28 - ||

Margaery's midday nap was interrupted by another visitor, one who didn't have time for such frivolities as knocking, or having the maid announce her.

"On your feet, my girl. We have much to do today, " Grandmother said. Though her old body was small and frail, Margaery often thought that her grandmother could fill a room by sheer force of will alone. And it was this force that got Margaery, dazed and sluggish as she felt, off the bed and onto her feet.

"The day is already half over, Grandmother," Margaery said. "What more could we possibly do? Have our preparations changed?"

Whatever Grandmother was about to say died on her lips, so she turned from rifling through the meager offerings of Margaery's wardrobe to look at her. Feeling her stare, Margaery raised a hand to touch the exposed, sore flesh of her scar before immediately turning away. She had forgotten to put her eyepatch back on. 

Her grandmother swallowed hard. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Once more, Margaery hesitated before answering. Unlike with Jon, she decided on the truth. Her grandmother, hard and cranky and scheming as she was, loved Margaery more than life itself. She could be honest with her grandmother. Sometimes it felt like her grandmother was the only person she could be honest with.

"My face is itchy and sore, so much so that it keeps me up at night. So on top of being scared, I'm tired. But most of all I'm sick of people asking me that question. I'm surviving, isn't that enough?" she asked. 

"Oh, my little rose," Grandmother sighed, making Margaery almost sob at the use of her childhood nickname. The old woman waddled closer and pulled Margaery in a quick hug, stroking her loose hair. "Will you let me see your face, my dear? I just want a quick look."

Margaery wanted to deny the request, wanted to pull away and keep herself covered by her hair. Yet she let herself be led over to an armchair all the same, taking the seat and doing her best not to flinch when grandmother took Margaery's face in her gnarled old hands.

"Don't pretend it isn't bad," she said. "I don't care what you say, just don't pretend it isn't that bad."

Grandmother stroked her cheek. "Well, it certainly isn't good . Even I'm not good enough of a liar to pretend otherwise. It is healing well though. The strange doctors here certainly put their odd medicine to use. As soon as we get the chance, I'm going to look into ways to improve the situation."

"A glass eye?" 

That wouldn't be so bad. Margaery had seen knights and sailors who had replaced lost eyes with either close replicas, or, if they could afford it, fancy replacements with gemstones or glass. Father would surely hire the best glass or gemsmith available, even if she never had her beauty back, this could still be turned into something that looked beautiful.

"That or some decorative eye patches," Grandmother said. "Yes, we can work with this. You were always beautiful, sweetling. But beauty is fleeting and easy enough to find. We can make you unique. Striking. Something that will truly stand out against the common masses. So keep your chin up. Sometimes paths change, but the road stretches onward, and you are too strong to sit down and quit for something like a little scar."

"This is hardly a little scar, Grandmother," she said. "And weren't you the one who always talked about the importance of using my beauty to its fullest potential?"

"Of course, I was. This doesn't mean we still can't use it, only that we will simply have to get a little more creative when it comes to making you a match. But that will hardly be the first time I've had to do such a thing. And the creative thinking we must do under stressful circumstances can sometimes yield the best results." Picking up a brush from the nearby vanity, Grandmother began brushing Margaery's hair like she was a little girl again. "I wasn't originally meant to marry your grandfather, Luthor, you know?"

"Oh? I've never heard that before." Margaery had few memories of him, though the ones she did have were pleasant enough. 

"He was engaged to my sister, your great-aunt Viola, after his engagement to Shaera Targaryen fell through," the old woman explained blithely. "As it turns out, I was also supposed to be giνen to some Targaryen or other. Marrying a Targaryen was all the rage back then, any family with a touch of notoriety was trying to do it. But the moment I saw my intended, with his twitchy little ferret's face and ludicrous silνer hair, l knew he wouldn't do."

Margaery fought the urge to snort in amusement. Yes, she could imagine a younger version of her grandmother choosing against marrying into Westeros' most powerful family just because she found her would-be husband unacceptable.

