The fanfiction is written with the Help of AI, focusing on Samwell Tarly ( Semi SI) journey with some ( Lord of the Rings ) elements.
Id not own or ect ect.
Chapter 1: The Horn at The Hill
The Dornsih Marches, The Reach, 294 AC
The Reach, verdant and vast, stretched like a green mantle across the southwestern sprawl of Westeros. It was the kingdom's breadbasket, its vineyards heavy with grapes promising Arbor Gold, its fields rippling with wheat under a generous sun. Great rivers like the Mander snaked through the land, nourishing the soil and bearing trade barges laden with the bounty of the earth. Presiding over this fertile heartland were the Tyrells of Highgarden, Wardens of the South, their power rooted deep in the rich loam, their influence blossoming like the golden roses upon their banners. Yet, even within this land of plenty, there existed regions cast in a harsher mold.
Where the rolling fields and gentle hills of the central Reach began to roughen and climb, where the forests grew thicker and the shadows lingered longer, lay the marcher lands. These were the domains guarding the southern passes into Dorne, lands steeped in a history written not with plows, but with swords. Here, the earth was stonier, the winds keener, the people hardier, their gazes often turned south towards the Red Mountains, ever watchful. Among the proudest and most fiercely martial of these marcher lords stood House Tarly of Horn Hill.
Their lands were a tapestry of rugged beauty and strategic importance. Steep, wooded hills, often shrouded in morning mist, dominated the landscape, with narrow valleys carved by swift, cold streams tumbling down from the highlands. Ancient forests, thick with oak, ash, and sentinel pines, covered vast tracts, home to deer, boar, and shadowcats. While some fertile pockets existed, enough to sustain the castle and its smallfolk, the true wealth of House Tarly was not measured in grain yields, but in the strength of its men-at-arms and the formidable reputation of its lord. Their domain bordered the lands of House Florent to the north and west – their lady wife's kin – stretching towards the foothills of the Red Mountains to the south, a constant reminder of ancient enmities and the need for vigilance. To the east lay the lands of other marcher houses, allies and rivals forged in centuries of border skirmishes and shared duty.
Horn Hill itself stood as a testament to this legacy. It was no Highgarden, flowering with beauty and ease. It was a fortress, stark and strong, perched atop the highest prominence in the region, its eponymous horn-shaped peak lending the castle its name and its sigil – the striding huntsman, red on green. Built of dark, enduring stone quarried from the hills themselves, its walls were thick, its towers square and unadorned, designed for defense, not decoration. A deep, dry moat, carved from the rock, encircled the inner keep, crossed only by a heavy wooden drawbridge reinforced with iron.
Within the baileys, the atmosphere was perpetually martial. The clang of steel from the armory, the shouts of the Master-at-Arms drilling men in the yard, the whinnying of warhorses in the stables – these were the everyday sounds of Horn Hill. Banners bearing the Tarly huntsman snapped crisply in the wind. Even the Great Hall, though spacious, felt severe. Heavy timber beams crossed the high ceiling, soot-stained from centuries of fires in the massive hearth. Weaponry – ancestral swords, axes, maces, and shields – adorned the stone walls, far outnumbering any tapestries or softer furnishings. The air itself seemed to carry the scent of old stone, damp earth, and oiled leather. It was a castle built for warriors, ruled by a warrior, expecting warriors to bread warriors.
Westeros, in this year 294 AC, existed in a state of uneasy peace, the scars of Robert's Rebellion seemingly healed over, yet lying shallow beneath the surface. King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, sat the Iron Throne, a king renowned more for his appetites – for wine, women, and the hunt – than for statecraft. The realm was largely governed by his Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, Warden of the East. Though the Targaryens were overthrown and mostly slain or exiled, whispers persisted of the surviving children, Viserys and Daenerys, across the Narrow Sea. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been crushed decisively years prior, further cementing Robert's rule and the strength of the lords loyal to him. Yet, beneath the veneer of stability, ancient rivalries simmered, debts went unpaid, and the quiet ambitions of great houses like the Lannisters grew unchecked. The Targaryen loyalists, though defeated, had not entirely forgotten. The North remained distant and self-contained under Lord Eddard Stark. Dorne nursed its grievances in the sun-baked south. And in the Reach, while House Tyrell basked in the King's peace, marcher lords like Randyll Tarly maintained their readiness, for peace was often merely the interval between wars. It was into this world, into this keep, into this family, that Samwell Tarly had been born, a soft stone in a hard place.
(Lord Randyll Tarly's Point of View – His Solar, Horn Hill)
The scent of beeswax from the newly polished surface of his campaign desk mingled with the faint, metallic tang of oiled steel from Heartsbane, resting on its rack by the hearth. Lord Randyll Tarly sat ramrod straight in his high-backed chair, the unforgiving wood pressing against his spine, a posture ingrained since boyhood. Outside the narrow, arched window, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the rugged hills in hues of orange and deepening purple. A typical evening at Horn Hill. Orderly. Disciplined. Strong.
Everything his eldest son was not.
Randyll's jaw tightened, a familiar knot of frustration and cold anger forming in his gut. He ran a hand, calloused and scarred from decades of wielding sword and lance, over the smooth, dark wood of the desk. Maps lay spread across it – detailed charts of the Marches, the passes into Dorne, the broader layout of the Reach. Strategy and strength. The foundations upon which House Tarly was built, the legacy he was sworn to uphold and pass on.
