First of all, let me provide a little more explanation into Bran/The Three-Eyed Raven. It's not two people in the same body, if anyone was confused by that. I'm working more off of Aang/The Avatar template, where there is this powerful spirit that is a part of the boy, but also at times a distinct presence. Hopefully that makes things a little more clear.

Thank you all for the review! I've responded to those posted for Chapter 28 below.

joannariddle - the Night King might just show up anyway, he's not one for invitations.

And thanks, I enjoy writing Bran's chapters since we get to fly around and explore different aspects of the world and story.

KML - I've had a couple of people say that, not sure if it's good or bad or somewhere in between. He's a fun character to write though.

jessym1988 - Thank you!

Faolan-kun - Thanks, we'll see what happens with Bran, next group of chapters will tie up a lot of what I've been laying down.

Guest - Well thanks for reviewing!

AJ granger - Thanks for reviewing! We'll see what happens with Arya...

zeva917 - Thanks! Action just comes easier to me.

Average Joe - Thats more or less what I was trying to show.

HiroMyStory - As always, thank you for your thorough reviews. They're very helpful in reflecting on what I can improve on. I've always tried to keep my version of Bran consistent in my chapters because I've had a clear idea of how the TER/Bran character goes (see my note above). Chapter 28 plays a purpose.

As for meetings and numbers being interesting, that's subjective. I've gotten in debates with other readers over inaccurate troop counts and whatnot. To each their own.

I have a plan for Arya that ties into the wider plot. I'm not just fumbling around with characters' lives for the sake of drama. Whether you enjoy the conclusion is something else.

Analise S - Thanks!

TheNamelessVillain - Sometimes the most logical solution is not one characters immediately think of. Also just having a semi-trained assassin go kill Cersei seems like an incredibly unsatisfying ending.

...

He started every day with a scroll. Or a book. It did not really matter much as long as he got to read something. He had, well, borrowed quite a few works from Winterfell's library and taken a few more from Maester Wolken's tower on the southern side of the keep. They were histories mostly, but he enjoyed delving into the odd bit of herblore or what the maesters in Oldtown would have called "the higher mysteries" when he could find the time.

Not so mysterious now, Sam thought to himself as he rose from beside Gilly. I've slain one of those mysteries, and the rest are in the godswood, camping outside the walls, or marching on us as we sleep.

He walked to his simple table and grabbed the weathered spine of the Myths and Legends of the North, a tome he had borrowed from Tyrion Lannister. He liked the man, crude though he sometimes was. He had a good mind for books and was always kind to Gilly where sometimes others were not. And he knows how it feels, I suppose, being an unwanted son and all.

His thoughts turned to his own family for a moment. Such strange memories often came to him early in the morning, or else in those hazy breathes between wakefulness and sleep. His own father had cast his lot with the Lannisters and paid dearly.

War was cruel. He knew that, and he knew that his father was equally cruel. Perhaps Daenerys had done him a mercy. She burned Dickon too. Guilt weighed heavy on him, even though he had been hundreds of leagues away. His brother had been a boy when he left for the Wall, yet his brother nonetheless.

And what of mother and Talla? One was widowed and the other fatherless. With Lord Randyll gone and their armies scattered and defeated, who would defend Horn Hill? I could, he thought to himself. I suppose I am the rightful lord…

He pushed the thought from his mind. It did him little good to dwell on distant possibilities. Distractions would beget more distractions and before he knew it what little daylight they had left would wither away behind dark grey clouds. The Long Night, they called it the last time, he knew. But I never thought they'd actually mean it as 'night'. He had always thought it a bit of poetry, as most legends were like to include. This darkness was unsettling. He did not like it. No one did.

Sam opened the large book to where he had left off the previous evening. He had been reading about the first Long Night, and how the First Men and Children of the Forest had united to throw back the White Walkers into the Lands of Always Winter. Each book he read had a slightly different interpretation of the events, but the basics were always the same.

Gilly had been with him last night, reading bits off the pages in a chair beside his own. He turned and looked at her just now, still asleep in their bed with a soft smile upon her face. Little Sam slept beside her, curled up in his mother's arms. Samwell smiled at the sight.

She was not his lawful wife, of course. The boy was not his son either. They're as good as, he told himself. What did blood matter? Jon was not truly Lord Eddard's son. The man had claimed Rhaegar's heir as his own and raised him in his own home and under his protection. Why should it be any different for Little Sam?

And Gilly… well, marriage to her would not rightly alter the bonds the pair had already made. She would not leave his side, nor he hers. They had faced White Walkers and wildlings attacks together. They would face whatever else came their way, from north or south. I'll protect them both.

