The fanfiction is written with the Help of AI, focusing on Samwell Tarly journey with some ( Lord of the Rings ) elements.

Year ( 294 AC ) – Samwell Age ( 14 )

Chapter 2: Northward Bound

(Third Person Point of View – The Road North)

Five riders moved north under a sky the colour of dirty slate. The air held the damp chill of late autumn deepening towards winter, carrying the scent of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the familiar, pungent aroma of horse. They travelled the Roseroad, though its famed beauty was muted now, the vibrant greens of the Reach giving way to duller ochres and browns as they pushed further from Horn Hill. The land remained fertile, dotted with farms and holdfasts nestled amongst rolling hills, but the richness felt subdued, preparing for the lean months ahead.

Leading the small procession was Ser Bertram Flowers, a knight sworn to House Tarly. His destrier, a sturdy bay, picked its way surely along the road, its master sitting straight-backed in the saddle, his expression grimly professional beneath his steel cap. Behind him rode three men-at-arms, Bryen, Jory, and Will, their boiled leather and mail hauberks dulled by travel dust, spears held upright or resting across their saddles. They rode competent garrons, chosen for endurance over speed, their eyes scanning the surroundings with ingrained vigilance, though their expressions held a mixture of boredom and resentment.

Trailing slightly behind them all, almost an afterthought yet the very reason for their journey, rode Samwell Tarly.

He looked profoundly out of place. Mounted on a stout, placid mare – the only horse in the Tarly stables deemed capable of bearing his considerable weight for long distances without complaint – Samwell seemed less a rider and more a precarious passenger. His bulk, clad in dark, serviceable woolens chosen for warmth rather than rank, strained the fabric and shifted uncomfortably with every step the horse took. His face was pale, his black hair unruly where it escaped the simple cap pulled low against the chill. He still possessed the soft roundness, the overwhelming physical presence that had earned him his father's unending scorn. By all outward appearances, he was the same Samwell who had shuffled, terrified, out of Horn Hill's gates nearly a fortnight ago.

Yet, something was different. It was in the eyes. Those startlingly green eyes, often swimming with fear or downcast in shame, now held a steady, quiet light. They were fixed not on the rump of the horse before him, nor darting nervously at the guards, but were constantly moving, observing the landscape with an unnerving calmness, an almost scholarly intensity. He rarely spoke, his usual mumbled apologies and fearful questions entirely absent. When his gaze happened to meet one of the guards', there was no flinching, no pleading, just a level, quiet regard before his attention returned to the world unfolding around him. He still looked soft, undeniably fat, and rode with the gracelessness born of lifelong awkwardness, but the crushing weight of terror seemed to have lifted, replaced by a strange, nascent resolve hidden deep behind that quiet, watchful gaze. The change was subtle, internal, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely, but it was there, a fragile seedling pushing through frozen ground.

The journey was slow, dictated by the pace Samwell and his mare could maintain. They covered perhaps twenty leagues a day, rising before dawn, riding until dusk, making camp where they could find shelter and water. Lord Randyll Tarly's instructions had been explicit: deliver Samwell Tarly to Castle Black at the Wall. Ensure he takes the oath. Ensure he does not escape. Ensure no… undue harm befalls him, unless he proves foolish enough to attempt flight. The command hung over the guards, a tedious, unwelcome duty. They were warriors of the Marches, meant for patrols, skirmishes, perhaps even glorious battle, not nursemaiding their disgraced lordling halfway across Westeros to dump him at the arse-end of the world. Their resentment simmered, thick and palpable, directed entirely at the silent, bulky figure trailing behind them.

(Jory's Point of View – Midday)

Seven Hells, this was dull work. Jory shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking beneath him. His arse ached, his legs were stiff, and the scenery wasn't nearly interesting enough to distract him. Hills, fields, the occasional muddy village that smelled of pigs and sour ale. He'd rather be back at Horn Hill, drilling in the yard with Ser Hyle, maybe joining a hunt for boar. Anything but this endless, plodding journey north with him.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Tarly was slumped on that poor excuse for a horse, looking like a sack of turnips someone had dressed in clothes. Gods, he was fat. Moved like a pregnant cow, too. Every time they had to dismount, it was an effort just watching him heave himself out of the saddle. Jory couldn't fathom how Lord Randyll, one of the fiercest commanders in the Seven Kingdoms, had sired such a… a lump.

