Late 294 AC
Samwell Tarly: Age 14. Traveling north towards the Wall under guard.
Jon Snow: Age 14. Living as the acknowledged bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark at Winterfell. Likely training in the yard, feeling the sting of his status, close to Robb Stark.
Daenerys Targaryen: Age 11.
Westeros: The realm is outwardly at peace under King Robert I Baratheon. The wounds of Robert's Rebellion (ended 283 AC) and the Greyjoy Rebellion (quelled 289 AC) have scarred over but not fully healed. Lord Jon Arryn serves capably as Hand of the King, managing the realm's affairs and Robert's growing debts. Tensions simmer beneath the surface: Lannister influence grows at court, Dorne nurses old grievances, and the exiled Targaryens remain a distant, fading threat in the minds of most. The long summer is fading, and whispers of a coming autumn, perhaps a long one, are beginning. The Night's Watch remains undermanned and largely forgotten by the southern lords, facing dwindling resources and increasing boldness from wildlings beyond the Wall.
Chapter 3: Stones and Shadows
(Third Person Point of View – Approaching Stony Sept)
The landscape had fully shed the gentle contours of the Reach, embracing the flatter, wetter character of the Riverlands. Willows drooped over sluggish streams, the ground squelched underfoot when they ventured off the path, and the air held a persistent dampness that clung to wool and leather. They had been riding for nearly three weeks, the monotony broken only by the changing scenery, the necessity of foraging or finding shelter, and the silent, internal struggles of the travellers.
Ahead, through the grey mist clinging to the low ground near the river Trident's southern fork, the town of Stony Sept began to resolve itself. It wasn't a grand city like Oldtown or King's Landing, nor even a major trading hub like Maidenpool, but it was the largest settlement they had encountered since leaving the Reach proper. Stone buildings, grey and weathered, clustered around the shell of the great sept that gave the town its name – a colossal ruin from the days of the Faith Militant uprising, its broken arches stark against the overcast sky. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, merging with the mist, carrying the scents of woodsmoke, damp earth, baking bread, river fish, and the less pleasant tang of a tannery somewhere nearby.
The sounds grew as they approached: the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the rumble of cartwheels on muddy tracks, shouts of merchants hawking wares, the barking of dogs, the lowing of penned cattle, the general hum of human activity. For men used to the disciplined quiet of Horn Hill or the relative emptiness of the road, it was almost overwhelming.
Ser Bertram Flowers raised a hand, signalling a halt just outside the main cluster of buildings. "Alright," he announced, his voice carrying easily over the ambient noise. "We make for the market square first. Will, you have the list. We need grain for the horses, fresh bread, salt, perhaps some dried fruit if the price is fair. Enough for another sennight, maybe more. Jory, Bryen, stay alert. Towns like this breed cutpurses and trouble as easily as they breed flies."
Jory spat. "More like fleas. Place probably crawls with 'em. And smells like a privy."
"Just keep your eyes open and your hands near your swords," Bertram commanded curtly. "Samwell," he added, turning slightly in his saddle to look back at the quiet figure on the mare. "Stay close. Do not wander."
Samwell, who had been observing the town's outskirts with his usual quiet intensity, simply nodded. His green eyes scanned the muddy track leading into Stony Sept, the smallfolk trudging along with baskets or bundles, the occasional armed guard bearing the badge of some local lordling – likely a Bracken or a Blackwood, whose lands bordered this region. He showed no fear of the bustling town, only that same deep, disconcerting curiosity.
"Let's move," Ser Bertram said, nudging his horse forward. The small party entered the flow of traffic moving towards the town center, melding into the muddy, noisy life of Stony Sept.
(Third Person Point of View – The Market Square)
The market square was a churn of humanity. Situated in the shadow of the ruined sept, it was a wide, muddy expanse packed with stalls, carts, vendors, buyers, guards, beggars, children, and animals. Booths covered with canvas or rough-spun awnings offered everything from local pottery and woven baskets to smoked fish hanging in rows, wheels of cheese, sacks of grain, barrels of questionable ale, and secondhand tools. The air was thick with competing smells – fragrant baking bread warring with rank fish, herbs and spices mingling with unwashed bodies and animal dung. The noise was a constant cacophony: vendors yelling prices, buyers haggling loudly, chickens squawking, a smith hammering rhythmically nearby, dogs barking, and the pervasive murmur of countless conversations.