And the instrument of that legacy, his heir Samwell.
He stared unseeing at the map, his mind's eye conjuring the image of his firstborn. Fourteen years old today. Fourteen years of disappointment. Not a gradual realization, no, the truth had been apparent almost from the start. A quiet, timid babe who flinched at loud noises. A toddler who preferred hiding behind his mother's skirts to tumbling with the kennel pups. A boy who wept when first put on a pony, who recoiled from the practice sword as if it were a viper.
Randyll had tried. Gods know, he had tried. He'd set the finest Master-at-Arms on him, Ser Hyle Hunt himself for a time. He'd forced the boy into the yard, day after day. He'd berated, threatened, even struck him, hoping to hammer some semblance of martial spirit into that soft flesh. It was like trying to forge steel from dough. The boy only grew softer, rounder, more terrified. He retreated into scrolls and books, his head filled with histories and songs instead of tactics and steel.
And the size of him. It wasn't the sturdy bulk of a warrior, the muscle and bone of men like himself or his own father. It was… flab. Layers of it, accumulating relentlessly, as if the boy sought to physically cushion himself from the world. He ate constantly, nervously, stuffing himself as if trying to fill some gaping void within, a void Randyll recognized as courage. And his eyes… those startlingly green eyes, so unlike his own brown held no fire, only a perpetual, swimming anxiety. The black hair, thick and unruly, framed a face pale and moon-like, perpetually slicked with nervous sweat. the Maester as nonsense, of something unnatural in the boy's cravenness, his ever-expanding girth, but Randyll saw only weakness, pure and simple, A failure of blood, His failure, somehow.
He clenched his fist. He remembered his own father. A man harder than the stones of Horn Hill, who had shown affection with a gruff nod, approval with silence, and disappointment with a sharp word or a sharper blow. Randyll had learned discipline in a harsh school, and it had made him the man he was – one of the finest commanders in the Seven Kingdoms, respected, feared. He had expected to forge his own son in that same fire. Instead, Samwell seemed determined to quench it.
He thought of Dickon. Five years younger, but already worth ten of Samwell. Dickon was everything Samwell was not. Strong, confident, eager in the practice yard, skilled with bow and blade beyond his years. He sat a horse like he was born to it. He had the Tarly look, the Tarly spirit. He was the heir Horn Hill needed, the son Randyll deserved.
But the law was the law. Samwell was the firstborn. As long as Samwell lived and remained at Horn Hill, he would inherit. He would inherit Heartsbane, the Valyrian steel sword of their house, a blade meant for heroes, not… not for him. The thought was intolerable. Heartsbane in Samwell's trembling, clumsy hands? It was sacrilege. Horn Hill ruled by a craven who would likely faint at the sight of blood? The shame would echo through the Marches. Their enemies in Dorne would laugh. Their allies would lose respect. Everything his ancestors had built, everything he had bled for, would crumble.
He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow it.
He had considered fostering Samwell elsewhere, hoping some other lord might succeed where he had failed. But who would take him? And the shame would follow. No, the problem had to be dealt with here, decisively.
He'd let it go on too long. Fourteen An age where boys were squiring, learning the ways of war and lordship. Samwell spent his days hiding in the library with Maester Lomys, growing fatter and more useless. The time for hoping was past. Action was required.
His gaze fell upon Heartsbane again. The ripples in the dark steel seemed to shimmer in the low light. Duty. Legacy. Strength. These were the watchwords of House Tarly. Samwell embodied none of them.
He had considered the options carefully, coldly, like planning a campaign. The boy loved his books, his quiet life. The Citadel? No. Maesters were sworn to serve, often sent far from their homes, but they retained their family names, their connections. A Tarly maester, known for his softness, would still be a blight on their reputation. The Faith? Perhaps. A septon, cloistered away. But Samwell showed no piety, only fear. And again, the name remained.
There were only two paths that truly severed the connection that removed the obstacle.
The Night's Watch. An honorable exile, of sorts. Men took the black, renounced titles and lands, served the realm on the frozen edge of the world. A hard life, a dangerous one. Most who went north never returned. It required a vow, unbreakable. It would remove Samwell from the line of succession cleanly, irrevocably. It might even make a man of him, though Randyll doubted it. More likely, the cold or the wildlings would claim him. A fittingly harsh end for a soft boy.
Or… an accident. A hunting trip gone wrong. A fall from a horse. A stray boar's tusk. Such things happened, especially in the rugged hills around Horn Hill. Quick, final, regrettable. It would cause grief, Melessa would weep, but the succession would be secured for Dickon. It was… cleaner, in a way. Less public.
He leaned back, the chair groaning softly under his weight. He felt no pleasure in this, only a grim necessity. It was like cutting away a rot before it could spread. He had delayed, hoping against hope the boy might change, might show some spark. But today, Samwell's fourteenth nameday, marked an end to that hope. He was what he was. And what he was, was unacceptable.
He rose, his movements precise, economical. He straightened the maps on his desk, his mind made up. Tonight. He would summon the boy. He would lay out the choices. The Wall, or the woods. Life, of a sort, or death. Let Samwell choose his own fate, within the parameters Randyll set. It was more choice than Randyll felt the boy deserved, but it offered a sliver of… propriety.
He walked to the door, his hand resting for a moment on the cool iron latch. He thought of Melessa. She loved the boy, coddled him. She would fight this, plead, weep. He steeled himself against it. Her Florent softness had no place in this decision. This was about the future of House Tarly. This was about strength. This was about duty.
