Tyrion shrugged, pulling the thick bearskin coat tighter around himself. He looked like a small, dark bear cub against the vast, icy landscape. The wind at this height was relentless, a biting cold that seeped into your bones.
He walked cautiously to the edge of the Wall and peered over the parapet of ice blocks. "Well," he muttered to himself, "it truly is the greatest marvel in the world. Standing up here, even I feel like a giant."
The top of the Wall was only about two meters wide, flanked on either side by thick, meter-high ice walls.
Seeing Tyrion standing so close to the edge, looking out into the northern expanse, Ser Alliser Thorne sneered. "You'd better be careful, little demon. If you fall from here, I guarantee that tiny body of yours will shatter into a thousand pieces."
"The Old Bear asked me to keep you safe," Thorne continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'd rather not present him with a lump of frozen meat when we get back down."
Tyrion turned and took a small, subconscious step back from the edge, though he kept a practiced smile on his face. "Thank you for the reminder, Ser Alliser."
He gestured with his hand to show how the parapet came up to his chest. "But you see, as long as I don't try to jump over, there's no danger at all. I have to say, being short has its advantages now and then, wouldn't you agree? So really, your concern is a little redundant."
A puff of white air escaped Thorne's nostrils as he snorted. "Hmph. A sharp tongue won't save you if you slip."
With a final glare, Thorne turned and walked away down the rampart. Tyrion paid him no mind, turning back to the breathtaking, desolate view.
The cold was too intense to bear for long. Soon enough, Tyrion and his two shivering guards were riding the wooden lift back to the ground with a silent, scowling Ser Alliser.
As they passed through the main courtyard of Castle Black, Tyrion noticed a noisy crowd of soldiers gathered in a circle. His curiosity piqued, he ambled over to see what the commotion was about.
"Hahaha, look at this! A fat pig in a tunic!"
"What is this beast? Does the Night's Watch take pig farmers now?"
"Hey, piggy, what's your name? By the old gods, how did you even get this fat?" one of them jeered.
"Lord Porkington! What's a soft southern boy like you doing at the Wall? Got tired of your warm sty?"
The soldiers were surrounding a plump young man, laughing and shoving him. Tyrion saw that the boy was enormous, easily over 200 pounds, and squeezed into a black tunic. He was standing frozen in the middle of the circle, his face filled with terror and his eyes red, on the verge of tears.
Tyrion's gaze fell on the family crest embroidered on the fat boy's jacket—a striding huntsman. He recognized it immediately. It was the sigil of House Tarly of the Reach.
"You're Lord Randyll Tarly's son, aren't you?" Tyrion asked, his voice cutting through the taunts.
Samwell Tarly, who had been completely overwhelmed, looked up. Seeing Tyrion addressing him directly, he sniffed loudly, struggling to hold back his tears.
When the other Night's Watch soldiers saw Tyrion approaching with his guards, their expressions shifted, and the circle quickly dispersed. They had all heard that the queen's brother, the son of the great Duke of Casterly Rock, was a guest of the Old Bear himself. Out of a healthy fear of the power wielded by House Lannister, they wanted no trouble with him.
Soon, only Tyrion and the new recruit were left in the courtyard.
Sam's round, flushed face looked fearfully after the men who were meant to be his new brothers. He felt a small sense of relief in Tyrion's presence. The dwarf's attitude was far gentler than theirs.
"You... you're Lord Tyrion Lannister, aren't you?" Sam stammered. "I am Samwell Tarly. My father is Randyll Tarly."
Tyrion wasn't surprised that the boy recognized him. The tales of the "Imp" were famous across all of Westeros, a damnable fame he never wanted.
"Sam," Tyrion began, glancing at the cart behind him, piled high with armor and weapons. "What are you doing here? A pampered young lord like you, at the cold, bitter end of the world? Don't tell me you came all this way just to see the sights, as I did."
Sam's chubby face crumpled, his eyes shining with unshed tears. His nose was red from the cold. "I... I didn't want to come," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But... I had to join the Night's Watch."
Sam didn't dare say why the heir to a great house was forced to take the black, and Tyrion wasn't particularly interested in guessing.
Still, a flicker of kindness moved him to offer some advice. "Sam, listen to me. If you don't want to be bullied by those men—the men who are now your brothers for life—you need to bury your timidness and find some strength. This is an army, and in an army, only the strong are respected. There is no mercy for weakness here."
"If you continue to look so soft, so easy to torment, your life here will be very difficult. Believe me," Tyrion said, his voice low and serious. "Look around you. These men are criminals, pulled from the dungeons of every castle in Westeros. Murderers, thieves, rapists... This is not a gathering of kind-hearted souls."
"So, Sam, you must get strong, and quickly. You have the size for it. With a little training, you could be a fighter. Your size means you have strength. Use it. Good luck, Sam."
With that, Tyrion turned and walked back to his quarters with his guards. He felt a pang of sympathy for the cowardly, noble-born boy, but there was nothing more he could do for him.
"Thank you, Lord Tyrion!" Sam murmured to his retreating back, his face full of gratitude. He could sense the genuine, if harsh, kindness from the man with such an ill reputation.
Tyrion found little else to entertain him at the Wall. After two days, the novelty had worn off, and the relentless northern cold was deeply unsettling for a man born in the warm south. He decided it was time to leave.
"I'm off, Lord Commander Mormont," Tyrion said, standing by his carriage and looking up at the Old Bear with a smile. "Thank you again for your hospitality. I will be sure to pass your words along to the King and my dear sister. Every last one."
The two had gotten along well over the past few days. Although Mormont's initial goal was to use Tyrion to seek aid, their several conversations had led to a deeper, mutual understanding.
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