Will dismounted and moved purposefully towards a grain merchant's stall, his face set in a no-nonsense expression as he prepared to haggle. Jory and Bryen remained mounted, their hands resting on their sword hilts, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd, projecting an air of professional menace that discouraged any would-be thieves from approaching their horses too closely. Their Tarly huntsman badges, though marking them as outsiders, also spoke of service to a notoriously martial house, earning them a measure of wary respect.
"Bloody chaos," Jory muttered, wrinkling his nose as a wagon loaded with turnips rumbled past, splashing mud near his horse's hooves. "Can't we just find an inn and be done with this?"
"Need supplies first," Bryen grunted, his gaze tracking a pair of rough-looking men eyeing their saddles. "And keep alert. Place looks ripe for trouble."
Ser Bertram dismounted, handing his reins to Bryen. He oversaw Will's negotiations, ensuring they got fair measure and weren't cheated too badly on the price. While grain was essential, coin was finite, and Lord Randyll had not been overly generous with the purse for this journey.
Samwell had also dismounted, standing beside his patient mare. He wasn't looking at the grain sacks or the haggling. His attention was wholly absorbed by the scene around him. He watched a woman deftly weaving rushes into a basket, her fingers moving with practiced speed. He observed a group of town guardsmen, identifiable by the stag sigil of House Buckwell (lords of the Antlers, whose lands weren't far off, likely visiting or serving some local functionary), laughing heartily at some shared joke. He saw a septon with a begging bowl moving through the crowd, his expression serene amidst the chaos. He noted the architecture of the surviving buildings around the square – sturdy stone, built to last, some showing signs of repair from past conflicts. The Riverlands felt older, more scarred, than the Reach.
His eyes kept returning to the ruined sept. It dominated the square, a skeleton of past grandeur and Faith. He tried to recall its history from his books. Built centuries ago, destroyed during the uprising against Maegor the Cruel, never fully rebuilt. It stood as a monument to violence and faith clashing, a physical scar on the landscape reflecting the turbulent history of the region.
Then his gaze fell upon a stall tucked away near the edge of the square, tended by an old man with ink-stained fingers. It sold not fish or grain, but parchment, quills, ink pots, and even a few bound books – mostly ledgers and cheap devotional texts, but books nonetheless. And there, amongst the supplies, were several simple journals, bound in plain leather, pages empty and waiting.
An idea sparked in Samwell's mind, sudden and compelling. He had been observing, absorbing, trying to understand the world unfolding before him. But memory was fallible, details faded. What if he could record it? Not just the facts, but the sights, the sounds, the feel of the places he passed through? He had always found solace and clarity in the written word. Perhaps writing about his journey, sketching the things he saw, could help him process it, understand it better. It could be… useful. A way to impose order on the chaos, both external and internal.
He hesitated for only a moment, glancing at Ser Bertram who was still preoccupied with the grain purchase. Taking a breath – something that felt less like bracing for refusal and more like gathering resolve – Samwell approached the knight.
"Ser Bertram?" he asked, his voice quiet but clear, cutting surprisingly through the market din.
Bertram turned, impatience momentarily flickering in his eyes before settling back into professional neutrality. "What is it, Samwell?"
"Permission to purchase something, Ser?" Samwell gestured towards the stationer's stall. "With your leave, and perhaps a few coppers from the travel purse?"
Bertram followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. He looked at the stall, then back at Samwell's earnest, waiting face. He likely expected a request for sweets or some trinket.
"What is it you wish to buy?" Bertram asked, his tone wary.
"A journal, Ser," Samwell said. "And perhaps some charcoal. To… to make notes. Of the journey."
Bertram stared at him for a long moment. Bryen and Jory, overhearing, exchanged incredulous looks. Notes? What in the Seven Hells did the fat boy need to take notes for?
"Notes?" Bertram echoed, sounding nonplussed.
"Yes, Ser," Samwell affirmed, meeting the knight's gaze steadily. "To record what I see. Places. People. It might… help pass the time. And perhaps be of some use later." The last part was added almost as an afterthought, though Samwell wasn't sure what use it could possibly be.