He pulled the door open, his face an impassive mask. "Ser Hyle," he called to the guard standing sentinel in the corridor. "Find my son, Samwell. Tell him I require his presence in my solar. Now."
The command echoed down the stone hallway, sharp and final. The weight of Horn Hill, it seemed, was too heavy for a boy like Samwell Tarly to bear. It was time to shrug it off.
(Samwell Tarly's Point of View – The Library, Horn Hill)
The only place Samwell Tarly ever felt remotely safe was here, cocooned amongst the scrolls and leather-bound volumes in Horn Hill's library. It wasn't large by the standards of Highgarden or the Citadel, but it was his sanctuary. The air smelled comfortingly of aging parchment, dry ink, and the faint, sweet scent Maester Lomys used to treat the leather bindings. Dust motes danced in the shafts of late afternoon light slanting through the high, narrow windows. Outside, the sounds of the castle – the clang of steel, the rough shouts – were muffled, distant, belonging to a world he desperately wished he could ignore.
He sat hunched over a heavy tome, The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, tracing the intricate family trees with a slightly grubby finger. His own House, Tarly, was there – a long line of stern-faced warriors staring out from the page, their deeds recorded in stark, martial terms. 'Lord Harlon Tarly, slew the Dornish Prince Vorian Sand in single combat.' 'Ser Alester Tarly, held the pass against the Vulture King for three days.' 'Lord Randyll Tarly, victor of the Battle of Ashford.' Samwell always skipped quickly past his father's entry. It was too painful a reminder of the chasm between them.
He adjusted his bulk on the stool, the wood groaning beneath him. He was acutely aware of his own body, always. The way his tunic strained across his chest and belly, the uncomfortable chafing of his thighs when he walked, the dampness that perpetually beaded on his brow and upper lip, even here in the relative cool of the library. He hated it. He hated the way the guards snickered when he stumbled on the stairs, the way the kitchen girls averted their eyes, the way his own brother, Dickon, seemed both pitying and faintly contemptuous.
Most of all, he hated the fear. It was a constant companion, a cold knot in his stomach that tightened at the slightest provocation: a raised voice, a sudden movement, the sound of his father's footsteps approaching. It wasn't normal, he sometimes thought. Other boys, even timid ones, weren't paralyzed by it the way he was. It felt… deeper. Sometimes, late at night, when the castle was silent, he felt a chilling emptiness inside him, a void that no amount of food could fill, a fear that felt older than his own memories. Maester Lomys said it was merely a sensitive disposition, exacerbated by his father's harshness. But Samwell wondered. It felt like something else, something cold and vast, clinging to him, whispering cowardice into his soul, driving the unnatural hunger that padded him with useless flesh.
He sighed, turning a page. His fingers, plump and ink-stained, trembled slightly. Today was his fourteenth nameday. There had been no celebration, no feast. His father despised such softness. His mother, Lady Melessa, had given him a sad smile and a newly bound copy of Annals of the True Kings, her eyes full of a pity that stung almost as much as his father's scorn. Dickon had offered a gruff, awkward "Happy Nameday" before eagerly escaping to the practice yard. Samwell had spent the day here, hiding.
"Finding anything of interest, Samwell?" Maester Lomys looked up from the letter he was writing, his grey eyes kind behind small, round spectacles. The maester was a small, dry man, smelling faintly of herbs and ink, his chain of office clinking softly as he moved. He was the closest thing Samwell had to a friend, or at least, an adult who didn't openly despise him.
"Just… reading, Maester," Samwell mumbled, flushing. He quickly closed the heavy book. He felt ashamed of his interest in lineages, as if it were another sign of his inadequacy. His father would say he should be studying maps of the Dornish Marches, not family trees.
"Knowledge is never wasted, lad," the Maester said gently. "Knowing the histories of Houses can be as valuable as knowing the terrain in times of diplomacy… or war." He dipped his quill back into the inkpot. "Your father…"
Samwell flinched inwardly at the mention of his father. "Yes, Maester?"
"He seems… preoccupied today," Lomys said, choosing his words carefully. "More so than usual."
The knot of fear in Samwell's stomach tightened. His father's preoccupation usually meant trouble, often directed at him. "Did he… did he say anything?"
"No, lad. Just an observation." The Maester gave him a reassuring, if slightly worried, smile. "Perhaps it's merely the state of affairs in the realm. Disquieting rumors drift up from King's Landing, as always."
Samwell tried to focus back on the book, but the Maester's words had planted a seed of anxiety that quickly took root. His father. Preoccupied. On his nameday. It couldn't be good. He imagined all sorts of dreadful possibilities. Being sent away to squire for some fearsome, brutal lord. Being confined to his rooms. Being forced back into the practice yard under the glare of Ser Hyle, who seemed to take personal offense at Samwell's ineptitude.
He pushed the book away, his appetite for history suddenly gone, replaced by a familiar, queasy dread. He felt a sudden urge for food, for the comforting sweetness of a honeycake or the greasy satisfaction of a sausage. Eating always seemed to dull the edges of the fear, just for a little while.
Just as he was contemplating slipping down to the kitchens – a perilous journey that involved navigating stairs he often tripped on and risking the mockery of the stablehands – the heavy library door creaked open.