And the quietness! That was almost worse than the whining Jory had expected. Back at Horn Hill, the lad was always mumbling apologies, asking stupid questions, looking like he was about to piss himself if you looked at him sideways. Now? Nothing. Just sits there, staring. Staring at the trees, the clouds, the bloody dirt on the road. Like he's seeing it all for the first time. Creepy, that's what it was. Those green eyes of his… they looked different somehow. Less scared, more… blank. Or maybe just empty, like the rest of him.

Ser Bertram rode stiffly ahead, never complaining. Bryen and Will looked as bored and annoyed as Jory felt. They'd drawn lots for this duty back at Horn Hill, and Jory cursed his luck for drawing one of the short straws. Guarding the shame of House Tarly all the way to the Wall. What a waste of good steel.

He hoped the lad wouldn't try anything stupid. Lord Randyll's orders were clear. Deliver him. But there was an unspoken undertone. If Tarly tried to run… well, accidents happened. Jory didn't much fancy killing a lord's son, even this one, but orders were orders. Better the boy just kept plodding along, took his vows, and disappeared into the cold forever. Good riddance. Horn Hill would be better off with young Dickon. Everyone knew it. This journey was just sweeping the dirt under the rug, a very large, very slow rug. Jory spat onto the road. Gods, he wished they were there already. Or anywhere else.

(Bryen's Point of View – Afternoon)

Bryen chewed sourleaf, the bitter juice a familiar comfort against the monotony of the ride. He'd served House Tarly for thirty years, man and boy. He'd ridden with Lord Randyll's father, a man harder than the stones of the Red Mountains, and he'd ridden with Lord Randyll himself at Ashford, seen him break Gareth Hightower's charge like it was nothing. He knew what a Tarly lord should be. Strong. Fierce. Uncompromising.

And then there was this one. Bryen cast a contemptuous glance backwards. Samwell Tarly. A blight on the name. He remembered the boy's nameday feast – or lack thereof – just before they left. Fourteen years old and couldn't hold a sword straight if his life depended on it. Which, Bryen suspected, it very nearly had. Lord Randyll wasn't a man for half measures. Giving the boy the 'choice' of the Wall was probably the only thing that saved him from a hunting spear in the back.

It was shameful, having to escort him like this. Like hauling prize pig to market, only this pig was bringing dishonour, not coin. Bryen felt the shame personally. Other travellers they passed on the road… smallfolk, merchants, maybe a septon or two… they'd see the Tarly huntsman badge on their tunics, see the quality of their gear, and then they'd see him. What must they think? That this soft, doughy creature was the heir to Horn Hill? It made Bryen's teeth clench.

Lord Randyll had done the right thing, sending him away. The Wall was the place for broken men, oathbreakers, and… well, disgraces like Samwell Tarly. Let the cold and the Others sort him out. Bryen had half expected the boy to weep and wail the whole journey, or maybe try to bribe them, or make a pathetic attempt at escape. But this silence… it was unnatural. He just rode, and watched. Ate little, said less. Bryen didn't trust it. Was it some kind of trick? Was he planning something?

Bryen kept a close eye on him, especially near woods or towns. Lord Randyll's orders were to get him to the Wall, alive. Bryen intended to follow those orders to the letter. No chances taken. He didn't care what happened to the boy once he spoke the words, but until then, he was Tarly property, however embarrassing. A Tarly problem being sent north. Bryen spat out a stream of sourleaf juice. The sooner this farce was over, the better. Let Dickon step up. Let Horn Hill have a lord worthy of the name again.

(Will's Point of View – Late Afternoon)

Will's focus was practical. The road, the weather, the horses, the supplies. And the charge. He checked the straps on the packhorse again, ensuring the dwindling supplies were secure. Another ten days, maybe twelve, to Maidenpool if the weather held. Then find passage on a ship heading north to Eastwatch. A long, miserable journey.

He didn't waste time feeling shame or resentment like Bryen or Jory. It was a job. An unpleasant one, certainly. The young lordling was an encumbrance. His weight tired the mare faster, meaning they couldn't push as hard. His… habits… meant more frequent stops, though Will had to admit, the boy hadn't complained once about the pace or the discomfort, which was unexpected.

