The Highland Games reached their peak on the third day, and the atmosphere was electric. From the moment the sun rose, the festival grounds were alive with activity. Flags bearing the sigils of countless Northern clans fluttered in the breeze, the air filled with the sound of axes splitting wood, bows twanging, and cheers erupting from different corners of the grounds. The smell of freshly roasted meat wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of trampled grass and the smoke from the many cooking fires scattered around the camps.
As Jon Snow walked through the festival grounds, the intensity of the competitions had noticeably increased. These were no longer the children's games or the minor challenges that had taken place on the first two days. Now, it was the clans who had taken the stage, competing against one another with everything they had, each one vying for the honor of being named the best clan in the North.
Jon stopped near the archery range, where he watched as several competitors stepped forward to take their shots. The targets were set at different distances, ranging from the standard to the extreme—barely visible in the distance. The crowd gathered around the competition was thick, murmuring with anticipation. Jon recognized a few faces among the competitors: men from Clan Lothbrok, Clan Wull and Clan Harclay. Their aim was true, and the thud of arrows hitting targets echoed through the air.
But the archery contest was just the beginning. The competitions continued relentlessly, with axe throwing, weight tossing, and woodcutting all drawing crowds. The woodcutting competition was particularly intense, with men wielding massive axes to fell logs as quickly as possible. Each chop sent splinters flying, and the crowd roared as contestants hacked away with all their strength. Sweat glistened on their brows as the sun climbed higher into the sky.
Jon found himself smiling at the sheer enthusiasm of it all. Anything that could be turned into a competition had made it onto the list. There were contests for strength and speed, but also for more unusual skills. An eating contest had drawn a surprising number of participants, and the crowd around it was in hysterics as the men shoveled food into their mouths as fast as they could. There was even a rope-climbing competition, where men and women alike scrambled to see who could reach the top of the rope first. The crowd cheered each time someone made it to the top, then groaned in disappointment whenever someone lost their grip and fell back down to the ground.
Among the more traditional competitions, the wagon and sled races were particularly popular. Large, sturdy wagons were loaded with heavy goods, and the contestants had to pull them across rough terrain as fast as they could. The sled races, on the other hand, took place on a nearby hill where the ground was slick and steep. The participants sat in wooden sleds and raced down the slope, their faces filled with a mixture of excitement and fear.
The horse races, too, were a highlight of the day. Lords and clansmen alike brought their finest steeds to the race, and the sight of the horses thundering down the track was enough to make the entire festival ground tremble. The crowd erupted into cheers as the horses surged forward, neck and neck, their riders urging them on with shouts and flicks of the reins.
But amid all the familiar faces and well-known clans, something unexpected was happening. One clan, a small and largely insignificant one, had begun to attract attention. The Oakenshields were a mountain clan, one that most people barely acknowledged. They were known to be fierce fighters, as all mountain clans were, but they had never been considered a major force in the North. Yet, as the competitions progressed, the Oakenshields were consistently performing better than anyone had expected.
Their chieftain, an old man named Floki, was respected by those who knew him, but it was the younger members of the clan who had started turning heads. Their strategy was clever—rather than aiming to win every competition outright, they had focused on accumulating points steadily. They placed well in nearly every event, always finishing in the top ranks, and by the end of the third day, they were rapidly climbing up the leaderboard.
Jon had been watching the games carefully, and he couldn't help but notice the Oakenshields' rise. His curiosity piqued, he made his way toward their camp after the day's events had concluded. It was modest compared to the grand tents of the other clans, but it was well-organized, with a sense of pride in every detail.
As Jon approached, he saw the old chieftain, Floki, sitting by the fire with a group of his clansmen. Despite his age, Floki was an imposing figure, his long white beard and weathered face telling the story of a lifetime spent in the mountains. But it wasn't Floki who caught Jon's attention—it was the young man sitting beside him, a boy with half his face covered in yellow war paint, his long hair braided down his back.
Jon narrowed his eyes, something about the boy seemed familiar. He was dressed like any other northern clansman, wearing furs and rough leathers, his muscles lean and strong from a life of hard work. He moved with an ease and confidence that belied his youth, and at first glance, he seemed like just another warrior from the mountains. But there was something in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted across the crowd, that made Jon pause.
The sun was beginning to set over the encampments of the Highland Games, casting a warm glow on the competitors as they celebrated the end of another day. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clang of weapons as the various clans gathered around their fires to enjoy the evening. For Jon Frost, however, his thoughts were elsewhere.
He sat on the edge of the main tent, watching the bustling activity with a contemplative look. His eyes followed a particular figure in the distance, a man he once knew as a boy. The boy had been soft, timid, and craven—afraid of his own shadow and hardly able to stand in the presence of a fight. But now, the man who moved with ease among the mountain clans was unrecognizable.
Samwell Tarly.