Samwell jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Standing framed in the doorway was Ser Hyle Hunt, the Master-at-Arms, his expression as stony and uncompromising as ever. Ser Hyle was lean and hard, his face weathered, his eyes missing nothing. He looked Samwell up and down, a flicker of distaste crossing his features before being instantly suppressed into professional neutrality.
"Samwell," Ser Hyle's voice was flat, devoid of warmth or title. He rarely used 'my lord' or even 'Tarly' when addressing him. "Your father requires your presence. In his solar. Now."
The blood drained from Samwell's face. His father's solar. The command center of Horn Hill. The place where judgments were passed, strategies devised, punishments decreed. He hadn't been summoned there alone in years, not since the last disastrous attempt to teach him archery, which had ended with a prized hound yelping and his father's face suffused with purple rage.
"N-now?" Samwell stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His hands felt cold and clammy.
"Lord Tarly is not a man who appreciates being kept waiting," Ser Hyle said, his tone leaving no room for argument or delay. He didn't move from the doorway, effectively blocking any escape, not that Samwell had anywhere to run.
Maester Lomys looked up, concern etched on his face. "Is anything amiss, Ser?"
"Lord Tarly's orders are my only concern, Maester," Ser Hyle replied curtly, his gaze fixed on Samwell. "Come along."
Samwell pushed himself up from the stool, his legs feeling weak and unsteady. The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of terror. He smoothed down his tunic, a useless gesture. He could feel Ser Hyle's impatient gaze on his back, could almost hear the unspoken contempt.
He took a deep breath, which hitched in his throat. He glanced at Maester Lomys, a silent plea in his green eyes. The Maester gave a small, helpless shrug, his expression troubled. There was nothing he could do. No one could stand against Lord Randyll Tarly's will within these walls.
Swallowing hard against the lump of fear in his throat, Samwell shuffled towards the door, towards Ser Hyle, towards the terrifying unknown of his father's solar. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if he were wading through thick mud. The short walk through the familiar corridors of Horn Hill suddenly felt like a final journey down the longest, darkest road imaginable. He didn't know what awaited him, but the cold dread coiling in his stomach told him it was nothing good. This preoccupation, on his fourteenth nameday… it felt like a reckoning.
(Samwell Tarly's Point of View – The Confrontation in the Solar)
The walk to his father's solar was an agony of anticipation. Every footstep echoed too loudly in the stone corridors. Samwell kept his eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding the gaze of the few guardsmen or servants they passed. He could feel their eyes on him anyway, feel their pity or scorn like physical blows. Ser Hyle walked behind him, his steady, measured tread a counterpoint to Samwell's shuffling, breathless gait. The climb up the spiral stairs to the tower where his father kept his private chambers left Samwell winded, his face flushed and damp with sweat, his lungs aching.
They reached the heavy oak door, banded with iron, that led to the solar. Ser Hyle knocked once, sharply.
"Enter." The voice from within was unmistakable. Lord Randyll Tarly. Cold, hard, commanding.
Ser Hyle pushed the door open and gestured for Samwell to precede him. Samwell hesitated for a fraction of a second, a rabbit frozen before a stoat, before shuffling awkwardly into the room. Ser Hyle followed and closed the door behind them with a soft, decisive click that sounded like a cell door locking. He took up a position near the entrance, arms crossed, silent and watchful.
The solar was exactly as Samwell remembered, and exactly as he expected. It smelled of power, leather, and something metallic – perhaps the lingering scent of polished steel. Maps covered the large desk and much of one wall. Weapon racks held swords, axes, and a finely crafted longbow. On a prominent stand near the hearth rested Heartsbane, the ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword of House Tarly. Its smoky, dark blade seemed to drink the light from the room, the ripples in the steel almost seeming to writhe. It was beautiful and terrible, and the thought of it ever being his filled Samwell with a unique blend of awe and paralyzing dread.
His father stood by the window, looking out at the darkening hills. He turned as Samwell entered, and his eyes – hard, brown, unforgiving – swept over his son. Samwell flinched under that gaze, feeling instantly appraised and found wanting. Lord Randyll was not a tall man, but he possessed an undeniable presence, an aura of coiled strength and absolute authority. He wore plain, well-cut woolen tunic and breeches, practical and severe, like the man himself.
"Father," Samwell managed, his voice thick, barely audible. He tried to bow, but his bulk made the movement clumsy.
Lord Tarly did not return the greeting. He gestured towards the center of the room. "Come here."
Samwell shuffled forward, stopping a few paces from the desk, his hands clasped nervously before him, his eyes darting between his father and the terrifying sword. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Samwell could hear his own ragged breathing, the frantic thumping of his heart.
Finally, Randyll spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Today you are fourteen."
"Y-yes, Father," Samwell whispered.
"Fourteen years," Randyll continued, his gaze unwavering. "An age when a young man of noble birth should be proficient with arms, ready to serve his House, prepared to lead men. An age when he should embody the virtues of his ancestors." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "You embody none of these things."
Samwell winced as if struck. He stared at his feet, unable to meet his father's gaze. Shame washed over him, hot and prickling.
"You are soft," Randyll stated, not as an accusation, but as a simple, immutable fact. "You are weak. You are craven. You disgrace the name Tarly."
Each word was a hammer blow. Samwell squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears. Crying would only make it worse, would only confirm his father's assessment.
"I have tried," his father went on, his voice still chillingly calm. "I have given you every opportunity to overcome your… deficiencies. Tutors, masters-at-arms, hunts. You have failed at every turn. You prefer books to blades, food to fighting, hiding to hunting. You are not fit to lead Horn Hill. You are not fit to carry Heartsbane."