Still, guarding him was a constant low-level tension. Will worried less about escape – where would the boy run? He wouldn't last a day on his own – and more about simple survival. A fall from the horse, a sickness from the road, maybe even trouble in some rough tavern if they were forced to seek shelter. Lord Randyll wanted him delivered, intact. Any failure would reflect badly on Ser Bertram, and by extension, on all of them.

He watched Samwell now, riding silently behind Bryen. The boy was looking towards a distant plume of smoke, likely a village hearth. His expression was… thoughtful? Will wasn't sure. It was hard to read him these days. Not scared, not sad, just… quiet. He'd even offered to help gather firewood last night, awkwardly piling twigs until Ser Bertram told him to sit down before he tripped over his own feet. And he barely touched his rations. Ate maybe half what Will would expect for a boy his size. Strange.

Will scanned the treeline to their right. Bandits weren't unknown on the Roseroad, though less common here than further north or in the Riverlands. Still, best to be cautious. Four armed men and a knight were a deterrent, but complacency killed more travellers than brigands did. Their charge looked like a soft target, even if he was worthless. Someone might think he carried coin, or fancy gear under those plain clothes. Will kept his hand near the hilt of his sword. Just focus on the road, the charge, the destination. Get him to the Wall, collect their pay, and ride back south to proper soldiering. That was all that mattered.

(Ser Bertram Flowers' Point of View – Dusk Approaching)

Duty. That was the word that echoed in Ser Bertram's mind. Duty to Lord Randyll. Duty to House Tarly. Even this distasteful duty. He was a knight, sworn to serve, and serve he would, even if the task was escorting the Lord's unwanted son to the frozen edge of the world.

He wasn't a Tarly by blood – the 'Flowers' surname marked him as a highborn bastard of the Reach – but he had served Horn Hill faithfully for near ten years. He respected Lord Randyll's strength, his discipline, his martial prowess. He understood, perhaps better than the men-at-arms grumbling behind him, the strategic necessity of Lord Randyll's decision. Horn Hill needed Dickon. Samwell was an impediment, a weakness that could not be tolerated in a marcher lord. The choice given – the Wall or the 'hunt' – was brutal, yes, but war and politics were brutal affairs. Lord Randyll had chosen the path that, while harsh, offered Samwell a chance at life, however grim, and preserved a veneer of propriety.

Bertram's orders were precise. Samwell was to be delivered to Castle Black. He was to be guarded against escape at all times. Lord Randyll had looked Bertram square in the eye. "He chose the Watch, Ser. See that he reaches it. He is not to get lost along the way. He is not to suffer any convenient 'accidents'. Unless," and here Lord Randyll's voice had dropped, cold as winter iron, "he makes the idiotic decision to flee. In that event, your duty is to prevent his escape, by any means necessary. A deserter's fate is his own affair."

So Bertram watched Samwell. Not with the open contempt of Bryen or the bored irritation of Jory, but with a careful, assessing eye. He had expected tears, tantrums, pleas, perhaps even sullen defiance. He had been prepared for the boy to be a constant burden, complaining of the saddle sores, the food, the pace.

Instead, there was this… quietness. This unnerving calm. Samwell endured the rigors of the road without a word. He ate little. He spoke only when spoken to, and then answered simply, directly. And those eyes… Bertram found himself occasionally unsettled by the boy's gaze. It wasn't the look of a terrified craven anymore. There was intelligence there, yes, that had always been apparent to Maester Lomys, but now there was something else. A stillness. A watching quality. As if Samwell wasn't merely enduring the journey, but… experiencing it.

Bertram didn't know what to make of it. Had the shock broken something in the boy? Or had the stark choice forced some unexpected change? Perhaps facing the abyss had forged something fragile but real within that soft exterior. He remembered the morning after the ultimatum. Samwell had appeared at breakfast, pale and puffy-eyed, but his voice, though soft, had been steady when he told Lord Randyll, "I will take the black, Father." No tears, no pleading. Just acceptance. It had surprised Bertram then, and the boy's behavior continued to surprise him now.

