Hope everyone is doing well! Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm glad you continue to enjoy. Just a heads up, a few changes were made to the final scene of ch 58 about three hours after it was first posted to add more detail.

This chapter felt a bit more heavy-handed than usual, but it would've stayed in edits for another week unless I put it out and moved on.


The clink-clink of shifting armour followed him. Sam forced himself to continue moving, knowing it would not take long before the prince made himself known.

The sun shone brightly, peeking through the pillars to splay the walls of the keep with a golden hue on its red brick, taunting in its glory while knights clad in red surrounded him.

"Prince Joffrey," Sam greeted, bowing to the Baratheon heir. Older he might be, but Joff had inherited his father's tall stature, standing level with Sam. The prince wore a doublet in the colours of his mother's house today, as if the hair on his head would fade to gold and he would look as much a Lannister as he wished he were - as if, with the sword his grandfather had gifted him for his nameday, he would look as fearsome as his Kingslayer uncle.

"Samwell," the prince said. He looked to be in a pleasant mood, a small smile on his face as he gestured for Sam to rise. He means to play the gracious prince today, Sam thought, straightening. "Walk with me."

"Of course, my prince," Sam said, following a step behind. Three red cloaks led the way, three more following behind with their hands on their sword hilts as they swept past ladies and servants alike.

"Are you going to the sparring yard?" Joff asked in feigned curiosity.

Sam's hand tightened slightly before he forced his fingers to uncurl, shaking his head. "The library."

He had avoided the sparring yard as much as he could since Loras had left. His friend had been the only one willing to take the time to help Sam practice away from the scornful eyes of the court, the nobles gleeful at the thought of Randyll Tarly's soft son.

"The library?" Sam saw the cruel glint in the prince's eyes; it never ceased to amaze him, how malicious this boy of ten could be when others weren't watching. But Joffrey was a royal prince, and those of his like were often the cruellest of beings.

"A mind needs sharpening as a blade needs a whetstone," Sam replied. The Imp of Lannister had told him that, years ago when Sam had found himself in a small nook in the keep's library quietly reading about the feats of the dragons of old, desperate to hide his reading material from them.

Lord Tyrion had laughed before regaling Sam with tales of his own search for dragons and love of reading. Sam was the son of a rebel and Lord Tyrion a Lannister and the queen's brother besides – reading of Targaryens was not like to see his head removed, but three centuries of Targaryen rule could not be ignored, and Sam's lessons involved the stories he had first learned as a young boy.

"A pity," Joffrey said, voice dripping with mockery. "Your father is off to war and his son hides in the library. Lord Tarly must be so disappointed."

"As disappointed as His Grace I'd imagine," Sam said unthinkingly.

He cursed at the sight of glaring green eyes. He would pay for his insolence, he knew; Joff disliked being made to feel a fool – disliked even more the reminder of his father's disregard – and he scrambled to distract him.

"What war are you talking about?" he asked.

The prince was quiet for a long moment, green eyes staring angrily at Sam before a smirk grew on his face. Sam hid his relief at the sight.

"You don't know?" There was a gleeful look in his eyes as he spoke.

My only source of information is your gloating, he wanted to say, but Sam bit his tongue. The ravens from his family were monitored. The ravens Sam sent in return were filled with empty platitudes and the more known occurrences in the city. Once, he had been friendly with the serving girl that placed firewood in his hearth. Marla, her name had been – Marla from Fishmonger's Square. Sam had spoken of her kindness once, the older girl always willing to tell him a story or two and warning a younger Samwell to mind his courtesies around the Lannister queen. He'd not seen her again, and he had learned to keep his secrets to himself.

"There's a new pirate king on the Stepstones," Joff told him, walking forward. There was an expectant look on his face, and Sam indulged the prince.

"There's always a pirate king on the Stepstones," Sam said. There were more pirates on the Stepstones than there were on the Sisters.

"This is different," Joff retorted, eyes gleaming in satisfaction. "Mother says Dorne has gathered and means to ally with this pirate."

Sam stopped suddenly, a surprised frown on his face. A hard shove from one of the guards got him moving. "Dorne hasn't gathered in years." Not since the war, he thought.

"Not since your father was a traitor," Joffrey stated. "Will your father remain loyal once the king brings war to his old friends?"