He gestured towards the Valyrian steel sword. "That blade is meant for a warrior. It will never be yours."
Samwell risked a glance up. His father's face was set like granite. There was no anger in it now, only a cold, hard resolve that was far more terrifying.
"As long as you remain here, you are my heir," Randyll said. "The law dictates it. But Horn Hill needs a strong lord. Your brother Dickon shows promise. He has the strength you lack. He will be the future of this House."
Samwell's breath hitched. He knew, intellectually, that his father preferred Dickon, that everyone did. But hearing it stated so baldly, so finally… it was like having the ground crumble beneath his feet.
"Therefore," Randyll continued, moving slightly closer, his presence seeming to fill the room, pressing down on Samwell, "you must be removed from the line of succession. Permanently."
Samwell's blood ran cold. Removed? Permanently? What did that mean? His mind raced, imagining exile, disinheritance…
"I offer you a choice," his father said, his eyes locking onto Samwell's frightened green ones. "There are two paths available to you. Only two."
Samwell swallowed, his throat dry. "A… a choice, Father?"
"The first," Randyll said, "is the Night's Watch."
Samwell blinked. The Night's Watch? The men who guarded the Wall, far to the north? He knew of them, of course, from his books. Men who took vows, renounced lands and titles, faced wildlings and worse in the frozen wastes. It was said to be an honorable calling, but it was also a life sentence, a harsh, brutal existence on the edge of the world.
"You will take the black," Randyll elaborated, his voice flat. "You will renounce all claim to Horn Hill, to any lands or titles. You will swear an oath of service for life. You will go north and never return. Perhaps the discipline, the hardship… perhaps it will make something resembling a man out of you. Or perhaps the cold will take you. Either way, you will cease to be my problem."
Samwell stared at him, aghast. The Wall. It sounded like the end of the world. Cold, brutal, dangerous. He imagined himself freezing in the snow, clumsy and useless amongst hardened fighters, thieves, and killers. He wouldn't last a week.
"What… what is the other choice?" Samwell whispered, dreading the answer.
Lord Tarly's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something cold and sharp entered his eyes. He took another step closer, lowering his voice slightly, though it lost none of its menace.
"The other choice," he said softly, "is simpler. Tomorrow morning, we go hunting. Just you and I. Deep into the woods." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Accidents happen on hunts, Samwell. A fall. A charging boar. A misplaced arrow." His gaze was like chips of ice. "No one would question it. A tragic loss. The fat, clumsy heir, meeting an unfortunate end. Melessa would grieve, but the House would endure. Dickon would inherit. Horn Hill would be secure."
Samwell felt the blood drain from his face. He swayed on his feet, his vision swimming. A hunting accident. His father was offering him death. A staged murder, presented as a choice.
He couldn't breathe. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. He looked at his father, truly looked at him, and saw no paternal feeling, no regret, only ruthless pragmatism. This man, his own father, was capable of killing him to ensure a stronger heir. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, shattering the last vestiges of any childish hope he might have harbored for acceptance, for love.
"You... you would kill me?" The words escaped his lips in a horrified whisper.
Randyll Tarly's face remained impassive. "I would do what is necessary for the survival and strength of my House. Your life, weighed against the future of Horn Hill and the Tarly line? The choice is regrettably clear." He held Samwell's gaze for a long moment. "But I offer you the choice. The Wall, or the woods. Renunciation, or oblivion."
Samwell trembled violently, unable to speak. Tears streamed down his face now, unchecked. He felt sick, dizzy. The Wall seemed a terrifying prospect, a sentence to a slow, miserable end. But the alternative… the alternative was immediate, brutal death at his own father's hand.
"You do not need to decide now," Randyll said, stepping back towards his desk, seemingly satisfied with the impact of his words. "Consider your options carefully. Weigh the life of a sworn brother against the finality of the grave. In the morning, before the hunt, you will give me your answer."
He turned away, dismissing Samwell as if he were a servant. "Ser Hyle, escort him back to his chambers. See that he is not disturbed."
"My lord," Ser Hyle acknowledged, his voice still flat. He put a firm hand on Samwell's shoulder. Samwell flinched but was too numb with shock and terror to resist.
He allowed himself to be led out of the solar, stumbling blindly, his mind reeling. The heavy door closed behind him, sealing his father back inside with his maps, his ambition, and the gleaming, terrible sword that Samwell now knew he would die before inheriting, one way or another. The choice wasn't between the Night's Watch and staying home. It was between the Night's Watch and death. His father had left him no other path. The cold dread was no longer just a knot in his stomach; it was a suffocating shroud enveloping his entire being. Morning seemed a lifetime away, and yet terrifyingly close.
(Castle Residents' Point of View – Evening, Horn Hill)
Wat, the Guardsman (On the Battlements):
He spat over the edge, watching the gobbet disappear into the gloom descending upon the hills. Cold wind whipped around the stone, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Another dull watch. Down in the yard, the torches were being lit, casting long, dancing shadows. He shifted his spear, the leather grip familiar in his calloused hand. He'd seen the young lord, Samwell, being escorted back from the Lord's solar by Ser Hyle earlier. The boy looked like he'd seen a ghost. Pale as milk, sweating like a pig, stumbling like a drunkard. Wat snorted softly. Fourteen today, and still softer than summer butter. Nothing like Lord Randyll. Nothing like young Dickon, neither. Now there was a proper Tarly lad. Strong, quick, already handy with a bow. He'd make a fine lord one day. This one, though? He shook his head. Lord Randyll looked harder than usual tonight. Like he'd finally decided something. Wat wouldn't be surprised if young Samwell was packed off somewhere soon. Fostering, maybe? Or the Citadel? Couldn't imagine him lasting long at the Wall, poor sod. Too soft for this place, Horn Hill. Too soft for the world, likely. Best for everyone if Dickon took over, sooner rather than later. Keeps the House strong. Keeps the Marches safe. That's what mattered.
