Rising to the Challenge
Chapter 22
Rising to the Challenge
It had been a dismal start for Jon. At the very moment he arrived at the Wall, he had felt unmistakable disappointment. Either for the state of the castle or the company he would be enduring for the rest of his days. His future brothers were exactly as Tyrion had predicted they would be; common criminals and peasant boys and none of them knew a thing about fighting. When training in the yard, it took nothing for Jon to best each and every one of them. In some ways, they were even worse than Harry and Hermione had first been when they started. At least they had the virtue of determination.
Some of these boys were rather spineless.
But then Lord Tyrion had spoken some much-needed sense into him right before it seemed like they were about to slit his throat in the armory. Who was Jon to judge these boys? In some cases, they were in the same boat as he was, or much worse off. Grenn had been abandoned by his father as a small boy. Satin had been a whore in a pleasure house in Oldtown. And Pyp had traveled with a mummer’s troupe for a little bit, but they disbanded and Pyp had been left without work and a little sister to feed. He’d been caught stealing a wheel of cheese to feed her after three days with no food. His choices were either losing a hand or go to the Wall. Most of the other stories were much the same, and Jon felt himself softening to the boys the more he learned about them.
He felt guilty to know that it took the half-man’s interference for Jon to finally understand the error in his way of thinking. That, and a very interesting message from his father.
A strange new beast had been discovered somewhere in the Riverlands. One that was half eagle and half horse, and strangest of all, Harry was training it for the king. Tyrion was possibly more interested in this new discovery than even Jon was, and felt a new eagerness to hasten his visit so he could make his way back down south and observe this splendid creature for himself.
Thankfully there was no hurry, and Tyrion spent his remaining days interviewing the masters and lord commander for any improvements to their quality of living that he could provide, or have the crown provide.
Most every evening before his departure, Jon and Lord Tyrion spent it playing chess in the dining hall. Like always, the game attracted others to it. Tyrion suggested to Jon that it may have been a perfect opportunity to build a better reputation with them, though he had already been doing his best with that in the yard.
Even so, Jon took the opportunity to teach anyone who wanted to learn. To his surprise, several people took up his offer, including the lord commander himself, Jeor Mormont. There were others like Alliser Thorne who decreed the game to be frivolous and he had wanted to ban it from the mess hall, yet with the lord commander now playing it as well, he was unable to do so. There came a moment when there were so many challengers that one of the brothers, who was skilled at handcrafts, constructed his own crude game using flat wooden squares he had painted the piece shapes on and sewed up a makeshift board out of sheepskin and discarded black fabric. It was sufficient, as far as game sets went, but most preferred playing with Jon’s pieces if given the option.
Out of all the challengers, the best player was easily Satin, who had experience playing cyvasse, which was a game that was popular in parts of the Reach and Dorne and was described as similar, though with more restrictions. He seemed to like the idea that a pawn could take the king if moved the right way, whereas in cyvasse the pieces were restricted to only taking those that were ranked lower than them.
However, the one person Jon had wanted to teach had been unavailable in all that time. Three days after their arrival, Benjen Stark had led a half-dozen men on a ranging into the Haunted Forest. He had not yet returned and the Black Brothers were whispering that he was too long away. Jon had pleaded to go with him, but Benjen had refused him curtly.
“You’re no ranger, Jon. On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns.”
It had been a bitter medicine to swallow at the time, and Jon had been on the edge of his seat since the very moment his uncle had left. Thankfully though, the Watch kept him plenty busy with training, tasks, and chores.
In time, despite the poor start and the now constant fear for his uncle, Jon was adapting little by little and he now looked at his time on the Wall with a bit more optimism. Soon after, Lord Tyrion departed, and Jon felt a small twinge with his leaving. Lannister or not, part of him would miss the little lord, and Jon bid him farewell and safe travels as he took a last look on top of the Wall.
Sam stumbled into the yard, gripping tightly to a blunted training sword, and decked in what flimsy padding that the Night’s Watch had to offer. He had arrived earlier that morning and had been received by the gatekeepers. In no time he was instructed where to put his meager belongings and told to report to the training yard for sword practice with the other new recruits.
From the very beginning he had despaired over the state of the Watch. He knew it was underfunded even before seeing it, but this was far worse than he originally predicted. This was the first time he had ever seen snow and coupled with the sheer size of the Wall, all of it might have distracted him, but then he had passed through the gates and he took in the state of the tilting towers, the moth-eaten filthy beds, the bland tasteless food, and the brutal brothers that he had seen so far. If he could describe it all in one word, “unwelcoming” would have been that word.