"My father has bent the knee, my prince," Sam said blankly. "He remains loyal to His Grace."

Samwell had learned the dangers of court when he was all of seven years; small, afraid, and surrounded by men and women who would never let him forget that his father had dared defy the man who had brought down a dynasty. It was always best to remind them that his family were now loyal.

"Because my father broke his host," Joff gloated, a wide smile on his face.

If only that were the truth, he thought.

Sam hadn't been told the true events that led to their surrender, but Lord Stannis' wedding and Loras' return to Highgarden had been enough for him to put part of the picture together – enough for him to know that Randyll Tarly would hunger for vengeance.

"King Robert is a peerless fighter," Sam agreed, the words he wanted to say going unspoken.

King Robert loved little so much as he did fighting, the feel of a warhammer or sword in his hands bringing him back to the glory days of his reign, but there was wine aplenty and women in silk brocade or the soft wool of serving garments to occupy him now.

"Father will bring the Dornish to their knees," Joff said confidently. "He'll take the greatest host the kingdoms has ever seen and show them a Baratheon's fury."

Or he'll bring their wrath north, Sam thought idly. He had entered King's Landing a boy, hiding his fear well enough that he had seen a spark of approval in his lord father's eyes.

"You are a Tarly, and Tarly's have never shirked their duty," he had told him. Each raven carried the same message, cloaked in words of loyalty.

Sam wondered what his father's duty was now, with war on the horizon.


The whispers had spread like fire, the topic seizing the court and giving them a well-needed lifeline.

Joffrey had been better informed than Sam had thought, the court whispering amongst themselves of the man who was now being called the pirate king. One moment he was a Myrish noble seeking to take the islands for his people. Next he was a shadowbinder from Asshai using foul magic to lay claim to the Stepstones. He was the bastard of Aerys Targaryen. He was a potter – a commoner reaching above his station – or a lowborn bastard with a heart as black as his name. He was a Blackfyre or a Brightflame come to claim the throne and a daughter of Dorne, plotting in Sunspear with Prince Doran as to take the kingdoms.

Sam didn't know what was truth or lies with the supposed king. All he knew was that nothing was so interesting to the high lords than the prospect of war and the thought of reaping the rewards that would undoubtedly come. King Robert was open with his pocket, and the man to give him the head of this pirate king would undoubtedly be rewarded. The man to give him the head of a Martell prince was like to be given a lordship or lands in Dorne.

Had he not so hated the Targaryens, the king might have enjoyed the comparison to the Young Dragon, seizing the opportunity to bring war to the Dornish.

Sam knew it would take much more than the king strong-arming his way into Dorne. There were no dragons to bring fire to their settlements. Only men on foot or horseback – men the desert would swallow unrepentantly for daring to tread where they were unwanted.

He had read his histories and recalled the stories his father had told him the few times Randyll Tarly had been home from the field of battle.

"Dorne will never bow. Not to lions or stags. Their desert will break any man before they bend the knee to anyone not of the line of Elia of Dorne."

"What if the Princess and her children never return?" he had asked, saddened at the thought of the missing royals. Sam's mother had sung songs of the valour of the knights of the Reach and their Dornish friends, all seeking to restore the crown of Aegon VI. He had cried at hearing their unknown fate, unable to stem the tears for fear that some terrible fate had befallen them.

Samwell adored the stories his mother told him – stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Symeon Star-Eyes and Princess Daeryssa. Sam had cried at the beginning of such tales, but he had known there was a happy ending awaiting them. The boy he had been had not understood his father's whisper of "there are other ways to ensure the dragons endure," but Samwell knew better now.

The songs were just songs – knights were not all splendid men with honour and valour at their core, the princess wasn't always saved, and men would use what they had to set the world to rights.

The cloying scent of lavender filled his senses, mixing with the faint smell of incense as the candles burned day and night. War was prosperous, but for the septons and septas installed in King's Landing, war was an opportunity to pray to the Seven to grant them whatever righteousness their charges wished for.

Mayhaps they'll pray for the protection of the innocent, Sam thought in amusement. The High Septon was a creature of fine comforts – as much as – more than, he thought – the eunuch making his way forward from behind the altar of the Stranger was. Sam doubted the man prayed for anything beyond his elevation and protection.