Bertram considered it. The request was unusual, certainly. Not the sort of thing a typical boy Samwell's age would ask for, especially not one heading for the Wall. But it wasn't harmful. It didn't involve weapons or escape tools. And perhaps… perhaps it would keep the boy occupied, keep his mind off his predicament or any foolish ideas. It cost little.
"Very well," Bertram said finally, unclasping the purse at his belt. He extracted a few copper stars and pennies. "Don't take all day. And don't get cheated."
"Thank you, Ser," Samwell said, a flicker of genuine gratitude warming his voice. He took the coins and headed towards the old stationer's stall, his step surprisingly light despite his bulk.
Bryen watched him go, shaking his head. "Books weren't enough, now he needs to write his own," he muttered contemptuously. "Waste of good coin."
Samwell ignored them. He approached the old man, who looked up from trimming a quill, his eyes magnified by thick lenses.
"Help you, young master?" the old man rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering.
"I'd like to purchase a journal," Samwell said, pointing to a sturdy, plain leather-bound book. "This one. And perhaps a few sticks of charcoal? And a small pot of ink, if it's not too dear."
The old man squinted at him, then at the coins Samwell held out. He named a price – fair, Samwell judged, based on what Maester Lomys used to pay for supplies brought from Oldtown. Samwell counted out the coppers. The old man wrapped the charcoal sticks carefully in a scrap of cloth and stoppered the small clay inkpot securely before handing them over with the journal.
"Good, sturdy book," the old man said. "Good vellum. Should last you."
"Thank you," Samwell said, clutching his purchases. It felt solid, real, in his hands. A tool. A purpose, however small.
He rejoined the guards near the horses just as Will returned, sacks of grain and other provisions secured. Ser Bertram gave Samwell a brief, questioning glance, saw the journal, and simply nodded, turning his attention back to organizing their departure from the square.
While the guards adjusted the loads on the packhorse and their own mounts, Samwell found a relatively dry stone block near the ruined sept's wall, away from the main flow of traffic. He opened the journal. The pages were blank, clean, smelling faintly of processing chemicals and possibility. He took out a stick of charcoal.
He looked around the square again, truly seeing it now with the intention of capturing it. The chaos resolved into distinct shapes, lines, shadows. The towering, broken arches of the sept. The angle of a merchant's awning. The shape of a barrel. The posture of a beggar huddled against a wall.
His fingers, usually clumsy, felt surprisingly steady as he began to sketch. He wasn't a master artist – Maester Lomys had taught him some basic illumination techniques for copying texts, but little free drawing. Yet, he found a focus, a concentration in the act of observing and translating that observation onto the page. He started with the outline of the ruined sept, its jagged silhouette against the grey sky. He added the bustling shapes of the stalls below, the indistinct forms of the crowd. It was rough, inexpert, but it was his view, his record.
A few passersby glanced at the large boy sitting alone, drawing in a book, but most were too caught up in their own business to pay much mind. Jory nudged Bryen, jerking his chin towards Samwell.
"Look at him," Jory sneered softly. "Think he's drawing pictures of cakes?"
Bryen just grunted, though a flicker of grudging curiosity crossed his face before settling back into disdain. It was just another strangeness about the boy. First the silence, then the small appetite, now… drawing. Made no sense.
"Alright, mount up!" Ser Bertram called out, his voice cutting through Samwell's concentration. "We find an inn, get a hot meal, and rest the horses. We push on at first light."
Samwell carefully closed the journal, placing the charcoal stick within its pages as a temporary bookmark. He tucked the book securely inside his tunic, the solid weight of it strangely comforting against his chest. He heaved himself back onto his long-suffering mare, rejoining the small procession as they navigated their way out of the noisy market square, leaving the ruined sept and the vibrant chaos behind them, heading towards the promise of a roof and a warm fire for the night.
(Third Person Point of View – The Septon's Stone Inn)
They found lodging at an inn called The Septon's Stone, a sprawling, low-beamed establishment near the riverbank, its whitewashed walls stained grey by damp and smoke, its sign depicting a crudely painted grey stone crashing onto a fleeing septon – a reference, perhaps, to the ruined sept nearby, or some local legend Samwell didn't know. It looked sturdy enough, and the smell of roasting meat wafting from within promised something better than salt beef.