Yet that felt like a lie. He had offered the boy as some sort of sacrifice to Bran's – The Three-Eyed Raven's – sight. It was necessary, yes, but seeing the boy cry and being the target of Gilly's blame-filled stares did not hurt any less. It's what we need to do, though, he always told himself to drive away the guilt, we all need to make sacrifices.

Sam looked over Gilly and the boy again as he drew his arms back in a morning stretch. His left elbow nudged something that moved only a little. Right. The book. He turned to find the page he had opened just a moment before he had become lost in the labyrinth of his own emotions.

His eyes scanned the first page, then the next, then flitted from own section to the next in search of useful information. There was little enough to be found in this tome. He closed it and sighed, though in truth he had expected as much. The Long Night had occurred thousands of years ago, long before men had learned to record their stories on vellum and paper instead of old stones. There was little enough to read from that time.

But plenty to remember, he thought as he recalled his time with Bran in the godswood. He was Bran and would always be. "The Three-Eyed Raven" was just so, well, wordy. And he doesn't seem to mind what I call him.

Jon's… cousin was still something of a mystery. He could use the powers of the Children, or those abilities that Sam's books described at any rate: visions and warging and prophetic dreams. Sam had sat beside him as he looked into the past and discovered the enemy's origins: how the Night King had been created by the Children; how they had imbued him with their own powers; and how he had turned the first wights on his creators before disappearing.

And he can see the present as well, Sam reminded himself. Bran's visions – together with Little Sam's bloodline - had given them the ability to track the dead throughout the North. Last night's council meeting had proven the usefulness of his sight. If he's right, of course. After the battle near the river, that was never a sure thing. The enemy was strong.

Yet Bran had insisted his own powers could now block the enemy's in much the same way the enemy had blocked his own sight before Little Sam had stumbled into the crippled boy. Whether that was true… well, Sam had his doubts.

But something happened the day of the battle, he knew, for he had been sitting beside Bran in the godswood. Bran's eyes had flashed white, then blue, then white again. His wholebody had shaken terribly, then he had cried out in anguish and fallen still. At first, Sam had panicked, thinking Bran dead; but he had shown signs of life. Both Sam and Wolkan had stood vigil as the boy made his slow recovery.

He'll be back in the godswood by now, he knew. The boy slept little and ate less. In fact, Bran had only consumed that disgusting blood broth for the past few days. It was Sam's task to make certain the blood was fresh. Most of the time he just had the cooks and butchers spill a bit of sheep's blood into a bowl, but occasionally he had been there when it happened. Just the memory of those scenes made him queasy.

Sam rose from his seat and retrieved his black cloak from the hook on the wall. It was the only piece of clothing he kept from his time at Castle Black. And only because it's so well suited for a winter like this. The rest of his black wools and leathers had been lost somewhere between the Wall and Oldtown.

His thoughts turned to the Night's Watch as he pulled on his boots and, catching one last glimpse of Gilly, made his way out of his quarters. He had once thought he would spent the rest of his days upon the Wall, first as a steward then as the maester of Castle Black. Bound by two sets of sacred vows, he might have grown as old as Aemon Targaryen while guarding the realms of men.

Those vows were as broken as the Wall, though. The Night King had burned the ancient barrier and Castle Black with dragonfire. He had claimed the Last Hearth, Karhold, and a dozen holdfasts as well. Sam hoped that Winterfell would not be next.

There was little enough they could do to stop him. Alone, the dragons were targets. Jon's mission beyond the Wall proved that on its own. And we don't have the numbers, the battle along the White Knife proved that. Skilled and fierce the Unsullied and Dothraki might be, but even the legendary soldiers of the east could not match the countless dead.

Sam stepped into the corridor outside the room. It was a narrow hall lined with ensconced torches that alternated every few feet. He crossed its width and glimpsed the dark grey sky through a window rimmed in frost. It was snowing and the storm's cold air seeped through the window's imperfections just as it did in his own room.

He turned, but had barely made it to the end of the narrow hall when a voice called his name from the opposite end.

"Sam," Jon said in a flat tone, "I've been meaning to speak with you." He seems as gloomy as the sky outside. Then again, he had known his friend for years. Jon was always gloomy.

"Oh?" he asked, his shivering body somehow adding an extra syllable to the question. Samwell Tarly had never truly gotten used to the cold.

"Walk with me," Jon said as he approached, motion to the door Sam was about to push open. "I've some business on the walls."

