Jon was showing Dareon how best to deliver a sidestroke when the new recruit entered the practiceyard. “Your feet should be farther apart,” he urged. “You don’t want to lose your balance. That’sgood. Now pivot as you deliver the stroke, get all your weight behind the blade.”

Dareon broke off and lifted his visor. “Seven gods,” he murmured. “Would you look at this, Jon.”

Jon turned. Through the eye slit of his helm, he beheld the fattest boy he had ever seen standing inthe door of the armory. By the look of him, he must have weighed twenty stone. The fur collar of hisembroidered surcoat was lost beneath his chins. Pale eyes moved nervously in a great round moon ofa face, and plump sweaty fingers wiped themselves on the velvet of his doublet. “They … they toldme I was to come here for … for training,” he said to no one in particular.

“A lordling,” Pyp observed to Jon. “Southron, most like near Highgarden.” Pyp had traveled theSeven Kingdoms with a mummers’ troupe, and bragged that he could tell what you were and whereyou’d been born just from the sound of your voice.

A striding huntsman had been worked in scarlet thread upon the breast of the fat boy’s fur-trimmedsurcoat. Jon did not recognize the sigil. Ser Alliser Thorne looked over his new charge and said, “Itwould seem they have run short of poachers and thieves down south. Now they send us pigs to manthe Wall. Is fur and velvet your notion of armor, my Lord of Ham?”

It was soon revealed that the new recruit had brought his own armor with him; padded doublet,boiled leather, mail and plate and helm, even a great wood-and-leather shield blazoned with the samestriding huntsman he wore on his surcoat. As none of it was black, however, Ser Alliser insisted thathe reequip himself from the armory. That took half the morning. His girth required Donal Noye totake apart a mail hauberk and refit it with leather panels at the sides. To get a helm over his head thearmorer had to detach the visor. His leathers bound so tightly around his legs and under his arms thathe could scarcely move. Dressed for battle, the new boy looked like an overcooked sausage about toburst its skin. “Let us hope you are not as inept as you look,” Ser Alliser said. “Halder, see what SerPiggy can do.”

Jon Snow winced. Halder had been born in a quarry and apprenticed as a stonemason. He wassixteen, tall and muscular, and his blows were as hard as any Jon had ever felt. “This will be uglierthan a whore’s ass,” Pyp muttered, and it was.

The fight lasted less than a minute before the fat boy was on the ground, his whole body shaking asblood leaked through his shattered helm and between his pudgy fingers. “I yield,” he shrilled. “Nomore, I yield, don’t hit me.” Rast and some of the other boys were laughing.

Even then, Ser Alliser would not call an end. “On your feet, Ser Piggy,” he called. “Pick up yoursword.” When the boy continued to cling to the ground, Thorne gestured to Halder. “Hit him with theflat of your blade until he finds his feet.” Halder delivered a tentative smack to his foe’s upraisedcheeks. “You can hit harder than that,” Thorne taunted. Halder took hold of his longsword with bothhands and brought it down so hard the blow split leather, even on the flat. The new boy screeched inpain.

Jon Snow took a step forward. Pyp laid a mailed hand on his arm. “Jon, no,” the small boywhispered with an anxious glance at Ser Alliser Thorne.

“On your feet,” Thorne repeated. The fat boy struggled to rise, slipped, and fell heavily again.

“Ser Piggy is starting to grasp the notion,” Ser Alliser observed. “Again.”

Halder lifted the sword for another blow. “Cut us off a ham!” Rast urged, laughing.

Jon shook off Pyp’s hand. “Halder, enough.”

Halder looked to Ser Alliser.

“The Bastard speaks and the peasants tremble,” the master-at-arms said in that sharp, cold voiceof his. “I remind you that I am the master-at-arms here, Lord Snow.”

“Look at him, Halder,” Jon urged, ignoring Thorne as best he could. “There’s no honor in beatinga fallen foe. He yielded.” He knelt beside the fat boy.

Halder lowered his sword. “He yielded,” he echoed.

Ser Alliser’s onyx eyes were fixed on Jon Snow. “It would seem our Bastard is in love,” he said asJon helped the fat boy to his feet. “Show me your steel, Lord Snow.”