Ser Bertram handled the arrangements with the innkeeper, a stout, balding man with wary eyes named Osmynd. Bertram secured two rooms – a larger one for himself and the three men-at-arms, and a smaller, cheaper room under the eaves for Samwell. He paid extra for stabling and a good measure of oats for the horses, flashing enough silver to ensure decent service but not so much as to attract unwanted attention.
The common room was large, smoky, and noisy, though less chaotic than the market. Rough-looking locals nursed mugs of ale at plank tables, a few travelling merchants talked business in a corner, and a pair of sellswords eyed the newcomers with professional detachment. The air hung thick with the smells of stale ale, woodsmoke, sweat, and roasting onions.
They took a table near the hearth, the warmth welcome after the damp chill outside. Will saw to ordering food – a pot of thick onion stew, trenchers of dark bread, and small beer for the guards. Samwell accepted his portion quietly, sitting at the end of the bench, slightly withdrawn from the guards' rough conversation, which mostly consisted of complaints about the road, speculation about the quality of the ale, and crude jokes.
Samwell ate his stew slowly, finding it surprisingly flavourful after weeks of campaign rations. He drank water instead of the small beer offered. He pulled out his journal and charcoal again, propping it open on the table beside his bowl. He wasn't sketching now, but writing. His charcoal moved carefully across the page, forming the angular letters Maester Lomys had taught him. He described the market square, the ruined sept, the feeling of the bustling town after the quiet road, the taste of the stew. He wrote methodically, concentrating fiercely, trying to capture the details accurately.
Jory noticed, nudging Bryen again. "Still at it. What's he writing? Poetry?" He chuckled humorlessly.
"Leave him be," Ser Bertram said, his voice low but firm. He didn't look at Samwell, but his tone discouraged further comment. Bertram still found the boy's behaviour odd, unsettling even, but the journaling seemed harmless, keeping Samwell occupied and out of trouble. Better this than fearful whining or attempts to gorge himself into oblivion.
Samwell remained oblivious, lost in his words. Documenting the journey felt… grounding. It gave shape to the passage of time, to the miles covered. It was proof that he was moving forward, surviving, seeing.
After the meal, Ser Bertram laid out the watches. Two men would remain awake at all times, one guarding the rooms, the other checking the stables periodically. He gave Samwell a stern look. "Your room is at the end of the hall upstairs. Stay in it. Do not leave it for any reason before we call for you at dawn. Understood?"
"Yes, Ser," Samwell murmured, carefully closing his journal.
He followed the innkeeper's boy up the creaking wooden stairs to a small attic room. It was tiny, barely large enough for the narrow cot, a rickety stool, and a small, grime-covered window overlooking the stable yard. It smelled faintly of dust and mildew. But it had a door that latched, and it was blessedly quiet after the noise of the common room.
Samwell sat on the edge of the cot, the straw-filled mattress rustling beneath his weight. He looked out the window for a moment, watching the stablehands moving about in the lantern light below. Then he took out his journal again. He added a few more notes about the inn, the common room, the feeling of being under a roof again. He tried to sketch the view from the window, but the light was too poor.
Finally, weary from the day's travel and the sensory overload of the town, he carefully placed the journal and charcoal under the thin pillow, blew out the stub of candle provided, and lay down on the cot. The straw rustled again, and the thin blanket offered scant warmth against the encroaching night chill seeping through the walls. He closed his eyes, expecting the usual troubled sleep, perhaps nightmares of his father's face or the frozen desolation of the Wall.
Instead, something else came.
(Samwell Tarly's Point of View – The Vision)
Sleep claimed him quickly, pulling him down not into restful darkness, but into a maelstrom of sound and fury. It wasn't a gentle dream; it was an assault.
He stood on air, yet felt rooted, an invisible observer overlooking a world consumed by cataclysmic war. The scale was impossible, dwarfing any battle described in Westerosi histories. Mountains groaned and split asunder, spewing fire and rock like festering wounds. Rivers ran not with water, but with blood and black sludge, choked with the corpses of creatures both monstrous and fair.
