Westeros, The North, The Wall, Castle Black
"Hahaha! Get him! Go on!"
In the vast, mud-slicked expanse of the Castle Black training yard, a heart-pounding struggle reached its crescendo. Two black-clad figures clashed in the center of the ring, their movements blurred by the intensity of the exchange—two streaks of shadow dancing amidst the falling sleet.
One warrior stood tall and imposing, his features a mask of aristocratic coldness. He radiated a preternatural chill, looking less like a man and more like a pillar of permafrost. His black leather armor hugged a lean, powerful frame, while his heavy cloak whipped behind him in rhythmic, snapping arcs.
He was a master of misdirection, using the flutter of that very cloak to mask the trajectory of his strikes. Cold, arrogant confidence gleamed in his eyes; it was the look of a man who viewed victory as an inevitable conclusion. His wooden practice sword moved as a natural extension of his arm, every parry and riposte fluid and terrifyingly precise.
However, as the minutes dragged into an hour, the toll of time began to manifest.
The knight's breathing grew ragged, escaping his lips in thick, frantic clouds of white vapor. His limbs, once lightning-fast, began to heavy. He was nearing fifty, and the indomitable spirit of his youth was finally being betrayed by a body that could no longer sustain such frantic exertion. He stayed in the fight through sheer technical mastery—skills forged in the fires of real war, the very foundation of his knighthood.
His opponent was a startling contrast: a portly young man with skin so pale and soft it seemed utterly foreign to the brutality of the yard.
Despite the numerous welts and bruises mottling his flesh, the boy's eyes burned with an unyielding light. There was an aura of stubborn, indomitable will radiating from him. As the duel progressed, the boy seemed to grow more comfortable with the rhythm of the steel. His footwork remained clumsy and his speed was lacking, but his staggering strength and sheer mass were being weaponized with frightening efficiency.
Every time the wooden blades met, the veteran knight felt the shock vibrate deep into his marrow. The advantage had shifted; the boy's "softness" had become a defensive buffer, and his weight was now a crushing offensive tool. The knight's technique began to fray as desperation crept in.
This was no longer merely a contest of skill; it was a war of attrition between a master's past and a boy's impossible present. The spectators—recruits and veterans alike—were roaring with a fervor rarely seen at the Wall.
On the covered walkway overlooking the yard, an old man with a snow-white beard watched the spectacle. Beside him stood a red-nosed man whose face was flushed to the color of a winter apple.
"That's the Tarly boy from the Reach," the red-nosed man explained, his breath smelling faintly of mulled wine. "They say he volunteered for the Black."
"A Tarly? Strange fruit indeed," the old man grunted. "This morning I saw him weeping in the mud, begging for a reprieve. Now? He looks as if the Warrior himself has breathed fire into his lungs."
"The Tarly heir was a joke in the Reach," a third voice added—a dry, rasping tone that came from a lean man with a pointed chin. "His father sent him to the edge of the world because the boy didn't have the stomach to hunt a rabbit, let alone a man."
The three high-ranking "crows" turned as one. Approaching them was a dwarf, roughly thirty years of age. His attire—a rich doublet of crimson and gold leather—clashed violently with the drab black of the Night's Watch. The sigil of a roaring lion pinned to his chest confirmed his identity. This was Tyrion Lannister, the "Imp," whose arrival for a sightseeing tour had been the talk of the common hall.
"They say Randyll Tarly is a man who prayed to the Seven for a soldier and got a scholar instead," Tyrion mused, leaning against the railing with a look of melancholic amusement. "It seems the Seven finally answered his prayer... though perhaps they delivered the blessing a bit late for the old Earl's liking."
Tyrion ignored their stunned looks, his eyes fixed on the muddy arena. "Why is he trading blows with Alliser Thorne?"
Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander, didn't join in the gossip. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, remained on the duel. "Answer the question. Why are they fighting?"
"Thorne decided the boy was only fit for the stables," Eddison Tollett, the lean man with the sharp chin, replied. "The boy disagreed. He claimed he could be a Ranger."
Edd (known to his brothers as 'Dolorous') felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. Like most recruits, he had tasted Thorne's cruelty. Seeing the old knight struggling against the "piggy" lordling was a tonic for the soul.
"By the Gods," Tyrion whispered. "Are you certain that's Samwell Tarly? If Randyll saw this, he'd have the boy back at Horn Hill by nightfall. The man defeated a King; he doesn't tolerate waste."
"Lord Tyrion, we are as baffled as you," said Bowen Marsh, the First Steward. "They've been at it for the better part of an hour. There isn't a man in the Watch who could stand against Thorne for that long. Has the boy truly been touched by a higher power?"
Jeor Mormont, a man of the North who kept the Old Gods, grunted. He was skeptical of "blessings," but he couldn't deny the evidence before him. Samwell Tarly was a different person than the whimpering child who had arrived a week ago.
"If he wins," Mormont declared, his voice a low rumble, "assign him to the Rangers."
"But... My Lord... the boy's size..." Bowen Marsh hesitated.
"Then put him on the battlements or the scouting patrols," Mormont countered. He glanced at Sam's girth and then at the size of a standard destrier, his brow furrowing. "Actually, perhaps we'll find a very sturdy garron for him first."
In the yard, Jon—within Sam's body—was oblivious to the political shift above. He was in the "zone." He had spent 400 points of Soul Energy to push Sam to LV3. While not a master rank, the statistical boost to Strength and Defense was more than enough to bridge the gap against an aging, exhausted opponent.
Jon had played the long game, dragging the fight out to sap Thorne's stamina.
Thwack!
Alliser Thorne, his vision swimming, made a desperate, heavy overhand chop, hoping to shatter Jon's guard. It was a move born of fatigue.
Jon saw it coming. Instead of parrying, he lunged forward, dipping his shoulder. He drove his forehead—and all of Sam's considerable weight—directly into Thorne's chest.
Thorne, caught mid-swing and completely out of air, let out a sickening "oomph." He went down hard, his back hitting the mud with a wet thud.
The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat.
"WOOOO!" "SAMWELL!" "THE SLAYER!"
The recruits erupted. They swarmed the yard, their cheers for the fat boy echoing off the gargantuan wall of ice, while Jon stood over the fallen knight, the wooden sword held steady in a hand that no longer trembled.