"Ancient gods…"
Sunset light filtered through the snow-covered forest, casting a golden glow across the landscape.
"Hear my vow. Bear witness."
Samwell looked around and realized he stood amidst a circle of nine weirwood trees.
The faces carved into each tree stared towards the center, their eyes streaked with dried red sap that gleamed like rubies.
"The night is dark and full of terrors; from this day forward, I shall stand as its watchman until the day I die…"
Samwell's mouth didn't move, yet words kept emerging from him, an oath—an oath of the Night's Watch.
"I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and seek no glory…"
Around him, six others recited the oath with him.
Their faces were obscured by mist, and Samwell could only make out the bronze armor each of them wore.
"I am the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the Wall, the fire that burns against the cold…"
Am I… the original owner of the Time armor?
Samwell thought of the tale that Ser Robar Royce had told him.
"I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."
The oath completed, silence blanketed the grove.
The seven rose and began walking forward, shoulder to shoulder.
Ahead lay the largest structure on earth—the Wall.
Seven hundred feet tall, it stretched across the northernmost boundary of Westeros, its icy expanse continuing for a thousand miles as if marking the world's end.
Looking up at the vast wall of white-blue ice, Samwell felt a deep reverence.
As he stared, the Wall's sheer magnitude seemed ready to topple over him. Dizzy, Samwell staggered, stumbling over something solid at his feet.
The seven of them halted and began digging in the snow.
They unearthed a coffin buried in the snow, hewn from weirwood, pale and ancient, with two crossed axes and a bleeding face carved into its lid.
Samwell wondered which family bore such a crest—he had never seen it before. Then he realized that "he" had already lifted the lid.
Inside lay a woman, unmoving as if carved from ice.
Her skin was as pale as snow, her lips bloodless, her brow adorned with a crown of winter roses, red as blood.
It was her!
Just then, her eyes opened.
In her icy gaze, there was only snow, cold, and death.
Samwell felt as if he were standing on a frozen plain, surrounded by jagged spires of ice that shot towards him, closing in to envelop him.
That was the taste of death… and despair!
But then, a surge of warmth swept over him, enveloping him instantly.
It felt like he was bathing in a hot spring.
Everything became vibrant, filled with life.
"He's waking up!"
"Samwell!"
"Lord Caesar!"
…
Familiar voices surrounded him, yet his vision remained hazy.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him, and he drifted back into sleep.
When Samwell next opened his eyes, everything was clear.
He was lying in a military tent on a simple cot, with his squire, Katu, slumped asleep at his bedside.
"Katu? Katu?"
Katu jerked awake, and when he saw Samwell, he shouted with joy.
"My lord! Are you alright?"
"Yes, I think so," Samwell replied, propping himself up to sit.
Katu hurried over to help, asking, "My lord, are you hungry? I'll fetch some food."
"Yes, thank you."
Katu dashed out, returning soon after with breakfast.
There was a bowl of oatmeal, two boiled eggs, a few strips of dried meat, cream berries, and a cup of wine.
Samwell was genuinely famished and devoured it all.
"Would you like more, my lord?"
"No, that's enough," Samwell replied, deciding not to eat too much at once. He passed the tray back to Katu, then asked, "Who treated my wounds?"
"A red priestess from Asshai, named Melisandre."
So, it was her.
In the flames of the chapel at Sunspear, Samwell had already glimpsed the image of this priestess.
It seemed his efforts to align himself with prophecy hadn't been in vain. Melisandre had not, as in the original story, aligned with Stannis Baratheon but had instead come to him.
And the Lord of Light, R'hllor, seemed to have taken notice of him too.
Samwell refocused and asked, "Did all six of you escape safely?"
Katu's face darkened.
"Only four of us made it back…"
Samwell's heart clenched. "Which two… didn't?"
"Ser Felar Royce didn't make it through the lines, and your brother, Ser Dickon… he was hit by an arrow in the back…"
Samwell's face twitched as he absorbed the news. He fell silent for a long time.
The tent filled with a heavy silence.
At last, Katu spoke again.
"My lord, do you know why we saw that Skyreach was taken, yet the Dornish reclaimed the city once we entered?"
"Why?"
"It was all because of King Joffrey!" Katu spat, his voice trembling with rage. "He believed the Red Viper's promise to surrender. So, even after breaching the gates, he ordered a retreat, waiting for the Dornish to surrender on their own."
Samwell was speechless with shock.
He'd always known Joffrey to be a reckless fool, but he hadn't expected him to reach such heights of idiocy.
"Didn't anyone try to stop him? Where was Eddard Stark? He's supposed to command this army."
"Lord Stark led the assault personally that day and was wounded, recovering in the rear. The others didn't have time to intervene," Katu said, his face twisted with anger. "That one command led to so many deaths! So many!"
Samwell's expression was impassive, but his voice was cold as steel.
"Did the nobles protest?"
Katu nodded.
"Almost all the lords voiced their outrage. Lord Mathis Rowan was so furious he nearly drew his sword on the King. The northern lords flat-out declared they'd no longer follow the Iron Throne's commands. Lord Stark even resigned as Hand of the King. If Ser Barristan Selmy hadn't staked his honor on containing Joffrey's orders, the whole army would have fallen apart."