The sky itself was a battlefield. Great Eagles, larger than any castle tower Samwell could imagine, wheeled and dove like living thunderbolts, their talons ripping through dark shapes that swarmed like locusts – winged beasts of nightmare ridden by figures clad in black armour. Lightning, raw and elemental, tore through the smoke-choked air, summoned not by storms but by beings of terrible power standing upon the ravaged peaks. He saw figures radiating light, clad in armour that shone like the sun and moon, wielding weapons that sang with devastating energy. They stood against legions of darkness – twisted, orc-like things in uncountable numbers, giants wreathed in shadow, and towering abominations of flame and darkness that wielded whips of fire and swords of blackest night. Balrogs, a name whispered from a half-remembered fragment of an ancient text.
Below, the land itself buckled under the onslaught. Armies clashed like tides upon a broken shore, waves of steel and flesh crashing against each other in a frenzy of slaughter. He saw Elves, tall and terrible in their beauty and wrath, their bright banners torn but defiant amidst the carnage. He saw Men, bearded and grim, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them, wielding axes and swords against foes that seemed born of nightmare. The screams of the dying, the roar of beasts, the clash of steel, the shattering of rock, the crackle of unnatural fire – it merged into a deafening symphony of destruction.
A star fell from the sky – no, not fell, but descended. A ship, winged and brilliant, sailed through the burning heavens, and upon its prow stood a figure holding aloft a jewel that blazed with the pure, untainted light of creation. The light scourged the darkness, causing shadow-things to recoil and shriek, bolstering the weary ranks of the shining host. Eärendil, the name resonated not as sound, but as pure recognition within the dream's fabric. The Mariner. Bearing the Silmaril.
The vision shifted, focusing on the ground. A vast dark fortress, spiked with towers of obsidian, vomited forth legions of twisted creatures. Dragons, vast beyond belief, black and red and gold, descended from the smoky skies, breathing fire that melted stone and turned armies to ash. Yet even they were met – by the Eagles, by heroes wielding shining blades, and by the sheer, desperate courage of those who stood against the overwhelming tide of shadow.
It was terror and grandeur intertwined. Annihilation and desperate hope. A war not for kingdoms, but for the very soul of the world. It resonated with a depth, an antiquity, that made the squabbles of Westerosi lords seem like children's games.
Samwell felt dwarfed, insignificant, yet utterly transfixed. He felt the impact of every blow, the heat of every fire, the despair and the fury of the combatants. It poured into him, overwhelming his senses, threatening to shatter his mind with its sheer, terrible sublimity.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it fractured. The images splintered, the sound receded, leaving only echoes of thunder and screams. He gasped, his eyes snapping open, finding himself staring up at the rough wooden beams of the attic room ceiling in The Septon's Stone.
He was trembling violently, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt bruised. Cold sweat slicked his skin despite the chill in the room. The furs felt suffocating. He sat bolt upright, swinging his legs over the side of the cot, gasping for air.
The vision… it hadn't felt like a normal dream. It felt… real. Ancient. Terrifyingly vivid. Fly, son Eärendil. The words from his previous dream echoed, now linked to the blazing figure on the sky-ship. What did it mean? Why was he seeing this? Was he going mad? Was this some fever of the mind brought on by the journey, the fear, the change?
He pressed his trembling hands to his face, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to push away the searing images of fire and shadow. It took several long moments before his breathing steadied, before the phantom sounds of battle faded, leaving only the mundane creaks and groans of the old inn around him. The vision left him shaken to his core, filled with a sense of awe and dread unlike anything he had ever known.
(Third Person Point of View – Conflict in the Inn)
Just as the last vestiges of the dream-terror began to fade, replaced by a bewildered exhaustion, new sounds intruded. Raised voices from downstairs. Not the usual drunken revelry of the common room, but something sharper, angrier.
"…owe me that silver, you cheating Huyett!" a rough voice slurred, thick with ale and menace.
"I owe you nothing, you dung-eating sellsword!" another voice retorted, shriller, laced with fear but trying to project bravado. "Your dice were loaded, everyone saw it!"
"Liar! Pay up, or I'll take it out of your hide!"