He stayed where he was, kneeling before the foot of the Mother. The altar of the Seven in the Royal Sept were not as glorious as the statues in the Great Sept of Baelor, but Sam was a hostage and not as free to walk around as he wished. The first time he had seen the Great Sept had been at the wedding of Lady Selyse and Lord Stannis, the rebels made to watch as the Baratheons gained a foothold in the Reach.

"An auspicious thing, the burning of a candle," Lord Varys said, voice almost amused.

Sam studiously ignored the man, knowing he would speak whether Sam gave any input. Lord Varys was kind when he spoke to Samwell, but the son of Randyll Tarly could not forget the lessons he had learnt at court. The Spider was as dangerous as he was generous – more so now that they were on the verge of war.

"In Braavos, there is an isle dedicated to the gods, aptly named the Isle of Gods. Men from across the Free Cities pay homage to their gods at whichever temple is theirs," Varys spoke, soft footsteps bringing him closer to Sam. "When a candle is lit, the men say their prayers, and a candle that burns quickly is said to bring the blessings of the gods."

Would that the gods listened, he thought. Sam prayed before the Mother when he could. In his darkest moments, he prayed to the Stranger to grant him a swift death. He prayed for it more now, knowing that the stirrings of war were dangerous for one such as him.

I am safe so long as my lord father remains loyal, he thought grimly.

"I did not think you believed in the gods, my lord," Sam said quietly.

"Not many would believe so, but I too find comfort in the gods," he answered. "Perhaps not as oft as I should like, but men make do where they can."

"What do you pray for?" Sam asked, steeling himself against the urge to close his eyes in embarrassment.

He will not answer, he thought, blinking in surprise as the Spider did just that.

"I? I pray as all those of my position pray – for the prosperity of the realm and to the good health and safety of our king," he replied.

"As do I," Sam murmured truthfully.

His father would have been disappointed as he always had been. The thought of his son praying for the continued health of the man that had forced them to bend the knee was like to turn him apoplectic. Yet pray for it he did; Sam would rather Robert Baratheon live a hundred more years than see his son on the throne – or that he lived long enough to see Samwell returned to his home before the dragons forced him off the throne.

Years and years and you've not learned your lesson, he chided himself. Samwell was not Loras, and his lord father would never be granted his safe return until he breathed his last.

"His Grace would be pleased to hear it," Varys said. "Especially in such times as this. King Robert is a fierce warrior, yet it will do him good to know he has such loyalty from you."

"I am a leal subject of the realm, my lord," Sam said, shifting forward to stand. His legs were numb from his hour of kneeling, but the castle sept was the closest he would get to relive his days with his mother and sisters in Horn Hill.

He walked slowly, letting his feet carry him out of the Royal Sept to the Maidenvault. Gold cloaks roamed the surrounding halls, dotted by the queen's vigilant red cloaks, the entire ensemble looking as if the Lannisters had come to roost in the Red Keep.

That they were muttering amongst themselves piqued Sam's curiosity. Lord Varys led him away from the Maidenvault, moving to the Great Hall where the Iron Throne sat towering above them all. Nobles were rushing about, their silks fluttering as the moved as quickly as they could into the throne room.

"Has something happened?" Sam asked lowly.

"It is King's Landing, my dear boy. Something is always happening," Lord Varys murmured, a pleasant smile on his face. "No doubt the king wishes to inform the city on the progress of his preparations."

He didn't think that was the right reason. Servants walked swiftly, heads bowed low as murmurs passed softly between them; he imagined the denizens of King's Landing would know by day's end what had the keep in a flurry of motion, but Sam kept quiet as he walked alongside Lord Varys, pushing through the crowd to better see once the Master of Whisperers had joined the small council.

Sam could make out two men knelt near the foot of the throne, the small council table not in place as it was when the Hand held court. They wore the black-and-gold striped cloak King Robert had given them years past when it was decided a loyal force was needed to guard the disloyal and embittered Crownlands, their helms placed in the crook of their arms.

"Your Grace," the one on the left spoke, his dark blond hair plastered to his forehead. Sam shifted, moving closer to the front of the hall to get a better look. He ignored the looks, stopping at level with the two men. He couldn't make out their features beyond the broken nose and the scar on the man closest to him, the missing ear giving away his identity.