Katu sneered. "Lord Pufffish is the only one still flattering the king. Rumor has it he's planning to marry Lady Margaery to Joffrey."
Samwell's brow furrowed. "So Sansa Stark's betrothal is canceled?"
"Yes, Lord Stark ended it the day he resigned."
Samwell nodded, lapsing into silence again.
Katu stood, taking his leave. "Rest well, my lord."
"Thank you."
Left alone, Samwell stared blankly for a while before slowly sitting up.
His arm wound was not particularly severe; he had only fallen unconscious due to the poison.
Thinking of Joffrey's foolish orders, his brother's death, and the three hundred soldiers who had perished at the sept, Samwell felt rage smoldering within him, ready to erupt and consume everything.
Just then, a clear, gentle voice came from outside.
"Samwell, are you awake?"
Samwell recognized Margaery Tyrell's voice. "Come in, Lady Margaery."
The tent flap lifted, and Margaery entered, wearing a dark green silk gown and a delicate gold flower crown. Her usual sweet smile seemed dimmed.
"Thank the Seven, you're alive!" She made the sign of the Seven over her chest.
Thank the Red God, more like.
"Yes, Lady Margaery. Thank you for your concern."
Standing before him, she murmured softly, "I'm so sorry for you, your brother, and all the brave soldiers who died at the sept…"
Samwell fell silent, feeling her sympathy.
"Your sacrifice will be remembered. Especially you, Samwell." Margaery's tone was more spirited, trying to lift his spirits. "You killed the Red Viper in the heart of enemy territory! Much of this victory is owed to your bravery. Bards will sing of you across Westeros."
Samwell managed a smile. "Bards will likely sing only of the king's glory. Speaking of which, I heard you're to marry Joffrey. Congratulations. Your dream of being queen is coming true."
"Is it?" Margaery's smile was bittersweet. "They say, 'Be careful what you wish for.' I never understood it until now."
"You have the power to say no," Samwell replied.
"Do I really…" Margaery's tone turned wistful. "Father has dreamed of me being queen all my life. He's waited too long for this day…"
"What about Lady Olenna?" Samwell asked. "How does she feel about this match?"
"When I left, she told me to see for myself what kind of man Joffrey is…"
"So, if he's unworthy, will she let you refuse him?"
"She didn't say. And I can't read her intentions."
Samwell fell silent.
What is the Queen of Thorns up to? Would she really force Margaery into this marriage? Or is she planning to… ensure Joffrey has a very short reign, just as in the original tale?
Still, that would make Margaery a widow again.
"Joffrey's character must be clear enough after this war. Whether to proceed with the marriage is a matter that you alone must decide," Samwell concluded, his tone as firm as he could make it.
Margaery grew quiet, her eyes filled with a deep, almost wistful light. She looked up at Samwell, almost as if searching for something.
"Samwell… what do you think I should do?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Your grandmother was once betrothed to Prince Daeron Targaryen," Samwell replied, choosing his words carefully. "But she made her own choice, rising to power by the side of Lord Luthor Tyrell. That's how she became the Queen of Thorns. Perhaps that's something worth remembering."
Margaery listened, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she murmured, "Thank you, Samwell. I'll consider that…"
She leaned in and, to Samwell's surprise, pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.
"Good night, my knight," she whispered.
"Good night, Lady Margaery," Samwell replied, watching her turn and glide out of the tent. She left behind a faint, delicate scent of roses, lingering in the air long after she'd gone.
For a few moments, he stood still, lost in thought. The warmth of her kiss still clung to his cheek, the subtle scent of roses mingling with the air.
He was reminded, in that instant, of another man—Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger, a man who had once loved a highborn lady and who, denied the future he desired, had become one of the most cunning and ruthless men in Westeros.
And now, he thought with a bitter smile, what of him? He was a minor lord with dreams as lofty as any king's. How would his own fate play out?
In his mind's eye, he could almost see Petyr Baelish, a mocking smile on his lips, whispering, "Caesar, you shouldn't have killed me."
But Samwell shook his head, banishing the specter of Littlefinger. A dead man's words would not stand in his way.
With or without Margaery, his path was his own, and he would see it through.
Taking a deep breath, he turned to the corner of his tent, where his belongings were stowed.
He opened a bundle at the very bottom, revealing an object that lay beneath—an ancient dragon egg, silent and dormant.
He rested his hand upon it, feeling a faint warmth emanate from the stone. It was as if a fire slumbered deep within, waiting for its moment to wake.
In the depths of his mind, he recalled the visions he had seen in the flames of the chapel—the image of a blood-red comet streaking across the heavens.
The omen was clear.
On the king's name day, that comet would blaze across the sky, and with it, a dragon would be reborn.
Thoughts of his fallen soldiers, his brother, and those lost in the flames surged through him, hardening his resolve.
Taking another deep breath, Samwell reached for the heavy tome he had stolen from Grand Maester Pycelle's study, The Histories and Lineages of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
With a resolute expression, he traced the worn edges of the book and finally spoke aloud the words of a prophecy, given to Daenerys Targaryen by a witch on the other side of the world:
"Only death can pay for life."
(End of Chapter)