Late 294 AC

Samwell Tarly: Age 14. Traveling north, currently by the Gods Eye.

Chapter 4: By the Still Lake

(Third Person Point of View – Camp by the Gods Eye)

The Gods Eye. Even the name held a disquieting stillness. It wasn't just a lake; it was an inland sea, vast and grey beneath an equally grey sky, its waters stretching further than the eye could comfortably reach. Mist clung to the surface in the distance, obscuring the far shores and lending an ethereal, almost spectral quality to the landscape. Somewhere out in that shrouded vastness lay the Isle of Faces, ancient and mysterious, where the First Men were said to have made their pact with the Children of the Forest, its weirwoods guarded by the enigmatic Green Men. No boats plied these waters near their camp, and the silence was profound, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the muddy shore, the crackle of their campfire, and the occasional mournful cry of a water bird.

Looming on the horizon, though still many leagues distant across the water, was the monstrous silhouette of Harrenhal. Even softened by distance and haze, its five twisted towers clawed at the sky like the fingers of some colossal, dying beast. A place of legend, cursed and vast, melted and broken by Balerion the Black Dread, it served as a grim reminder of the power and ruin that shaped this land. Camping within sight of it, even across such a wide expanse of water, felt vaguely unsettling.

They had made camp in a small clearing nestled amongst a stand of skeletal willows and hardy scrub, a few dozen yards back from the lake shore where the ground was marginally less boggy. The air was damp and cold, carrying the raw scent of water, mud, and decaying vegetation. Winter was no longer merely approaching; its chill breath was palpable.

Ser Bertram Flowers had chosen the site with his usual care – defensible from the landward side with the lake guarding their rear, water easily accessible, enough deadwood nearby for a decent fire. Yet, an unease seemed to settle over the small party, heavier than the usual weariness of the road. Perhaps it was the brooding presence of the lake, the shadow of Harrenhal, or Samwell's persistent, though dismissed, claim of being watched since Stony Sept.

Bryen and Jory muttered darkly as they tended the horses, casting wary glances towards the dark woods behind them. Will went about his duties with his typical quiet efficiency, but his eyes scanned their surroundings more frequently than usual. Ser Bertram stood near the fire, ostensibly warming his hands, but his gaze swept the darkening shoreline and the edge of the woods, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. The easy complaining and rough banter of previous nights were absent, replaced by a watchful silence.

Only Samwell Tarly seemed absorbed, almost peaceful, yet his activity held its own intensity. He sat on a smooth, water-worn log near the fire, his bulky form hunched over the leather-bound journal he now guarded jealously. The firelight flickered across his pale, round face, illuminating the focused concentration in his green eyes. He wasn't eating much, pushing away the offered portion of reheated stew after only a few bites, his attention fixed entirely on the pages before him.

(Samwell Point of View)

The charcoal felt good in his fingers. Grounding. The blank page was a space he could control, unlike the vast, unpredictable world around him or the terrifying uncertainty of his future. He carefully finished his entry for the day, detailing their journey since leaving Stony Sept, the passage through the increasingly sparse lands bordering the Trident's forks, the first distant glimpse of the Gods Eye. He described the sheer scale of the lake, the grey, mist-shrouded water that seemed to swallow the light, the oppressive silence, the distant, jagged teeth of Harrenhal biting the horizon. He noted the guards' unease, his own lingering feeling of being watched – a feeling that hadn't faded, despite Ser Bertram's dismissal. He wrote it all down, trying to be precise, objective, like Maester Lomys cataloging herbs.

"The air by the lake is heavy," he wrote, the charcoal whispering across the vellum. "Colder than seems natural for early autumn. Mist gathers thick towards the center, hiding the Isle of Faces. Bryen claims the place is haunted by the spirits of all who died at Harrenhal, their ghosts drawn to the weirwoods on the Isle. Jory told him he was a fool, but Jory looks spooked too. Ser Bertram is watchful. Will checks the horses' tethers constantly. Even the horses seem restless tonight. My own unease persists. I cannot shake the feeling of eyes upon us since Stony Sept. Perhaps it is merely the effect of this desolate place."

He paused, rereading the words. It seemed inadequate to capture the atmosphere, the cold dread seeping from the landscape. He sighed softly, then turned the page.