"So the eνening before Luthor was to publically propose to my sister, I got 'lost' on my way back from my embroidery lesson, and 'happened' upon his chamber," Grandmother chuckled. "It was oh so very absentminded of me. The following morning, Luthor neνer made it down the stairs to propose to my sister 'cause the boy couldn't bloody walk. And once he'd properly recovered, the only thing he wanted was what I'd given him the night before."

"Did that cause issues for your family?" Walking away from an engagement with the ruling family couldn't have been easy, let alone well-received.

"Less than you'd think. My darling betrothed had no more interest in me than I did in him, seeing as his proclivities mirrored your brother's. So he offered little resistance and even took the blame for breaking off the arrangement in return for a later favor. As for Viola, this left her free to wed her empty-headed Royce sweetheart. Something that may end up helping us, because one of their children has married into the House Farman."

"You were good," Margaery said. "Even back then."

In the mirror, Margaery saw her grandmother nod. "I was. I was very good. I am very good. And you—"

Grandmother put the brush down to come around and touch Margaery's chin, tilting her face up so they were eye to eye. "—will be even better. So long as you don't let something as silly as a scar destroy you."

Lady Volkihar had said something similar when Margaery had woken up in the infirmary. She supposed it was easier for women who'd had years to develop a will of steel to be sure of such things. No matter how much Margaery wanted revenge and blood for all that had happened, Margaery was still working on developing that strength of will to stand against the chaos coming. 

"But don't worry, sweetling," Grandmother continued, helping Margaery tie her eyepatch on once more. "We won't let what happened to you and the rest of our people go unanswered. Blood pays for blood after all. And Cersei will indeed pay, I just hope I'm alive long enough to see it."

Jon's earlier words echoed in her head, no matter how much Marjorie tried to ignore them. "I want revenge. I want Cersei to suffer. But then what, Grandmother? Then what will we do?"

"Why, we'll regrow from whatever's left, of course," the old woman said easily. "I'm not saying it will be easy, but rose bushes can come back from just one bud so long as it is properly tended to. And that's why the Tyrells are strong. We've weathered many wars before, and we will weather this one too."

"That's easier for you to say, Grandmother. You've lived through them while I barely remember the Greyjoy Rebellion," Margaery replied. 

"That I have. Oh, they're messy business. Led and started by men who believed they had just and noble causes. Though I don't suppose those excuses did much to cover the women and children who always suffered the worst from it." Grandmother sighed. "We are in for trying times, my dear. We must use our wit to put us in the best situation possible, both while we are going through them and afterward. When the dust settles, certain people will be standing taller than others, and I want the Tyrells to be standing the tallest of them all."

For as long as Margaery could remember the strength of the Tyrell house had been what her grandmother was obsessed with. Oh, she wasn't cruel about it. She valued her grandchildren's happiness and help. But the Tyrells mattered above all, and even when everything was about to descend into chaos, her grandmother was still thinking of a way to keep climbing to the top.

And Margaery was happy to help her.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. 

The sharp grin her grandmother gave was all Margaery needed to know this was exactly what the old woman was hoping to hear. 

"That... Jon Whitewolf or whatever he's being called now, what do you think of him?"

Margaery wishes she could say that she was surprised about this turn in the conversation. Grandmother had expressed interest in Jon long before the truth of his parentage had come out. Ever since he saved Loras in King's Landing, she had looked at him with interest. It had almost been enough to make Margaery pity him.

"I like him," she said, almost surprised by how honest the answer was. "He saved Loras before, and he helped save us all again. He didn't have to do that, yet he did. From what I can tell, his decency is true. I don't think he wants anything from us, aside from our help against Cersei."

Grandmother settled herself in her own armchair. "I sense a 'but' coming."

"But... I think he's sad about something, or maybe he's sad about everything. And he has admitted to me himself that he has anger that he works to keep under control."

The old woman scoffed. "As far as secrets go, that's incredibly bland. I was hoping for something more interesting. Still, we can work with that. Do you think he would make a good king?"

Before Margaery could even seriously consider the question she found herself blurting out, "He doesn't want to be a king at all."

 He had said so repeatedly even over the last few days.

