Flashforward
The stranger in the corner of her favorite tavern, beckoned her to come closer. He looked to be a few years younger than she was, when he tipped up the wide brimmed hat of woven straw.
"I'm told your friends call you the Sphinx." His accent almost assured her that he was a local certainly he talked like a man of Oldtown, he even like spoke like one of the Citadel. He could have been born and raised a few blocks east of here, somewhere in the opulent neighborhoods near the Starry Sept. There was something else in his voice though. He was possibly gentry from the countryside north of Oldtown. She might not have caught it, bastard born as she was. But this man already unnerved her. He knew things.
The Sphinx nodded. The man gave a thin, almost shy smile. "An old man told me once, he said that the Sphinx is the riddle."
Samwell
He saw the light fade from the sky and dim from beyond the clouds up above. He heard the sounds of the sea, and felt the gentle rocking of the boat that held his form like a cradle. His lungs inhaled, and took a breath of familiar air, cold and damp as it was at this waterfront before the dawn.
Maester Samwell got off his back, and was on his knees. He saw at once, that the boat was tied to a pier. Carefully, Sam found his footing and braced himself against the mooring post, before pulling himself out of the boat.
With the feel of the pier underneath bobbing up and down, he slowly moved down the docks for the dry ground up ahead.
He then knew where he was. He was at the Citadel. The Weeping Docks, was the place he had just left. He turned left from the docks passing the Seneschal's Court and the stocks meant for the punishment of acolytes facing the river. Passing the court, he entered the open air market at the entance square for the Citadel, known as Scribe's Hearth. The stalls were vacant, no scribes waiting for custom at this hour, the wares scattered across the paved cobblestone square.
At that moment, he suddenly became aware of a horrible smell. It could only be the smell of burning flesh. Looking around the marketplace, it was if he had only truly noticed his surroundings.
The beautiful sandstone walls that enclosed the Citadel lands on the East bank of the Honeywine from the rest of the city, were blackened, and was shorter in many places then he remembered. The smells were horrible, and Sam had to retch. He did so and it landed on a black rock the size of a skull. A faint hiss could be heard. The rock is molten, Sam had noticed. What was this, where was he truly? Who could have done this?
It dawned on him, the ruined walls now turned black, came from dragonflame. He had stopped at Harrenhal on the way north and had already seen the result of dragonflame.
Daenerys Targaryen had brought her dragon on Oldtown, and exacted revenge on the order of the maester's, the Faith, and the Hightowers themselves.
The island on which the hall of natural sciences was built, was to his back. The gold plated statue of Dareon the Young Dragon, whose foundation was in the corner of his eye, had collapsed with nothing standing but its pedestal, and to tall and trunkless legs of iron.
He allowed his legs to take him wherever they were supposed to go, but the sights were no less horrifying. The building of Social Sciences had collapsed on itself. Leaving a pile of molten rubble. Ahead, the roof of the two storied citadel archives was aflame.
The path was in fact a familiar one, one that he took often to get to the Isle of Ravens. Unlike many other places, the isle looked unchanged amist the flames that engulfed the rest of the Citadel behind him.
In the thoughts of it all, the sound of his feet on the strong but weathered drawbridge were a welcoming sound. The rusted iron portcullis was up as usual, and the wooden doors were open. In the center courtyard, he happened upon the great Weirwood that dominated it. A solitary white raven, was perched on it's branches. North, it called. He turned his gaze to the North tower. This was the place he had stayed during his time in the Citadel.
Opening the entrance to the tower, he walked into a large hall he had never seen before. All the same however, he knew the sight of the Iron Throne at once. What got his attention was the sight of two men conversing at the foot of the dais. Whatever reality Sam was in, seemed madder still.
One was a bald man, who wore elegant robes of the finest purple. The other, wore elegant finery, grey trimmed with silver. His hair was black with only a light hint of grey. His chin sported a small but well trimmed pointed beard.
The bald man in the colored robes approached the handsome taller man.
"I did what I did for the good of the realm." His thin, edged voice gave cold contempt and carried throughout the room. The lord in purple could have been no one else but lord Varys. He had seen the Eunuch's capture and execution after Tumbleton. The other man Sam had never seen before.
"The realm," The taller lord smirked, making a wide mocking gesture. "Do you know what the realm is? It's the thousand swords of Aegon's enemies forged into a throne, a story we agree to tell each other, over and over, until we forget that it's a lie."
Lord Varys held his ground, "But what do we have left once we abandon the lie, chaos? A gaping pit waiting to swallow us all."
"Chaos isn't a pit," the proud lord with the pointed beard proclaimed. "Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try it again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm, to the or the gods or love, illusions. Only the ladder is real, the climb is all there is."
Into mist and shadow they faded, and light came only from a small door. Passing through the door, Sam Saw himself in a lordly chamber. In the distance, were screams. A great balcony could be entered from the chamber, that saw a single man standing against the sky alight with carnage from below.
A great creature descended on the balcony, he saw the green and gold scales of Viserion, the last dragon.
"Daenerys Targaryen, I expected you." His voice was calm and gave no indication of the suffering of the smallfolk below.