Here, the orderly script gave way to something else. Sketches. Rough, dark, charged with a frantic energy that belied his usual deliberate movements. They were fragments, chaotic glimpses of the vision that had seized him in the inn at Stony Sept.

He wasn't trying to render them beautifully; he didn't have the skill. He was trying to exorcise them, to pin them down on the page before they faded entirely, though they felt seared onto his mind. A winged beast, vast and shadow-wreathed, locked in combat with a great eagle against a burning sky. A tall figure in shining armour, wielding a sword that seemed to bleed light, standing against a horde of grotesque, black-blooded creatures with cruel, hooked blades. A mountain exploding, spewing fire. A single, brilliant star falling – no, sailing – through smoke-filled heavens, radiating a light that hurt the eyes even in memory.

He drew furiously, his charcoal stick snapping under the pressure. He grabbed another. His breath came short, his heart thudding with a faint echo of the dream-terror. He didn't understand these images. Why was he seeing it? Why did it feel so real?

Maester Lomys had spoken once, cautiously, about certain old tales, dismissed by the Citadel as superstition. Tales of folk who could see things – past, future, distant events – through dreams. Green dreams Could it be? Could he, Samwell Tarly, the fat coward of Horn Hill, possess such a thing? It seemed ludicrous. Impossible. Yet… the visions felt too powerful, too vivid, to be mere nightmares. And the compulsion to draw them, to record them, felt undeniable.

He sketched a towering figure wreathed in flame and shadow, wielding a whip of fire. A Balrog. The name surfaced again from the depths of his reading. A demon of the ancient world. The charcoal smudged under his hand as he tried to capture the sheer terror and power radiating from the imagined form. He shivered, despite the warmth of the nearby fire.

"Still scribbling, lad?" Will's voice, quiet and practical, broke his concentration.

Samwell looked up, startled, blinking to adjust his eyes from the dark sketches to the firelit reality of the camp. Will stood nearby, holding out a waterskin. "Best drink some water. Don't want you getting addled from staring at that book all night." There was no malice in Will's tone, perhaps even a hint of rough concern. Since Stony Sept, Will seemed less contemptuous, more… observant.

"Th-thank you, Will," Samwell stammered, taking the offered skin. He drank deeply, the cool water soothing his dry throat. He carefully closed the journal, the disturbing images hidden once more between the plain leather covers. He tucked it back inside his tunic, the familiar weight a strange comfort.

The camp settled into its uneasy nighttime routine. Ser Bertram took the first watch, pacing the perimeter, a dark silhouette against the firelight. Bryen and Jory rolled themselves in their blankets near the fire, ostensibly sleeping, though Bryen kept shifting restlessly. Will took up a position slightly further back, near the tethered horses, his hand resting on his sword. Samwell huddled on his log, pulling his own thin blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to ignore the chill that seemed to seep up from the ground itself. He didn't think he could sleep, not after those drawings, not with the oppressive feel of the Gods Eye surrounding them. He stared into the fire, watching the flames writhe and dance, trying not to think about exploding mountains or fiery whips or the feeling of being watched from the darkness beyond the firelight.

(Third Person Point of View – At Night)

The attack came with the sudden, brutal efficiency of predators striking from darkness. There was no warning shout, no challenge, just the vicious thwack of arrows hitting flesh and leather, and the horrifying, choked gurgle from the edge of the firelight.

Ser Bertram, despite his vigilance, hadn't seen them until it was too late. An arrow punched through the leather backplate of his armour, staggering him with the impact, though the mail beneath likely stopped it from penetrating deeply. Another arrow slammed into the log beside Samwell, showering him with splinters. A third found Jory as he scrambled upright, cursing – it took him square in the throat. He collapsed backwards with a dreadful, wet sound, clutching futilely at the shaft protruding from his neck, his eyes wide with shocked agony before glazing over.

"Bandits! To arms!" Bertram roared, drawing his sword, stumbling back towards the fire, trying to locate the source of the attack.

Chaos erupted. Figures boiled out of the darkness beyond the firelight – eight of them, rough-looking men clad in mismatched leather and furs, wielding crude axes, rusty swords, and heavy clubs. They moved with a low cunning, using the confusing shadows cast by the fire, howling wordlessly as they charged.

