Samwell Tarly felt a mixture of astonishment and gratitude when his newfound friend, Jon Snow, proposed that he lead the mission to return to the Wall and save Craster's wives. The weight of responsibility settled on Sam's shoulders, a testament to the trust Jon had in his abilities. Surprised yet honoured, Sam readily accepted the charge.
Jon, acknowledging Sam's intellect and resourcefulness, permitted him to take two Stark soldiers and venture back to Craster's Keep. Their mission: to rescue the women and bring them safely south of the Wall. However, it was Jon's additional instruction that gave Sam pause. The directive to use "whatever means necessary," even if it meant dealing decisively with Craster, revealed the gravity of the situation and the potential dangers that awaited them.
Sam, caught in the tension between duty and the moral intricacies of the mission, recognized the necessity of the task at hand. However, the prospect of taking Craster's life didn't sit well with him. While Sam had delegated the task to the Stark soldiers, he couldn't shake off the weight of responsibility that clung to him like a heavy cloak.
The moral burden of deciding another man's fate pressed upon Sam's conscience. He grappled with the idea that their mission, while crucial for the safety of Craster's wives, involved an act that went against his innate reluctance to resort to violence. Sam, inherently more inclined towards scholarly pursuits than the brutality of warfare, found himself thrust into a role where hard choices had to be made.
Two moons waxed and waned before Sam reached the foreboding confines of Craster's Keep. The relentless onslaught of winter weather had taken its toll, slowing their progress to a crawl. Large snowdrifts, seemingly insurmountable, occasionally forced them off course, transforming their journey into a relentless battle against the elements.
Recollections of the outward journey, where Sam had accompanied Jon, and Benjen Stark, haunted his thoughts. Craster, an ungracious host in the best of times, had extracted his own form of payment for aiding their quest. He had begrudgingly assisted them in locating Mance, providing shelter beneath his roof, but not without a cost — a price paid in wine and the keen edge of an axe.
Now, returning with a mission of rescue, Sam and his two companions found themselves devoid of offerings for the grizzled Craster. The old man, never one to tolerate perceived slights, left them with no choice but to rest outside the walls, sleeping under the watchful eyes of the dogs. The bitter reality of their predicament mirrored the frosty landscape, as Sam braced himself for the challenges that awaited them within Craster's abode.
Despite their lack of alcoholic offerings, Craster indulged in the wine gained from their earlier visit. Sam, assigned to watch duty, was supposed to wait for the moment the man succumbed to a drunken stupor. However, fate had different plans.
Amidst the quietude of Craster's Keep, the distressed wails of a woman pierced the cold night air. Sam, torn from his watchful duty, recognized the significance of the sound all too well — the unmistakable cries of a woman in labour. Distress and urgency propelled him to follow the haunting wails.
Guided by the anguished sounds, Sam peered into a small hut where three women were gathered. Two of them were unfamiliar faces, but one was immediately recognisable — Gilly. Sam and Gilly's paths had crossed on the outward journey, where she was already heavy with child. Despite Craster's warnings to stay away from his wives, Sam could not resist Gilly's presence. Drawn to her doe-eyed innocence. They had formed a bond, enough for Sam to promise to rescue her. He even gave her the thimble which belonged to his mother. A token gesture of his fondness for the girl he barely knew.
The wailing, he realised with a pang of distress, emanated from Gilly herself. In the small confines of the hut, the profound and visceral experience of childbirth unfolded.
Gilly's cries echoed through the cold night, intensifying with each passing moment. Sam, a silent observer from the shadows, felt a sense of helplessness wash over him. Yet, a muted assurance lingered — he knew Gilly was in capable hands. Unable to tear his eyes away, he witnessed the incredible and raw unfolding of life in the starkness of Craster's Keep.
The women, murmuring words that held a mysterious cadence to Sam, conversed among themselves. Their utterances, though incomprehensible to him, carried a weight of ritualistic significance. Sam, standing at the periphery, felt like an outsider to the sacred dance of childbirth.
As the time drew near, one of the women's words reached Sam's ears, "I see the head. Push."
"That's it. You're nearly there. One more push should do it," the other woman said.
