Sam was worried that when he finally got to Castle Black, that he would be the odd one out much like he had been back home. In fact, he wasn't worried about it so much as petrified. This time it would be worse and he wouldn't even have the comforts that he was used to at home.
Two minutes in and he breathed a huge sigh of relief. The victim was always one, and from all the books he had read it always seemed that whenever a group of boys meet for the first time, the first one to make a mistake pays the heaviest price for it.
In the great hall of castle Black, filled with thieves, rapists, robbers, cutpurses, cutthroats and a motley crew of others mostly looking to avoid the death penalty Samwell looked for at least one other misfit – just one more boy feeling as insecure and out-of-place as he did. Try as he might, he couldn't find any. Nor could he convince himself that perhaps one of the pickpockets was in fact a bigger craven than he was. It was why he was a craven after all.
It had always seemed to Sam that the reason everyone else was generally content and happy, he always agonized over what seemed to his family as an un-necessary annoyance. He simply couldn't force his mind to look away when there was a legitimate danger. He consoled himself that he was in fact not a pessimist- that he really did try to look for the positives in every situation. It wasn't his fault that reality was in fact such a bitter and cruel place. What could poor Samwell Tarly do if the men of the world would rather stick a sword in your belly instead of talking out their problem. Samwell had grown to hate the sound of metal clanging. It was ironinc how he didn't hate the substance itself, he knew that it was used in almost everything and how even though he wasn't particularly averse to loud noises, the two situations falling in together stirred a different sense of dread within him. Most of castle black, much like every other castle, was supported by iron, Sam reminded himself somewhat desperately. He had better get used to the noise it was bound to be there with all the fighting that went on within these walls.
The new recruits were told that they were to line up when Alliser Thorne arrived. Sam had heard of Ser Alliser Thorne well before he had started out on this journey. He was a fierce warrior and a blood thirsty one.
It would be nice to have a way of communicating other than by words, thought Sam on this rather momentous occasion. Letters were fine and he knew his life would be even more depressing without the books that had kept him company all these years. But the reason he enjoyed them was simply because he had a vivid imagination, and that was a gift in itself as well as a curse. It was a redundant comparison but it couldn't be helped as Sam mused about how he had received what seemed like the entire Tarly household's share in intelligence. He liked to think of the faces of the people that he read about. There were portraits available of course. But they were so rare and so far and few in between in all the seven kingdoms. Sam had often contemplated suggesting to his father a trade in which they spend some of the family's gold. He had wanted to suggest hiring a number of painters to paint portraits of famous Lords and Ladies. Samwell Tarly had personally seen and knew enough of Ser Loras Tyrell as well as his beautiful sister Margaery to know that they would almost definitely be interested in such a service. It would be a handsome way to earn the family gold, the likes of which they had not seen before. Alas, Samwell knew his Lord Father all too well. Even though their family was in servitude to the Tyrells, Lord Randall was not disposed towards listening to his eldest son. That had been the case since the time of Samwell's birth, ever since the boy had disappointed showing no skills with a blade and an apparent sever lack of metabolism. It was surprising how often fathers who would be expected to dote on their children lovingly could suddenly turn out to be full of difficulties, when their children fail to live up to their expectations. Sam often thought he could have relied on Dickon to be more understanding. He had done everything expected of an older brother in his estimation.
Alas, what had passed in Samwell's mind as fair siblinghood was not what the young Lord Dickon expected. Either that or the young boy was far too influenced by his father to pay any heed to Samwell. Samwell had never picked up a sword and sparred with Dickon. Not even a wooden one. The Lord Randall Tarly had spent years watching Samwell clumsily fling his wooden stick around, never making a single definitive motion, but instead flailing it around as if he were being dragged around by an out of control rabid canine. Dickon on the other hand was as they called it – a natural. His strokes and movements were well co-ordinated.
The younger brother's talents were noticed by the Lord Tarly. Sam still remembered that evening. His father's delighted expression as Dickon deftly deflected most of the blows inflicted on him by the master of arms. Dickon didn't even attempt to dodge the attacks, he tried defending each with his own weapon.
The lady Florent was impressed too. Sam had thought it was a bit early, but she was already hoping that Dickon would turn out to be as handsome as he was skilled with the sword.
On one occasion, she even resorted to asking Samwell to find out as much as he could from the library about which princes were regarded as the most handsome for their time. This, the request to use Samwell's talents, coming from his mother was so shocking to Sam that he flushed with pride and set about his task before realizing that it was just a cruel joke that was being played on him. He was impervious to social cues in that sense.
But that had been then and this was now. Over the years Sam had read so many many books and that had transformed him into a completely different person. It was no longer easy to slip a lie past Samwell, but the converse was also unfortunately true, much to his detriment. Sam was a compulsive truth teller, and even when he did lie everyone in the room could see how uncomfortable he was. It was a sad fact that Sam was suited neither for battle with a sword nor politics with a swift tongue. No could deny his intelligence though. Sam knew most of what the maesters' knew and then some more.
He never found out if Lord Randall Tarly was aware of all the maesters secretly soliciting his advice and then claiming credit for it. Sam had on occasion thought of protesting but could not bring himself to do so. He had on occasion even thought of not giving the maester's any further advice, until he realized that it was not the maester's who would suffer the most but their patients. The guilt ate at him too much and Sam ended up revealing the secrets he knew - secrets of many majestic herbs and plants, lotions and potions, roots and shoots...
And all the book learning in the world, all the stories of heroes and their fair maidens (and the bitter lies that they did not reveal) did not prepare him for what he saw at the wall.
On this day, the entire gathering was looking at the new recruits from above. It was odd how his entire life, Sam had grown used to being the one ridiculed, the one looked at strangely, despite being the eldest heir of a noble house. Today when standing condemned among the lowest of the low, no one gave him a second glance. It was to Sam as if he had finally made it home.