Bryen, older but a veteran, reacted faster than Jory. He rolled away from the fire, drawing his own blade, managing to parry the wild swing of an axe wielded by a large, bearded bandit. Steel rang harshly in the night air.

Will, positioned near the horses, faced two attackers rushing him simultaneously. He drew his sword, giving ground, trying to keep both in front of him, his face grim. The horses screamed and reared, panicked by the sudden violence, straining at their tethers.

Samwell scrambled backwards off the log, landing heavily on the damp ground. Terror, stark and absolute, seized him, rooting him to the spot. His mind went blank, filled only with the nightmare images of swinging blades, snarling faces illuminated by the fire, and the horrifying gurgle Jory had made. He was useless, a rabbit frozen in the path of wolves.

Bryen fought fiercely, desperation lending strength to his aging arms. He managed to slash his axe-wielding opponent across the arm, drawing a howl of pain, but another bandit circled behind him, swinging a heavy cudgel. Bryen tried to turn, too slow, and the club connected sickeningly with the side of his head. He crumpled without a sound, falling face-first into the dirt, his sword clattering beside him. Two down.

Will was holding his own, just barely. He was quick, pragmatic, using the panicked horses as a moving shield, ducking under a wild sword swing, delivering a quick thrust that made one of his attackers stumble back, clutching his side. But the second bandit pressed him hard, forcing him back towards the lake shore.

Ser Bertram found himself facing the big, bearded bandit Bryen had wounded, and another wiry man with a notched falchion. Bertram was a knight, better trained, better armed, but he was outnumbered, and the arrow wound in his back sent jolts of pain with every movement. He parried a blow from the falchion, sparks flying, then sidestepped a clumsy overhead chop from the bearded man's axe. He needed space, advantage. His eyes darted around the chaotic scene – Jory dead, Bryen down, Will being forced back, the fat boy frozen like a statue near the fire…

An idea, ugly and desperate, sparked in Bertram's mind. The bearded bandit lunged again, axe swinging. Bertram stumbled backwards deliberately, putting himself closer to Samwell. The wiry bandit with the falchion moved to flank him.

"Get behind me, boy!" Bertram shouted, not in command, but in frantic calculation.

Before Samwell could react, frozen as he was, Bertram grabbed the front of his tunic with his left hand. With surprising strength born of adrenaline and terror, Bertram yanked Samwell forward, shoving his considerable bulk directly into the path of the wiry bandit's thrusting falchion.

Samwell gasped, a choked cry of disbelief and sudden, searing agony. He felt a horrific impact, a white-hot lance of pain driving into his right side, just below the ribs. He looked down in numb shock to see several inches of dark, notched steel protruding from his tunic, blood instantly blossoming around it, dark and slick in the firelight.

The wiry bandit grunted in surprise, his blade stuck momentarily. That moment was all Bertram needed. Ignoring Samwell's collapsing form, the knight lunged past him, driving his own sword through the unprepared bandit's chest. The man crumpled. Simultaneously, Bertram kicked backwards savagely, catching the wounded bearded bandit in the knee, sending him howling to the ground.

"Will! Now!" Bertram screamed, not even glancing back at Samwell who had fallen heavily, clutching at the agonizing wound in his side, the world starting to swim in a haze of pain and shock.

Will, seeing his chance as his own wounded attacker hesitated and the second looked towards the commotion by the fire, didn't need telling twice. He disengaged with a quick shove, turned, and sprinted towards Bertram.

The remaining bandits – the wounded bearded man trying to rise, the one Will had wounded, and three others who had momentarily paused after felling Bryen – realizing their prey was escaping, surged forward with angry shouts.

But Bertram and Will were already moving, plunging into the darkness away from the firelight, crashing through the undergrowth, their pounding footsteps receding rapidly into the night. They didn't look back. They abandoned the dead, the dying, and the captive without a second thought. Survival was all that mattered.

Silence fell over the camp, broken only by the crackling fire, the moans of the wounded bandit Bertram had kicked, the terrified whimpering of the horses, and the shallow, gasping breaths of Samwell Tarly, lying bleeding by the fire, the notched falchion still embedded in his side.

(Bandit Point of View – The Aftermath)

"Seven bloody hells, Morrec, two of 'em got away!" a lanky bandit with a missing ear spat, kicking Bryen's corpse viciously.