Sam pushed open the door and together he and Jon made their way down one winding stair and out onto one of the wooden causeways that connected the keep with the inner wall. Snow flurries peppered Sam's face as they walked onto the wall itself. These walls were set down by Bran the Builder, he whispered in his mind. They were made of two sets of thick, ancient stones with brick and packed earth in between. And perhaps some ancient spells woven in amongst the mortar as well, he hoped.

All around the inner and outer walls, men prepared for battle. Stones were piled high at intervals, along with barrels of oil, quivers of dragonglass arrows, bundles of long spears and javelins, and plenty of oiled torches. Squires and young levies kept the walkways cleared of snow while older men – and some women - sparred in the yard.

"Do you really thing we'll need all this?" he wondered aloud as they walked along. Jon looked at him and cocked his head. "Well…," he continued, "it's only that, at the Fist of the First Men they didn't bring ladders or a siege tower, did they?"

"I wasn't there, but I suppose not," Jon responded, "but they'll have giants with them, and mammoths, and-"

"And a dragon."

"And the dragon," Jon sighed.

"Do you truly mean to fly off on the green one?" he asked his dearest friend. The shock of learning of Jon's true parentage had gripped Sam's curiosity, and to a lesser extent, his envy. It could be rightly argued that Jon was the rightful heir to the throne. And he can ride a dragon!

"It's what Daenerys and I must do," he said, looking across the battlements to where the two great beasts slumbered in the low, snow-covered hills.

"Well, I know Bran will be able to help you," Sam responded. They walked through the passageway of a small tower as they spoke. The tower roof gave them some cover from the snows, if only for a moment. Jon turned to face him.

"How is he?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Oh… well…" Sam hesitated. Sometimes, telling his best friend the truth was easy. Sometimes it was hard.

"You've spent the most time with him Sam, you'll know if something is amiss," Jon's storm grey eyes bored into his own.

"Not well," he admitted, "he eats less every day. Blood, Jon. Bloody broth and nothing else. He's like a tree in autumn; withering away before the winter."

Jon gave a great sigh and turned toward the entryway. A small snowdrift crept into the torchlight of their enclosure. Sam watched the advance of the tiny white flakes whilst Jon watched the storm.

"It's him. It must be him." Sam's thoughts raced to Bran's flashing eyes, the burning blue mark on his arm, and the visions the boy had seen in his mind. He's right. "There's something else. Something I'd only trust to you," he spoke the words into the wind, but the wintery gusts carried them back to Sam's ears.

"What?"

"My sister, Arya," he turned and regard Sam once more. His eyes were solemn, but with some underlying tenderness that Sam thought he reserved for his family alone. "Wolkan says she is physically well enough, but something is wrong. She has yet to wake and he has done all he can."

"She was struck, no? Wounded?" Sam asked. In battle, he knew, and against one of the walkers. He had seen the girl's wounds, a great bruise and perhaps some broken ribs underneath. It had been over a week, almost two. She should be awake by now.

"She tried to fight him too," Jon said, "and he struck her. She hasn't woken, not once. I need you to find a way to fix this, or she might not wake again." He put a gloved hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam locked his jaw and nodded. "Thank you."

What am I to do? He had cured Ser Jorah of Greyscale, but he had also had the great library of the Citadel to peruse back then. And now I have a handful of faded scrolls and dusty old tomes… none of which say anything about curing a wound from some ancient enemy. Still, he would have to try. This was Jon's sister. And if Jon was once my sworn brother, Arya is my family too.

They walked along the next portion of the battlements in silence. Sam looked beyond the outer wall and saw the camps of the Valemen and Unsullied, subdued though they were by the snows. Black and brown tents stood in orderly rows against the rising fields of white. Smoke from a dozen cookfires snaked its way into the darkened sky.

In the distance, the ever receding Wolfswood stood against the western horizon. They drew more wood from the forest every day, though the teams of woodsmen were guarded by at least a dozen soldiers. Dark things had been spotted in the woods and many a hunter's kill had risen against it instead of staying dead. Regular patrols probed the edges of the forest, looking for blue eyes in the darkness. Nothing in the North was truly safe.

"There was something else I wanted to ask of you," Jon said as they reached the upper entrance of the Maester's tower, which offer another covered causeway to the keep. Now Sam cocked his head inquisitively. "And you're free to say no, if that's what you wish, but I hoped that when Daenerys and I are wed that you might guide the vows."