He wouldn't lower his guard. Samwell Tarly might still be planning something. This quietness could be a mask. But Bertram found himself grudgingly admitting a sliver of something other than pity or professional duty. Curiosity. What was truly going on behind those watchful green eyes? He pushed the thought away. It didn't matter. His duty was clear. Get the boy north. Keep him alive. Prevent escape. See him safely delivered to the Night's Watch. What became of Samwell Tarly after that was between him, the cold, and the gods.

(Samwell Tarly's Point of View – The Journey Unfolds)

The world was so much bigger than it looked on maps.

That was Samwell's overwhelming thought as the days blurred into weeks, carrying him steadily north, away from the only home he had ever known, towards a future he still dreaded but no longer felt paralyzed by. The discomfort was constant – the saddle rubbed his inner thighs raw despite the padding Maester Lomys had insisted he use, his muscles ached with an unfamiliar weariness, the damp chill seeped into his bones, and the food was monotonous campaign fare, hard bread and salt beef, a far cry from the kitchens of Horn Hill.

Yet, Samwell found he barely noticed the physical misery. Or rather, he noticed it, acknowledged it, and then let it slide away, his attention captivated by the sheer, overwhelming reality of Westeros unfolding before his own eyes.

For fourteen years, his world had been Horn Hill – its stone walls, its library, the terrifying practice yard, the stifling weight of his father's disappointment. The wider realm existed only in the pages of his books, in the lines on Maester Lomys's maps, in the tales told by visiting minstrels or merchants. He knew the names – the Roseroad, the Mander, Highgarden, Oldtown, King's Landing. He knew the histories of the houses whose lands they passed through – Florent, Oakheart, Rowan, Caswell. He knew the stories of the battles fought across these fields, the castles besieged, the kings who had ridden these same roads centuries ago.

But knowing was different from seeing.

Seeing the vastness of the sky arching over landscapes that changed subtly each day. Seeing the Mander River, not as a blue line on parchment, but as a wide, brown, powerful current flowing towards the sea. Seeing the distant towers of castles he'd only read about – a glimpse of Old Oak's fortress, the smudge on the horizon that Ser Bertram identified as the ruins of Bitterbridge. Seeing the smallfolk working their fields, their faces weathered, their lives bound to the rhythm of the seasons in a way Samwell had never comprehended from his privileged, albeit miserable, existence. He watched how they mended fences, how they herded sheep with sharp whistles and knowing dogs, how smoke curled from the chimneys of their simple crofts.

He saw the villages, huddled clusters of daub-and-wattle houses, sometimes with a small sept or a sturdy inn. He smelled the woodsmoke, the manure, the baking bread. He heard the clang of a smith's hammer, the laughter of children chasing geese, the lowing of cattle. It was all so… real. So much more textured and complex than the neat histories in his books.

He knew the guards despised him. He felt their hostile stares on his back, heard their muttered comments when they thought he wasn't listening ("Slows us down," "Waste of rations," "Soft as shit"). He saw the impatience in Ser Bertram's face, the contempt in Bryen's sneer, the irritation in Jory's posture, the weary pragmatism in Will's eyes. A month ago, such open disdain would have crippled him, sent him spiraling into shame and fear, likely driving him to nervous, excessive eating.

Now… now it barely registered. It was there, a cold background noise, but it didn't penetrate the bubble of quiet observation he had drawn around himself. His father's ultimatum had been brutal, horrific. The choice between the Wall and death had stripped away everything – his home, his name (soon enough), his future as Lord Tarly. It had laid him bare. And in that desolate space, something unexpected had stirred.

Fly, son *.

The words from the dream echoed sometimes in the quiet moments, nonsensical yet strangely comforting. He didn't understand them. * ? He knew the name from some obscure legends Maester Lomys possessed, a mariner who carried a star. What did it mean for him? Fly? How could he, Samwell Tarly, fat and earthbound, possibly fly? It made no sense. Yet, the voice hadn't sounded like a command to physically take flight. It felt… different. Like an unlocking. Like permission to look up, to look out, instead of perpetually inward at his own fear.

He hadn't suddenly become brave. The thought of the Wall, of the cold and the wildlings, still sent a shiver of apprehension through him. The memory of his father offering him death was a wound that would likely never heal. But the paralyzing, all-consuming terror that had defined his existence seemed to have… receded. It was still there, a shadow lurking at the edges, but it no longer filled his entire vision.