"The best ones rarely do," Grandmother said. "When Cersei is gone and the inevitable war has ended, someone will have to sit on the Iron Throne. If we move fast and are fortunate enough, we can crush her and the Lannisters with the other six Kingdoms, but we best avoid a civil war over who should rule after. And while I have no deep love or lasting loyalty for the Targaryens, Jon has the right bloodline, and between his magic and dragons he has the power and symbolism to back it up. Moreover, the girl or one of Robert's bastards would only have a single Kingdom backing them, while he comes with the automatic support of the North. 

"So while everyone else is scrambling around, trying to scrounge their own potential kings to present, we need to set him up as the strongest candidate. Quick, clean, and strengthening us for the future."

These were all fair points, and she could not disagree with any of them. Margaery cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the old woman to continue. 

"I want you to charm Jon, my dear. Nothing too obvious of course. We don't want to show our hands too quickly. Just enough to keep you in his thoughts."

"Grandmother, you know as well as I do that Jon is engaged!" Margaery replied, half-amused by the suggestion. 

"Well, so was Robert Baratheon, but did that stop up?" 

"Yes, but Robert Baratheon would have cheated on his wife with a donkey in a wig if he was drunk enough. In contrast, Jon hasn't given any indication he's the kind of man to do so." She paused, and added, "When he visited earlier, he was perfectly respectful, to the point of keeping his eyes on mine the whole time. Nor do I think it would be a good idea to earn the ire of his betrothed, or her mother."

Grandmother waved the concern away. "A marriage is ideal considering all the perks it can provide, but ultimately not necessary. So long as he likes you, and wants to help or protect you, then we have him, especially considering he owes me a favor. We can nurture that, and let it grow."

Yes... Grandmother had mentioned that. It involved something with the Tarly family, though Margaery hadn't been around to hear the whole story. Perhaps she'd asked John about it later.

"That I can do."

For now, it might be all she could do. Margaery could not calm her parents' worries, or soothe Loras' pain at seeing Renly in such a state, nor more than she could put on a suit of armor and fight in the upcoming battles. so instead she'd still be as charming as possible, just as she'd always been taught. Margaery would win them support from the outside, all while sending letters to Garland and Willas, passing on coded secrets, and telling them to prepare. If she did her best... No, if she did more than her best, then maybe her entire family would find a way to survive this.

'Jon said that the dawn always comes, no matter how dark the night is. I suppose that means that life always finds a way, even in the face of chaos and destruction.' 

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Promise me we'll survive this?"

The Queen of Thorns pursed her lips, wrinkled old face drawing tight. "You will, I'm sure."

Samwell Tarly I

One of the earliest things Sam could remember was the love of his mother and sisters. 

He remembered their gentle voices, their soft hands on his face and hair, their sweet perfume, and the smooth, silky fabric of their dresses. That was where he was the happiest, he suspected, sitting with them as they drank tea and did needlework, gossiping about future husbands and what was going on with quarterly life. As he got older he would sit on the floor as they did so, reading them passages from his books, or watching as they painted or played music. The only thing that predates that love in his memory was fear of his father. Even before he knew anything at all really, he knew fear staring up in his father's cold, hard eyes, and the harshness of the man's voice. Even when Sam was young and there was still hope for him to grow up to be the big, burly warrior Randyll Tarly wanted, there was no softness in the man for him. After all, strong warriors did not come from softness. 

The older Sam got the greater that divide between love and fear became. When it became obvious Sam would never be one to wield a sword, or lead on a battlefield, his father's disdain for him grew. Any care that might have been there in the first place, withered and died a harsh, cold death. 

But his mother's love remained the same. 

If anything, she and his sisters doted on Sam more, as if to make up for Father's harshness. But then his brother was born, and there was a strange new feeling. He loved his little brother, adored him even. Even as the years passed and it became obvious that Dickon was the heir that Randyll always desired, Sam never resented him. If anything, it only made him worry about his brother more. Father's expectations were always high and woe to anyone who failed them. Not that Dickon ever did. They were never close, and they probably never would be, but that didn't mean Sam didn't worry.

No, despite everything Sam loved his family, including his father and brother. And with that love came worry. Even now, he would lay awake at night and worry if they had managed to get home safely. More than that, he worried if they would remain safe with all the trouble that was coming. 