His jaw dropped; just enough for the cold air to pour inward and cause his teeth to ache. "Truly?" he asked his friend. This was to be a royal wedding – in dire circumstance and time of war, yes – but royal. I've not even forged my maester's chain! "Traditionally, I'ts supposed to be the lord of the keep who performs the ceremony, but I'm certain Wolkan would be happy to, or Sansa perhaps, or someone else. And I'm not quite familiar with the Northern vows, or the words that need to be spoken, or-"

"I'd like it to be you," Jon said simply. Sam dipped his head slowly, accepting the honor.

"Then, I suppose I'll have to learn it all… and start calling you 'Your Grace'."

"Do that, and I'll have you riding throughout the realm looking after every village wedding for the rest of your days." They both laughed.

"Oh, alright, but I suppose its rather funny isn't it?" he asked Jon.

"What is?"

"You've broken near every vow you swore, Jon," he began to explain. He began to recite bits of their old oath. "I shall take no wife and hold no lands. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. Only, you're to marry Daenerys and lay claim to the realm."

"You're right," Jon shrugged with a smile.

"And… you swore that you would never father children," Sam said.

The smile slid from Jon's face. "How did you – who told you? Wolkan?" he sputtered.

He raised both hands to calm his friend. "No, not Wolkan. Gilly," he said.

"Gilly?"

"She's been around expecting mothers all her life, Jon, up in Craster's beyond the Wall and well… she saw. She knows. And she told me."

Jon let out a long, low breath that signaled his understanding. "Well then," he intoned, "might I trust you tell no one else of the matter?"

"I thought you'd be pleased," he wondered aloud.

"I am," Jon insisted. He did not look it. And of course not. We're in the middle of a war with another waiting beyond the Neck. It's not safe for a child or its mother. His thoughts turned to Gilly and Little Sam. He would do his best to keep them safe, too.

He looked back at Jon, and for a moment it felt as if they were far younger men keeping their midnight watch on the Wall with only braziers and conversation to keep them company. Sam remembered one of their first.

"And I suppose…" he hesitated.

"What?" Jon asked.

"Well, you do know where to put it after all." Jon gave him a brotherly punch to the chest. Sam winced. They both laughed again.

Jon is going to be a father… and a king. And not just of the North either, for marrying Daenerys Targaryen would mean accepting his own claim to rule the Seven Kingdoms by her side. Sam considered his own position. After so much time together, Little Sam was as good as his; but might he and Gilly have a child together?

A low, clearing cough from down the causeway cut their moment of mirth short. Sam looked down the way and saw the two Lannister brothers shivering in their cloaks as they waited for the man who had appointed them to oversee preparations for battle on the walls.

"Lovely morning!" Tyrion called out, "I think."

"Lord Tyrion," Sam nodded his head.

"Lord Tarly," Tyrion responded. Jaime rolled his eyes and strode forward. His brother waddled after him.

"If you're ready to review the defenses, Jon," he said to Jon as he approached.

Jon nodded at the brothers and turned to Sam. "Consider what I've asked of you. The vows are simpler, the other…" he shrugged and looked up at the Maester's Tower beside them. Sam understood and nodded. As the trio walked away across the snow swept battlements, Sam entered the relative comfort of Wolkan's quarters.

The two-tiered study was a spacious room by Northern standards; rooms were smaller to keep heat sources useful and nearby. Vials, scrolls, inkpots, quills, and oddities of every sort lined the shelves. A small hearth cast its light into the room, aided by some four, fat tallow candles grouped together on the center table. They burned at various heights and seemed to Sam the towers of some sorry wax keep.

He pored over Wolkan's tomes for the better part of an hour; or maybe it was two. He could not be sure. Only, every time he looked back at the candles, each seemed to be quite a bit lower than before. Bits of ash crept from the hearth as well, though some serving girl would surely tidy up after he had left with what he needed.

If I can find it. How was he to cure Arya Stark of her affliction? Might he ask Bran to look into the past for a cure instead of looking into the pages of history? No. Bran was weak enough as it was and had to focus on the dead. This was his task.

Outside, the sky grew darker still as Sam searched the stacks of books and scrolls for an answer. The near-black horizon told him it was night, but the continuous growling of his own stomach informed him that it was only midday.

He continued his search, in vain, for any medical tome. There were a few that showed promised. Yet in the end they only addressed the healing of bruises and broken bones. There was nothing about fighting a White Walker. And of course there isn't! The last man to kill one of those things probably carved his thoughts on boulders.

Sam sighed and resigned himself to the fact he would find nothing useful in the Maester's chambers. Winterfell's library and solar might prove useful to a degree, but any tomes and scrolls concerning medicine or herblore were sure to be in this very room.