Gilly, face contorted in the struggle, summoned all her strength and, with a final grunt, pushed. In the dim light of the small hut, the baby emerged, head first, shrouded in the semblance of blood. Swiftly, the experienced hands of the women took hold of the newborn, tending to it with practised care. A collective gasp seemed to escape the room as the baby cried out, announcing its arrival into the harsh and unforgiving world beyond the Wall.
"What is it? What is it?" Gilly's anxious inquiry filled the small hut. As one woman held the newborn in front of her, Gilly's anticipation hung in the air. The atmosphere in the room shifted when Gilly's face fell, registering the revelation brought by the tiny bundle in the woman's arms — it was a little boy.
Sam left Gilly alone with the newborn for a few moments. The echoes of Jon's words about what happened to Craster's boys resonated in Sam's mind. The moral dilemma that once held him back from contemplating harm to Craster now dissolved, replaced by a resolute understanding of the necessity to act.
Peering through the door of the Keep, Sam's eyes navigated through the hide that concealed his presence. The smoke-filled room revealed Craster, seated alone by the fire, lost in the haze of his wine-induced revelry. Quietly and purposefully, Sam dropped the animal hide and made his way to the kennels where the two Stark guards, Addam and Robb, awaited.
"Is he asleep?" Addam asked.
Sam shook his head. "He's drunk, but he won't be asleep for a while. He's got to give an offering to his god. Gilly's had a boy."
The weight of the news sank in, and Addam exchanged a glance with Robb. "Seven fuckin' hells."
"Best we get this over with now," Robb said.
Sam could feel the gravity of the situation. "Let me tell Gilly first."
"You tell Gilly, we'll sort out Craster," Addam said.
Sam waddled over to Gilly's hut with all the haste his legs could muster. In that moment, he wished for a physique more akin to Jon's, agile and swift, instead of his own stout and ponderous form. By the time he reached her dwelling, Sam was red-faced, panting, and despite the frigid night, perspiring. He pulled aside the thin cloth that covered the door, revealing Gilly cradling her baby inside.
"Shh, shh, shh," Gilly murmured to the child, attempting to calm him. The fear in her voice was palpable. Sam stepped inside the hut, Gilly rising to her feet.
"You woke him," she said.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, his eyes fixed on the newborn. "He's beautiful."
As the baby cried, Gilly tried to soothe him with gentle shushing sounds. Sam, aware of the delicate ground he tread, broached the topic cautiously.
"Does he have a name?" he inquired, knowing the need for sensitivity in approaching Gilly, who might harbour lingering doubts after the previous unfulfilled promise of rescue.
"No," she replied sharply.
"Are you going to give him one?" Sam pressed, mindful of the thin ice he was treading on.
Gilly's response was terse. "Why? What's it got to do with you?" She extended her hand, revealing a thimble Sam had given her during their last encounter. "Here, Sam. You said to hold it for you until you came back. You're back."
"I wanted you to have it," Sam explained.
"I don't want your stupid thimble. I want to save my baby's life. Can you do that? Can you?"
"That's why I'm here. We're going to rescue you and your sisters. Take them south of the wall," Sam assured her. He glanced outside the hut and spotted Addam and Robb watching the keep. Suddenly, the baby's cries grew louder.
"Wait here," Sam whispered. "I won't be long, I promise." He made his way out of the hut, heading toward Addam and Robb, leaving Gilly and her newborn in the muted light of the small space.
Before Sam reached the keep, Addam and Robb had already made their way inside, and the sounds of heated shouting reached Sam's ears.
"Leave, or I'll cut your throats!" Craster's voice rang out.
"Whose throat you gonna cut, old man?" Robb countered defiantly as Sam slid through the door.
Addam turned to Sam with a grave expression. "Sam, wait outside. You don't want to see this."
"He leaves babes in the woods to be taken. I want to see this!" Sam said.
"I am a godly man. I leave offerings to save my wives and daughters. Enough of this madness! All of you, get out!" Craster roared, his hand gripping an axe from the wall.
Addam and Robb unsheathed their swords, positioning themselves for the inevitable clash. Sam, stationed by the door, felt the weight of the moment. There was no turning back now — it was Craster or them. Sam fumbled for his sword, finding it stubbornly stuck in its scabbard. Instead, he grasped his dirk, holding it close to his body, concealed beneath his cloak.