'Considering my unofficial disinheritance, it isn't even my place to worry. Yet here I am fretting over my cantankerous, old father and my strong, warrior brother anyway. I doubt either would appreciate it.'

In all honesty, Sam didn't particularly care about being disinherited. He didn't think he'd be a good ruling lord, not having the stomach for making hard decisions, or issuing punishments for infractions. What he was good at was learning, often for no reason other than he wanted to learn something. Would knowing about the weather patterns of Volantis ever be useful to Sam? No. But he liked knowing about them all the same. In hopes of proving some use of this mindset to his father, Sam had read up about military tactics and past wars, what had gone wrong, or what had gone right for the various factions. And when he would present this knowledge to his father at supper, it got minimal grumbling. But still grumbling nonetheless. No matter what Sam learned, unless it was how to wield the sword and be the strong, hard heir his father desired, then Randyll Tarly saw no value in it. As such, Sam had no value unless it was another warm body up at the frozen Wall.

Sam hadn't wanted to go, but he hadn't wanted to die either. A coward through and through. So he agreed, and hoped that maybe there he could make himself useful to someone. Sam likes to think he handled his resignation to his fate with as much nobility as one could hope for. Never breaking under his mother and sisters fussing and worrying about what would become of him, and biting his tongue about how he worried how Dickon would do as his heir.

'Especially now. To be the heir during peaceful times is a very different thing from being one during war. If there is war, then Father will be on the battlefield leading men to fight and die. He would accept nothing else …and it might be the death of him. Then Dickon would be the Lord of Horn Hill. And he could die too.'

A shiver went down Sam's spine at the thought. He'd come to terms with the idea of never seeing his family again, not with them dying. 

Of Sam's many, many faults (if you asked his father), Sam's fear of conflict was almost chief among them. He much preferred to just keep his head down and go along with what people said or did, then try and fight. Sam never wanted to hurt anyone, and as a child, he would cry over accidentally stepping on insects, or when he realized that living animals had to be butchered for his supper. Besides, even if he did try to fight, how much aid could a fat coward be?

'On the battlefield? None,' Sam thought to himself, staring out at the ships that were ready to set sail. 'But there are other ways I can help John. I know about the Martells. I know about nearly every war that's ever been fought in Westeros. I've even read about Dragons. If he lets me, I can help Jon in a way father never let me help him.'

When they had first met in that library —by the Seven, that felt like an entire lifetime ago— Sam had been unnerved by Jon. People outside his mother and sister rarely went out of their way to speak with him, let alone to speak to him with such friendly positivity. When they did, it was usually because they wanted something. Sam may have been fat and timid, but he was still the heir to Horn Hill—at least officially. And that meant he was worth something. 

Except, as their conversations went on and Sam got to know Jon more, it became clear that the other young man wanted nothing from him. There was no talk of if his sisters were available for marriage, or if his father was looking to take any knights into his service. As unbelievable as it was, Jon seemed to just like talking to Sam about books and their other shared interests. It had been flattering, in a strange way. It had felt like he was truly being seen as Sam, not Samwell Tarly, for the first time by someone who wasn't family. Even then, Sam could not have expected the compassion shown to him by Jon once the other young man found out about his situation. 

People did not offer to sponsor someone's setting up a life in a new land, they just didn't. And yet Jon had. For no other reason than he liked Sam, and wanted him to be happy with his life. His own liking of Jon had only grown, turning into true admiration, when he saw how easily Jon engaged with his parents, not blinking in the face of Father's disdain or Mother's tears. He was firm, yet compassionate when need be, and knew how to bargain for what Father actually wanted. With his help, before Sam knew it, his father was agreeing to let Sam leave.

'Maybe part of Father does care after all, at least enough to prefer me out of sight than dead,' Sam wondered. It was a sweet thought. 