This very room's door swung wide open at that very instant and Maester Wolkan entered hurriedly, pursued as he was by a cloud of fat snowflakes. The older man looked up in some surprise as his kind eyes found Sam.

"Samwell!" he exclaimed, "I hardly thought to find you here." The sound of his low, even voice soothed Sam's anxiousness at his own failures.

"Maester," he said as he climbed down from his perch to greet the man. "I was hoping to find a book to-"

"-to aid in the care of Lady Arya, yes, I expected as much," Wolkan said. "It was I who suggested you might know more of the matter."

"Oh…" Sam offered meekly. "I suppose…" he was not sure what to say on the matter, so he said nothing at all. He had another task as well. "Jon has asked me to join him and Daenerys in their wedding vows."

"Ah," Wolkan stroked his white stubble, though his eyes fell somewhat at the mention of Sam's latest appointment. "A Northern wedding?"

"He didn't say," Sam said honestly, "but I'd assume it would be before the weirwood, as we're in the North."

"Indeed," Wolkan said. He walked past Sam to a section of his shelves that was piled high with scrolls. He pushed a few of the higher ones up slightly and gingerly pulled an unseen book from its resting place. Then he turned back to regard Sam with a smile. "This is Weirwoods and Wilds: The Faith of the First Men," he explained, "a curious title. Archmaester Radell was scarcely a poet, but you will find the proper guidance for a Northern wedding in his works."

Samwell beamed. "Thank Archmae – I mean, Maester," he bumbled.

"Not at all," Wolkan smiled. "And I would be happy to share what I know as well. Now, I suppose we both must make our way back to the keep. I've need of more firewood and candles. The nights come so quickly now."

Sam helped Wolkan carry three days' worth of dry wood back to his tower whilst a squire he had pressed into service followed up the rear with two dozen candles. Unlike split logs, there were not many candles left, but a maester's work took precedence over the bedside comforts of lords and ladies alike. The two men talked as they walked, with Wolkan telling him what he knew of the traditional Northern vows and whatnot.

After completing the task and earning Wolkan's heartfelt thanks, Sam tucked the tome under his arm and then walked down the man's tower stairs and out into the yard of the castle. Joyful shouts rang in his ears even as the harsh gusts of wind temporarily blinded him.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Little Sam dancing around happily, one flailing in the snowflakes and the other firmly grasped in the only full hand of Ser Davos Seaworth. Gilly stood nearby, her own newly made fur cloak cast over her shoulders to protect her from the cold.

"There you are! – Oh!" Davos encouraged the boy before lunging forward to break Little Sam's fall with his half hand. The toddler giggled as if it were all some game, then regained his feet and began to dance about in the falling snow once more. Davos caught Sam's eye and deftly hand the boy off to his mother before turning to meet him. "Sam Tarly," he spoke in his regular, thick accent.

"Lord Davos," he responded with courtesy.

"Just Davos, I think," Davos said. "My own lordship is long gone."

"Oh, very well then," Sam said. They both turned and looked at Little Sam, just now leading his mother in small circles around the yard. His shouts echoed throughout the castle and many a squire and grizzled warrior alike turned and smiled at child's wonder. Sam smiled too.

It was good to see him happy, away from Bran and the horrors of his old family. Whatever his connection to the White Walkers was, it need not trouble him anymore. Bran had learned to see once more without use of the boy's bloodline.

"He's a fine boy, yer son," Davos said, turning and looking back upon the boy's delight.

"Ah, well…" Sam offered awkwardly, "he's not mine."

"I beg yer pardon, then," he said, "I meant no offense."

"Oh it's nothing, truly," Sam assured the older man.

Davos nodded at the book tucked under his arm. "A bit of light readin', eh?" he asked with a smile as he danced away from the previous subject.

"A book Maester Wolkan suggested I read concerning the religion of the North."

"Red gods and tree gods and ice demons," Davos mused, "I've seen enough in my time to believe whatever is written down in that book." His certainty made Sam uneasy.

"I suppose it's just the tree gods I'm to learn about today," he smiled and shrugged, "Jon has asked me to wed him and Daenerys."

"About damn time," Davos said, a smile breaking across his face. He looked around the yard at the drilling soldiers. "This place could use some cheer, if only for a day."

"A wedding?" Gilly had overheard their conversation and was guiding Little Sam over to the two men.

"A royal wedding," Davos grinned. His eyes flashed between Gilly and Sam. Realizing he was standing in the way of a more private conversation, he dismissed himself while taking care to affectionately tousle the toddler's hair as he departed. They waited until they were alone to speak

"We should get married," Gilly said, as if she were suggesting what to eat that night.