Perhaps though, being raised as a noble had likely given Sam a much higher expectation for everything. The one thing he held hope for was the unlikelihood of being forced into a maid’s dress and paraded around the castle, or being thrown into a tub of ox’s blood to bathe in, or been beaten with sticks, or forced to stand in front of a bullseye as his bladder turned watery while archers let loose arrow after arrow, narrowly missing his head at every shot. All done in the name of grooming him into a man his lord father could have been proud of. But none of it had worked. Sam never felt any braver no matter what they did to him.
He knew he was craven. He knew he was fat. He knew he was no good in a fight. And he knew those were all things that could get one killed in a place so unforgiving. He also knew that the Watch was the only place in the world that would take someone like him.
As he stumbled into the training yard, he saw the stares of the other men and boys and knew that even here among bastards, brutes, and broken things, he didn’t belong. The sniggers were worse, but he stood his ground and declared in a wobbly voice, “I’m Samwell Tarly and I’ve come to take the Black.”
“Take the black pudding you mean!”
The roars of laughter from the cruel jibe made him cringe. His father had similar comments all the time and he would have curled up and yielded before the spar could even start if that had even been an option for Sam. Once more he wondered if he should have just gone to the Citadel instead.
He thought of the girl he met in White Harbor. If he closed his eyes, he could picture Hermione’s mane of wild untamable brown curls, her soft smile, and the glint in her large brown eyes as she talked about mushrooms with him. Sam could have spent decades talking about all kinds of topics with her, books especially, and for one silly moment, he envisioned a life like that. He imagined his own home, keep or cottage didn’t matter. He imagined Hermione as his woman and Sam as her man and he imagined late nights by the fire, discussing books and saving the coin for new ones then arguing over who would have the chance to read it first.
It was so difficult for Sam to find someone who shared his same interests, and for him to meet a girl—and a pretty girl, too—it was all Sam could do not to abandon the Wall then and there and follow her right back down south all the way to the Citadel. It was a far more appealing future from his point of view and Hermione had even encouraged him to pursue his interests rather than take the path someone else had decided for him. Spending his days warm in the south as he learned about anatomy, botany, sums, philosophy, and everything else he was interested in, versus the dereliction of the Wall? Cold and distant with thugs and wildmen, poor food, and scraping a dismal living out of ice. It was not hard to know which of the two was a better option.
Sam knew girls and women weren’t allowed in the Citadel, but there were many foolish things that weren’t allowed there too, celibacy being one of those foolish things. For someone like Hermione, Sam would have gladly challenged those silly social norms. If it had been his choice, he would have abandoned ideas of the Wall then and there and followed her to the Citadel without even needing to be convinced. But then he had seen Robb, and Sam knew that was not an option.
The way he had rested his hand on her back and the look he had cast Hermione, Sam knew she was already someone’s girl, and trying to compete with a highlord like Robb Stark was among one of the most foolish things Sam Tarly could have tried to do.
And so, the hope he had kindled during their little interaction died then and there.
Fantasies like that did him no good. The now was all that mattered, and now he was in the Night’s Watch on the training grounds about to have his hide whipped.
As if to confirm his worst impressions, the man in charge of training, Sam believed his name was Ser Allisser Thorne, stabbed a finger in his chest. “It would seem they’ve run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they’re sending us pigs to man the wall. Halder! See what Ser Piggy can do.”
As Sam stepped up to the first lad he was to duel, he trembled at the sight of the mean-looking brute.
“This will be uglier than a whore’s ass,” someone whispered off to the side.
Sam barely saw the blade before he was thrown into the mud. His vision went blurry as something struck him over the forehead and he felt blood trickling between his eyes.
“I yield!” He called at once. He felt himself die a little inside as the words instinctively escaped him. He didn’t even think the spar had lasted past five measly seconds and he hadn’t so much as struck a single blow. It was such a disappointment even if it was predictable.
“I yield!” He called again, cowering in the snow. “No more. Don’t hit me.”
“On your feet, Ser Piggy,” Alliser ordered, cruelly. “Pick up your sword. Halder, hit him with the flat of your blade until he finds his feet.” To that, Sam’s vision went white as a burst of pain struck over his neck. “You can hit harder than that.”
“Cut us off a ham,” someone else jeered as more blows beat across his body. Sam did what he had always done and curled up into a ball, trying to protect the most important parts of himself. Then like that, they stopped.