As much as the prospect of starting a new life in Skyrim scared him, Sam was excited too! During the times he wasn't worrying about his family, or pouring over as many books as he could get his hands on, Sam liked to imagine how different things would be there. Jon had warned him that Skyrim was a harsh, cold land, yet the same was true of the Wall. At least in Skyrim, Sam wasn't likely to be doomed to death by wild, lean, and meager foodstuffs. No one would know him there. Sam could start a legacy all his own. And if that legacy was of a craven who liked sweets and books too much, then, well, at least Sam wouldn't be held up against his father or brother.

And, most importantly of all, Skyrim had magic!

From the time he was little, Sam had been fascinated by tales of magic. Father had said it was all nonsense, and slapped the back of Sam's head when he tried to speak of it, and even Mother would laugh at what she called 'silly little stories.' And yet Sam was always confident magic was real, or at least it had been at some point. If not, why were there so many stories and accounts of it, and why did they come from all over the world? If magic was truly nonsense, why did maesters forge a link for their chains representing it at the Citadel? Even as he had grown up and learned how much the masters looked down on magic, that question had always remained in Sam's head. All stories had a grain of truth in them.

And now here he was, all these years later, having personally seen magic with his own two eyes. Granted, Sam's first experiences with magic were far from pleasant. He'd probably never be able to forget the smell of burning flesh and hair when Jon had killed those men with fire summoned from his hands. And Lady Volkihar's magic was even more terrifying than that... Though honestly, that might just be because he found the woman terrifying in general. Even if she had saved him, Shireen, and Ser Davos in King's Landing, for which Sam would be eternally grateful. 

Yet those memories did little to dampen his enthusiasm. The more he saw of magic, the more he wanted to know. While Sam was sure this was not the right time to approach Jon about learning how to use it himself, surely there would be a time in the future. If not from his friend, then maybe someone else? The fact that Jon's younger sister —or was that cousin?— was currently undergoing her own magical education, which gave Sam hope that he could too. After all, if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was learning.

'If nothing else good comes of me going to Skyrim, I might be able to make my childhood dream of being a wizard come true,' Sam thought, unable to stop the smile creeping on his face at the very idea. 

During their talks, Jon mentioned a place called the College of Winterhold. He had described it as a place where people went to learn magic and the magical arts. Apparently, Jon himself had been a student for some time. There had been another warning that it was a very cold, often dangerous place, where the instructors never went easy on their students. They expected the best, and if that sometimes backfired on their students, then that was just one of the accepted risks of learning magic.

Basically, it sounded like a more preferable version of the Wall. Sam just hoped he'd be alive to see it someday. If he could get there, if he could learn magic, then maybe Sam would finally be useful in a fight. Maybe he'd finally be able to protect those he cared about.

'I'll ask John as soon as things are calmer,' he decided. Once we set sail again, I'm sure we'll have time to talk. I just hope I don't get seasick again.'

And maybe, if Sam was very lucky, John would let him examine those little baby dragons. Sam hadn't read much about dragons, Father didn't see the need to keep books about them around, but all the texts he had read agreed on one thing: dragons were magic. 

A flash of red caught Sam's eye, drawing his attention to a small group standing on the dock of the Bell Singer . The Starks... The eldest daughter, Sansa, was the only one he knew that had such a striking shade of hair. 

The Starks weren't often a topic of conversation that came up in the Tarly household. While they were one of the major families of Westeros, the North was far enough removed from their lives in the Reach that Father rarely brought them up. Still, over the years, the man had let slip his opinion of the family.

He called Ned Stark honorable, honorable but stupid. More than once, Randyll Tarley had opined on why Ned Stark hadn't taken the throne after Roberts' Rebellion. He was of the belief that the man would have been a better king than the "fat fool" they had ended up with. Father also said that foolishness must run in the Stark family line, citing Brandon and Rickard Stark running off to get themselves and others killed in King's Landing by questioning the Mad King so openly. And, of course, there was the matter of Lyanna Stark getting involved with Rhaegaer Targaryen. When Talla had timidly questioned if that had not been a kidnapping, Father shot her down by saying that things were rarely that simple... Turns out, he was right on that. Finally, Father would grumble about why the Stark children were said to remain unmarried. The eldest two, at least, were at an age where marriage was to be expected. They weren't getting any younger he would say, and every year that passed was a missed opportunity to make alliances.

