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

. Early 295 AC

Samwell Tarly: Age 14 (nearing 15). Held captive in an abandoned iron mine in the Riverlands. Recovered from initial wound, now subjected to starvation and interrogation.

Chapter 6: The Hunger and the Void

(Gerrol's Point of View – Outside the Cell)

The damp chill of the mine seeped into Gerrol's bones, a familiar, unwelcome companion. Three moons. Three sodding moons he'd been part of this miserable warren, and near half that time spent guarding him. He shifted his weight, leaning his spear against the cold, sweating rock wall of the tunnel, the flickering torchlight casting his hunched shadow long and distorted down the passageway. It smelled down here – stale air, unwashed bodies, the ever-present tang of iron dust, and something else… something like sickness and despair clinging to the very rock.

His gaze drifted towards the crude wooden door reinforcing the narrow opening carved into the tunnel side – the 'cell'. Behind it resided their prize catch, their potential fortune, their biggest bloody headache: the fat lordling. Or rather, the formerly fat lordling.

Gerrol grimaced, chewing on a frayed piece of dried meat that tasted mostly of salt and regret. Three moons ago, Morrec and the lads had dragged the boy in, half-dead, bleeding like a stuck pig, heavy as a small bullock. There'd been excitement then, aye. Talk of gold dragons, ransom, finally getting out of this gods-forsaken hole in the ground. Kael, the captain, had been wary but hopeful. Maddy the Crone, their herb woman and occasional pox-mender, had somehow kept the rot out of the lad's gut wound, muttering charms and packing it with foul-smelling moss. Took near three weeks for the boy to be properly off the brink, lying on the filthy straw pallet, silent as the grave stones Maddy claimed she talked to.

Then the questions started. Morrec tried first, all bluster and threats. Got naught. Then Kael himself took a turn, his voice like grinding stones, promising quick death or slow agony. Still naught. The boy just… looked at them. Those wide, unnervingly green eyes in that pale, puffy face, saying nothing. Not defiance, not pleading terror like you'd expect, just… watching. Silent. It unnerved Gerrol more than any screaming would have.

Kael's patience, never a deep well to begin with, had run dry quicker than a waterskin in Dorne. Supplies dwindled. The ore the captives chipped out was barely worth the effort of hauling it. The whispers started – maybe the boy wasn't worth anything. Maybe his kin didn't want him back. Maybe he was some rich merchant's get whose family wouldn't dare deal with bandits.

So, the 'persuasion' started. A sennight ago, Kael had ordered it. Keep him alive, mind, but make him talk. Gerrol hadn't been part of it – Kael used Morrec and Polliver for the rough work – but he'd heard the sounds echoing up the tunnels late at night. A sharp cry cut short, muffled thuds, the scrape of boots. But still, the boy hadn't broken. Hadn't uttered a single word about his name, his house, his kin. Stubborn as a blind mule heading for a cliff. Or maybe just stupid.

And the luck… gods, the luck had turned foul as privy sludge these past few weeks. First, Renn lost his favourite skinning dagger, claimed Polliver stole it. Led to a vicious brawl, knives drawn, ended with Renn needing stitches from Maddy and Polliver nursing cracked ribs. Then, a section of the far tunnel collapsed without warning. Just… gave way. Buried four of the captive miners alive. Took half a day to dig out the bodies, slowed down the meagre ore flow even more. And just three days past? One of the stolen Tarly horses, usually placid enough, went mad in the back cave. Stomped poor old Hendry to death afore anyone could react, kicked Kev hard enough to break his leg clean in two. Kev was still groaning down in the main cavern, leg crudely splinted, likely to fester.

Some of the lads muttered it was the mine itself – cursed place. Others whispered it was the boy in the cell. Bad luck clinging to him like the damp. Bringing ruin down on them all for holding him. Gerrol didn't know what he believed. He wasn't clever like Kael, nor superstitious like Maddy. But things felt… wrong. Tense. Like the air before a bad storm, only the storm was inside the mine with them.

Kael was talking about more forceful methods now. Starvation hadn't worked – they'd cut the boy's rations to near nothing this past moon and a half, hoping hunger would loosen his tongue. It had worked, in a way. The boy had wasted away like snow in summer. Must've lost near half his weight. Gaunt now, the bones showing under the pallid skin, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. But still silent. Now Kael spoke of taking fingers, maybe an eye. Things that couldn't be hidden if they did try for ransom later. Desperate measures.