“Halder, enough. Look at him. He yielded.” Sam chanced a look and saw a dark-haired youth step between him and his attacker.
This only seemed to infuriate and excite Thorne more though. “The bastard seems to want to defend his lady love, so we shall make an exercise of it. Rat. Pimple. Help our stone head here. The three of you ought to be able to make Lady Piggy squeal.”
Sam felt himself die even with his blurry vision brought on from the blows. More insults, more names he would be referred to as. He should have just gone to the Citadel, as Hermione had encouraged him to do. With his head throbbing painfully, it was hard to remember again why he hadn’t.
The lad who had come to Sam’s defense cast him a glance. “Stay behind me.”
Sam nodded, blood still trickling down his forehead.
“Three to two will make for better sport,” a new lad decreed as he joined Sam and his rescuer’s side. Another lad stepped up and counted three to their side. Sam felt a burst of hope to see the three boys come to his defense as no one had ever done so before.
And like that, the exercise began anew. He watched with fear and bated breath as their foes began to move in to try and get at Sam. But his allies held firm. They were easily much more skilled at the sword than Sam was, especially the mysterious dark-haired lad. In only a few moves, he dispatched the one that had beaten him—Halder was his name. He was flung to the ground, useless and the dark lad moved, coming to aid his other friend who was struggling against a pimply youth. With a quick blow to the back of the neck, that foe was also handled, and together the friends faced the last one together.
“Yield! I yield,” the youthful rival decreed, realizing at once that he was outmatched and dropped his sword without further provocation.
On the side, Alliser was positively seething, but with the exercise complete, there was nothing more for him to do but turn furiously and exit the grounds. “This mummer’s farce has gone on long enough for today,” he bit out coldly.
With those words, the recruits were left to their own devices.
“For an instant, I thought I finally had you, Snow.”
“For an instant you did,” the lad laughed. Sam could barely believe it. Their attackers were now laughing with them as if the spar had been nothing but a game and they were all good friends now.
Sam stepped up to his defender. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’ve been bruised before,” he responded. “I’m Jon, by the way.”
Sam’s eyes widened as he remembered something. “Your name is Jon? Jon Snow?”
His head cocked to the side. “You know me?”
Sam nodded. “Do you know a girl by the name Hermione?”
Jon’s eyes widened at the mention of the girl and all thought of the spar was forgotten as news of his friends surfaced. “You saw Hermione? Where? Was Robb with her?”
“I met both of them at White Harbor.”
“How were they?”
“Well, I didn’t really talk to Robb, but Hermione was pleasant. She’s quite smart. And the direwolf—um… Grey Something, was very friendly, too. She wanted me to say “hello” to you and “sorry again for leaving.”
Jon frowned, his voice coming out somewhat bitterly. “Well… we both chose our paths, so I guess it doesn’t really matter now. She left too, after all.”
One of the boys on his side, draped an arm over Jon’s shoulder, sounding sly. “Was she your girl, Lord Snow?”
“No,” Jon said hastily, sounding to Sam that perhaps he wished she actually had been. “She’s just a friend. We grew up together.”
“Looks like Snow had a lady love he never bothered to mention before,” someone laughed. “Was she at least pretty, Tarly? There’s little other pleasant things to talk about while we’re stuck here.”
“What kind of hair did she have?”
“What color were her eyes?”
“How about her breasts?”
Jon turned furious with that question in particular. He shoved the lad that clung to him off and he landed in the mud with a laugh. Sam watched as Jon stalked angrily away. So instead, the others rounded on him for more details of the mysterious girl that had Lord Snow so flustered at the mere mention. On a better day, Sam would have been happy to oblige, since he rarely ever received any positive interest in the things he knew about, but somehow torching the potential friendship of the only one to come to his defense didn’t seem like the wisest option. So, he left the details out and made the excuse that his wounds needed some looking after and escaped to seek out the maester.
In spite of the brief respite, the name-calling and insults didn't exactly stop, and Sam was soon right where he had always been. It hadn’t improved very much by that evening, yet Jon and his strange albino direwolf still sought him out to ask why he, a lord's son who was no good in a fight, no stomach for blood, had poor eyesight, and frightened of heights and just about everything else, was there at the Wall in the first place.
With that question, all of the emotion he had been holding in since leaving his home spilled from him. The terrible truth he hadn’t been able to share with the kind girl who had encouraged him to go south and seek his fate where his skills were, rather than go north where they wouldn’t be valued.