There was the sound of a table scraping violently across the floorboards, followed by a crash, perhaps an overturned stool or mug. Then shouts, panicked appeals from the innkeeper Osmynd ("Now lads, please! No trouble here! Guards!"), and the heavier tread of booted feet – likely Bryen and Jory, whose watch it was, responding from the hallway outside their room.
Samwell sat frozen on his cot for a moment. His first instinct, ingrained over fourteen years, was to curl up, make himself small, hide. Trouble was brewing, and trouble inevitably meant pain or humiliation for him.
But the strange calm, the residue of his father's ultimatum and the quiet resolve he'd nurtured on the road, held sway. Added to it now was the unsettling residue of the vision – a sense of vast, ancient conflicts that somehow made this drunken squabble seem both petty and acutely dangerous in its potential for sudden, stupid violence. He thought of the guards – Bryen and Jory. Their solution to trouble was usually blunt force. A cracked skull, a quick ejection into the muddy street. It might work, but it could also escalate things, spill unnecessary blood.
He found himself standing up, his mind working with surprising clarity despite the lingering shock of the dream. Use wits, not force. The thought came unbidden. He remembered passages from Maester Lomys's books – histories detailing negotiations, mediations, ways lords settled disputes without immediately resorting to swords. Perhaps… perhaps there was another way.
Driven by an impulse he didn't fully understand, Samwell unlatched his door and stepped out into the dim, drafty upper hallway. He could hear the commotion clearly now from the stairwell leading down to the common room. He heard Bryen's growl, "That's enough! Put the knife away, scum, before I take it off you the hard way."
Samwell moved towards the stairs, his soft-soled travel boots making little sound on the wood. He peered down.
The scene below was tense. The common room was mostly empty now, save for the innkeeper Osmynd wringing his hands, the two angry men facing off, and Bryen and Jory standing near the bottom of the stairs, hands on their swords, radiating menace. One combatant was a burly man with a scarred face and greasy leather armour – the sellsword, presumably – clutching a wicked-looking dagger. The other was smaller, dressed in the slightly finer, albeit stained, clothes of a travelling merchant, his face pale with fear and anger, holding the leg of a broken stool like a makeshift club.
"He cheated me!" the sellsword roared, waving the dagger towards the merchant. "Took nigh on thirty silver stags with loaded dice!"
"I did not!" the merchant, Huyett, squeaked. "You lost fair and square, then accused me when your luck ran dry!"
"Enough!" Bryen stepped forward, his hand gripping his sword hilt tightly. "Drop the blade, sellsword. And you," he nodded at the merchant, "put down the chair leg. Now. Or you both deal with us."
The sellsword hesitated, glancing nervously at the two armed Tarly guards. He clearly didn't want to fight them, but pride and anger warred within him. Huyett looked equally unwilling to back down first, fearing the sellsword would attack if he lowered his 'weapon'.
It was at this moment that Samwell descended the stairs.
His appearance caused a momentary pause. All eyes turned to the large, pale boy coming down the steps, looking utterly out of place in the tense standoff. Jory stared, dumbfounded. Bryen frowned, annoyed at the interruption.
"Get back to your room, lad," Bryen ordered gruffly. "This doesn't concern you."
Samwell stopped on the third step from the bottom, putting him slightly above eye level with the men in the common room. His bulk, usually a source of shame, now gave him an unexpected presence on the narrow stairs. He didn't look directly at the guards, but addressed the two angry men, his voice surprisingly calm and carrying in the sudden hush.
"Forgive my intrusion, good sers," he began, the formal language sounding odd coming from him, yet delivered without stammering. "But perhaps bloodshed can be avoided here?"
The sellsword squinted up at him. "And who in the seven hells are you? The innkeeper's fat apprentice?"
Samwell ignored the jibe. His green eyes met the sellsword's gaze steadily. "Thirty silver stags is the sum in question?"
"Aye! He cheated me out of it!" the sellsword insisted, though his grip on the dagger seemed slightly less aggressive.
Samwell turned his calm gaze to the merchant. "And you, Master Huyett, you maintain the game was fair?"
Huyett puffed himself up slightly, emboldened by the presence of the guards and this strange interruption. "It was! He's just a sore loser!"