Old Ellyn, the Kitchen Wench (Scrubbing Pots):
The grease was stubborn tonight, clinging to the iron like fear clung to that poor Samwell boy. Ellyn scrubbed harder, her knuckles red and raw. She'd seen him earlier, slinking through the passage near the buttery, likely hoping for a stray tart. He always had that hungry, haunted look in his eyes. Those odd green eyes, not like his father's or mother's. And fat? Gods, the boy ate enough for three, but it never seemed to make him happy, just… bigger. She felt a bit sorry for him, she did. Lord Randyll was a hard man, harder on his firstborn than anyone. Expected him to be a warrior, like himself. But you can't make a hawk out of a dove, no matter how much you shout at it. She'd heard the whispers. Heard Cook talking to the Steward. Something was afoot. Lord Randyll had summoned the boy proper-like. Looked grim, the Lord did. Ellyn hoped it wasn't anything too terrible. Lady Melessa doted on the boy, even if he was… well, himself. But young Dickon, now he was the spit of his father. He'd be Lord one day, everyone knew it. Strong lad. Confident. Knows his way around a horse and sword. That's what Horn Hill needs. Not a boy hiding in books and stuffing his face. Still… she hoped the poor lad would be alright. Maybe they'd send him to Oldtown, become a Maester. That'd suit him better than trying to fill Lord Randyll's boots.
Maester Lomys (In his Study):
Lomys sighed, carefully blotting the ink on the letter he was writing to the Citadel. His thoughts kept drifting back to Samwell. The boy had looked utterly terrified when Ser Hyle had come for him. And the look on his face when he'd returned… Lomys hadn't seen him, but the rumors filtering through the castle staff were enough. Distraught. Shattered. Lord Randyll had clearly delivered some sort of ultimatum. Lomys feared he knew what it might entail. Randyll Tarly was a man of ruthless pragmatism, utterly devoted to the strength and reputation of his House. Samwell, bless his gentle heart and sharp mind, was anathema to everything Randyll valued in an heir. The boy's cowardice… it was profound, almost unnatural. And his constant, nervous eating, the way the weight clung to him… Lomys had theories, of course, rooted in anxieties and the boy's relationship with his father, but sometimes he wondered if there wasn't something more, some deeper imbalance the Citadel's teachings couldn't quite explain. He felt a deep pang of pity, and frustration. Samwell had a good mind, a thirst for knowledge. He could have been a credit to the Citadel. But Randyll would likely never countenance that. The Night's Watch? A death sentence for a boy like Samwell. He shuddered to think of the alternative Randyll might consider 'necessary'. He wished he could intervene, speak to the Lord, but Randyll Tarly did not heed counsel that contradicted his will, especially not from a maester regarding his own son and heir. Lomys could only watch, and worry, and hope the boy found some path, however harsh, that allowed him to survive. The future of Horn Hill seemed set on young Dickon, a capable lad, certainly. But Lomys couldn't shake the feeling that discarding Samwell so brutally was a mistake, a cruelty that might echo in ways Lord Randyll didn't foresee.
Septon Edwyn (In the Castle Sept):
The seven candles flickered, casting wavering light on the faces of the gods. Septon Edwyn knelt, murmuring prayers for guidance, for strength, for the House he served. He prayed for Lord Randyll, for his stern sense of duty. He prayed for Lady Melessa, for her gentle heart. He prayed for young Dickon, for his growing strength and future lordship. And he prayed, perhaps longest of all, for Samwell. The boy rarely attended services, seemed frightened even of the gods' representations. A troubled soul. Burdened by fear, burdened by flesh. Septon Edwyn believed the Father judged sternly, but the Mother offered mercy. He hoped Samwell could find some path to solace. There was talk in the castle, hushed but persistent. The Lord's patience had run out. A decision had been made, or forced. The Septon had seen Lord Randyll earlier, his face like a thundercloud. He feared the Lord's justice might be overly harsh. The Night's Watch was an honorable service, yes, a place for second sons or those seeking redemption. But for Samwell? It seemed a cruel fate. Yet, the alternative… Septon Edwyn pushed the darker thoughts away. He must trust in the gods' wisdom, and in the Lord's judgment, however severe it seemed. Horn Hill required strength at its head. Everyone knew Dickon was the future. May the gods guide Samwell, wherever his path may lead him from here. May the Mother cradle him, for the Father's gaze is hard, much like Lord Randyll's own.
(Lady Melessa Tarly's Point of View – Lord Randyll's Solar, Later that Night)
Melessa Tarly, née Florent, stood before her husband in the same solar where, hours earlier, her son's fate had been laid out like battle plans on a map. The room felt cold, colder than the night air outside, permeated by the unyielding will of the man who dominated it. Heartsbane rested in its rack, seeming to watch her with its dark, ancient menace. Randyll sat behind his desk, cleaning a dagger with meticulous, unhurried strokes, the scrape of whetstone on steel grating on her nerves.