"Leyton Hightower," the voice of Daenerys Targaryen was booming. "One of my children was murdered by your dogs."
"As far as I know, you never had children." Lord Hightower's voice was stoic.
Even in rage, she sounded like a queen, maester Aemon would be proud to meet. He quickly regretted the thought. The Hightowers and the citadel, and even the faith had been instrumental in bringing down the Targaryens over many generations, but what would Aemon have said about her relentless quest for vengence.
"They do not call me mother of dragons for nothing!"
"Your house has plotted against my blood since the Dance of Dragons. In my travels, I met several chained maester's who had stories to tell. The last one even told me how Drogon died."
Sam felt a pang of guilt, was it possible that this was all his fault.
"Yes, I ordering the killing, Daenerys Targaryen. I tried to exterminate the dragons, but I did it for the good of the realm."
"The realm needs dragons!" The silver queen hissed with anger.
"The realm is better off without them. Your house is not fit to rule the seven kingdoms, do you not understand. Untold thousands have died needlessly from the follies of your forebears."
"And thousands below are dying needlessly for yours, do you hear them Hightower?"
He bowed his head with dignity, "Soon I will join them I know, but I am not afraid. The Hightowers have sacrificed many for the greater good, including ourselves. Kill me and prove the meaning of your words."
She screamed in high Valyrian, and fire overtook the balcony, and then the chamber where he was.
He saw he was now in a clearing of a forest. The foilage, was much like the woodlands outside of Horn Hill. On the ground was a hunter sprawled across the green field, his tanned buckskin stained with blood. Poking out from his back, was an arrow planted firmy into his spine, with the fletching of a crooked huntsman's arrow not made for game, but not for war as most arrows were fletched on Horn Hill.
He got closer to fallen man, and looked even closer. A opened wineskin was held in the left hand of the dead man, that smelled of a sour Arbor Red. His right hand, seemed to pointing a stiff and dead accusing finger in his direction.
Sam backed away and suddenly, a loud rumble shook the earth below. The ground behind him opened up and he fell swallowed by an endless pit, or so it felt. The rocky walls around him began to glow queerly. The vision around him blurred.
Sam woke up with a start, and tried to jump out of bed.
His awkward, overweight form however, was heaveir than he recalled, and he hit the floor on his stomach with his feet still tangled in the bedsheets.
For a moment Samwell Tarly just laid where he was. Then his feet untangled themselves from the sheets, and with a surprising amount of difficulty, he pushed himself to his feet.
Sam looked down at his own plump form. Clearly it had worked, Sam decided. Not only was he in his younger, fatter body, but the room he was in was one of the apartments along the wall across from the Great Keep. No longer, was he Maester Samwell, a chained member of the Citadel. Now he was just Samwell Tarly, the heir to Horn Hill who would someday be dispossesed of his home. It felt good to be back, especially when he had a chance to change everything he had known.
He had been moved here by his father's orders nearly three years before being compelled to join the watch. The Tarlys of Horn Hill had a long legacy of hard men, leading some of the finest soldiers in all of Westeros. His lord father, did not want to talk about him, and had been more and more keen over the years on hiding him from visitors, not wanting to be embarrased by his firstborn son who did not live up to his father's hopes for a warrior.
Sam felt a strong taste of disgust at the thought of Randyll Tarly. On the eve of Tumbleton, his father had learned that he had forged a maester's chain, and in the early morning hours, a hedge knight, tried to assassinate him. He had survived the attack, and in a desperate fight for his life, had mortally wounded the assassin. The dying knight, had confessed that his own lord father had hired him to erase the shame brought the Tarlys. He never had a chance to confront his father who slain only hours later when his Vanguard trying to hold the northern bank of the Mander, until reinforcements arrived from across the river on pleasure barges. Dragonflame had broken his defensive knot, and a few thousand unsullied did the rest. Tarly had lost the battle before Aegon's Dornishmen could even link up as the army tried to cross the river.
The ring of blunted steel on blunted steel could be heard below in the yard, near the postern gate in the shadow of the bell tower. Below his apartments, were the barracks and the armory. His father had hoped to shame him by quartering him here. It had bothered him at first, how he had been separated from the rest of his family. A few other apartments, were above the barracks. These were inhabited by household knights, most of whom disliked him. That they were delighted to see him go, he did not doubt. They were proud men, who chafed at the thought of serving a master who was a lesser warrior than themselves.
His quarters did not bother him now though. After what he had been through, it was like discovering a forgotten luxury.
Sam opened his wardrobe, and chose garments of boiled leather. It was a slow process for Sam, it had been a long time since he had difficultly putting something on. Sam would have to lose some weight he knew, but first he would gorge himself on some fruit in the kitchen storeroom.
He saw a large robe of cotton, which he selected and put over his leathers. If he came downstairs dressed in warrior's clothing, word would get around. He would get too much attention before he was ready for it. After all, secrets were difficult to keep in a castle.
He tied a thin rope around the robe colored green, opened the door and walked down the stairs with the kitchen storerooms in mind.