Jon drew his longsword. He dared defy Ser Alliser only to a point, and he feared he was wellbeyond it now.

Thorne smiled. “The Bastard wishes to defend his lady love, so we shall make an exercise of it.

Rat, Pimple, help our Stone Head here.” Rast and Albett moved to join Halder. “Three of you oughtto be sufficient to make Lady Piggy squeal. All you need do is get past the Bastard.”

“Stay behind me,” Jon said to the fat boy. Ser Alliser had often sent two foes against him, butnever three. He knew he would likely go to sleep bruised and bloody tonight. He braced himself forthe assault.

Suddenly Pyp was beside him. “Three to two will make for better sport,” the small boy saidcheerfully. He dropped his visor and slid out his sword. Before Jon could even think to protest, Grennhad stepped up to make a third.

The yard had grown deathly quiet. Jon could feel Ser Alliser’s eyes. “Why are you waiting?” heasked Rast and the others in a voice gone deceptively soft, but it was Jon who moved first. Halderbarely got his sword up in time.

Jon drove him backward, attacking with every blow, keeping the older boy on the heels. Know yourfoe, Ser Rodrik had taught him once; Jon knew Halder, brutally strong but short of patience, with notaste for defense. Frustrate him, and he would leave himself open, as certain as sunset.

The clang of steel echoed through the yard as the others joined battle around him. Jon blocked asavage cut at his head, the shock of impact running up his arm as the swords crashed together. Heslammed a sidestroke into Halder’s ribs, and was rewarded with a muffled grunt of pain. Thecounterstroke caught Jon on the shoulder. Chainmail crunched, and pain flared up his neck, but for aninstant Halder was unbalanced. Jon cut his left leg from under him, and he fell with a curse and acrash.

Grenn was standing his ground as Jon had taught him, giving Albett more than he cared for, butPyp was hard-pressed. Rast had two years and forty pounds on him. Jon stepped up behind him andrang the raper’s helm like a bell. As Rast went reeling, Pyp slid in under his guard, knocked himdown, and leveled a blade at his throat. By then Jon had moved on. Facing two swords, Albett backedaway. “I yield,” he shouted.

Ser Alliser Thorne surveyed the scene with disgust. “The mummer’s farce has gone on long enoughfor today.” He walked away. The session was at an end.

Dareon helped Halder to his feet. The quarryman’s son wrenched off his helm and threw it acrossthe yard. “For an instant, I thought I finally had you, Snow.”

“For an instant, you did,” Jon replied. Under his mail and leather, his shoulder was throbbing. Hesheathed his sword and tried to remove his helm, but when he raised his arm, the pain made him grithis teeth.

“Let me,” a voice said. Thick-fingered hands unfastened helm from gorget and lifted it off gently.

“Did he hurt you?”

“I’ve been bruised before.” He touched his shoulder and winced. The yard was emptying aroundthem.

Blood matted the fat boy’s hair where Halder had split his helm asunder. “My name is SamwellTarly, of Horn …” He stopped and licked his lips. “I mean, I was of Horn Hill, until I … left. I’vecome to take the black. My father is Lord Randyll, a bannerman to the Tyrells of Highgarden. I usedto be his heir, only …” His voice trailed off.

“I’m Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard, of Winterfell.”

Samwell Tarly nodded. “I … if you want, you can call me Sam. My mother calls me Sam.”

“You can call him Lord Snow,” Pyp said as he came up to join them. “You don’t want to knowwhat his mother calls him.”

“These two are Grenn and Pypar,” Jon said.

“Grenn’s the ugly one,” Pyp said.

Grenn scowled. “You’re uglier than me. At least I don’t have ears like a bat.”

“My thanks to all of you,” the fat boy said gravely.

“Why didn’t you get up and fight?” Grenn demanded.

“I wanted to, truly. I just … I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to hit me anymore.” He looked at theground. “I … I fear I’m a coward. My lord father always said so.”

Grenn looked thunderstruck. Even Pyp had no words to say to that, and Pyp had words foreverything. What sort of man would proclaim himself a coward?