"Oh," Sam sighed, "I don't know." Why not? A voice inside his head asked. We could do it soon, before the weirwood and all.

"Don't know if you want to marry me?" her voice betrayed a curious frustration.

"No, no that's not it at all," he waved his hands furiously in denial. "It's just…"

"Just what?" she pressed him for an answer. He did not have one. There was such much uncertainty, so much fear. What if we don't survive? She closed the small distance between them and whispered his old oath back to him. "Where you go, I go too. Remember?"

And so they went, leaving the cold of the yard and making for the solar. There was no further talk of marriage, but perhaps that was because they both knew the vows they might swear had already been upheld in deeds. Sam knew the subject would soon arise once more. I have other things to focus on just now.

The solar was empty when they arrived, but a fire had been kept alight in the hearth as was normal. Sam settled into an armed chair that had been drawn up near the table. Gilly chose one of the wider and more comfortable seats and settled the child in beside her.

Sam placed Wolkan's book on the table and opened to the first few pages. He never imagined so much could be written about the religion of the First Men and the Children of the Forest, for so little was covered in the other texts he had read.

He idly – and delicately – flipped through each page; his boredom growing with each turn. Then, a colored illustration caught his eye. It was a carved face, unmistakably similar to the one on the weirwood tree in the godswood outside. Here, on this page, was everything he needed to know about northern wedding traditions. The vows were a bit different, yes, but more or less surprisingly similar to southern customs. His eyes consumed the accompanying text as fast as they could.

Sam noted with some interest the lack of mention of a bedding ceremony. Then again, that was hardly relevant here. Any man who laid a hand on Daenerys might end up as Drogon's portion of the wedding feast.

He continued to read. And read. Every time he looked from the pages, the snowbanks on the windows stood higher and the fire burned lower. Gilly had woken half a dozen times and Little Sam had taken to blowing on the embers in the hearth. Each little puff of air produced a small jet of flame from between the burning logs. Our very own dragon, Sam mused before burying his nose in the pages of the book once more.

A serving girl entered the solar to place fresh logs on the fire, but Sam paid her no heed. He had delved deep into the book, far beyond the portions of marriage, vows, and traditions. He had found the pages that addressed the deeper mysteries of the North. He read them carefully.

For many thousands of years, the First Men of the northern regions of Westeros continued to practice blood sacrifice before the Weirwood trees. The unwilling victim's throat was often cut with a ceremonial blade, and his blood spilled upon the roots of the tree in question. The First Men believed that offering living blood to the trees would earn them the favor of the gods, or else that blood was required to keep the trees and the gods within alive.

Lacking the iron and steel tools of the Andals, the First Men most often used copper, bronze, and obsidian – known to some as dragonglass – for their religious ceremonies. It is believed the use of obsidian derives from the Children of the Forest, who used the substance in place of forged metal.

Maesters and septons alike disagree on the underlying beliefs surrounding the practice, which had been outlawed for many hundreds of years. Yet it has been postulated by the more learned members of the Citadel that the First Men believed blood to possess healing and even magical properties – a belief shared by many eastern faiths and mystics.

He knew all this and more. Dragonglass killed White Walkers. He reached down and thumbed the hilt of the dagger he had always carried with him; the same one he had found at the Fist of the First Men. The same one I used to slay the walker that came after Little Sam. Even here, years later, he could hear the thin crunch of the White Walker's icy flesh as he drove the black glass dagger into its shoulder.

Then it struck him. Of course! How had he been so blind? Dragonglass! The substance had magical properties, or at least broke the magic of the Night King. If he had truly marked Jon's little sister, might dragonglass help heal her? Might it even draw the other's influence like poison from a wound?

He slammed the book shut and stood up, his chair scrapping against the old stone floor. Gilly sat up with a jolt. Little Sam seemed unfazed.

"What is it" she asked in a daze.

"Nothing at all," he assured her. "You stay here."

He left the room and hunted down the serving girl who had just left, demanding she bring water, linens, and whatever herbs she could find to Lady Arya's room. He went there at once.

Lady Brienne was standing vigil outside the Stark girl's chambers. If truth be told, Sam had had little to do with the Lady of Tarth since arriving at Winterfell. He approached with caution and was met with a scowl.

"Tarly, is it?" she called out.

"It is, Lady Brienne," Sam responded as he walked toward her. The knight shifted uncomfortably in her armor, one hand resting on Oathkeeper's hilt. She seemed to grow taller with each step he took. He anxiously thumbed the hilt of the obsidian dagger once more. He had drawn the weapon halfway from its snug sheath at his left hip.

