298 AC, the Wall.
Four years had passed.
The Wall itself hadn’t changed a bit.
A cold wind swept down off the ice, scattering the snow atop Castle Black in every direction.
Jon stood in the training yard.
Sixteen now, he stood half a head taller than Thorne, his frame tall and solidly built, his arms, chest, and back all carrying hard-earned muscle.
His black hair was tied back loosely with a cord, his grey eyes deep and sharp, his handsome features carrying a cool, hard edge.
The still-slender body he’d had four years ago had by now filled out completely.
Two new recruits, just joined the Watch, closed in on him from left and right.
Jon stepped back half a pace, slipping past the strike coming down at him, and with the same motion caught the other man’s blade on his own wooden sword.
Clack!
The two wooden swords met with a light crack.
The recruit’s arm went numb from the impact, and just as he tried to pull his sword back, Jon had already closed the gap, the hilt of his sword rapping quickly against the man’s chest.
The recruit let out a muffled grunt and stumbled backward out of range.
The other man seized the chance to cut in from the side.
Jon twisted his body aside, letting the blade pass, and with a reverse stroke, slapped his own sword down on the man’s wrist.
The wooden sword dropped from his grip to the ground.
The training yard fell silent for a moment.
“You grip the sword too tight, and your wrist isn’t loose enough. If that had been a real blade just now, your hand would be finished.”
Jon lowered his sword and stood straight, pointing out the flaw the recruit had shown in their exchange.
Standing at the edge of the yard, Thorne watched the scene and nodded, satisfied.
Jon’s swordsmanship by now was nothing like what it had once been.
“Again. Bring the other two in as well.”
He pointed to two more recruits among the watching crowd, signaling for them to join the first two in attacking together.
Many members of the Watch, hearing the commotion, gathered to watch.
“Jaffer, how many strokes do you think these four recruits will last?”
A scarred member of the Watch asked the man beside him.
“With that boy’s strength and speed, no more than ten strokes. I’ll wager three cups of ale on it. Anyone want to take that bet?” said the man called Jaffer, laying down his wager. This chapter was copied from NovelPing without permission.
“I’ll take it. I don’t believe that bastard can pull that off.”
At that, another Watch member, a lean, middle-aged man, looked at the young Jon and took the bet.
Life at the Wall was endlessly dull.
Aside from patrols and training, drinking and gambling had become nearly the only amusements the men of the Watch had, and so long as it didn’t go too far, the Watch’s leadership left them to it.
At this, the four named recruits stepped out to the center of the training yard.
They glanced at one another, each hoping someone else would go first.
The onlookers couldn’t stand the delay, and jeers started flying.
“Get on with it! They’re wooden swords, no one’s dying.”
“Ha, a bunch of cowards. Four against one, and they’re still afraid.”
One recruit, unable to bear it any longer, flushed red and charged forward with a wild yell.
Seeing this, the other three launched into a scrambled attack of their own, two of their swords nearly striking each other by accident.
Jon, watching all this, couldn’t even be bothered to step back.
By now, in all of Castle Black, only Ser Thorne could still trade even a few strokes with him, and only when Jon held back his strength.
The rest of the Watch, even seven or eight of them together, could hardly put any real pressure on him at all.
Over these years, Jon had been through many fights, and combined with the unexplained changes in his body, he had grown far stronger than anyone his age.
His strength, speed, and endurance had all far surpassed even the Watch’s finest men, and his reflexes most of all — often, the instant an opponent’s move began, his own body had already reacted before it landed.
But the greatest change of all was in his sixth sense: he could now faintly sense danger and hostility before either arrived.
He still couldn’t tell exactly where an attack would come from, but whenever anyone nearby harbored ill intent toward him, he could sense it earlier than any ordinary person would.
Half a year before, he had gone beyond the Wall on patrol with Uncle Benjen.
On that patrol, they had run into a band of wildlings.
Once the fighting started, a wildling archer had hidden behind a distant rock, meaning to strike from ambush.
But the instant the man drew his bow to full stretch, Jon, sensing the danger, moved first.
The next instant, a cold flash of light left his hand.
The dagger cut through the wind and snow, burying itself in the archer’s throat before the man could even loose his arrow.
The arrow aimed at Jon went wide as a result, skimming past his shoulder instead.
That fight ended with Benjen only lightly wounded; most of the wildlings died at their hands, and only a few, seeing the fight was lost, fled into the wind and snow.
Before long, word of that battle had spread among the wildlings, and more and more of them came to know that the Watch now had a truly dangerous man among its ranks. This chapter was copied from novelping(.)com without permission.
Night fell slowly.
Jon had already been riding out in the wild for several hours, and at last reached a valley.
Once his horse was settled, he went on into it on foot.
As the bond between their bloods deepened, Jon no longer needed to travel all the way to the dragon’s lair himself.
Whenever he needed Frostflame, he had only to call to her in his mind, and the white dragon would sense it and come to his side at once.
Jon stood in place, glancing up at the sky now and then, and before long, a massive white shape swept in from the distance, tearing through the night sky, and came crashing down into the valley with a roar!
Her two violet eyes, carrying all the majesty of a true dragon, swept over the surroundings from high above.
Her thick hind legs planted on the frozen ground, and the sheer force of her landing sent waves of snow flying up into the air, scattering everywhere, covering even Jon himself.
Jon, looking at Frostflame with weary resignation, brushed the snow off himself and walked up to her.
The great dragon had grown a good deal larger still: her body now stretched sixteen meters long, her wingspan nearly thirty, and she carried by now the full majesty a true dragon ought to have.
Three years before, she’d already needed to hunt for herself; the modest game Benjen and Jon could bring down alone was no longer nearly enough to satisfy her appetite.
Seeing Jon approach, Frostflame lowered her great head of her own accord, letting him reach out and touch her scales.
Awwwooo—!
The pleased cry rang out, echoing through the whole valley.
Jon ran his palm over her forehead and the base of her horns for a while.
then took hold of the spike near the base of her neck, planted his foot in the gap between her scales, and used the leverage to swing himself up onto her neck.
From there, he worked his way back along the spikes, crossing her broad shoulders, and settled himself steadily onto her back.
“Sōvēs.”
The next moment, Frostflame let out a deafening roar, and her sky-blotting wings snapped open all at once!
Boom—!
A violent gust of wind whipped the falling snow into a raging storm, and her massive body shot up into the sky, tearing through the clouds!
The wind roared past his cheeks, and the Wall came into view — more than two hundred meters high, stretching on for hundreds of miles, its ramparts and watchtowers clearly visible in the night.
In his mind, Jon guided Frostflame toward a direction to fly.
Receiving the command, the white dragon circled once through the night sky, then flew straight over the Wall, out into the lands beyond.
Frostflame showed none of the fear that the old records claimed dragons once felt toward whatever power lay beyond the Wall.
“It seems the magic in the Wall has no effect on her at all.”