Morrec, the big, bearded man, hauled himself up, clutching his bleeding arm and grimacing at his injured knee. "Shut yer hole, Renn," he growled. "Check the others. Quick now, before they bring back friends."

The remaining bandits moved quickly through the camp. Two were dead – the one Bertram had stabbed and another who had caught a lucky thrust from Bryen before falling. Renn kicked the wiry bandit who had stabbed Samwell. "This one's gone too. Gutted proper by that fancy knight."

That left five of them, plus the two wounded – Morrec himself and the one Will had stabbed in the side, who was groaning and holding his gut.

"Right," Morrec limped towards the fire, surveying the scene. Two dead guards, well-armed. Another guard bleeding out from a throat wound. And… the fat one. He lay curled on his side, clutching the falchion hilt still sticking out from under his ribs, his face pale as milk, his breathing shallow and ragged.

"What about him?" asked a younger bandit, nervously eyeing Samwell's bulk and the richness of his tunic, even though it was plain wool. "He looks… soft."

Morrec knelt beside Samwell, ignoring the spreading pool of blood. He roughly checked the boy's clothes. No sigil, but the fabric was good quality, better than anything they wore. Soft hands, no calluses. And fat. Only lords or rich merchants got fat like that.

"He's highborn, alright," Morrec grunted. "Or merchant stock. Worth somethin'." He looked at the wound. It was deep, nasty looking. The boy was shivering, his eyes fluttering. "Blade's still in 'im. Might be stoppin' the worst of the bleedin', or might be churnin' his guts."

"Do we finish him?" Renn asked, wiping Bryen's blood off his axe onto his breeches. "He's slowing us down."

"No!" Morrec snapped. "He's worth coin, idiot! If we can keep him alive." He looked at the boy again. He seemed tough, in his own way, still conscious despite the wound. "Ransom. We take him back to the warren. Maddy knows herbs, might keep 'im from dyin' before we find out who his kin are."

He turned to the others. "Right. Strip the guards – boots, blades, coin, anything useful. Kev," he nodded to the youngest bandit, "get that blade out of 'im, careful like. Then bind the wound tight. Use strips from the fancy one's cloak." He indicated Jory's corpse. "Renn, you and Polliver check the packs, see what supplies they had. Food's low."

Kev approached Samwell hesitantly. Samwell flinched weakly as the young bandit reached for the falchion hilt. "Easy now, lordling," Kev muttered, trying to sound tougher than he felt. He gripped the hilt, braced himself, and pulled.

Samwell screamed, a raw, agonized sound that echoed across the still lake, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he mercifully lost consciousness. Blood welled up afresh from the wound.

"Bleedin' Hells, Kev, I said careful!" Morrec cursed. "Bind it! Tight! Now!"

As the bandits hastily looted the camp and tended their own wounded, Morrec looked down at the unconscious, bleeding boy. A highborn captive. Could be their ticket out of this miserable, scrabbling life, if they could keep him alive long enough to find out who would pay for his return. It was a gamble. But what else did they have? He spat into the fire. They needed to move, disappear back into the wilderness before dawn, before anyone came looking for the owners of these Tarly badges.

(Ser Bertram Flowers and Will's Point of View – Fleeing South)

They ran until their lungs burned and their legs cramped, crashing through the dark woods, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the disastrous campsite by the Gods Eye. The sounds of the fight faded behind them, replaced by their own ragged breathing and the snapping of twigs underfoot. Fear lent them speed, the image of Bryen falling, Jory gurgling, the chaos by the fire pushing them onward.

They finally stumbled to a halt miles away, hidden deep in a thicket, leaning against trees, gasping for air. Moonlight filtered weakly through the canopy, illuminating their pale, sweat-streaked faces.

"Gods..." Will panted, wiping his brow with a trembling hand. "That was… close." He looked back in the direction they had come. "Bryen? Jory?"

Bertram leaned heavily against an ancient oak, clutching at the arrow wound in his back, his face a mask of pain and grim calculation. "Dead," he stated flatly. "Both of them. Cut down before they knew what hit them."

"And… the boy?" Will asked, his voice hesitant. He had seen Bertram use Samwell as a shield. He'd seen the blade go in.

Bertram's eyes hardened. He avoided Will's gaze, staring into the darkness. "Him too. Took a blade meant for me. Went down hard." He deliberately omitted the part where he had put Samwell in the path of that blade.