His father had given him two choices, both meant to erase him. The Wall, or the grave. He had chosen the Wall, not out of courage, but out of a desperate clinging to life, however bleak. But the dream voice, the strange calm that followed… it felt like a third path had opened, not one his father offered, but one he might find for himself. Not a path away from the Wall, but perhaps a path through it. A path of watching, learning, understanding.

He had spent his life hiding in books, trying to escape the harsh reality of his father's world. Now, reality was all he had left. And he found, to his own astonishment, that he wanted to see it. To understand it. Not just the grand histories of lords and kings, but the shape of the land, the lives of the people, the way the world actually worked beyond the stone walls of Horn Hill.

So he watched. He watched the changing sky, the way clouds gathered before rain. He watched the birds – hawks circling high above, crows gathering on fences, flocks of small birds rising startled from hedgerows. He watched the guards – how they handled their weapons, how they read the terrain, how they interacted with each other with gruff familiarity. He listened. To the wind, the creak of leather, the rhythm of the horses' hooves, the snippets of conversation from passing travellers.

He was storing it all away, piece by piece, building a new kind of knowledge, one not found in scrolls. He didn't know why. He didn't know what purpose it served. But it felt important. It felt like the only thing he could do. Watch. Learn. Survive. And perhaps, in some way he couldn't yet comprehend, fly.

(Third Person Point of View – Camp North of Tumbleton)

They made camp in a small, sheltered clearing just off the road, a few leagues north of where the burnt-out shell of Tumbleton scarred the landscape – a grim reminder of the Dance of the Dragons that Samwell had only read about. The Blackwater Rush flowed nearby, a wide, dark ribbon of water moving sluggishly eastward, its banks thick with reeds and willows. The air was cold and damp, promising a frost by morning.

The routine was established. Ser Bertram chose the site, mindful of shelter, water, and defensibility. Bryen and Jory unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down, and led them to water before picketing them where they could graze on the sparse autumn grass. Will began unpacking the supplies, checking their dwindling rations of salt beef, hardtack, and dried apples.

Samwell slid awkwardly from his mare's back, his legs stiff and clumsy. He landed with a heavy thud, staggering slightly before finding his balance. The guards ignored him, pointedly going about their tasks. In the first few days of the journey, Samwell would have simply stood there helplessly, waiting to be told what to do, or more likely, told to stay out of the way.

Tonight, as he had for the past week, he moved without prompting. His movements were still cumbersome, his bulk making simple tasks laborious, but there was a quiet determination in his actions. He scanned the clearing and the surrounding brush, then began gathering fallen twigs and small branches, his hands surprisingly methodical. He piled them carefully near the spot Ser Bertram had indicated for the fire pit.

Will glanced up from the saddlebags, a flicker of surprise crossing his gruff features before vanishing. He grunted. "Need bigger pieces than that, lad. Won't last the night."

Samwell looked at the pile, then nodded slowly. He didn't offer excuses or apologies. He simply turned and began searching for thicker, drier branches, dragging them back to the clearing with considerable effort, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

When he had gathered a respectable amount, Ser Bertram nodded curtly. "Alright. See to the fire."

Using flint and steel from the supplies, Samwell knelt by the prepared kindling. His fingers, plump and usually clumsy, fumbled slightly with the tools, but he persisted. He struck the flint against the steel, sending sparks showering onto the tinder – dry grass and shavings Will had prepared. It took several tries, the sparks dying frustratingly fast in the damp air. Jory watched from where he was checking his horse's hoof, a sneer playing on his lips.

"Seven Hells, even starting a fire is too much for him," Jory muttered, just loud enough for Bryen to hear.

Bryen snorted. "Probably expects a servant to do it. Thinks he's still at Horn Hill."

Samwell didn't react. His focus remained entirely on the task. He adjusted the tinder, shielded it slightly with his body against the breeze, and struck again. A spark caught, glowed, and a tiny tendril of smoke curled upwards. Samwell leaned closer, blowing gently, steadily, coaxing the fragile ember into a small flame. He carefully added the smallest twigs, nursing the fire, his brow furrowed in concentration. Slowly, hesitantly, the flames grew, catching the larger kindling, beginning to crackle and throw off a welcome warmth.