"Speak, Ser Gerald," the king commanded, a note of respect in his voice for his fellow stormlander. Ser Gerald Grower had fought and lost an ear to Crownland rebels, the scar on his face a token from Ser Elwood Harte during the Battle at Antlers.

"Your Grace, we come bearing news from Ivy Inn," Ser Gerald spoke. "We had a rider in the night, come from Wayfarer's Rest. He brought word of troubling rumours."

"You rode this far to bring word of rumours, Ser Gerald?" Lord Tyrion asked, ignoring the sharp look the queen sent him. The dwarf was a favourite of the king and despised by his sister the queen, the Lannister given a position of honour in his goodbrother's court.

"The garrison at Stony Sept is being harassed, Your Grace," Ser Gerald continued, ignoring the words spoken. "A few of the men were wounded during their rounds and two guards killed."

"Stony Sept is under House Tully's provision, Ser Gerald," the Lord Hand reminded him. "Should Lord Tully require assistance, the Crown will intervene."

The man next to Ser Gerald spoke, shifting forward so the light illuminated the hooked nose and the slight furrow in his bushy brows. "Lord Tully is elsewhere, my lord hand, and unable to inspect matters at Stony Sept. If His Grace would give us leave to tend to the matter ourselves."

"Your men are to remain in the Crownlands, Ser," the king told him. "Grand Maester Pycelle will send a raven to Riverrun."

Sam watched the men share a look, the dark haired knight glancing at the lord hand. The king saw the look, getting to his feet and almost bounding down the steps to his throne. King Robert had gained some weight, but the muscle had not left his powerful frame and he towered over the two knights, the black diamonds in his crown glinting in the light.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Your Grace," Ser Gerald began, warily glancing at him. "Perhaps a meeti—"

"Your king has given you an order, Ser Gerald," Robert said.

Sam felt cold all over. The hall was quiet, not a whisper heard as they all held their breaths. The smile was gone from the king's face, blue eyes darkening as he waited impatiently for the knight to answer.

"The man from Wayfarer's Rest brought word of the dragons," the dark haired knight admitted hurriedly, eyes averted. "The Dragon's Men, Your Grace. They've been causing some troubles in the Riverlands."

A heavy feeling settled in his gut as he watched the king. The council had frozen, all eyes focused on the eerily still figure.

"The dragons?" Robert asked, voice low and dangerous. "The Dragon's Men are in the Crownlands."

"No longer, Your Grace," Ser Gerald said softly.

The king's hands curled into fists, the knights before him glancing at the floor as Lord Arryn hurried forward.

"The throne will hear no more today," Lord Arryn boomed, gesturing for the guards, the rest of his words cut off as murmurs arose, the people being led out of the throne room as the king and his hand made their way to the door hidden behind the throne.


It took less than a fortnight before the rumours ran wild, fuelled by the king's growing anger.

Dragon's Men to the north. Brigands in the Crownlands harrying the men King Robert and Lord Arryn had placed there. The Riverlands was perhaps the worst, the region split as it was.

Sam had watched the servants share stories amongst themselves, from the lowliest kitchen maid to the few in charge of placing firewood in the royal apartments. The lords and ladies gave little attention to those that attended them, and the keep was rife with whispers of dragons returning as nobles hoarded ravens from family and friends in the Crownlands and the Riverlands.

Lord Rosby had nearly coughed himself to death, worry gripping him at the thought of another war for restoration.

War was only so profitable when it was elsewhere. Samwell had seen the good cheer that came from the thought of glory in the Stepstones – at the thought of the riches of the Three Daughters as Westeros did battle with the newest King of the Stepstones – fade when Ser Gerald had spoken.

Instead, they had turned to furiously guessing at the loyalties of the rivermen.

Lord Goodbrook had fought under the dragon banner, someone would recall. Lord Smallwood had lost a brother fighting for Rhaegar Targaryen and his cousin had been sent to the Night's Watch. Lord Lychester, the stodgy old knight, had lost all his sons fighting on either side of the Rebellion. Perhaps he was plotting vengeance against the king.

In the quietest whisper, some would remember that Lord Tully had only joined the Rebellion with the marriages of his daughters.