"And what is it you have there?" the lady knight jerked her chin at his right hand.

"This?" he brandished the jagged blade, "well, I thought it might help?'

"How will a dagger meant to slay the dead help Lady Arya?" Brienne scowled and Sam took a half step back. Thankfully, the serving girl arrived with a sloshing pale of water and bundle of crisp, white strips of linen cloth. Realization dawned on Brienne's face.

"Jon himself asked me to try it," he said. After a moment of awkward silence, Brienne allowed him to pass.

The girl's chambers, like the rest of Winterfell, were grey. Arya lay motionless upon her small, four posted bed with its curtains drawn back. Two lit candles flickered feebly on either side of the bed, though their efforts were greatly aided by the fire burning in the small hearth.

Beside the proper bed was another bed, more of a cot in truth. Gendry lay on it, sitting halfway up with his shoulders against an uneven pile of pillows. Three more candles sat on the windowsill to his right. The man held a book in his hands. Reading? Sam had never known a smith to read. The thought made him smile.

Gendry looked up as he stepped into the room and closed the door most of the way, though not enough to hear the familiar click of the latch. "Sam…?" he asked.

"Gendry," Sam responded, the subdued tones of the room subconsciously quieting his voice. "Reading, are you?" He did not recognize the work.

The man shrugged and put the book aside, though Sam saw him wince in pain as he moved to face him better. "Not really. Davos says I need to learn, but I don't know what good it'll do," he said. "Still, better than doing nothing at all." He nodded at his leg.

"I'd be happy to teach you," Sam said. Gendry let out a quick breath that just might have been the beginning of a laugh, but his eyes remained mirthless. They swept over Sam and found the girl on the bed. Sam followed his gaze. "How is she?"

"Hasn't moved. Hasn't woken up," he said grimly. "Don't know what she thought she was doing, go out there, going after that thing…"

Sam understood. I charged a White Walker when it went after Gilly. I stood between her and two of my own brothers when they threatened her. Sometimes, people did foolish things for those they cared about.

"Well, Jon has asked me to look after her."

"You're not a maester," Gendry said.

"No," Sam shrugged, "but I might have an idea." He pulled the entirety of the dagger's length from his belt. Gendry lurched backward, then hissed in pain at disturbing his bound leg. "It's fine!" Sam assured him. "Dragonglass, see?" he offered the weapon to the man hilt first. Gendry took it.

"And what are you going to do with it?" he asked skeptically.

"Dragonglass has, well, magical properties," he began to explain.

"What are you going to do?" Gendry asked. I'm not quite sure. In his mind, he had imagined cutting away the marked flesh as he had done with Ser Jorah down at the Citadel.

"I'm going to help."

That answer did not put Gendry's concerns to rest and the man sat up as best he could, grunting in pain as he swung his bandaged leg around to face Arya's bed. Sam turned too and set down the materials the serving girl had brought him. He looked down at Jon's sister.

Her face was less full than before, when she had been a quiet but fierce presence in Winterfell's halls. Her dark brown hair hung around her face as the curtains did her bed. He reached forward and pulled her woolen shirt up to reveal the old bandages that covered her outer wounds.

Wordlessly, he reached back to Gendry with one outstretched hand and felt the now warmed hilt of the dagger press into his palm. Brandishing the blade, he delicately cut away the stained linens to reveal blotches of black and purple. Like twilight on the Wall, he thought as he continued his work.

And there, his breath caught in his throat. Faded yet familiar blue streaks marked her side. It looks like Bran's, but even worse. This had to be where the Night King had struck.

I have the dagger, he told himself over and over again in his mind. If it could kill a White Walker, it could break whatever magic threatened Arya's life. Slowly, he leaned forward and gently pressed the flat of the dagger against the mark.

He pulled away at once. Arya's body began to shake violently, though no sound escaped her lips. It reminded him of Bran's shocks on the day of the battle. He pulled back at once.

"What are you doing?!" Gendry lunged forward to knock the blade away, but he missed and fell to the floor. He cried out in pain and clutched his injured leg. The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Brienne entered, her sword readied to end whomever threatened her charge. Seeing that it was only Sam and Gendry still in the room, she lowered Oathkeeper, though her gaze felt just as sharp as the blade looked.

Sam fumbled for an explanation. "I was – she was – it-"

"You were hurting her," Gendry growled from the floor. Brienne paced across the room and help him back to his bed. "Whatever he's doing with that dagger, it's hurting her."

Sam raised the dagger with one hand and held his left palm wide opened as if he were yielding in a duel. "It's the marks, see?" he motioned Arya's exposed side. Brienne strained her eyes and examined the wound.

