SAMWELL

Sam's craven heart had chambers enough to house each and every one of the things that went bump in the night. He feared ghosts; he feared mummies; he feared zombies, devils, and the chupacabra; he was afraid of being kicked by somebody while he was asleep. Sam had spent long hours agonizing over how he could possibly survive if a bobcat suddenly smashed in his window and pounced him. He was afraid of spiders. Afraid of mold, of poison, of shitting his pants. Afraid that someone would notice he was fat. Afraid he might someday get so fat he would implode, like a neutron star. Afraid of responsibility, of ridicule, of romance.

But most of all, Samwell Tarly was afraid of the story Jon Snow had told him the previous evening over a crackling campfire while the two brothers sat together roasting marshmallows.

"They called him Night's King," said Jon Snow, arching his eyebrows spookily. The flames danced across the faces of the two boys, deepening their eye sockets, making skulls of their faces. Sam gritted his teeth and watched his browning marshmallow.

"But before that, he was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Jon went on. He turned his stick to bronze the other sides of the three marshmallows he'd speared. "The thirteenth Lord Commander, in fact. That's important because thirteen is the scariest number."

Sam felt a shiver crawl down his left shoulder to his buttock. He was scared of the number thirteen.

"My little brother Bran told me this story, and Old Nan told it to him."

"Who's Old Nan?" Sam asked.

"Just our crazy old lady we kept at Winterfell. My dad got to have one because he was the lord."

Sam squinted, unsure what to make of this answer.

"It's not that weird or anything," Jon insisted. "It's kind of like having a fool. Kings get to keep a fool, so… maybe lords get to keep an old lady."

"That could make sense," Sam admitted. "My lord father kept a fool named Fuckup. Fuckup had a neck tattoo and father made him sleep in the stables."

Jon laughed. "But about Night's King—"

Sam gasped.

"Night's King," Jon went on, "wasn't afraid of anything. And that was his downfall. He was so fearless that he—okay, listen to this. What's the most fearless thing you can possibly think of?"

Sam looked into the flames. He thought for a long time. Then he turned and met Jon Snow's eyes.

"Fucking a girl directly in her va-jay-jay," he said, in the same tone one might use to order an execution.

"Daaaaamn," said Jon Snow. He took his stick out of the flames and examined the marshmallows. "That would indeed be pretty fearless, my dude. And check this out. That's exactly what he did. Only you know what?!"

"What?!"

"She was also undead!"

Sam never told anyone, but at this point in Jon's story, he wet his pants. Just a tiny bit. A few drops. But it happened.

"Undead?!" he cried.

Jon gave him a solemn nod. "Yep. He was walking on top of the Wall I guess, looking at stuff with his scope, and he saw this super hot undead girl down in the Haunted Forest. And he knew what he had to do."

Sam was quiet for a minute. "You're not telling me he just went down there and banged her. One of the wights?"

"Yeah! I mean, she was an ungodly hot one, though."

"You're filling me full of shit."

"Not shitting you in the slightest," Jon assured his friend. "She was about five-nine, a little bit thicc, like a hundred and forty-five pounds or so. Ass like a peach, amazing boobs. Chestnut black hair. I don't know if she had bangs, but I'm thinking she probably had bangs. And eyes as blue as sapphires shot through with moonlight, my dude."

The story was absurd, but in the dark of the night, with snowflakes falling around them and the fire crackling at their feet, Sam realized he believed every word of it.

"It happened," Jon confirmed, as if reading Sam's mind. "I mean, crazy Old Nan said it did. Like a thousand years ago or something."

Sam nodded. It did seem like something that might happen a thousand years ago. "So then what?" he asked.

"Well, when he gave her his seed, he gave her his soul. And basically that made him become Night's King."

Sam took his marshmallow out of the fire and blew on it. When he was satisfied, he popped it into his mouth. "Whu'ss thuh uckshully mean though?" he chew-spoke.

"Pretty much that he also became undead, and got way more badass. He was totally immune to shadow damage. And he was immortal. And also he had a sword and shield made out of bones and people's guts and shit like that."

"Whoa!" Sam cried, spraying bits of congealed sugar into the fire.

"I know. So all the other guys in the Night's Watch realized they were in the presence of a playa like no otha, and they pretty much became his undead army. But then the Stark in Winterfell and the wildlings joined forces to kill him."

"How did they kill him?" Sam was enraptured.

Jon smiled. "How do you think?"

Both boys simultaneously yelled, "UPPERCUT!"

"Yes, dude!" Sam and Jon high-fived. "Nothing's more badass than an uppercut!"

"You know it, brother," Jon agreed. "So that's the story of Night's King. What do you think?"

Sam had felt energized and excited while he'd been sitting before the crackling fire with his best friend in the Watch, but tonight, alone, atop the Wall, looking down into the Haunted Forest just as the Lord Commander in the story had done, Sam was utterly terrified. The wind was howling in his ears and he hadn't eaten in almost three hours. He had to pee so bad it was hard to believe, and even though there was no one else up here, even though there was no possible negative consequence to just peeing over the edge of the Wall, Sam was too craven to do it. It was an awful night, and he wished Jon had never told him that stupid story. Of course it couldn't be true. It was a Penthouse letter from a thirteen-year-old. But still—

Down in the Haunted Forest Sam saw a flash of sapphire blue. His blood froze in his veins. It couldn't be! He didn't want to raise his scope and find out. Even though it was impossible, he didn't want to find out. He couldn't. He…

Sam raised the scope. He scanned the trees, the snowdrifts, the—

The girl.

There she was, in a small clearing. She was about five-nine, divinely thicc, chestnut black hair and an ass that—

No!

Yes. The undead girl turned her gaze directly toward Sam. Impossible though it was, from miles away, she met his eyes through the lens of his scope.

And she smiled.