Sam thought those whispers were the stupidest of them all; the Lord Hand was Lord Tully's goodson, and Lord Stark had little reason to want to see his foster brother dead and the dragons restored. Riverrun had chosen their side and would not back down now.

Still, they gossiped amongst themselves for a moon turn and then another, equal parts eager and wary at the anger the king showed. His Grace had gone hunting in the Kingswood in a fit of rage, arguing with his Hand over the skirmishes to the north and returning in a cheery mood with a white hart for Princess Myrcella's nameday feast that disappeared as his council brought more word.

Sam had hidden in the Red Keep's library or his room, burying his head in a copy of Grand Maester Kaeth's Lives of Four King or scrolls on Lord Bloodraven and the Blackfyre Rebellions to better avoid the sparring grounds after the king's return; if he weren't to fight, he had said, the least he could do was spar as if he were once more on the battleground. Sam didn't need the reminder of what King Robert's warhammer was capable of.

Lord Stark had made his way south at the order of his king and the plea from his goodfather. Lord Arryn's men were in the Crownlands, Sam knew, bleeding the Dragon's Men almost as much as they were bleeding them.

More troublesome was the news from the west. The king had given Lord Tully a moons turn to bring the Dragon's Men to heel before the Riverlords got it into their heads to return to their old loyalties. Lord Arryn had convinced the king to wait longer, Sam had heard them whisper; Dorne was the great prize of Robert Baratheon's reign, and the king would waste time and men fighting in the Crownlands and Riverlands that he could dedicate to bringing the Dornish to heel.

King Robert had agreed to wait but sent his goodfather forward, and news of the sacking of Sherrer had sent the Riverlands quiet for a time as Lord Lannister intervened. Lord Tully had regained control of his lands a sennight past, it seemed, but Sam's heart had nearly stopped in fear as whispers passed through the keep. Ser Gregor had been in Wendish Town, Lord Vypren unable to do much as Lord Tywin's dog searched for Dragon's Men. He had gone as far as Lord Lychester's lands, causing the tensions to rise once more.

He turned the page, reading absentmindedly as he thought on what came next.

Dragon's Men, he thought. Then come the dragons. Or not. The Riverlords were like to be the first to spark war. Sam didn't think it would take much before they decided they had enough of the Mountain on their lands, king's command or not.

"Boy." He glanced up, seeing the burnt visage of the prince's favoured guard. The Hound, they called him. Sam had been afraid of the burn marks on the Hound's face once, until Loras had laughingly convinced him the man's bark was worse than his bite.

"The Prince is not here," Sam said. "No doubt he's elsewhere in the castle."

"It's not the prince I'm here for," Sandor Clegane responded. He gestured roughly, a half dozen knights in the red cloak of the Lannister guards moving forward. "You have an invitation for luncheon."

Sam's brows furrowed in confusion. "Luncheon?"

"Took too many knocks to the head it's made you deaf, have you?" the Hound sneered. "Yes, luncheon."

"I'm not dressed for luncheon," Sam protested, glancing down at his clothes. The breeches were clean, but for a small ink stain at the top that he attempted to hide.

"You are now," Sandor replied dryly.

They pulled Sam away from the library and into Maegor's Holdfast, his stomach clenching as he realized where they were leading him.

Ser Boros stood guard outside the large oak doors, one hand on his sword hilt as he glanced dismissively at Sam.

He knocked once, opening the door to announce their presence while Samwell nervously straightened his green doublet, swallowing as the Hound led him inside.

The queen's apartments were large and airy, wide arches leading to the balcony and letting shafts of air into the room. The furniture was draped in golds and yellows, with the red and gold Lannister sigil placed on the wall amongst tapestries of the Rock at sunset and other Lannister depictions.

"Samwell Tarly, Your Grace," Sandor said, bowing lightly once they reached balcony and the two other guards stood at attention. Cersei Lannister was a beautiful woman – the most beautiful in all the realm, they sang – yet Sam could not forget the words of warning his father had given him when they had last spoken, strengthened by the few whispers he had heard from Marla.

The queen was not alone; seated next to her were Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, the two Baratheons clothed in matching cloth-of-gold outfits. If he hadn't known them as well as he did, Sam might have confused the two for twins they looked so alike – as alike as their mother and uncle must have at their age.