"Hmm," Samwell steepled his plump fingers, unconsciously mimicking a gesture he'd seen Maester Lomys use when contemplating a problem. "A dispute over dice in a common room. Not uncommon." He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat. "Master Sellsword, if you press your claim with steel, you might get your silver, or you might get a blade in the gut. Or," he glanced towards Bryen and Jory, "you might find yourself explaining your actions to the town watch, likely from inside a cage, after my guards here are done with you. Does that seem a profitable venture?"
The sellsword scowled, but didn't answer. The logic, however unwelcome, was clear.
Samwell then turned back to the merchant. "And you, Master Huyett. Even if you are entirely in the right, this trouble is bad for your reputation, is it not? Accusations of cheating, even false ones, tend to stick. And having blades drawn over your games might make honest folk wary of playing with you in the future. Is the principle worth the potential loss of custom, or," he added quietly, "the risk that someone less restrained might seek satisfaction later, outside these walls?"
Huyett paled slightly, nervously licking his lips. He hadn't considered the longer-term implications.
"It seems," Samwell continued, his voice reasonable, measured, "that neither of you stands to gain much from escalating this. But perhaps a compromise could be reached?"
"Compromise?" the sellsword scoffed. "He owes me thirty stags!"
"Perhaps," Samwell suggested thoughtfully, "Master Huyett did not cheat, but perhaps the dice themselves are… unbalanced? Old dice, worn dice, sometimes favour certain throws. Not cheating, precisely, but not entirely fair either. Or perhaps," he added, looking directly at the sellsword, "your luck was simply poor tonight, as happens to all gamblers eventually. A losing streak can feel like being cheated, even when fortune is merely fickle."
He paused again, letting them consider. "What if Master Huyett were to return… say, half the disputed sum? Fifteen stags? Not as an admission of guilt, but as a gesture of goodwill, to settle the matter amicably, acknowledging that perhaps the game was flawed, or luck was unusually cruel? Master Sellsword, you recoup some losses without risking the watch. Master Huyett, you avoid further trouble and retain the rest of your winnings. Both of you can walk away with your skins intact and the matter concluded."
There was a long silence. The sellsword looked at the merchant. The merchant looked at the sellsword. Bryen and Jory exchanged bewildered glances. Even Osmynd the innkeeper looked intrigued.
The sellsword slowly lowered his dagger, though he didn't sheathe it yet. "Fifteen stags…" he grumbled, clearly weighing the certainty of fifteen against the risk of getting nothing, or worse.
Huyett hesitated, clearly reluctant to part with any coin, but the fear of the sellsword's knife and the potential damage to his dealings warred with his greed. He looked up at Samwell, then at the stern faces of the guards.
"Alright," Huyett said finally, grudgingly. "Fifteen stags. Just to be rid of this trouble. But I still say I won fair!" He reached into his pouch and counted out the silver coins with ill grace, slapping them onto the table.
The sellsword eyed the coins, then Samwell, then the guards. With a final snort, he scooped up the silver and tucked it away. He sheathed his dagger. "Fine. Done." He glared at Huyett. "Don't let me catch you with loaded dice again." He turned and stomped towards the door, disappearing into the night.
Huyett watched him go, then quickly gathered the broken stool leg and retreated towards the back rooms, muttering under his breath.
The common room was suddenly quiet again, save for the crackling hearth. Osmynd the innkeeper let out a huge sigh of relief, beaming up at Samwell. "Gods bless you, young master! Quick thinking, that! Quick thinking! A round of ale on the house for your trouble?"
"No, thank you, Goodman Osmynd," Samwell said quietly. "I believe I will return to my room." He turned to go back up the stairs.
"Hold on, lad," Bryen said, his voice rough but lacking its usual contempt. He looked Samwell up and down, a strange expression on his face – confusion mixed with a grudging sort of respect. "Where'd you learn to talk like that?"
Samwell paused, looking back at the guards. Jory looked equally baffled. "I… I read," Samwell said simply, as if that explained everything. He turned again and continued up the stairs, leaving the guards staring after him.