Of course, Sam wasn't married either. But that was because Father had no intention of seeing him continuing the family line. No, that honor would go to Dickon. Yet Father couldn't go making marriage arguments for his younger son while the older one was still unwed. It would make people talk. 

Now that he had had time around them, Sam had come to form his own opinions. It was, oddly enough, his opinion of Ned Stark that most closely matched his father's. The man was impressive, not so much in stature or mass, but rather in presence. He gave the impression of someone who had been through a long, hard life, yet was able to weather any storm while shielding the people around him. He had acted as a voice of reason on the ship, and in the various meetings they'd had since arriving at Dragonstone. And Sam could say that he admired a man who was willing to put aside his own frustrations and dislikes for the good of others. As well as lying for years to everyone to protect someone he loved: Jon. 

' Of course, I can't say I agree with how he did it, but I'm not sure I would have thought of a better solution. So I guess I can't say I think Lord Stark is stupid' Sam thought, squinting at the group to make out Ned Stark's dark-haired form. While none of his siblings had children yet, Sam liked to think he'd have the bravery to do anything to protect any future nieces and nephews. 

Due to the closeness between her and Jon, Sam had probably spent the most time with Arya Stark. The young girl had been easy to like, though her force of personality had taken Sam by surprise at first, and even now it could be a little overwhelming. Still, he was glad to see that she seemed to be holding up so well despite her youth. If anything, she seemed to be holding up best out of all of them. It had been surprising to see her so openly training with the sword, but Sam got the sense that all the chaos brewing ironically let Arya be herself in a way she never had before. In the end, even with the uncertainty of the future, Sam was sure Arya would be all right. Jon wouldn't accept any other outcome.

'And then there is Sansa Stark,' Sam thought, a pang of sympathy hitting his heart. While he didn't know the whole story, he knew enough to get the impression she'd done something to earn her family's ire. ' It is hard to not be what your family wants you to be. Harder still when you know that you keep disappointing them .'

There were other Stark children, Robb, the heir, and then two more boys if he remembered correctly. But they were young, and thankfully, had not been involved in the mess at King's Landing. Sam was grateful for that. He had barely kept it together; it would have been a horrible thing for children to have to endure.

"Sam!" 

Jon's voice knocked him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see his friend walking towards him with Enzo Vlast following close behind, tugging a large metal kennel in a wagon.

"Jon!' he called back, waving. "Finishing up will all the last minute details, eh?

His friend nodded. "There is a... surprising amount of paperwork involved in this kind of thing. You can only sign your name so many times before your hand starts to go numb." 

Sam chuckled, and started to say he had his few belongings packed up and ready to go, when a loud squawking from the kennel cut him off. 

Ser Enzo rapped his knuckles against the kennel wall. "Hush, you demon chickens!"

"Oh, be nice to them! They're only babies," Jon replied. He waved Sam over to the kennel, allowing him to get a better look at it. 

Roughly three feet wide and deep, and about as tall as Jon, the kennel was made of strong metal with the sides, back, roof, and floor of it being solid. The front was covered by a thick, black velvet curtain that John lifted up to reveal interlocking metal bars covering the remaining wall. Inside, John's three young dragons blinked back at them, their eyes glowing luminance in the sunlight.

"Gendry got some help from the castle blacksmiths to build it," Jon said. "It'll be the safest way to transport them, though my little ones still aren't thrilled about this new sleeping arrangement."

As if in response, Smokey let out a loud snort and turned away from them all. It's blue-colored sibling, however, was quick to accept the small bits of jerky John produced for his pocket and pass through the bars.

Jon pressed some of the cured meat into Sam's hand. "Here, try feeding them."

"O-oh, alright."

His palm sweaty, Sam dropped two of the jerky chunks—something that got him unamused looks from the two dragons who were paying attention. 

"Here you go," he muttered, trying again. 

Little Blue seemed to be the quickest of the three, and snatched two pieces of jerky out of Sam's hand in a flash, retreating to the corner of the kennel to eat them in peace. The next one he held out to the last dragon, the black-scaled dragon whom Jon called Ebony. The little creature took its time, more cautious than its sibling, and delicately sniffed Sam's knuckles before taking the jerky with utmost care and gentleness. Before pulling his hand out of the kennel, Sam decided to take a risk and gently smooth the pad of his pointer finger over Ebony's snout. 