As the confrontation escalated, Addam took the initiative, lunging at Craster, intending to disarm him. However, Craster proved to be a wily adversary. The axe he grabbed from the wall was a mere diversion; in his other hand, concealed from view, he held a dagger. Swift as a striking snake, Craster threw the dagger at Addam, and it found its mark — Addam's eye. The Stark soldier crumpled to the ground, the sound of steel clattering against the floor as his sword slipped from his grasp. The room reverberated with the harsh echoes of the sudden and violent altercation.
Robb's lifeless body lay on the ground, a silent testament to the swiftness and brutality of Craster's attack. Sam, now alone and facing the enraged man, felt a wave of fear wash over him. Craster, a seasoned hunter and survivor of the harsh northern wilderness, moved with a lethal precision honed by years of living beyond the Wall.
"You, little piggy bastard. You're planning to steal my wives," Craster said, his anger palpable.
"I... I didn't mean to," Sam stammered, falling to his knees to placate the furious man. In that vulnerable moment, Sam noticed Addam's sword lying next to him.
Craster, undeterred, approached Sam, intending to end his life. However, in a rare turn of fate, the world seemed to slow down for Sam. With a swift and determined motion, he seized Addam's sword and turned to face Craster. The blade plunged into the man's belly, eliciting a momentary stun from the aggressor. Before Craster could mount a counterattack, Sam revealed his dirk and drove it into the man's neck. Blood gushed from the grievous wound, and Craster crumpled to the ground.
Sam's looked around as the echoes of the clash faded into an eerie silence. The eyes of Craster's wives fixated on Sam, a mixture of relief, uncertainty, and weariness clear in their gaze. The women who had sought refuge in the hay loft descended to join the solemn gathering.
"We came to rescue you, escort you to the wall. Take you south," Sam said, his intentions laid bare.
One of the elder women scrutinized him, her gaze assessing Sam from head to toe. "Well-meaning as you are, lad, I don't think you'll help us much. Likely slow us down. Take your leave; we'll make our own way from here," she declared, ushering him toward the exit.
"But—" Sam said, a vain attempt to protest.
"Leave! We need to dispose of the bodies, lest the others take them." the woman insisted, her voice carrying the weight of a decision made. Sam, though hesitant, respected their wishes.
Sam, driven by a singular purpose, emerged from Craster's keep with a resolute determination to save Gilly and her baby. He hastened toward Gilly's humble hut, his steps quick and purposeful. Pushing aside the cloth door, he found Gilly seated just as he had left her.
"Quickly. Quickly," Sam said, a sense of urgency in his voice.
"What's happening? I'm not going out there," Gilly said stubbornly.
"No, we have to go. Now!" Sam insisted, conveying the urgency of the situation. "Craster, he's... gone."
Gilly's doe-like eyes widened, realization dawning as she grasped the implications of Sam's words. The baby's cries echoed within the small space as they fled the hut.
"Follow me. I know the best way. Come on," Gilly said, taking charge as they ran from the keep, disappearing into the woods. In the moments of escape, the air crackled, a mixture of fear and hope, and Sam and Gilly ventured into the unknown, leaving behind the haunted remnants of Craster's abode.
Days stretched into an indistinct blur as Sam and Gilly ventured through the wilderness, their journey marked by the absence of Craster's oppressive presence. Despite Sam's success in confronting the menacing figure, the fruits of their endeavour were bittersweet. Only one of Craster's wives had been saved—Gilly.
As they traversed the unforgiving landscape, Gilly assumed the role of provider and protector, taking charge of hunting and building fires. In contrast, Sam grappled with a pervasive sense of uselessness, his previous triumph against Craster eclipsed by the weight of what had been left behind. The relentless rhythm of their footsteps echoed through the desolate terrain, each day blending into the next.
The frozen expanse stretched on forever, a vast canvas painted in the muted hues of dusk. Each step Samwell Tarly took through the knee-deep snow left a temporary imprint, and his every exhale materialised in the frigid air. Gilly cradled her precious baby, treading in Sam's wake. The relentless wind howled, swirling the powdery snow into ephemeral eddies around them.
