressing Sam's anxiety.
"And I suggest you see to that spare flesh," Tyrion added, leaning back with a mischievous glint. "Lest the northern garrons decide to go on strike under the weight of your 'blessings.'"
"I shall make it a priority, My Lord Lannister."
With the orders given, the Old Bear offered a few gruff words of encouragement before dismissing them. Outside, the list of assignments was read aloud by the stewards.
The Night's Watch had stood for thousands of years, longer than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. In its prime, ten thousand men guarded the ice; now, they were a skeleton crew of six hundred, many of them grey-beards and green boys. The high lords treated the Black as a waste-bin for their unwanted sons and criminals.
But today, the list held a strange weight. Over a hundred new recruits had arrived—an unprecedented number—and most were hardy men from the North and the Riverlands.
Jon watched the men take their vows. He knew the truth behind those numbers. This was the fruit of his secret council with Eddard Stark. If the Wall was to be the first line of defense against the Long Night, it needed more than shadows; it needed steel and the men brave enough to hold it.