"Thank you, Sandor. You may leave us," she replied, a slight smile on her beautiful face.

He bowed, a polite smile on his face as he murmured, "Your Graces."

"Samwell. Come, do join us," the queen said, smoothing her green gown as she gestured at the table. There was a pitcher of wine – Arbor gold from the looks of it, he guessed – and another of water and a sweet juice that came from the fruits of the Summer Isles, platters of fruits and cheese, lemon-seared cod and lamprey pie, a plate of roasted quail and another of peppered boar. There was a tray of cakes, apple and lemon.

Sam sat before the queen, her children on either side of her as he waited until they had filled their plates.

"Joffrey would have joined us but he is spending the day in lessons with Lord Arryn," she told him.

Sam smiled politely; Joffrey was like to behave in his mother's presence but he couldn't help being relieved he would not have to sit through luncheon with the crown prince present – something he was sure the younger prince and princess were also thankful for.

"He is the future king," Sam said instead. "I expect Prince Joffrey is rather busy."

"Indeed," she murmured, sipping at her wine. "How are your lessons progressing?"

Sam blinked in surprise, glancing at her in question. Lord Arryn had appointed one of the many maesters in King's Landing to see to Sam's education as befitting the heir to Horn Hill. He knew all reports were sent to the Hand, in addition to the many other things Lord Arryn handled on behalf of his foster son.

"Well, Your Grace," he answered.

"Samwell tells the best stories, Mother," Princess Myrcella chimed in. "When Septa Eglantine lets him sing songs of the Seven."

"He does," Tommen added earnestly, an apple in hand.

"Not the best," Sam muttered, flushing lightly at the beaming smile the princess sent him. "My mother tells them better."

"Your mother," the queen mused, glancing at her daughter. "You must miss your mother after all these years."

"I do," he admitted, poking at the fruit on his plate. "There are letters to ease the distance."

"It's not quite the same, is it," she said, green eyes gleaming. "We shall have to invite your mother to the capital."

Sam stiffened in surprise. "My mother," he said slowly, hearing the princess pipe up in agreement of her mother's words.

"Your sisters as well; there are three of them, yes?" she asked, a pleased smile on her face. "It must be hard, being separated from your family for so long I'm sure a short trip would be welcome."

"There's no need, Your Grace," Sam said quietly, heart pounding loud enough for him to hear. His mother and younger sisters in King's Landing while war broke out to the north. His lord father would rebel rather than allow more of his family to be taken hostage.

"Nonsense," she said, waving him off. "All these years of loyalty ought be rewarded."

There was an expectant look on her face – almost the exact look on Joffrey's face, he thought despairingly.

"That sounds splendid," he replied, a grateful smile on his face that he did not feel in truth. "You have my thanks, Your Grace."


They came for Sam a sennight later while he was buried behind the stack of books he had gathered, entertaining the little prince and princess with the same stories his own mother had told him.

Rare were the days when Sam was allowed near the youngest Baratheons on his own, yet the princess had convinced her Septa to bring them to the library and the queen had not been there to say otherwise.

The Hound's raspy call had grabbed their attention, twin heads of gold snapping up to gaze at him with uneasy green eyes. The Septa had moved forward, sweeping the two children away as Ser Boros followed after them.

"Reading is over, boy," the Hound rasped, gesturing with his hand. A dozen knights in the red cloaks of the Lannister men came forward, one of them gripping Sam roughly by the arm and yanking him to his feet.

"What for?" Sam asked, hissing at the sudden knock to his head.

"Shut your mouth," the guard spat.

"Do hostages get to ask questions?" the Hound questioned, lip curling in disdain as he stared down the guard holding tightly to Sam's arm. "You hit him too hard you can explain to the king why he's become a dullard."

The ruffle of the page was the last Sam heard before he was prodded to move, a guard on either side as they led him out into the corridors of the keep.

Randyll Tarly's son he may be, yet Sam was a boy moons shy from turning fourteen. Not a threat for any knight worth his sword. The sight of Samwell surrounded by the red cloaks was enough to set the hall aflame with whispers.

Something has happened, he thought, the few high lords walking around stiffening as they passed, their eyes darting away.

There were more guards on the drawbridge that led to the Maidenvault and for one moment, Sam feared they meant to throw him into the moat below and be done with it.