Seeking respite, Gilly pointed toward a gnarled tree, its twisted branches reaching out like frozen fingers. Sam, ever watchful, approached the dilapidated farmhouse nearby. Its broken windows, like scars etched by the unforgiving North, told tales of a harsh and unyielding wilderness. Above, a solitary crow perched in the godswood tree. The silence was interrupted by the baby fussing in Gilly's arms. She cradled the child closer to her buxom, a futile attempt to calm him down.
Sam took stock of their surroundings, he sensed a subtle disturbance in the air. Something felt amiss, though he couldn't quite discern its nature. "It's getting dark. We could stay here for the night," he said, his words hanging in the stillness like a cautious whisper.
The baby's restlessness persisted, prompting Gilly to pass the child into Sam's protective embrace. Despite the chill in the air, Sam managed a reassuring smile, his gaze fixed on the tiny life in his arms. Meanwhile, Gilly, undeterred by the biting cold, busied herself with gathering firewood to light a fire.
A second crow descended to join its counterpart in the godswood tree. Struck by the unexpected symmetry, Sam pauses in contemplation, a sense of foreboding settled in the air like a fine layer of frost.
The desolation outside was wrapped in an impenetrable cloak of darkness, the wind's mournful howls and icy whistles weaving through the night. Inside the dilapidated farmhouse, Sam laboured to kindle a feeble flame, the clinking of flint stones resonating in his determined hands.
"How hard can it be to build a fire?" Sam asked, his breath hung in the frigid air, dissolving like mist in the night. Gilly's doe eyes mirrored the flickering light of Sam's futile attempts. Unperturbed, she gestured for him to seek refuge beneath the furs.
"You're doing it wrong." Gilly said.
Sam shook his head. "I just need to strike a spark."
"It doesn't matter. Come under the furs. We can keep each other warm," Gilly said. Sam, blinked with surprise in the dim light, before settling beside Gilly. She arranged the furs over them, her focus unwavering even as the baby's whimpering punctuated the stillness.
"He winked at me before." Sam said, a feeble attempt to start a conversation.
Gilly was sceptical. "I doubt it."
"He did, I saw him wink at me," Sam said, his assertion met with a shake of Gilly's head.
"He blinked." She said,
In a moment of philosophical reflection, Sam contemplated the nuanced difference. "I suppose there's a difference between a wink and a blink."
"A what?" Gilly asked, her curiosity piqued.
Sam dismissed the matter, shaking his head. "Never mind. Have you thought of a name yet? It would be easier to refer to him if he had a name."
Gilly pouted and was silent for a moment. "Sometimes I think you talk fancy on purpose to confuse me."
"No, this is just the way I talk," Sam said with a shrug.
"I'll build that fire," she said, taking charge of the situation. Gilly put the baby down and arranged the firewood with purpose. Determination in her eyes, she attempted to strike the flint, a resolute effort to coax warmth from the cold night.
"Don't you think he should have a name?" Sam asked. His eyes fixed on Gilly as she continued to create a spark from the cold flint.
Gilly, paused her efforts to ponder the question. "I don't know many boys' names."
"Let's see, there's Duncan, Kevan, Jon, Guymon, Feldan, Tristifer."
Gilly interjected with a suggestion that caught Sam off guard. "Craster."
Sam, unsure of how to respond, hesitated. "Uh, yes. Maybe that's not—" he began, his words trailing off as the fire sprang to life.
Seizing the opportunity to feed the burgeoning flames, Gilly's eyes remained fixed on the dancing firelight. "Mormont?"
Sam, appreciating the sentiment, "That's a lovely idea, but Mormont's a last name."
Gilly's brow furrowed in confusion at the concept of a surname. "Why is it a last name?"
Sam, ever patient, embarked on a brief lesson in familial nomenclature. "Well, it's a family name. For instance, I'm Samwell Tarly. Samwell is my birth name, and Tarly is my family name. You see? So my father is also a Tarly."
Gilly, attempting to grasp the intricacies, sought clarification. "His name is Samwell Tarly, too?"
Sam gently shook his head. "No, Randyll Tarly."
Gilly, enchanted by the name, offered a compliment. "Randyll is a handsome name."
"Please don't name him Randyll."