Will fell silent, absorbing the news. Four dead. Only they had escaped. He felt a pang of guilt, leaving the others, leaving the boy… but what else could they have done? Stay and die? He pushed the guilt down. Survival. That was the soldier's creed.

"What… what do we do now, Ser?" Will asked, looking to the knight for guidance. "Go back? Try to recover the bodies?"

"Are you mad?" Bertram hissed, turning on him, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. "Go back there? There were at least eight of them, maybe more in the woods! We go back, we die too!"

"But… Lord Tarly…" Will stammered. "We were tasked to deliver the boy. Safe. To the Wall."

"The boy is dead!" Bertram snapped, wincing as he shifted his weight. "Killed by bandits. Our duty was compromised by an overwhelming force. We fought bravely, were wounded," he gestured to his back, "but ultimately forced to retreat to preserve our own lives and bring word."

Will stared at him. He knew Bertram's wound was likely superficial, stopped by the mail. He knew they hadn't fought that bravely; they had fled as soon as the opportunity arose. And he knew exactly how the boy had taken that wound.

"Lord Tarly won't see it that way, Ser," Will said quietly. "He'll want answers. He'll know we failed. Abandoned his son."

"Not if we tell the right story," Bertram said, his voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial, intense. He stepped closer to Will, lowering his voice further, though they were alone in the vast woods. "Listen to me, Will. We tell Lord Tarly the truth – that we were ambushed by eight scruffy brigands, lost two men, abandoned his son, and ran like frightened rabbits – and he'll have our heads on spikes before nightfall. You know he will. He does not tolerate failure. Especially not where his… disappointment of a son was concerned."

Will swallowed hard. He knew Lord Randyll's temper. He knew the man's ruthless sense of duty and honour. Bertram was right. The unvarnished truth was a death sentence.

"So what story do we tell?" Will asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Bertram glanced around, ensuring they were truly alone. "We were ambushed," he began, his voice low and urgent. "By a large band. Twenty or more. Desperate men, maybe remnants of some broken company. They came out of the night, arrows flying. Bryen and Jory were cut down immediately, valiant defenders to the last." He paused, letting the heroic image sink in. "The boy… Samwell… he panicked, perhaps, or tried to fight foolishly. He got himself killed in the first rush. Caught a stray arrow or a sword thrust in the chaos."

He met Will's eyes, his gaze demanding agreement. "We fought back. Hard. We were wounded," he patted his back again, "but heavily outnumbered. We slew several of them, but more kept coming. Our only choice was to break contact, retreat under fire, hoping to reach safety and report the tragedy. We barely escaped with our lives."

He held Will's gaze. "That is the story. We stick to it. Every detail. We arrived back at Horn Hill, wounded but alive, having done all that brave men could do against impossible odds. Lord Tarly will grieve his son's unfortunate end, perhaps curse the lawlessness of the Riverlands, but he cannot fault us. Our honour remains intact. We survive."

Will stood there, the cold dread of Lord Tarly's potential wrath warring with the distasteful knowledge of the lie. Abandoning comrades, abandoning their charge… it went against everything he'd been taught as a soldier. But Bertram's logic was brutal and inescapable. The truth meant death. The lie offered a chance. He thought of his wife and young daughter back in the village near Horn Hill. What would happen to them if he was executed for cowardice or failure?

He looked at Ser Bertram Flowers, a knight, a man sworn to honour, calmly concocting a lie to save his own skin, a lie built on the corpses of their comrades and the abandoned, possibly dying, boy. Will felt sick. But he also felt the cold hand of self-preservation grip him tightly.

He slowly nodded, the movement stiff, reluctant. "Twenty or more," he repeated hollowly. "Fought hard. Samwell… killed in the first rush. We retreated… to report."

A thin smile touched Bertram's lips, humourless and grim. "Good lad. Now, let's rest here till first light, then we find the Kingsroad and ride south. Hard and fast. Back to Horn Hill. Back to safety."

He sank back against the tree, closing his eyes, calculating. Will remained standing, staring into the oppressive darkness of the Riverlands woods, the weight of the lie settling upon him like a shroud. South. Away from the Gods Eye, away from the accusing eyes of the dead, away from the fate of young Lord Samwell. South, towards Horn Hill, carrying a tale of tragedy and manufactured valour.