"Read…" Jory repeated slowly. "Bloody books." He shook his head, still not quite understanding what had just happened. The fat, timid lordling had just diffused a situation that was seconds away from drawn steel, using nothing but words. It made no sense. Yet, it had worked. Bryen just grunted, thoughtfully rubbing his jaw. Strange lad. Very strange indeed.
(Guards' Point of View – Leaving Stony Sept)
Dawn broke grey and drizzly, washing the grime of Stony Sept into muddy rivulets that ran down the cobbled streets. The Septon's Stone was stirring, the smell of porridge and weak ale filling the common room. Ser Bertram paid their reckoning, adding a small extra coin for Osmynd, who was still effusively grateful for the peaceful resolution the night before.
The guards saddled the horses in the damp yard, their movements efficient, practiced. Their conversation, however, kept circling back to the previous night's incident.
"Still can't figure it," Jory said, tightening the girth on his garron. "Him, talking down that sellsword. Like a mummer playing a lord."
"He didn't talk him down," Bryen corrected, checking the packhorse's load. "He reasoned with him. Found a way out for both of 'em. Smart, you have to admit. Even if it's… unnatural." Bryen still felt uneasy about Samwell. The boy wasn't behaving like the coward he was supposed to be. This quietness, the observation, the weird dream-talk Ser Bertram had mentioned Samwell muttering about (though Bertram hadn't elaborated), and now this… negotiation. It didn't fit.
Will, ever pragmatic, chimed in, "Saved us the trouble of cracking skulls, didn't it? Less mess. Faster departure." He nodded towards Samwell, who was waiting patiently by his mare, journal already tucked away. "Lad's been no trouble on the road, you have to give him that. Eats less than Jory, complains less than Bryen."
Jory scowled at the jibe about his appetite. Bryen just grunted noncommittally.
Ser Bertram emerged from the inn, pulling on his gloves. "Mount up. We lost time yesterday. Need to make good pace today. Northwards."
They swung into their saddles, the familiar creak of leather a mundane sound after the night's strangeness. Samwell heaved himself onto his mare with his usual lack of grace, but settled quickly, his eyes already scanning the street, the rooftops, the alleyways, as they prepared to ride out.
As they navigated the awakening town, heading for the northern track that would eventually lead them towards the Kingsroad, Samwell nudged his mare closer to Ser Bertram.
"Ser?"
Bertram glanced back, noting the slight furrow in Samwell's brow. "What is it now?"
"I think," Samwell said, his voice low, hesitant yet firm, "we might be followed."
Bertram raised an eyebrow. "Followed? By whom?"
"I don't know," Samwell admitted. "It's just… a feeling. Since yesterday, in the market perhaps. I keep thinking I see the same face in the crowd, or a shadow moving where it shouldn't. It feels… watchful." His green eyes scanned the sparse traffic around them – farmers heading to market, a few travellers setting out.
Jory overheard and snorted derisively. "Followed? Lad's seeing ghosts now. Probably just jumpy after that spat last night."
Bryen nodded in agreement. "Nobody's following us. Who'd bother? We're just four guards and…" he trailed off, not finishing the insult but letting it hang there. "It's your imagination, boy. Nerves."
Ser Bertram surveyed their surroundings carefully. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual morning bustle of a Riverlands town. Samwell had shown surprising calm last night, but perhaps the tension had frayed his nerves after all. Or perhaps reading too many fanciful stories had filled his head with intrigue.
"I see nothing, Samwell," Bertram said, his tone dismissing the concern. "Keep your eyes on the road ahead. We have many leagues to cover." He turned forward again, urging his horse into a steady trot.
Samwell fell back into his usual position at the rear. He accepted the dismissal silently, but the uneasy feeling remained. He scanned the buildings they passed, the faces they encountered, the woods bordering the track as they left Stony Sept behind. He couldn't shake the sensation. Someone was watching them. His guards didn't believe him, attributed it to his known cowardice and imagination. But Samwell, who had spent a lifetime observing from the sidelines, who had learned to notice small details others missed, felt a prickle of certainty. The dream-vision felt like a warning of vast, ancient dangers; this felt like something closer, more immediate, a shadow clinging to their path northward. He kept watching, his quiet resolve now tinged with a new, wary alertness. The road ahead was long, and it seemed it might hold more perils than just the cold and the Wall.