WOLF'S BLOOD (Game of Thrones)

Eight

        "Grenn, show him what you farm boys are made of," Ser Alliser Thorne was saying.

        The man was overseeing sparring in the yard, his small, icy blue eyes lingering on anything he deemed an imperfection. A flaw in the fighting. Osric stood to the side, watching as Jon took on a muscular young man, Grenn, who let out a cry of pain as the flat of Jon's sword connected with his nose. Osric snorted faintly at the sight of crimson blood pouring from his face. "If that were a real sword, you'd be dead," Ser Alliser noted. "Lord Snow here grew up in a castle, spitting down on the likes of you. Pyp. Do you think Ned Stark's bastard bleeds like the rest of us?"

        Pyp was perhaps Jon's age, small and scrawny. Quick if he wanted to be, but Osric knew Jon would get the best of him. Pyp stepped toward Jon, the blunted sword in his hands. They circled a few times, eyes locked. Pyp let out a shout as he swung his sword, Jon dodging swiftly away from the blow and bringing his knee up to Pyp's stomach hard.

        Pyp flew back, hitting the ground with a cough and dropping his sword to clutch his stomach. Alliser shook his head, looking at Osric. "Stark, you're next! Let's see if your master-at-arms was any use to you."

        Osric swallowed, grip tightening on his blade as he moved toward Jon. They had sparred together dozens of times, evenly matched for most of them, though each had their own victories. But the stakes were real, now, and the idea frightened Osric more than he cared to admit. 

        His blue eyes met Jon's black ones, and they shared a small nod before Osric charged. Jon dodged his first blow, swinging his own sword and hitting Osric hard in the side. He ignored the pain that shot through him, letting his momentum carry him forward before he turned to face Jon again, straightening to his full height. They stared at each other for a moment, before Alliser's cold voice snapped, "enough of this! A wildling won't wait until you're good and ready to put an arrow through your eye!"

        Jon waited, and so, Osric charged again. He sword connected with Jon's arm, but before he could do any more, Jon's leg was sweeping his feet out from under him. Osric hit the ground, pain surging up his tailbone as he scrambled to get back onto his feet. He was met with the tip of Jon's sword, pressed to his throat. He fought the urge to glare as Alliser declared, "you're dead, boy."

        Jon lowered his sword, holding out a hand. Osric took it, letting Jon pull him to his feet. "Next!" Alliser snapped.

        The man who stepped up next was one of the rapers from the night before, named Rast. He glared as he stepped toward Jon, bringing up his sword. Jon blocked each of his swings, before a second man joined the fight, earning a hard kick to his stomach, before Jon simply punched the first man in the face. "Well, Lord Snow, it appears you're the least useless person here," Alliser said.

        He looked to others, stating, "go clean yourselves up. There's only so much I can stomach in a day."

        Osric shook his head, blue eyes lowering to the ground. He and Jon had been at the Wall for less than a fortnight, but already he had grown to hate Alliser Thorne. 

        He and Jon retired to the armory, putting away their swords as Osric mumbled curses under his breath. They were interrupted by the sound of a voice. "You broke my nose, bastard."

        They turned to see Grenn. Jon looked at him, nodding as he said, "it's an improvement."

        Before Osric could do anything, Grenn had Jon pinned against the wall, Pyp at his side. Rast behind them twisted Osric's arm sharply, making him bite hard at his lip as he hissed in pain. "If we threw you over the Wall, wonder how long it'd take you to hit," Grenn noted.

        "I wonder if they'd find you before the wolves did," Pyp added.

        "Leave him be," Osric snapped, and Rast twisted his arm further.

        They were stopped by the sound of the door opening, all eyes moving to Tyrion Lannister, who stood in the doorway. "What are you looking at, half-man?" Grenn demanded.

        "I'm looking at you," Tyrion said. "You've got an interesting face. Very distinctive faces, all of you."

        "What do you care about our faces?" Rast asked.

        "It's just that I think they would look marvelous decorating spikes in King's Landing. Perhaps I'll write my sister, the Queen, about it," Tyrion said with a shrug.

        Grenn released Jon, taking a step back. "We'll talk about this later, Lord Snow," he said.

        Rast released Osric's arm as he, Pyp, and Grenn left the armory. "Everybody knew what this place was and no one told me," Jon stated once they were gone. "No one but you. My father knew and he left Osric and I to rot here at the Wall all the same."

        "Grenn's father left him, too. Outside a farmhouse when he was three. Pyp was caught trying to steal a wheel of cheese. His little sister hadn't eaten in three days. He was given a choice. His right hand, or the Wall. I've been asking the Lord Commander about them. Fascinating stories," Tyrion replied.

        "They  hate me because I'm better than they are."

        "It's a lucky thing none of them were trained by a master-at-arms like your Ser Rodrik. I don't imagine any of them have ever held a real sword before they came here."

        Tyrion pulled a letter from his pocket, holding it out to the two boys. Osric was the one to take it, and as he began to unfold it, Tyrion said, "your brother, Bran. He's woken up."