Castle Black,
the training yard.
The clang of steel rang across the square.
Jon wore a black wool tunic beneath a leather vest and mail. Sweat poured off him.
He pressed forward, forcing his opponent off balance. The other boy raised his sword clumsily to parry.
Jon chopped hard at the low line, catching his foot and staggering him, then drove a bracered elbow into his belly. The boy's center collapsed and he fell hard into the snow.
Jon followed through, striking his wrist joint. The boy yelped and dropped his sword, clutching his hand.
"You bastard—you dislocated my wrist."
"If that had been a real blade, I'd have cut your hamstrings, split your skull, and taken both your hands," Jon said with contempt.
"You win."
Ser Alliser, acting as judge, announced it—his voice sharp as Valyrian steel slicing the air.
Jon took off his helm. The frosted air on his face felt good.
He planted his sword and drew a deep breath, allowing himself a brief moment to savor victory.
"That's a sword, not an old man's walking stick," Ser Alliser snapped. "Lord Snow—are your feet hurting?"
Jon hated the nickname Lord Snow. From the first day he arrived at Castle Black, someone had called him that.
Others copied it. Now everyone did.
Jon had beaten every opponent Ser Alliser sent against him, and still he received no respect.
Alliser's mouth held nothing but mockery.
Jon sheathed his sword and muttered, "Fuck off."
Unfortunately, the man's ears were too good.
"Say that again if you've got the guts."
Alliser strode toward him. His stiff black leather armor whispered as he moved.
He was around fifty—solid, lean, hard-edged. Black hair gone slightly grey, but his eyes were bright as polished onyx, locked on Jon with fury.
"Did I say anything?" Jon put on an innocent face.
…
"That's enough for today."
Alliser raised his voice.
"I have no patience for useless bellies. If the Others ever truly come, I hope they bring bows—because you lot are only fit to be targets…"
He ended with a cold, sideways look at Jon. He had plenty of ways to deal with a disobedient new recruit.
Jon returned with the others to the armory, walking alone among them.
These past days, since arriving at Castle Black, he had been alone.
Their training group had around twenty men, but not one of them could be called a friend.
Inside, Jon hung his sheathed sword on a hook set into the stone wall and methodically removed his helm, leather, and sweat-soaked wool.
At both ends of the long room, braziers burned hot with coal, and still Jon couldn't stop shivering.
So cold, he thought—remembering Winterfell's hall, the hot springs that ran through the walls like blood through a living body.
Castle Black had no warmth. Only cold stone, and people colder still.
Aside from Ser Domeric, no one had warned him the Watch would be like this.
But back then Jon only wanted to escape Winterfell, so he had ignored the advice.
Now regret pricked at him.
He shouldn't have asked Lord Eddard to send him here early…
…
That night, Castle Black held a feast to welcome Domeric's army.
Mint leaves decorated the tables. There was lamb roasted with garlic and herbs, carrot mash drowned in cream, and Arbor wine from the Reach.
For dessert: chilled blueberries and sweet cream.
They said all of it had come from Ser Domeric's Lonely Hills domain.
…
When Domeric entered the hall, a group of knights tried to guide him to a seat near the fire.
He didn't bother.
Instead, he walked straight up to Jon Snow.
"You're here?" Domeric looked at the boy in surprise. "Jon—why?"
By the original course of events, Jon Snow shouldn't have arrived at Castle Black until months later—when Lord Eddard went south to King's Landing.
Jon looked embarrassed.
"I heard you were going beyond the Wall to punish the wildlings. I asked my father to send me early—so I could do my part…"
"Do your part?" Domeric couldn't help laughing. "So—how do you like Castle Black now?"
"It's… it's fine," Jon forced out, stubbornly. "I think this is where I belong. Better than staying at Winterfell."
The words were brave. The feeling underneath them wasn't.
Domeric could sense the boy's grievance—coming all this way, only to be met with indifference and contempt.
"I truly hope I can become a ranger," Jon said, trying to sound light.
"Why?" Domeric asked.
"Every man of the Watch is sworn to defend the Wall. If an enemy comes, all of us must lift our swords."
"But the rangers are the Watch's real fighting strength."
"They're the ones who ride north—sweeping the haunted forests west of the Shadow Tower, the mountains covered in ice and snow—fighting wildlings, giants, and monsters like snow bears…"
Domeric listened quietly, letting Jon talk, and did not crush the boy's fragile pride.
Truthfully… he liked Jon Snow. A person who stayed pure and genuinely kind, from start to finish.
…
Late that night.
Domeric distinctly felt the world around him change—just slightly.
He couldn't name what was different.
He lay on his bed, trying to relax, but his mind churned too much to sleep.
The nearer he drew to the Wall, the stronger that strange sensation became.
Then he saw a tree.
A weirwood.
Its bark was bone-pale, its leaves dark red—like a thousand bloodstained hands.
A face had been carved into the trunk, long and sorrowful, its hollow eyes streaked with dried red sap—watchful, unnatural.
Suddenly, the carved eyes opened.
Ancient eyes.
So vivid it felt as though they were right in front of him.
House Bolton still carried the blood of the First Men, and they worshiped the old gods—nameless, faceless, the gods of green woods and vanished children of the forest.
A faint voice whispered at Domeric's ear, as if speaking words—yet he couldn't make out a single one.
In the haze, his mind became a winding river.
It flowed along an unknown channel, streaming outward…
First he followed a creek, listening to cold water sliding over stone.
Then across open land—onto the kingsroad—reaching Riverrun, King's Landing, the Eyrie, and many other places—
Casterly Rock. The Isle of Faces. The red mountains of Dorne.
Braavos's hundred islands across the sea.
And the ancient smoking ruins of Valyria—
"Holy—don't tell me a greenseer is calling me!?"
Domeric jolted awake.
"Master—what's wrong?"
Benita's voice came from beside him, his personal guard in the darkness.
…
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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