She had waited until the castle settled, until Dickon was asleep, until the servants were abed. She had gathered every scrap of courage she possessed – a commodity she had in greater measure than her eldest son, perhaps, but one that felt pitifully inadequate when facing her husband's implacable resolve. Her heart ached with a fierce, protective love for Samwell, mingled with the bitter helplessness she always felt when confronting Randyll on matters concerning their firstborn.
"Randyll," she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep it steady. She wore a simple night robe, her auburn hair, usually neatly pinned, falling loose around her shoulders. She felt vulnerable, exposed.
He didn't look up immediately. "Melessa. You should be abed."
"How can I sleep?" she asked, stepping closer to the desk. "The things I have heard… What have you done? What have you told him?"
Randyll finally set the dagger and whetstone down. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, carved from stone. "I have told Samwell the truth. That he is unfit to inherit Horn Hill. That arrangements must be made for the succession."
"Arrangements?" Melessa's voice rose, laced with disbelief and horror. "Randyll, he is your son! Our firstborn! He turned fourteen today!"
"And on his fourteenth nameday, he is fatter, more cowardly, and more useless than he was on his thirteenth," Randyll retorted, his voice dangerously low. "Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I wished for an heir like… like him?" The word hung in the air, heavy with disgust.
"He has a gentle heart!" Melessa pleaded, tears welling in her blue eyes. Florent eyes, soft where Tarly eyes were hard. "He has a quick mind! He loves his books, his histories…"
"Books!" Randyll slammed his hand flat on the desk, making her jump. "Histories! Will books hold the passes against the Dornish? Will gentle hearts command men in battle? Will a quick mind stop a charging boar when the 'lord' faints at the sight of a skinned rabbit? He cannot even sit a horse properly! He weeps if a man raises his voice! He is a shame to me, Melessa. A shame to this House."
"He is sensitive," she argued, desperation clawing at her. "You are too hard on him! You always have been! Perhaps if you had shown him some kindness, some patience…"
"Kindness?" Randyll scoffed, a harsh, barking sound. "I showed him kindness by trying to beat the softness out of him. I showed him patience for fourteen years, waiting for a spark that never came. The world is not kind, Melessa. This corner of it, especially. The Marches require strength. Horn Hill requires a lord who can lead, who can fight, who commands respect. Samwell commands only pity and ridicule."
"And Dickon?" she whispered, dread pooling in her stomach. "You would set aside your firstborn for Dickon?"
"Dickon is a Tarly," Randyll stated simply. "He is strong, brave, capable. He will make Horn Hill proud. He will wield Heartsbane with honor. Samwell would disgrace it."
"So you offer him the Wall?" Melessa clutched her hands together, her knuckles white. "You would send him to that frozen hell? To die among thieves and wildlings?"
"It is an honorable service," Randyll said stiffly. "He takes the black, renounces his claim. The matter is settled cleanly."
Melessa searched his face, her blood running cold as she remembered the other whispers, the fear she'd seen lurking deep in Samwell's eyes when he'd stumbled back to his room earlier, refusing to speak, only weeping. "And… and if he refuses the Watch, Randyll? What then? What other… 'arrangement' have you offered my son?"
Randyll Tarly held her gaze, his own eyes like chips of flint. He did not answer directly, but the coldness in them, the utter lack of hesitation, told her everything she needed to know. The unspoken threat hung heavy between them: the hunt.
A sob escaped her lips. "No," she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Randyll, you cannot… you would not… He is your blood."
"My duty is to my House," he said, his voice flat, final. "To its future. To its strength. Sentiment has no place in this. I am doing what must be done. What my father would have done. What any Tarly worth the name would do."
"Your father was a cruel man!" Melessa cried out, forgetting her fear for a moment in a surge of maternal fury. "Is that all you learned from him? Cruelty? Ruthlessness?"
Randyll stood up, towering over her. His face darkened. "My father taught me duty. He taught me strength. He taught me that weakness is a disease that must be purged. Samwell is a weakness this House cannot afford. I have given him a choice. More than he deserves."
"A choice between exile and death!" she choked out, tears streaming down her face. "That is no choice at all! It is monstrous!"
"It is necessary," Randyll repeated, unmoved. "Now, go back to your chambers, Melessa. Weep for the son you coddled into uselessness if you must. But do not interfere. My decision is final."
He turned his back on her, returning his attention to the dagger, dismissing her as completely as he had dismissed their son. Melessa stood there for a long moment, trembling, helpless. She looked at the back of her husband's head, at the rigid set of his shoulders, at the impassive strength that felt like a wall of ice. There was no reaching him. No appeal to love, or mercy, or paternal feeling could breach his fortress of duty and pragmatism.
She thought of Samwell, alone in his room, facing an impossible choice, terrified and abandoned. Her heart broke for him. She had tried to protect him, to shield him from his father's harshness, but she had failed. Her Florent softness was no match for Tarly iron.
Defeated, heartbroken, she turned and stumbled out of the solar, leaving her husband alone with his conscience, if he possessed such a thing, and the gleaming, waiting sword. The cold of the room seemed to follow her out into the corridor, settling deep into her bones. All she could do now was pray. Pray that Samwell chose the Wall, pray that somehow, impossibly, he might survive it. Because she knew, with chilling certainty, that if he chose to stay, Randyll Tarly would keep his promise in the morning woods.