Gerrol sighed, the sound loud in the tunnel's quiet. He pushed himself off the wall and walked the few steps to the cell door. A small barred window, barely fist-sized, was set at eye level. He peered through it, into the near-total darkness within.

At first, he saw nothing but blackness. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he made out a shape huddled against the far wall, sitting on the thin layer of damp straw. The boy. His back was to the wall, knees drawn up loosely. He was utterly still. In the profound gloom, Gerrol couldn't make out features, only the vague outline of his diminished form. Except… except for the eyes. They seemed to catch and reflect the minuscule amount of torchlight filtering from the corridor, glowing faintly in the dark. Two points of calm, green luminescence fixed somewhere in the middle distance, not even looking towards the door. It sent a shiver down Gerrol's spine, despite himself. Like looking at a cat watching something only it can see in the dead of night.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough. Might as well try. Kael would have his hide if he didn't make the effort, useless though it seemed.

"Oi. Lad," Gerrol began, his voice gruff, trying for a tone of weary reason. "Still with us in there?"

No response. Just the faint, steady glow of those eyes in the dark.

"Look," Gerrol continued, leaning closer to the bars, lowering his voice slightly. "This don't need to be harder'n it is, see? Kael… the captain… his patience is worn thin as piss-water soup. Talkin' 'bout takin' bits off ye. Fingers. Maybe more. Nasty stuff. Hurts like the seven hells, and don't always heal right, neither."

He paused, hoping for some reaction. A flinch, a whimper, anything. Nothing. The stillness was infuriating, unnerving.

"Why put yerself through it, eh?" Gerrol pressed on, hearing the whine creep into his own voice. "All this sufferin'. The hunger, the cold… what comes next. It ain't worth it, lad. Truly it ain't. Just tell 'em what they want. Yer name. Yer House. Who yer kin are. Someone important enough to pay, surely? We send word, they pay the coin, ye get sent back home. Maybe a bit thinner, maybe missin' a fingernail or two if ye wait much longer, but alive. Warm bed, full belly again."

He leaned his forehead against the cold bars, weariness washing over him. "It's a shame, see? Endin' a young life like yers. Still spring for ye, barely begun. No need to see it wilt down here in the dark 'cause o' stubborn pride. Just say the words, lad. A few words. Make it easy on yerself. Make it easy on all of us. All this… it can be over. Today."

Silence stretched, thick and heavy as the damp air. Gerrol sighed again, about to turn away, figuring it was useless as ever.

Then, a voice answered from the darkness.

It wasn't the voice of the trembling, plump boy Morrec had described from the initial capture. It wasn't the voice Gerrol expected – weak, trembling, broken by suffering. It was low, hoarse from disuse, yet possessed a strange, chilling resonance. It seemed to come not just from the figure in the corner, but from the very shadows themselves.

"You should kill me."

Gerrol blinked, startled. He hadn't expected that. "Kill ye? What madness is that? We want ransom, not another mouth to feed the worms."

The voice continued, calm, measured, each word falling like a cold stone into the silence. "No. It would be… kinder. A mercy you will soon crave for yourselves."

"Mercy?" Gerrol scoffed, unnerved by the tone. "We're bandits, lad, not septons. Mercy's in short supply here."

"As it is now… within me," the voice replied. The eyes in the darkness seemed to shift, focusing now directly on the barred window, on Gerrol. He felt a prickle of genuine fear, cold and sharp. "Three moons, you said? Three moons ago, I might have wept. I might have pleaded. I might have bargained, offered promises I couldn't keep. But the boy who bled by the lake… he is gone. Slain not by your comrade's blade, but starved out, bit by bit, in this cage."

A pause, filled only by the drip of water somewhere down the tunnel.

"You should kill me," the voice repeated, softer now, yet somehow more menacing. "For I have run out of kindness. This hunger you inflicted upon me… it has burned away more than flesh. It has scoured the softness, the pity. It has made me… forgo mercy. All that is left is the gnawing void. That, and Fear."

Gerrol seized on the last word, relief mixing with his unease. Fear. That was something he understood. Something they could use. "Fear?" he interrupted, trying to regain control, trying to sound dismissive. "Aye, fear is good! You should fear, lad. Fear for yerself! Fear what Kael will do! We're serious men here, not playin' at games!"

The faintest hint of movement came from the darkness within the cell. The glowing eyes seemed to narrow slightly.

