The Library

The air in the library of Castle Black was heavy with the scent of old parchment and melting tallow. Books and scrolls, stacked haphazardly on shelves and tables, surrounded Cassandra as she pored over the black tome in her lap. The Vox Maleficarumsat open, its pages filled with a labyrinth of runes, symbols, and cryptic text that seemed to shimmer faintly in the flickering candlelight. She hadn't noticed the hours slipping by, nor the toll her obsession was beginning to take on her.

Cassandra's brows furrowed as her finger traced a line of unfamiliar script. "Teleportation spell," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "Not dimension travel. What did I miss? Where did I go wrong?" The question hung in the air, unanswered, as she flipped to another chapter, her frustration mounting.

Weeks had passed since her arrival in Westeros, and she had spent nearly every free moment in the dim confines of the library, trying to decipher the ancient grimoire. It was the key to returning her and Elizabeth home, but it was also a dangerous artifact—a book that radiated power she was only beginning to understand. The thought of leaving it unattended sent a shiver down her spine. If the wrong hands ever got hold of it…

"Cassandra?"

She looked up sharply, her gaze meeting Samwell Tarly's. He stood a few paces away, clutching a stack of books to his chest. His wide-eyed expression was a mixture of curiosity and nervousness as if he'd caught her mid-act in something forbidden.

"Sam," she said, relaxing slightly. "What is it?"

"You… you've been here all day," he said, hesitantly setting his books on a nearby table. "I just thought you might want something to eat. Or, um, maybe some company?"

Cassandra's first instinct was to dismiss him, to protect the veil of secrecy she had so carefully maintained since arriving at Castle Black. But something in Sam's earnestness softened her resolve. Over the past weeks, she had observed him from afar—a man who was as out of place as she felt, yet kind-hearted and surprisingly clever. Perhaps he could be trusted with a sliver of her truth.

"You want to help me?" she asked, tilting her head.

Sam nodded, though his eyes darted nervously to the grimoire in her hands. "If you'll let me," he said. "I've read quite a bit about runes and old languages… not that I'm an expert, but…"

Cassandra closed the grimoire and regarded him carefully. "It's not just old languages," she said finally. "It's magic. Dangerous magic."

Sam's eyes widened, but he didn't back away. Instead, he leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming his apprehension. "Magic? Like… what kind of magic?"

Cassandra hesitated. "The kind that brought me here," she said softly. "I'm not from this world, Sam. I was trying to cast a teleportation spell, but it went wrong. Instead of moving me to another place, it moved me to another dimension."

Sam's mouth opened and closed as he processed her words. He seemed to be weighing whether to believe her, and Cassandra braced herself for the skepticism she had faced so often. If he chose to not believe her, it would either be her head on the chopping block or his life. She didn't want to harm anyone, but she would if she had to.

But then he surprised her.

"You're trying to undo it?" he asked.

She nodded. "Elizabeth and I don't belong here. This book…" She gestured to the Vox Maleficarum. "It's the only way I can fix what I've done. But it's not easy. These spells, these runes… some of them are lost to time. Others…" Her voice faltered. "They're beyond my understanding."

Sam was silent for a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. "I can help you read them," he offered. "Maybe I won't understand the magic, but I can help with the language. And… and I know how it feels to be lost, to not belong."

Cassandra studied him, searching for any sign of deceit or pity. But Sam's gaze was steady, his sincerity undeniable. Slowly, she slid the grimoire across the table toward him.

"If you're going to help," she said, "you'll need to keep this between us. No one else can know."

Sam nodded solemnly. "I swear it."

As the hours passed, the two of them worked side by side, pouring over the book's intricate pages. For the first time in weeks, Cassandra felt a glimmer of hope—not just in the possibility of decoding the Vox Maleficarum, but in the tentative bond forming between her and Sam. It was a fragile alliance, born of necessity and trust, but it was enough to keep her going.

The Armory

Sam hesitated for a long moment, fidgeting with the edge of his cloak. "Jon, there's something you should know about Cassandra," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jon turned to him, his brow furrowing. They were in the armory, sharpening swords after a rough session in the training yard with new recruits, a quiet place where the flickering candlelight barely kept the shadows at bay. Sam had been avoiding his gaze, and that alone was enough to put Jon on edge. "What is it?"

Sam swallowed hard. "She... she told me something. About how she got here. She said..." He lowered his voice further. "She said she used magic."

Jon froze. For a long moment, he didn't respond. His fingers tightened on the of the handle of the sword in his had as he processed the words. Magic. The very word felt foreign, unsettling. He had heard tales of the old days, of sorcery and shadowbinders, but those were stories for maesters and old men to debate. Magic wasn't supposed to be real, not in any way that mattered now. Not here, at Castle Black.

"Magic," Jon finally said, his tone flat. "And you believed her?"

Sam hesitated again, clearly uncertain how to answer. "She didn't seem like she was lying, Jon. She said she'd been trying to cast a spell to teleport herself and her cousin, but something went wrong. That's how she ended up here. She's been studying that book of hers to figure out how to undo it."

Jon stared at Sam, his mind racing. He thought of Cassandra's guarded demeanor, her strange accent, the way she seemed both utterly out of place and yet unnervingly self-assured. Could it be true? Or was she simply mad? If she truly believed she had used magic, then what did that say about her state of mind? Worse, what if she wasn't lying? What if she really was a witch?

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Jon's voice, when he spoke again, was low and deliberate. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that sounds? If the wrong person heard her say that..."

"I know," Sam said quickly. "I told her to be careful, to keep it to herself. She doesn't talk about it openly."

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sam, you need to be cautious around her. We still don't know if we can trust her."

"But, Jon—"

"Enough," Jon interrupted, though his voice was more weary than harsh. He leaned back in his chair, his mind already conjuring images of Cassandra being dragged before the men of the Night's Watch, accused of sorcery, of being some kind of wildling witch. It wasn't hard to imagine how that would end. "You said she's been studying that book? What if it's dangerous? What if she is?"

"She's not dangerous," Sam insisted, his voice firm in a way that caught Jon off guard. "She's been nothing but kind to me, kinder than most of our own brothers. She listens, Jon. She doesn't mock me or look down on me. She's... she's different, but she's not cruel."

Jon's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to point out that kindness didn't mean she wasn't a threat. But he couldn't ignore the sincerity in Sam's voice, or the fact that Cassandra had kept to herself since her arrival. She wasn't exactly ingratiating herself with the Watch, but she wasn't causing trouble, either.

"Even if that's true," Jon said slowly, "we don't know her intentions. She's not staying, Sam. She's heading south to find her cousin soon. Lord Commander Mormont stated so to Maester Aemon a night ago."

"That doesn't mean she's not worth knowing," Sam said quietly. "You might even like her, Jon, if you gave her a chance."

Jon scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. "I have enough to worry about without trying to make friends with a girl who thinks she can cast spells. The wildlings are still out there, and winter is coming."

Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. The silence returned, heavier this time, filled with unspoken worries. Jon's thoughts drifted back to Cassandra, to the piercing clarity of her gaze, the strange mix of defiance and vulnerability she carried. Was she a threat? Was she simply lost and desperate? He couldn't decide, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.

But one thing was clear: whatever Cassandra's story was, it had the potential to bring danger to them all. And Jon wasn't sure if Sam—or he himself—was ready to face what that might mean if so.