Jon Snow’s figure looked exceptionally slender in the cold moonlight.
His sword hung limply at his side; he looked as though all the strength had been drained from his bones.
Uncle Benjen’s words cut deeper than the northern wind.
Lynn did not offer words of comfort.
He merely stood aside in silence, letting Jon process the harsh reality on his own.
Sympathy was the cheapest commodity in the world.
Jon had to pull himself through it.
A voice suddenly drifted from the shadows behind them, laced with booze and amusement.
“It seems not everyone enjoys the racket at the feast.” Lynn’s muscles tensed instantly, his fingers tightening on his sword hilt.
He spun around sharply.
A short figure stepped out from the shadow of the colonnade.
He was barely half the height of an ordinary man, yet his finely tailored clothes and the silver goblet of crimson wine in his hand proclaimed his noble station.
Tyrion Lannister.
Brother to Queen Cersei, known as the “Imp.” An uninhibited smirk rested on his face, and his eyes glinted in the moonlight with a cunning that saw through everything.
Tyrion’s gaze fell straight onto Jon.
“Let me guess.
You must be Ned Stark’s bastard.” Jon’s face darkened in an instant, his hand turning white where he gripped his sword.
The surname “Snow” was an unhealing scar on his soul, and Tyrion had just poked a finger directly into that wound without a shred of mercy.
Tyrion seemed not to notice the rage on Jon’s face, taking a casual sip of his wine.
“Your uncle is in the Night’s Watch?” Jon turned around to face the little dwarf.
“What are you doing here?” Tyrion shrugged.
“Steel myself to survive dinner with your family.
I’ve actually always wanted to see the Wall.” Jon ignored that, asking instead, “You’re Tyrion Lannister?
Cersei’s brother?” Tyrion drank another mouthful of wine and chuckled mockingly at himself.
“Yes.
Perhaps that’s my grandest achievement.
You have the Northern gloom about you, but your face is much finer than those of your half-siblings.
That usually comes from the mother’s side.
Did I offend you just now?
My apologies.
I shouldn’t have brought up the bastard thing.” Tyrion swirled his goblet, the wine rippling inside the cup.
“Don’t look at me like that, child.” Jon’s lips twitched, but no words came out.
“You *are* a bastard,” Tyrion said.
“Your father is Ned Stark, but your mother was not Lady Stark.
Never forget what you are, for the world will not.
Because your name will always carry Snow.
Armor yourself in it, then it can never be used to hurt you.” Jon froze.
Then a surge of anger swelled in Jon’s chest.
“What do you know about it?
What do you know about being a bastard?” Tyrion looked Jon straight in the eye.
“All dwarfs are bastards in their fathers’ eyes.
How are you and I any different?” Looking at Tyrion’s stunted frame, the anger in Jon’s heart evaporated instantly.
Tyrion’s eyes moved away from Jon and settled on Lynn.
He sized Lynn up from head to toe—from Lynn’s faded black clothes to the sharp sword in his hand, down to those eyes that remained untroubled in the night.
“And you?” Tyrion asked with keen interest.
“You don’t look like a dwarf.
Are you a bastard like him?
Ah, wait, no.
You’re no Stark.
You smell like a crow.” Lynn didn’t speak; he simply looked back at him calmly.
The dwarf exuded a dangerous aura.
It was not a threat of physical force, but an oppressive sharpness born of intellect.
“A man of the Night’s Watch, standing out in the freezing cold with a lord’s bastard instead of warming himself with a plump whore at the feast.” Tyrion took another drink, the grin on his lips widening.
“What a peculiar combination.” “The feast was too loud,” Lynn finally spoke, his voice rendered flat by the wind.
“Oh?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
“Is that so?
I find that level of noise quite useful.
It covers up sounds that aren’t so pleasant to hear.
Like lies, plots…
and other things.” His eyes rested briefly on the longsword at Lynn’s waist.
Lynn knew Tyrion was implying something more, but Lynn had truly just stepped out for a breath of fresh air.
The dwarf was far sharper than he let on.
“How is the Wall?” Tyrion changed the subject, his tone relaxing.
“I’ve always wanted to see that end of the world.
I hear there are wildlings…
and worse things.” A hint of mockery tainted his tone, as if speaking of an absurd fairy tale.
“The Wall is cold,” Lynn’s answer was simple and direct.
“Colder than Winterfell.” Tyrion laughed.
“It seems the eloquence of the Night’s Watch is as dreary as northern weather.” He downed the last drop of wine and casually tossed the expensive silver cup onto the snow.
“Well then, my melancholy gentlemen.
I’m off to find something warmer and softer to while away the night.” He winked a dark eye at Jon.
“Remember my words, boy.
There’s nothing wrong with being a bastard.
At least you don’t have to endure those bloody boring feasts.” With that, Tyrion waddled off toward the other side of the courtyard on his short legs, humming an off-key southern tune.
In the snow, he left behind only a lonely silver goblet and a line of uneven footprints.
Jon remained standing in place, as though pinned to the ground.
A long time passed.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, his breath misting white in the frigid air.
“He’s right.” Jon’s voice was low, but the lingering confusion was gone.
He looked up at Lynn, a spark returning to his eyes—not the light of finding a sense of belonging, but a tough resilience breaking through the surface after accepting reality.
Lynn didn’t respond.
His eyes drifted past Jon’s shoulder, gazing toward the brilliantly lit tower in the distance.
After a long pause, Lynn patted Jon’s shoulder.
“Lord Benjen is waiting for me.” He then walked off toward the feast hall.