Jon had been surprised to see him in the competition, wielding an axe with the strength and precision of a seasoned warrior. Samwell had even taken second place in the archery competition, much to the astonishment of everyone watching, especially Jon. He had expected the Samwell of old—a boy who cowered at the mere sight of a weapon. Instead, Jon saw a man who had embraced his northern life and thrived within it.
It had been two years since Jon had sent Samwell off with the mountain clans. He remembered that day vividly, how Sam's father, Randyll Tarly, had essentially begged Jon to take Sam north to toughen him up, hoping the harsh conditions of the North might rid him of his softness. Jon had agreed, though he had little faith that Samwell would endure what the mountain clans would put him through.
At first, Jon had felt a twinge of guilt sending Samwell off with the mountain clans. He knew what kind of life they led, how unforgiving they were to those who could not keep up. He had warned them not to kill the boy, but beyond that, Jon had trusted them to do what they did best—make men out of those who thought themselves weak.
Jon had been right about one thing: the North had changed Samwell. Now, Sam moved among the mountain clans as one of their own, his broad shoulders and muscled frame a testament to the strength he had gained through years of hard work. His face was half-covered in yellow war paint, marking him as a competitor in the Highland Games, but Jon could still see the familiar features of the boy he had known.
With a slight smile, Jon rose from his seat and made his way over to where Samwell sat with his clan, laughing and exchanging stories from the day's competitions. As Jon approached, Samwell turned and his eyes lit up with recognition.
"Jon," Samwell greeted, standing up and clasping Jon's forearm in a firm grip. "It's been a long time."
"It has," Jon replied, his voice warm but still carrying the weight of his duties. "You've changed, Sam."
Samwell chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had to. The mountains... they don't let you stay soft for long."
Jon gestured for Sam to sit back down, and they found a quieter spot near the fire. The other clansmen left them alone, sensing that the two old friends had much to talk about. For a few moments, they sat in silence, watching the flames dance before them.
"I remember when I first took you to Moat Cailin," Jon began, his tone thoughtful. "You were scared of everything. Even the small folk scared you with their wooden swords."
Sam laughed, though there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. "I was useless back then. Couldn't swing a sword, couldn't fire a bow without shaking. I'm surprised you didn't just send me back south."
"I was tempted," Jon admitted with a grin. "But I thought the mountain clans might be able to do something with you. They have a way of... making men out of boys. Even if it's not always gentle."
"It wasn't," Sam said, his expression growing serious. "The first few months were hell. I thought I was going to die out there. They didn't let me rest, didn't let me hide. They made me hunt, chop wood, climb mountains... things I never thought I could do. At first, I hated it. But then... then something changed."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "What changed?"
"I did," Sam replied, looking Jon in the eye. "I realized that if I didn't keep going, if I didn't find the strength to survive, I would die out there. It wasn't about my father or anyone else anymore. It was about me. I had to decide if I wanted to live."
Jon nodded, his respect for Sam growing. "And now? You seem to have found your place among them."
Sam smiled, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "Aye, I did. They taught me everything. How to fight, how to live off the land, how to survive. And now... I feel like I'm finally where I belong."
Jon's smile faded slightly. "But you don't belong here, Sam. Not forever."
Sam frowned, unsure of what Jon meant.
"You're the son of a lord," Jon continued. "Randyll Tarly may not have been kind to you, but you have a place in the world beyond the mountains. A place where you can use that strength you've gained, not just for survival, but to lead. Horn Hill need a man like you—strong, capable, and intelligent."
Samwell looked away, clearly torn. "I don't know, Jon. I've never been much for ruling or leading. I'm not like you."
"You don't have to be like me," Jon said firmly. "You just have to be yourself. But a stronger version of yourself. And being a Lord isn't just about ruling. It's about learning, about using that mind of yours that you used to love so much and help those you can. You always had a love for reading, for books. That's still inside you."
Sam sighed. "I haven't read a book in years. Up here, there's no time for that."
"There will be time at Moat Cailin," Jon said, his voice softening. "We've rebuilt the libraries. There are books—books you would love. History, strategy, even Fiction. You could learn, Sam. You could help others."
Samwell looked at Jon, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "You really think I could?"
"I know you can," Jon said confidently. "But you can't stay here forever. The mountains were good for you, but now it's time to come back. To be the man you were meant to be."
Sam sat in silence for a long time, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Finally, he nodded. "I'll come with you, Jon. After the Highland Games, I'll come back to Moat Cailin."
Jon smiled, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Good. You'll see, Sam. There's more to life than just survival. There's learning, there's leading. And you were always meant for more. After two more years in Moat Cailin you can go back to Horn Hill to meet your mother and siblings."
As the flames flickered in the night, Jon felt a sense of peace. Samwell Tarly had found his strength in the mountains, but now, it was time for him to find his place in the world beyond them.
Author Note:
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