That was when Sam broke at last. He had been strong till this moment but sooner or later he always turned weak, just as Randyll had always predicted. Sam’s chest clenched with a terrible pain and he began to cry in front of the youth, much to his humiliation. Even as he knew it was uncomfortable to Jon, Sam somehow couldn’t stop. Then, wonder of all, his strange beautiful white direwolf, Ghost, came up to Sam and licked the tears from his face. Soon the tears turned into laughter and Sam returned the direwolf’s compassion with head scratches and grateful pats. When he felt better, Sam told Jon all about his life living at Horn Hill and his cruel father, Randyll Tarly. It poured out of him, thankfully without more tears, because it seemed Ghost had licked all of those up.
The Tarlys were a family old in honor, and Samwell was born heir to rich lands, a strong keep, and the greatsword Heartsbane, forged of valyrian steel and passed from father to son for five hundred years. But whatever pride Randyll Tarly might have felt at Sam’s birth vanished as the boy grew plump, soft, and awkward.
Sam loved to listen to music, to wear soft velvets, and to play in the castle kitchens with the cooks. He grew ill at the sight of blood. A dozen master-at-arms came and went from Horn Hill, trying to turn him into the knight his father wanted. He was cursed and caned, slapped and starved. Warlocks came from Qarth, promising their rites would make him brave. When Sam got sick and retched, Lord Randyll had them scourged. After three girls in as many years, Lady Tarly gave Lord Randyll a second son. Dickon was a fierce, robust child and Samwell had years of peace with his music and his books.
And then the day came when he woke to find his horse saddled and three men-at-arms escorted him to the forest and his father.
“You have given me no reason to disown you,” Lord Randyll Tarly had said, “but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon’s.”
Sam was given a choice. Take the Black and renounce his claim, or else his father would call a hunt. Somewhere in the woods, his horse would stumble, and Sam would be thrown from the saddle to die. Or at least, that’s what his mother would be told.
After his tale, Sam looked up to see that Jon looked paler than his direwolf and there seemed to be a new softness in his eyes when he looked at Sam.
Sam only looked back to the ground, all the energy had been drained from him with his tale. “He’s going to make me fight again on the morrow, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Jon confirmed, before offering a silver lining. “I’ve known girls that fight better than you, Sam. I’ve taught girls that fight better than you, and you’ve met one of them, but if they can do it, why shouldn’t you?”
“Hermione can use a sword?” That somehow both surprised Sam and didn’t at the same time. The mysterious girl that had caught his interest only grew more fascinating.
“Aye, she learned as soon as she came to us,” Jon explained. “She’s not bad at it.”
“It might be well and good for her, but even she is braver than I am.”
“I’ve heard of men who will boast and beat their chests and decree that they are brave up and down the wall, and yet they’ll flee and soil themselves at the first sign of danger, Sam. It takes a certain kind of courage to admitting what you are, even if what you are is a coward. And perhaps the only reason you think you are a coward is because you’ve been told as much.”
Sam felt a bit better with those words. “You think so?”
“Hermione used to say if you can tell yourself to be brave, then you can be brave. After all, you made it all the way here from the Reach on your own. That had to take some bravery.”
Sam felt himself smile a little. “The way you talk about her, are you sure you didn’t like her?”
Jon sighed, looking up at the endless Wall, but seeing something completely different in his mind. “I think all of us liked her at one point or another. She’s a smart lass, and good-hearted, but too driven and headstrong for what a lot consider to be a proper noble lady.”
Sam knew better though. “You liked her.”
“Aye, I liked her, alright,” Jon relented. “We all liked her: me, Theon, and Robb. More than liked her actually. There was a time I imagined a life with her, even. Imagined marrying her. She would have made anyone a good wife, proper or not. Lady Catelyn didn’t approve of her, so perhaps I liked her even more because of that.” Then he sighed again and his shoulders sagged. “I should have gone with her, not Robb.”
Sam nodded. If he regretted going south with her, it was nothing compared to what Jon was likely feeling. “I will say, it was hard not to go with her myself. It’s not every girl that I feel so relaxed around. I could talk about books with her all day and she would stay just as engaged as I do.”
“Yes. The Citadel will certainly have their hands full when she arrives.”
The air went quiet between them and Sam took a deep breath before getting to his feet just as he remembered something. “Well, I guess I better do my part in making her journey down a bit more comfortable.”
Jon called after him as he walked off. “Where are you off to?”
“I need to visit the maester. There’s a letter I have to send.”