"You misunderstand," the voice whispered, and the sound sent ice down Gerrol's spine. "I do not fear for myself. There is nothing left here you can threaten that truly matters." A chilling pause hung in the air. "I fear… that when the reckoning comes… I cannot justify the pain that I shall inflict upon you all."

The sheer, quiet conviction in the words, the utter reversal of the expected dynamic, stunned Gerrol into silence for a heartbeat. Then, the absurdity of it struck him. This wasted boy, locked in a cell, threatening them? Thirty armed bandits? It was ludicrous.

A bark of laughter escaped Gerrol's lips, rough and incredulous. "Inflict pain? On us? Hah! Listen to yourself, lad! Starvation's addled yer wits proper! What're ye gonna do? Bore us to death with yer gloomy talk?" He laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing unnaturally in the confined space. "Gods, Kael'll piss himself laughing when I tell 'im this one! 'Can't justify the pain,' he says! Hah! Ye couldn't swat a fly in yer state!"

His laughter continued, harsh and grating. He felt a flicker of triumph – he'd broken the boy's composure, made him spout nonsense.

Then, abruptly, the laughter died in his throat.

It wasn't a conscious stop. It was a physical cut-off, as if a hand had clamped over his mouth and squeezed his windpipe simultaneously. His eyes bulged. He gasped, trying to draw breath, but his airway felt… blocked. Sealed shut. Not by phlegm, not by choking on his own spit, but by an invisible, inexorable force.

Panic surged, cold and overwhelming. He clawed at his throat, his fingers finding only his own skin and beard. No obstruction. Yet, no air could pass. His lungs burned, demanding oxygen. Black spots danced before his eyes. He stumbled back from the cell door, his spear clattering to the stone floor. He could hear a high-pitched wheezing sound – his own – as his body fought desperately for air it couldn't draw.

His gaze locked onto the barred window of the cell. In the terrifying clarity of his dying moments, he saw the eyes within. Still calm. Still watching. Unblinking green embers in the suffocating dark. There was no anger in them, no triumph. Only a profound, chilling emptiness. A void reflecting his own extinguishing life.

Gerrol sank to his knees, his hands still scrabbling uselessly at his neck. His face turned purple. The torchlight swam, dimmed. The last thing he saw was the darkness of the mine tunnel rushing up to meet him as he collapsed forward, hitting the unforgiving rock with a dull thud, the silence broken only by the final, futile rattle in his constricted throat.

(Third Person Point of View)

Silence reclaimed the tunnel where Gerrol lay sprawled, his life extinguished as suddenly and inexplicably as a snuffed candle flame. Inside the cell, the figure remained seated against the far wall, utterly still. The faint green glow in the darkness persisted for a moment longer, then seemed to fade, absorbed back into the profound blackness. The air in the cell felt heavy, charged, yet utterly silent.

Minutes passed. The only sounds were the distant drip of water, the faint scuffling of rats somewhere in the mine's depths, and the low groans of the injured Kev from the main cavern far away.

Then, a faint creak echoed from within the cell. The crude wooden door, latched from the outside, shuddered slightly. Not from force, but as if the latch itself had simply… yielded. The door swung slowly inward, revealing the Stygian darkness within.

A figure emerged, stepping out into the flickering torchlight of the corridor. It was Samwell Tarly, yet profoundly changed. The excessive weight that had defined him was gone, stripped away by moons of near-starvation, leaving behind a frame that was still large-boned but gaunt, almost skeletal. His ragged clothes hung loosely on him. His face was hollow-cheeked, his skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, pale as parchment. Dirt and grime were ingrained in his skin, his black hair lank and greasy. He looked like a corpse freshly risen, animated by some grim purpose.

But it was the eyes that commanded attention. No longer wide with fear or downcast in shame, nor even holding the watchful curiosity of his journey. They were ancient, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. Green like deep forest pools under a starless night, they surveyed the dead guard at his feet with no discernible emotion – no pity, no satisfaction, no surprise. It was the dispassionate gaze of something that had witnessed too much, endured too much, and perhaps become too much.

He stood there for a moment, seemingly taking stock. He listened, his head cocked slightly, as if attuning himself to the mine's subtle currents. The distant sounds of the bandit camp – a rough laugh, the clang of a dropped pot, Morrec shouting an order – drifted faintly down the tunnels.

Then, he began to walk.