Instead, they led him to his rooms, a guard taking up a position outside before the door was barred.

He was going to die in King's Landing. Of that he was certain.

He had seen Grand Maester Pycelle hurrying away this morning, the old man moving faster than Sam had seen in his years at court – fast enough for him to know something had gone terribly wrong for the king.

Oddly, Samwell did not feel panic at the thought, calmly making his way to the featherbed. Someone had cleaned his room, the scrolls placed carefully on the desk, and Sam reached for the letters he kept tucked in his doublet, fingers smoothing the worn parchment as he curled on the bed to read the tiny scrawl.

You are a Tarly, and Tarlys have never shirked their duty.

Was this what you were trying to tell me, Father? To prepare me for? He couldn't ask his father the questions he wanted to, so Sam focused instead on the last time he had seen Randyll Tarly, the rare glimmer of pride in normally hard eyes giving him some measure of comfort before they had parted ways.

For a moment, the feel of longing passed strongly through him. There was no Loras to keep him company in the sparring yard, patiently walking him through his steps, and Sam had nobody to tell the tales of knights he read about to. They couldn't pretend they were great knights or maesters – Loras wouldn't be Ryam Redwyne reborn, and Sam would not be the one to detail the many feats his friend was sure to accomplish.

He was left in silence for days; a servant would bring food three times a day, removing the used cutlery and plates when they returned with his next meal, another changing the chamberpot in his room only at the end of the day.

Sam heard nothing from outside – not from the guards posted at his door, nor from the servants that glanced fearfully at the hovering figure of the Hound as they worked in silence.

He had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company - thoughts that kept turning to the war that had likely broken out beyond the city's walls. Dragon's Men, then come the dragons, he thought. Then comes poor Sam Tarly stuck on an iron pike.

It was on the fourth day of his confinement – four long days of the monotony that was staring out the window that had a view of the spiralling steps or at his walls wondering whether his father had turned his cloak, or reading the one book Samwell had managed to keep with him – that Sam had his first visitor.

He failed to hide his disappointment quickly enough, Lord Varys' lips tugging down into a frown.

"It seems nobody likes to visit with a Spider," he said, voice soft and disappointed.

"I thought Lord Arryn would visit," Sam explained, flushing lightly.

"The Lord Hand finds himself quite busy these days. I fear he has little time to tend to certain matters," Lord Varys replied, an odd smile on his face.

Sam watched carefully as the Spider moved closer, seating himself in the chair he kept next to the desk.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" Sam asked bluntly, an awkward silence filling the air.

"What makes you say that?" Varys asked, a shocked look on his face. "You are a valuable hostage, Lord Samwell."

Sam scowled, crossing his arms as he stared intently at the Master of Whispers. Perhaps it was the thought of his impeding death that made him insolent and unwilling to sit and listen to the eunuch lie so brazenly to his face.

"Only so long as my father remains loyal. Dragon's Men fighting and a Dornish summit mean the dragons have returned," Sam retorted. "My father is bannerman to Lord Tyrell and unimportant on his own if the other banners remain loyal."

Lord Varys smiled, eyes flashing too quickly for Sam to make out the expression. "Clever boy," he murmured. "Very clever. Indeed, Lord Sam – may I call you that? – the dragons have rather miraculously returned."

Sam felt his lips twist before he forced himself to still, clearing his face of any expression. Four days was more than enough time to come to terms with what Sam had subconsciously known would be his fate.

"Has the king said anything of my fate?" Sam questioned stoically.

"The king is not here, unfortunately," Lord Varys told him. "He's left in quite the hurry – he does so dislike his Valyrian relations," the eunuch said, not bothering to conceal what Sam now knew to be truth. "The queen has made your safety her immediate priority."

The queen, he thought darkly. Cersei Lannister was like to lop Sam's head off herself as a warning if his father ever entertained thoughts of taking King's Landing.

"You can, of course, do something to prevent your needless death and countless others," Lord Varys said, a sympathetic note in his words.

"Do what?" Sam asked sceptically.

"Write your father," he said. "Write Lord Randyll and remind him to mind his loyalties. Or perhaps write your grandfather. He might make a compelling case for their loyalties to remain with the throne."