Samwell Tarly must have read their thoughts on their faces. His eyes met Jon’s and darted away,quick as frightened animals. “I … I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to … to be like I am.” He walkedheavily toward the armory.

Jon called after him. “You were hurt,” he said. “Tomorrow you’ll do better.”

Sam looked mournfully back over one shoulder. “No I won’t,” he said, blinking back tears. “Inever do better.”

When he was gone, Grenn frowned. “Nobody likes cravens,” he said uncomfortably. “I wish wehadn’t helped him. What if they think we’re craven too?”

“You’re too stupid to be craven,” Pyp told him.

“I am not,” Grenn said.

“Yes you are. If a bear attacked you in the woods, you’d be too stupid to run away.”

“I would not,” Grenn insisted. “I’d run away faster than you.” He stopped suddenly, scowlingwhen he saw Pyp’s grin and realized what he’d just said. His thick neck flushed a dark red. Jon leftthem there arguing as he returned to the armory, hung up his sword, and stripped off his batteredarmor.

Life at Castle Black followed certain patterns; the mornings were for swordplay, the afternoons forwork. The black brothers set new recruits to many different tasks, to learn where their skills lay. Joncherished the rare afternoons when he was sent out with Ghost ranging at his side to bring back gamefor the Lord Commander’s table, but for every day spent hunting, he gave a dozen to Donal Noye inthe armory, spinning the whetstone while the one-armed smith sharpened axes grown dull from use,or pumping the bellows as Noye hammered out a new sword. Other times he ran messages, stood atguard, mucked out stables, fletched arrows, assisted Maester Aemon with his birds or Bowen Marshwith his counts and inventories.

That afternoon, the watch commander sent him to the winch cage with four barrels of fresh-crushedstone, to scatter gravel over the icy footpaths atop the Wall. It was lonely and boring work, even withGhost along for company, but Jon found he did not mind. On a clear day you could see half the worldfrom the top of the Wall, and the air was always cold and bracing. He could think here, and he foundhimself thinking of Samwell Tarly … and, oddly, of Tyrion Lannister. He wondered what Tyrionwould have made of the fat boy. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, the dwarf hadtold him, grinning. The world was full of cravens who pretended to be heroes; it took a queer sort ofcourage to admit to cowardice as Samwell Tarly had.

His sore shoulder made the work go slowly. It was late afternoon before Jon finished graveling thepaths. He lingered on high to watch the sun go down, turning the western sky the color of blood.

Finally, as dusk was settling over the north, Jon rolled the empty barrels back into the cage andsignaled the winch men to lower him.

The evening meal was almost done by the time he and Ghost reached the common hall. A group ofthe black brothers were dicing over mulled wine near the fire. His friends were at the bench nearestthe west wall, laughing. Pyp was in the middle of a story. The mummer’s boy with the big ears was aborn liar with a hundred different voices, and he did not tell his tales so much as live them, playing allthe parts as needed, a king one moment and a swineherd the next. When he turned into an alehousegirl or a virgin princess, he used a high falsetto voice that reduced them all to tears of helplesslaughter, and his eunuchs were always eerily accurate caricatures of Ser Alliser. Jon took as muchpleasure from Pyp’s antics as anyone … yet that night he turned away and went instead to the end ofthe bench, where Samwell Tarly sat alone, as far from the others as he could get.

He was finishing the last of the pork pie the cooks had served up for supper when Jon sat downacross from him. The fat boy’s eyes widened at the sight of Ghost. “Is that a wolf?”

“A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost. The direwolf is the sigil of my father’s House.”

“Ours is a striding huntsman,” Samwell Tarly said.

“Do you like to hunt?”

The fat boy shuddered. “I hate it.” He looked as though he was going to cry again.

“What’s wrong now?” Jon asked him. “Why are you always so frightened?”

Sam stared at the last of his pork pie and gave a feeble shake of his head, too scared even to talk. Aburst of laughter filled the hall. Jon heard Pyp squeaking in a high voice. He stood. “Let’s gooutside.”

The round fat face looked up at him, suspicious. “Why? What wi............