Gilly, nodding in understanding, showed compassion for Sam's plea. Her next question, delivered with a touch of vulnerability, revealed a shared pain. "Is your father cruel like mine?"
"Different manner of cruel," Sam said.
Gilly rose from her place and attended to the fire, her breath visible in the chilly air as she blew on the flames to encourage their warmth. Beyond the confines of the broken barn, the ominous cawing of crows intensified, weaving an unsettling chorus that echoed through the desolate night.
"Not Randyll," Gilly said with a decisive tone as she settled back next to Sam. The eerie symphony of crows reached a crescendo, the unnerving sounds permeating the stillness.
The escalating noise unnerved Sam, but he resisted, showing his fear in front of Gilly. To dispel the mounting tension, he nodded at her, offering a slight smile. Despite his attempt at reassurance, an underlying sense of foreboding lingered in the air.
Undeterred by the disconcerting sounds, Sam got up, determined to investigate the commotion outside. "I best go have a look to see what that's all about."
Gilly, fearing for his safety, pleaded with urgency, "Don't. Don't go out there."
Despite Gilly's plea, Sam took a burning torch from the fire, his resolve unwavering. "I'll be back. I just want to look," he assured, the flickering flames casting a play of shadows on his determined face as he ventured into the mysterious darkness beyond.
With a steely determination, Sam reached the side of the barn, his senses heightened to the potential threat that lurked beyond. In a swift, fluid motion, he grasped his sword and the dragonglass dagger, the cold metal responding to the urgency in his grip. The flickering light from the torch cast dancing shadows as Sam, cautious and prepared, crept out into the enveloping darkness.
The wind whispered through the snow-covered landscape, carrying with it the distant echoes of the unsettling cawing of crows. Sam, now armed and vigilant, ventured into the unknown, his breath visible in the frigid air. The godswood tree loomed in the distance, its branches shrouded by the ebony forms of countless crows, their collective presence adding an eerie layer to the silent night.
With his sword in one hand, and the dragonglass dagger in the other, Sam edged outside, the cold crunch of snow beneath his boots marked each careful step.
The godswood, a sacred haven veiled in ancient secrets, witnessed a haunting spectacle. Countless crows, guardians of the mystical grove, adorned every branch, their ebony forms creating an otherworldly tapestry against the dimming twilight. Amid this avian congregation, Sam desperately urged Gilly to seek shelter within the crumbling walls of the forsaken barn.
"Go inside. Go back inside. I'll—" Sam's words hung in the frosty air as a sudden hush befell the crows, their collective silence foreshadowing an ominous presence. A growl, primal and foreboding, emanated from the shadows beyond, freezing the very essence of the North.
Gilly cradled her baby, sensing the encroaching danger. "It's come for the baby."
The suspense thickened as a lone figure materialised from the inky depths of the ancient woods. A White Walker, an embodiment of ice and malevolence, advanced with an unhurried cadence, indifferent to Sam's futile attempts at intimidation.
"Stay back!" Sam brandished his sword, a feeble defence against the encroaching supernatural force.
Undeterred, the White Walker effortlessly disarmed Sam, the echoing resonance of the shattered sword echoing through the godswood. A swift uppercut sent Sam sprawling, vulnerable on the frozen ground. The attention of the ethereal foe shifted towards Gilly and the vulnerable baby.
"No, you can't have him! No!" Gilly's plea echoed in the crisp night air.
Refusing to yield, Sam drew forth the dragonglass dagger. With unwavering determination, he lunged at the White Walker, driving the obsidian blade into its frozen form. The ghoul's unearthly screech pierced the stillness, but an unforeseen metamorphosis gripped the supernatural intruder.
The White Walker convulsed, its icy exterior fracturing like brittle glass. A haunting howl reverberated through the godswood as the malevolent creature succumbed to the forces of ancient magic. It shattered into ethereal shards, dissipating into the cold night air.
Sam and Gilly, witnesses to this spectral demise, were left stupefied by the enigma that unfolded before them. As the crows, silent witnesses to the arcane, resumed their cacophonous cries, Sam seized Gilly's hand. Together, they fled the crumbling barn, swallowed by the shadowy depths of the ancient woods, pursued by the thunderous symphony of winged creatures that guarded the secrets of the North.