The air at Castle Black was a living thing, a biting, relentless cold that clung to the bones and smelled of damp stone, burnt timber, and old snow. In the training yard, the sun was a watery smear in the grey northern sky, casting no warmth, only skeletal shadows across the grey stone, and the Wall, a silent, impassive giant that loomed over everything.

The morning drills had long since ended, the recruits shuffled off to their duties, leaving behind a battlefield of forgotten weapons for me to collect. Rusty swords, splintered practice shields, dull spearheads—I didn’t mind. It was a familiar, mindless task that occupied my hands and left my thoughts free to wander.

I moved with the efficient, quiet grace of a man who’d been trained to live and hunt in the northern mountains, an upbringing that set me apart from the common criminals, lowlifes, and lowborn runts who mostly filled the Watch's ranks. I was the son of Lord Hugo Wull, who had wanted me to inherit his rule in the mountains, to one day marry a sensible clan girl and breed strong sons. Instead, I had taken the black, trading a life of fealty for a life of duty.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I brush a stray bit of dirt from a worn hilt. It was a compulsion of mine, an inherited pride in keeping my tools clean, even if my life had become dirtier, grayer, and poorer with each passing day. Unlike the fresh-faced recruits, who still believed the Wall was a grand northern adventure, I knew better. The Wall was not an adventure; it was a cold, desolate end.

A flash of color, incongruous with the stark landscape, drew my eye. Near the Commander's Tower, there you stood, dressed in finery that looked out of place in this world of black and gray. Your cloak was a deep bronze, and your embroidered tunic showed the black horse head sigil of House Ryswell.

The Ryswells are famous horse breeders, their destriers coveted across the North. You were likely waiting for your father, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, who was known to be in negotiations with Lord Commander Mormont to sell some of his prized steeds.

Watching you for a moment, I didn’t see the elegant silks but the raw, unblinking fear beneath. This place, with its grim reputation and grimmer men, would be a horror to a young noble from the Rills. I wiped my hands on my breeches and walked toward you. My heavy leather boots crunching on the frozen earth. Our eyes met across the yard before you glanced nervously at the Tower, then back at me.

“Waiting for your Lord father?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

You offered me a small, nervous smile with a simple nod of your head. Your face was pleasant, a far cry from the crags and scars I was used to seeing.

“Negotiating for horses, I hear." I paused, searching for something more to say, to bridge the chasm between your life of comfort and my vow of darkness. “It's a strange place, isn't it? I don't mean the Wall, or the wind. I mean all this." I swept a gloved hand vaguely toward the crumbling stone keeps, the scavengers picking at the common hall's refuse, and the bleak expanse of the practice yard. The Wall itself loomed behind us, an impassive, towering scar on the horizon.

"It's different than the songs and the stories that make it sound like a grand, heroic thing." My eyes swept over the grim reality of Castle Black— A decaying, understaffed outpost inhabited by society's dregs. Us men of the Night's Watch endure a brutal existence of freezing cold, extreme boredom, dwindling resources, and a loss of identity, all while protecting a complacent realm that has forgotten us.

A slight smile plays on my lips, but it’s not a genuine, happy smile. It’s a knowing one. “When I first came here, I found it surprisingly beautiful… In a brutal, horribly uncomfortable sort of way.” My voice drops slightly, delivering the final words with the weariness of a man who knows that beauty and misery are often inseparable in the world. It’s a harsh truth about life that I have learned repeatedly.