(Samwell Tarly's Point of View – His Bedchamber, Night)
Samwell lay huddled in his bed, the thick furs pulled up to his chin, though they offered little warmth against the icy dread that gripped him. His room felt both suffocatingly small and terrifyingly vast. The familiar shapes of his bookshelf, piled high with scrolls and books, the wooden chest containing his clothes, the tapestry depicting a hunt (a cruel irony he'd never truly noticed before) – they all seemed alien, distorted by the horror of his father's ultimatum.
His mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying the scene in the solar over and over. His father's cold eyes. The flat, emotionless voice. The glint of Heartsbane. The stark, brutal choices: The Wall, or the woods. Exile or death.
He trembled uncontrollably, a deep, bone-jarring shiver that had nothing to do with the night chill. Tears tracked silently down his plump cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath his head. He had always known his father despised him, was ashamed of him. But he had never, ever, imagined this. That his father would actively plot his death, offer it to him as an alternative to exile. It was a monstrosity beyond comprehension.
The Night's Watch. He tried to picture it. The Wall, a colossal cliff of ice at the end of the world. Bitter cold, biting winds. Hard-faced men in black cloaks, criminals and broken men, forced into service. Training with swords, axes. Fighting wildlings, monstrous savages from beyond the Wall. Maybe worse things, things whispered about in the oldest books, shadows and ice spiders and the Others. He shuddered violently. He wouldn't survive the journey north, let alone the life that awaited him there. He'd freeze, or starve, or be killed in practice, or slain by the first wildling raider he encountered. He couldn't fight, he couldn't endure hardship. He was fat, clumsy, cowardly Samwell Tarly. They would eat him alive at the Wall. It was a slow, terrifying death sentence.
Or the woods. Tomorrow morning. A hunting trip. His father's eyes, cold and resolute. Accidents happen. A quick, sudden end. Would it hurt? Would he see the arrow coming? Would his father look regretful, even for a moment? No. He'd seen his father's face. There would be no regret, only grim satisfaction. Duty done. Obstacle removed. Horn Hill secured for Dickon. The thought made him physically sick. Bile rose in his throat, hot and acidic. He gagged, curling into a tighter ball. Death at his own father's hand.
Which was worse? A slow, freezing, terrifying demise amongst strangers in the desolate North? Or a swift, brutal end delivered by the man who should have protected him?
He squeezed his eyes shut. Neither. He wanted neither. He wanted to stay here, in his room, with his books. He wanted his mother's sad, kind smile. He wanted Maester Lomys's patient explanations. He even, desperately, wanted his father's approval, a thing he now knew was utterly, irrevocably impossible to attain.
Could he run? Flee Horn Hill tonight? Sneak out, take a horse… but where would he go? He had no money, no skills. He couldn't ride well, couldn't fight, couldn't hunt. He'd be robbed or starve within a week. And his father would hunt him down. Lord Randyll Tarly was renowned for his tracking skills, his relentless pursuit of enemies. He would find Samwell, drag him back, and then… then the 'hunting accident' would be guaranteed. There was no escape.
He thought of his mother. Had she pleaded for him? Did she know the full horror of the choice his father had given him? He imagined her weeping, helpless against Randyll's iron will. He felt a pang of guilt for causing her pain, but it was drowned out by his own overwhelming terror.
He thought of Dickon. His strong, capable younger brother. Did Dickon know? Would he care? Probably not. Dickon lived in his father's world, the world of steel and horses. Samwell was just an embarrassing footnote in his brother's future lordship.
He was trapped. Utterly, hopelessly trapped. His choices were unbearable, his future nonexistent. The weight on his chest wasn't just his own flesh; it felt like the crushing weight of Horn Hill itself, squeezing the life out of him. The fear was a physical presence now, cold and heavy, stealing his breath, making his limbs feel leaden. That strange, unnatural dread he sometimes felt seemed to swell within him, whispering despair, telling him he was doomed, worthless, better off dead.
Exhaustion warred with terror. His mind felt frayed, stretched thin. He didn't know how long he lay there, trembling and weeping in the dark, caught between the frozen hell of the Wall and the bloody promise of the woods. Sleep seemed impossible, yet eventually, mercifully, the sheer weight of his despair and fatigue began to pull him under. His thoughts grew disjointed, blurring at the edges. Images swirled behind his closed eyelids – ice, darkness, falling arrows, his father's stony face.
He drifted into a troubled, restless state, not quite sleep, not quite waking. The fear remained, a constant hum beneath the surface, but his conscious mind began to slip its moorings, drifting into the formless landscape of dreams. It was dark, a vast, star-flecked emptiness. He felt untethered, floating, yet paradoxically heavy, weighed down by his own formless dread.
Then, through the oppressive silence, cutting through the fog of his fear like a beam of pure light, came a voice. It was not his father's harsh command, nor his mother's gentle pleading, nor the dry tones of Maester Lomys, It was something else entirely. Clear, resonant, ancient, imbued with a strange, ethereal power that seemed to echo from the stars themselves. It spoke only three words, words that made no sense in the context of his world, his fears, his impending doom, yet they resonated deep within his soul, stirring something long dormant, something other than fear.
"Fly, Son of *."
The words hung in the darkness of his mind, luminous and baffling, as Samwell Tarly finally succumbed to the depths of an uneasy sleep, the morning's dreadful choice momentarily held at bay by a dream of impossible flight and a name he did not know.