"I am one of the first men to see a dragon in generations," he marveled. "Let alone pet one!"

"They are amazing," Jon agreed, not even pretending to sound like he wasn't incredibly pleased. 

When Jon talked like this, with his dragons by his side, it was easier to think of him as a Targaryen. For all of Sam's life, Targaryens had been strange, almost fairytale-like creatures. Part of stories, but having no place in reality. And the stories told about Targaryens weren't always good. While there were tales of greatness and nobility among the bloodline, just as often were they tales of madness, blood, fire, and death. And mixed among all that were tales of magic, glorious and awful all in one..

But they were real, and his father had served them for many years in the past, including during Robert's Rebellion. When Sam was younger, and Father still had some hope for him, he would gather Sam and Dickon into his solar after supper and tell them stories of his past military service. One night, when his father had had a little more to drink than normal, he let it slip that he'd once had high hopes for Rhaegar Targaryen. Randyll Tarly was of the opinion that there had been good Targaryen kings of the past, ones who were strong, keen, and stable, and led with powerful military might. He always put the most emphasis on the military might. And he had thought that maybe Rhaeger —with his renowned prowess as a warrior— would be another one of those kings. The Mad King, he had said, had been too unstable for the Realm. Being feared and ruling with an iron first was perfectly admirable, but when that fist became erratic, it was not conducive to long-term effective government. Finally, before Father caught himself and realized what he was saying, the man had mused that he had wished he'd gotten a chance to see the full military might of dragons before they had all died out.

'If even half of what I've read about your kind is true, you'd all be an invaluable asset in battle. At least if you were bigger,' Sam thought, crouching by the kennel as they watched the dragons play wrestle with each other. '...By the Seven, I'm starting to sound like my father.'

Shaking that thought away, Sam glanced back at Jon, who was watching the dragons with a look of open adoration. 'I wonder what he will think of you? How will Father's opinion change when he hears the tales of who you are and what you've already done? Maybe he wouldn't believe any of it. Father never was one for stories.'

Despite how fat he was, Sam was also easily overlooked. Ignored as a craven, useless son with his nose buried in a book, so he had been free to listen to many pieces of speculation by the various minor lords, knights, guards, and various servants from the ship and Dragonstone. 

People sure did seem to think a lot of things about John. Some good, some bad, some horrible, and some truly absurd. Anyone with any intelligence, however, was smart enough to keep certain thoughts to themselves. One thing was for sure though, many older folks still remembered what it had been like under the Mad King's rule, and being around the man's grandson —even if he had shown them nothing but kindness and mercy— was unnerving.

'I cannot truly blame them for that. I've read accounts, I've heard stories, and that man was evil. Whatever was appreciated about Rhaegar has been tarnished after years of being blamed for abducting a girl and helping to start a war. But John is good, he is kind, and I am happy to help him for as long as I am able to.'

"They are menaces, that is what they are," Ser Enzo grumbled. "And if you are done fawning over them, then I should get this packed away on the ship. I would like to check on the other animals, as well. We do not know this crew, and I would like to ensure everything has been done properly."

"Sounds good," Jon replied. "Thank you."

With a nod, the giant of a man departed, pulling the wagon behind him towards the ship they'd all be taking to Sunspear. 

"So," Jon said, "Are you ready?"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, I've had my things packed up and ready to go for some time now."

Jon shook his head. "That's not what I mean. Are you ready? For everything that's going to happen now. I won't judge you if you're not. I'll make arrangements for you on the ship with the children, their mothers, and Gendry. You'll all be set up somewhere comfortable back in Skyrim until I can get there and help settle things further. If you're still interested in Skyrim, that is. If not, we can figure out a way to get you back to your family. Probably with the Tyrells. Just say the word."

Sam opened his mouth to respond... only to pause. 

No matter how much so many books, songs, and poems tried to glorify war, Sam was always able to read between the lines. For all that his Father loved being a soldier, in his stories he never shied away from what the battlefield was really like. In all of these cases, there was one truth that always shone through: war seemed terrible. 

