Jon Snow's figure appeared exceptionally thin under the cold moonlight. His sword hung by his side, and his whole body looked as if the bones had been pulled out of it. Uncle Benjen's words cut deeper than the North wind.
Lynn offered no words of comfort. He just stood quietly by the side, letting Jon digest this cruel reality on his own. Sympathy was the cheapest thing in this world. Jon needed to walk out of this himself.
Suddenly, a voice came from the shadows behind them, carrying a hint of drunkenness and amusement.
"It seems not everyone enjoys the noise of a feast."
Lynn's muscles tensed instantly, his fingers tightening slightly on his sword hilt. He spun around.
A short figure walked out from the shadow of the colonnade. He was only half the height of an ordinary man. But his well-tailored fine clothes and the silver cup filled with crimson wine in his hand proclaimed his noble status.
Tyrion Lannister. Queen Cersei's brother, known as "The Imp."
A reckless smile hung on his face, and his mismatched eyes twinkled under the moonlight with a cunning that seemed to see through everything.
Tyrion's gaze fell straight onto Jon.
"Let me guess. You must be Ned Stark's bastard."
Jon's face darkened instantly, his hand gripping his sword until his knuckles turned white. The surname "Snow" was an unhealable scar on him. And Tyrion was mercilessly poking that scar with his finger.
Tyrion seemed not to see the anger on Jon's face and took a sip of wine on his own. "Is your uncle a Night's Watchman?"
Jon turned to face the dwarf. "What are you doing here?"
Tyrion shrugged. "Working up the courage to dine with your family. I've actually always wanted to see the Wall."
Snow ignored that and asked, "You are Tyrion Lannister? Cersei's brother?"
Tyrion took a gulp of wine and mocked himself, "Yes, that's perhaps my greatest achievement. You have the gloomy look of a Northman, but your face is much finer than your half-siblings. That usually comes from the mother's side."
"Did I offend you just now? Sorry, I shouldn't have brought up the bastard thing."
Tyrion swirled his wine cup, ripples spreading in the liquid. "Don't look at me like that, boy."
Jon's lips moved, but he couldn't say a word.
"You are indeed a bastard. Your father is Ned Stark, and your mother is not Lady Stark. Never forget what you are, for the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
Jon was stunned. Then, anger welled up in his heart. "What do you know? What do you know about being a bastard?"
Tyrion looked straight into Jon's eyes. "All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes. What difference is there between you and me?"
Looking at Tyrion's diminutive stature, the anger in Jon's heart dissipated instantly.
Tyrion's gaze moved from Jon to Lynn. He looked Lynn up and down. From Lynn's wash-faded black clothes to the sharp sword in his hand, and finally to those eyes that remained calm in the night.
"And you? You don't look like a dwarf. Are you a bastard like him too?" Tyrion asked with interest. "Oh, no, you're not a Stark. You have the smell of a crow on you."
Lynn didn't speak, just met his gaze calmly. This dwarf exuded a dangerous aura. It wasn't a threat of physical force, but an oppressive feeling stemming from intellect.
"A Night's Watchman, not warming himself with a plump whore at the feast, but standing here in the ice and snow blowing in the cold wind with the Lord's bastard."
Tyrion took another sip of wine, the smile on his lips deepening. "What an interesting combination."
"The feast is too loud," Lynn finally spoke, his voice flattened somewhat by the wind.
"Oh?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I find that this level of noise is perfect for covering up certain... less pleasant sounds. Like lies, conspiracies, and... other things."
His gaze lingered on the longsword at Lynn's waist for a moment.
Lynn knew there was a hidden meaning in Tyrion's words. But Lynn had indeed just come out for some fresh air. This dwarf was far more sober than he appeared.
"How is the Wall?" Tyrion changed the subject, his tone becoming lighter. "I've always wanted to see that end of the world. I heard there are wildlings there, and... more terrible things."
His tone carried a trace of mockery, as if talking about an absurd fairy tale.
"The Wall is cold," Lynn answered simply and directly. "Colder than Winterfell."
Tyrion laughed. "It seems the eloquence of the Night's Watch is as lackluster as the Northern weather."
He drained the last bit of wine from his cup and tossed the expensive silver goblet into the snow.
"Alright, two gloomy gentlemen. I'm going to find something warmer and softer to pass this night."
He winked his black eye at Jon. "Remember my words, boy. There's nothing bad about being a bastard; at least you don't have to attend those boring feasts."
With that, Tyrion hummed an out-of-tune Southern ditty and waddled away on his short legs, disappearing at the other end of the courtyard.
In the snow, only a lonely silver cup and a trail of uneven footprints remained.
Jon still stood in place, as if nailed to the ground.
After a long time, he slowly exhaled a breath, which condensed into a white mist in the cold air.
"He's right." Jon's voice was low, but no longer held the confusion from before.
He looked up at Lynn, a light rekindling in his eyes. It wasn't the light of finding a home, but a resilience born from breaking through the soil after recognizing reality.
Lynn didn't respond. His gaze passed over Jon's shoulder, looking toward the brightly lit tower in the distance.
After a long while.
"Lord Benjen is still waiting for me." Lynn patted Jon's shoulder, then walked toward the banquet hall.