"That's where…"

"He marked her, yes," Sam said, "and it's probably what's keeping her from waking."

"You should try again then," Brienne said solemnly.

"No!" Gendry shouted, springing up from the bed once more. Sam looked back and saw the bandages about his legs were coming undone.

Brienne placed an armored hand on his shoulder and held him in place. "I've stood outside that door almost as long as you've been in here. Maester Wolkan has tried all he can. If we don't try something else Lady Arya may not wake at all."

Her words calmed Gendry some and he laid back in his bed. Whatever weight he had been supported fell on Sam's shoulders. May not wake at all. He had to try again, no matter the pain he caused the girl. This was for her own good.

He turned back to Arya and pressed the flat of the dagger once more. Arya began to tremble again, though no sound escaped her still lips. Sam kept the blade at her side. The markings almost seemed to be showing a bit brighter against the bruised skin. The tremors grew more violent still and Gendry was up and out of bed once more, though Brienne held him in check.

An awful crack echoed through the small room. Sam pulled away and looked at the girl then at his dagger. A jagged line ran down the middle of the blade. As he held it up to examine further, one piece fell away and shattered on the floor.

Sam looked to Brienne, whose eyes were as wide as his own. They stared at each other in silence for a moment before he saw her look toward the door. Sansa stood just beyond the threshold, wearing an accusing expression.

"What's going on?" she demanded of Sam and Brienne.

"My lady," Brienne stepped forward and began to speak.

"Jon asked me to try to help your sister," Sam interrupted her. Sansa's eyes lingered on Arya's wound.

"It doesn't look like you've helped," Sansa said coolly.

"My lady, I saw it with my own eyes," Brienne's tone pressed the seriousness of the situation on her liege. "The obsidian shattered when it touched the wound."

Sam looked at Brienne and saw… what? Fear? She had always seemed stalwart and serious before. Watching the dagger break had woke some lesser instinct in her.

Sansa stepped forward into the room. "It's the maester's care she needs, Samwell, and time to heal." Sam thought that Sansa did not sound all that certain. She hid her grief well.

"Well, allow me to apply fresh bandages then," he said. She allowed him that much, though he was not sure what linen would do against this sort of wound. He applied the cloth in short order and stood to exit the room.

"Samwell," Sansa called out to him as he stepped into the hall. "Thank you for…" she could not put her thoughts in order. Sam nodded in understanding.

"Of course, Sansa," he tried to smile. Then, he walked away.

I failed her. I failed Jon. Dread and shame weighed down every step as he made his way back to the solar. Gilly and Little Sam had left their perch by the hearth. The dancing flames and happily crackling fire seemed to mock him. He silently retrieved the book he had been reading and made to return it to the Maester's Tower.

The snows had grown heavier since he was last outside. He found a cleared path across the yard, but to either side the snow was already at his ankles. Might be at my knees in the morning, he thought idly. After years on the Wall, he knew how quickly storms could bury a keep.

Luckily, his way was cleared right up to the lower doorway to the tower. Book tucked under one arm, he opened the door and entered the relative warmth of the lower room. Winds shrieked in the chamber above him and he hurried up the stone stairs to find a window opened slightly. The invading storm had already snuffed out four of the fresh candles and blown a growing pile on snow onto the floor.

Sam moved to close and latch the window, but as he did so a rattling quark echoed from behind him. A massive raven hopped forward and examined him with one coal black eye. Sam placed his book on a nearby table and looked over the bird in turn. There was a small scroll attached to its leg. A message, he knew at once, but who would send a raven through a storm like this?

He reached for the bird's leg and untied the scroll. The raven protested with angry calls, but made no move to evade his grasp. He turned into the hearth's glowing light and saw the aquamarine seal pressed against the wax. It bore the print of a three-pronged trident. Sam's eyes widened and he quickly broke the seal and read the message from the south.

Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys Targaryen,

My scouts and smallfolk have seen the dead not more than a hundred miles north of my gates. I've not the men to hold the walls nor the ships to see my people to safety. Help us, or we shall surely perish.

-Wyman Manderly, Warden of the White Knife and Lord of White Harbor

...

I know you're all gonna be mad because I didn't have Arya wake up, but hey, I have a plan and I'm sticking to it. Save your tomatoes for the end.

We're approaching some scenes and chapters that have been fermenting in my imagination for months. I'm honestly stoked to get there. Pacing in the coming updates will be faster

Next chapter will be a long awaited scene. I hope to do it justice!

Always appreciate reviews! Thanks for reading!