The training yard was cold, the frost of the morning still clinging to the wooden practice dummies. Jeyne Snow adjusted her grip on the practice sword, her dark curls pulled back tightly beneath her hood. She had been hoping for a quiet day, but Ser Alliser Thorne had other plans.

“You, Snow,” Thorne barked, his voice as sharp as the wind cutting through the Wall. “The new recruits are hopeless, but one of them shows less promise than the rest. Train him. Or try to. He’ll likely die swinging at shadows.”

Jeyne suppressed a sigh, her grey eyes narrowing as she glanced at the scrawny boy standing awkwardly near the edge of the yard. He looked around her age.

“Yes, Ser Alliser,” she said evenly, stepping toward the boy. She decided to get to know who she would spar against atleast. “Where are you from?”