𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙊𝙍𝙎 (Game of Thrones)

𝙞𝙫.

Jon was giving his fellow recruits advice.

This was not a new occurrence. In the months that Jon had been at the Wall, helping his brothers had become like second nature to him. Vickon watched on with a smile. The boy was good, there was no denying that.

"Shoulder, legs," Jon was saying Grenn and Pyp sparred, directing their movements. "Leg, shoulder, leg. Left foot forward. Good."

"Make sure your feet stay shoulder-width apart," Vickon called from his place nearby. "It's easier to brace yourself."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said. "Feet shoulder-width apart." he looked to Grenn. "Now pivot as you deliver the stroke. Put all your weight behind it."

Grenn tried his best to focus on Jon's instruction, but something else caught his eye. Vickon followed his gaze to see a man. Jon's age, perhaps older. Dark-haired and dark-eyed. And the fattest man that Vickon had ever seen in his life. He stumbled on the uneven ground as followed Ser Alliser, his eyes kept firmly on his feet as he tried to avoid the gazes cast in his direction.

"What in seven hells in that?" Grenn asked.

"They'll need an eighth hell to fit him in," Pyp said with a smile, earning laughter from Grenn, and even Vickon cracked a smirk at the comment.

Ser Alliser led the lad toward the group, shoving him forward. "Tell them your name," he instructed.

"Samwell Tarly," said the boy, eyes lifting to the sky, refusing to look at his new brothers. "Of Horn Hill- - I mean, I was of Horn Hill. I've come to take the black."

"Come to take the black pudding," interjected Rast, who had roamed toward the interaction. Pyp and Grenn broke into quiet laughter, though Vickon sent a glare in his direction.

"Well, you couldn't be worse than you look," Alliser said. He looked to Rast. "Rast... see what he can do."

Jon handed Samwell a sword. Vickon watched as the newcomer braced himself, focusing on the blade in Rast's hand.

Rast swung. The sword connected with Samwell's arm, earning a yelp of pain. The next flurry of blows sent him to the ground, a whimper escaping him as he said, "I yield. Please, no more."

Vickon could have sworn that his eyes were full of tears as Alliser stated, "On your feet. Pick up your sword."

When the lad could only squirm uselessly, Alliser looked to Rast. "Hit him till he finds his feet," he said, and Rast did as told, earning more cries and shouts from the pitiful creature on the ground.

There was no laughter from Grenn and Pyp, who shared an expression of quiet unease. Vickon felt his hands balling tightly into fists. Jon's mouth was set in a thin line.

"It seems they've run short of poachers and thieves down south," Ser Alliser said. "Now they send us bloody squealing pigs."

Vickon wasn't sure who moved first; him or Jon. But before Ser Alliser could say anything more, Grenn had Vickon by the arm, pulling him back sharply as Pyp said, "Jon," taking hold of the Stark bastard.

"Again, harder," Ser Alliser urged Rast, who continued to hit Samwell, his sword thwack, thwack, thwacking against his leathers.