Perhaps it was sometimes justified, but even the most righteous of wars always saw someone suffering who didn't deserve it. And Sam had never been good at enduring suffering, either his own or others. And, if by some miracle, they all made it out of this with little bloodshed or tears, that still left the uncertainty of the future. With the question of who would sit on the Iron Throne after all was said and done still in the air, there was a lingering danger perhaps even greater than Cersei. Uncertainty in matters of succession always bred chaos, and chaos itself could lead to even more war. 

Especially for those individuals who happened to be close to those at the center of conflicts over who ruled next. Be it for a minor lordship, or especially for whomever holds claim to absolute authority over the entire continent.

Sam's books had taught him that.

'It'll probably come down to John or Lady Shireen Baratheon in the end,' Sam decided. But John had his heart set on going back to Skyrim, so Westeros would have to find another king.

Because Sam's books also taught him that wars always end. Some ended quickly, some lasted for years. Some ended peacefully, some ended with all of the other side dead, and some ended with overall pyrrhic victories. But someone was always on top in the end. And Sam knew who he wanted that to be now, he knew who he was going to support.

He took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm ready. I'm scared of fighting, I hate conflict, and I'm sure I'll be a burden to you all. But I'm ready. I'm ready and I'll do my best to help in any way I can."

Jon grinned and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Just be yourself, Sam. Do that, and you'll have already helped me."

Then Jon's eyes focused on something over Sam's shoulder and his happiness seemed to drain away. Glancing in that direction, Sam immediately understood why.

"Your family..."

"We've already said our goodbyes," Jon said. "It wasn't pleasant. Arya alternated between cursing me out and hugging me so tight I thought my spine was going to snap. My uncle looks like he's already planning my funeral. Sansa wouldn't even look at me. I never expected my visit to go this way when I first arrived back in Westeros, and everything that has happened hasn't been easy on any of us. I only hope that, when we meet again, it will be under warmer circumstances."

"No one could have expected this to happen, Jon," Sam replied. "I know it may be a shallow comfort, but from what I've seen you, Starks seem strong and close-knit. And I think that'll be a good thing with what is coming."

"The lone wolf dies and the pack survives," Jon said, mostly to himself. He looked back at Sam. "I sleep easier knowing that Serena will be with them. Being separated from her is a hardship in and of itself, but it'll be good for her to stay with them for now. So you can keep them safe, and keep up with Arya's training. Maybe she'll even teach something to the others."

His friend paused for a moment, and Sam glanced at the ship, and was mildly surprised not to see the woman in question. Unexpected given how fond the two were of one another, yet he guess she was not into prolonged goodbyes. 

Then, after a moment, he added, "And, honestly, I think she's looking forward to getting a little space from her mother. Those two are an undoubtedly deadly duo, but they can bump heads something fierce if left in the same space for too long."

Sam didn't know whether to laugh or shiver. He owed Lady Volkihar his life, and yet she scared him witless. Honestly, he was happy to be leaving her company. Lady Serana, on the other hand, was perfectly pleasant, as well as beautiful. The love she and Jon had for each other was obvious to anyone who watched them closely enough. It made Sam smile to see the two near one another. Still, like her mother, there was something indescribably off and unnerving about Serana Volkihar. 

'They are my allies. More than that, they are Jon's soon-to-be family. I didn't run from the guard trying to grab Lady Shireen, and I won't run from them. I won't run again,' Sam promised himself. 

"Alright, off to Dorne with us then?" he asked, forcing a smile he didn't quite feel.

Jon nodded and jerked his head towards the tall, three-masted ship that Enzo had headed towards. 

"Apparently, it'll take us about a week to get to Sunspear. Two if the weather is bad."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. 'Please don't let the weather be bad. It'll be hard putting on a brave front while vomiting my innards out over the side of the ship.'

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Sam?"

Before he could do something cowardly and sane, Sam nodded and forced himself to start walking towards the ship. 

"Let's go," he called over his shoulder. 

'Let the war come. I'll... learn how to deal with it.'