He sat back on his heels, looking at the nascent fire with a quiet satisfaction that was entirely internal. He had made fire. It was a small thing, a basic skill most boys learned young, but for Samwell, who had lived a life where such things were always done for him, it felt like a victory.

The guards gathered around the growing blaze, holding out their hands to the warmth. Will portioned out the meager supper – strips of tough salt beef, a chunk of hard bread each. He handed Samwell his share without comment.

Samwell took it, murmured a quiet, "Thank you," and sat slightly apart from the others, near the edge of the firelight. He ate slowly, deliberately, chewing the tough meat thoroughly. He ate only about half of the portion, wrapping the rest carefully back in its cloth. The guards exchanged glances. His reduced appetite was another strange development. He wasn't starving himself, just eating… moderately. Enough to sustain himself, no more. It was profoundly unlike the Samwell Tarly they knew, the boy who nervously devoured everything put before him and often sought more.

Silence settled over the camp, broken only by the crackling fire, the cropping sound of the horses grazing nearby, and the distant rush of the Blackwater. Ser Bertram kept watch, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Bryen sharpened his dagger, his expression sour. Jory stared into the flames, looking bored. Will methodically cleaned his mail links with sand and oil.

Samwell finished his small meal and simply sat, watching the flames dance, his green eyes reflective in the firelight. He wasn't participating in their small world, yet he was undeniably present. His silence wasn't born of fear anymore, but of something else – observation, contemplation, a quiet husbanding of his own resources. He looked out beyond the firelight, into the deepening shadows beneath the trees, listening to the night sounds, his senses alert in a way they had never been within the safe, stifling walls of Horn Hill. He was a world away from the terrified boy who had faced his father's ultimatum. He was still Samwell Tarly, fat and physically inept, heading towards a grim exile. But within that familiar form, something new, something unknown, was taking root.

(Third Person Point of View – Entering the Riverlands)

They broke camp before dawn, the ground stiff with frost, their breath pluming in the frigid air. The Roseroad continued north, but their path diverged, Ser Bertram leading them onto less travelled tracks heading northeast, aiming for Maidenpool and the sea passage north. They left the rolling hills of the Reach behind, the land gradually flattening, becoming wetter, crisscrossed by streams and dotted with marshes. They had entered the Riverlands.

The sky remained overcast, threatening rain or perhaps even the first snows of winter. The air felt heavier here, the landscape starker. Fewer prosperous farms, more marshy ground, the trees sparser, mostly willows and scrub oak clinging to the banks of sluggish waterways. They passed near lands belonging to smaller Riverlands houses – Vance, Piper, and soon, according to Ser Bertram's reckoning, they would be skirting the edges of the territory sworn to House Harlton of Castlewood.

Samwell rode in his accustomed place at the rear, his quiet observation continuing. He noted the different style of the small holdfasts they passed, stonier, grimmer than those in the Reach. He saw fishing weirs in the streams, nets hung out to dry near humble cottages. He watched a flight of ducks take wing from a reedy marsh, their calls echoing in the grey air. He knew from his histories that the Riverlands were often a battleground, caught between the ambitions of the Westerlands, the Reach, the Vale, and the Iron Islands. The land itself seemed to wear that history, feeling less settled, more wary than the bountiful plains of his homeland.

The guards remained vigilant, perhaps even more so now they were in the less predictable Riverlands. Their disdain for Samwell hadn't lessened, but it had settled into a kind of weary acceptance of their task. He was a burden, but a quiet one now. He didn't complain, he didn't delay them unnecessarily, he even tried to help in small ways around the camp. He was still the fat, craven lordling in their eyes, but his strange transformation from weeping terror to silent endurance was undeniable, if inexplicable.

As they rode through a patch of thin woodland bordering a slow-moving stream – likely a tributary of the Blackwater or perhaps one feeding the Trident further north – Samwell's gaze lingered on the far bank. He saw nothing but trees and reeds, yet his green eyes held a focused intensity, as if he were trying to see beyond the surface, to understand the very essence of this new, often harsh, and endlessly fascinating world he had been cast into. The Wall was still far away, a grim certainty on the horizon. But between here and there lay Westeros, vast and real. And for the first time in his life, Samwell Tarly was truly seeing it, his journey north becoming not just an exile, but an education. The quiet resolve held steady, a small, warm flame kindled in the cold, lonely landscape of his future.