"Mind his loyalties," Sam echoed, a mocking edge to his words. "My father has kept to his loyalties, my lord, for why else would I be here?"

"Dangerous loyalties that would see this war drag on," Lord Varys said. "Moons ago you told me that you were a leal subject of the realm."

"I am," Sam answered.

"Does that not extend to keeping the realm at peace?" Lord Varys asked. "I would hate to see you come to harm, Lord Sam, and a war would see just that."

The king has squandered what peace he has earned, he thought. Nothing was like to see the realm torn apart than the Mountain roaming and raping as he went, and Sam knew that among those eager to make certain the Targaryens knew they had kept faith, there would be a number of people turning to the dragons for some form of reparation.

"Why do you care?" Sam asked, lips pressed into a grim line. "Why bother to play at niceties with me or concern yourself with my well being?"

"You are yet a child," Lord Varys huffed, hands clasping together anxiously. The sleeve of his purple cloak was hanging limply in his lap as he leaned forward, head gleaming beneath the candlelight. "I serve the realm, Samwell, and in serving the realm I should wish for peace and an end to the suffering of countless children. Wars are such terrible things, yet when the high lords play their games it is children such as yourself that pay the price for their ambitions."

There was a grim smile on Samwell's face as he stood to make his way to the window. You are a Tarly, he reminded himself, staring absently at the serpentine steps. "My father is a Tarly, Lord Varys, and he has spent years fighting on behalf of the dragons to right the wrongs of the past."

"Fighting for his wounded pride," Lord Varys countered. "He would see you put to the death to have his vengeance on His Grace and Lord Tywin."

"Only a fool would believe that," Sam said softly.

The Spider sighed sadly, as if all his hopes had rested on Samwell's willingness to write his father and Lord Randyll's chance of listening to his son's impassioned plea. He nearly chuckled at the thought. We are Tarlys. First in Battle.

"The queen will be so disappointed to hear of your refusal."

Sam smiled grimly, eyes unseeing as he heard the harsh screech of the chair and the soft footsteps receding.

Blood for blood, he thought. His lord father had done his duty to his rightful king and would return that loyalty once more. Sam would not live to see the dragons restored, but he knew there was four feet of Valyrian steel waiting to greet the Lannisters.


Sam was a harder POV to nail than I expected, but Varys would have given away too much. Sigh. We'll see the actual contents of the letter Aegon sent in the Willas chapter next.

To answer any questions/comments:

mordicus18: the plan is to take the city with magic and minimize any casualties. The city is taken a year before Robert went north in canon. Egg's still on a learning curve in terms of being a king but he'll wrestle with the idea of what it means to be a good king exactly.

Flamingp0tat0: hopefully this chapter gives you some idea of what Robert is going to do and some of the landscape around Westeros. Sam's POV is limited to his thoughts and feelings but there are some things he gets right. We'll see action in the next Harry chapter! They definitely have the advantage right now, but war opens up opportunities and once the dust settles there is room for more ambitious people to start making moves. Lol, I had to stop reading for a week after the Red Wedding before deciding I needed to know what came next. I'm glad you like Viserys! He's been fun to write. Thanks for the well wishes. Stay safe.

DullReign82: Stannis is stubborn and loyal, lol. We'll see Davos in the next Harry chapter.

krasni: they haven't thought of Jon beyond that first mention of his existence, but Aegon and Rhaenys weren't disinherited here. The marriage wasn't annulled. They think Jon is either dead or a girl, so it'll be a bit of a shock when they find out. Jon is complicated, lol. He's my favourite in canon, but dealing with him here is going to be a bit different. He's not responsible for his parents actions, but he does have to deal with the truth and what his existence means in the game of thrones.

red demon161: sane Viserys is fun to write, lol. But he's got a good point and he'll be a counter to Aegon's modern/idealistic side.

osterreicher97: Stannis will show up in two chapters. He's like less bitter but at the same still has a grudge a mile wide. The Vale will work similar to Visenya's idea and get the army bending their knees quickly. I've seen that theory. If it's true, Baelish is an entirely different kind of player if he's willing to kill his own kid for power.

hwjumeau: still working on Euron but he'll pop up in time to be properly dealt with.

Up next; Willas throws a wrench in his father's war preparations and the Tyrells try to make sense of the changes to the great game.