Chapter 27: The Prophecy

"My lord, these are our tribe's traditional dishes: roasted lamb heart, grilled pigeon, snake stew, along with sour limes and mountain grapes..."

Samwell nodded approvingly as he surveyed the food laid before him, then raised his glass and said, "Thanks be to the gods for the feast!"

Everyone promptly raised their own glasses as well.

The drink was a plum wine, with a pleasant blend of sweetness and tartness. Although the dishes looked rough and a bit crude, they tasted surprisingly good. Still, Samwell was a little disappointed that none of these foods seemed to provide the special stat-boosting properties he was seeking.

Swallowing his last bite of pigeon, Samwell dabbed at his mouth with a cloth and then asked, "Have any of you heard of the Free Ravens tribe?"

Chinmu quickly put down his knife and fork and answered, "Yes, my lord. The Free Ravens are another tribe in the region."

"Do you know where they're camped? Are they far from here?"

"My lord, it's hard to say," Chinmu explained. "The Free Ravens don't have a fixed camp. They're a nomadic tribe, always moving from place to place. They revere ravens as messengers of their gods, hence their name."

Samwell frowned. "Then, do you have any way of finding them?"

"We can, my lord. If they're still in these mountains, there will be traces of their presence, though it may take some time to track them down."

"Good. Send people to do so as quickly as possible. Let me know as soon as you have news."

"Yes, my lord." Chinmu nodded, then added, "May I ask why you're seeking them?"

"Have you ever heard of ghost grass?"

Chinmj shook his head.

Just as Samwell was beginning to feel disappointed, the shaman Sallu spoke up.

"My lord, I have heard of it."

"Oh? Then do you know where it might be found?"

"Apologies, my lord. It is said to be a rare and elusive herb, one that avoids human eyes. Only the Free Ravens seem to know how to find it."

Samwell sighed with disappointment.

So far, he had only identified two foods capable of enhancing his attributes—Golden Tail Shrimp and ghost grass. The shrimp, while rare, was available at a high price, but as for ghost grass, it seemed he would have to rely on the Free Ravens to find it.

When the meal was over, Samwell decided not to linger and prepared to return to Eagle's Point. Chinmu, along with the rest of the tribe, gathered to see them off at the gates.

Noticing young Katu tagging along behind him, Samwell suddenly turned back and called Sallu over.

"Sallu, would you consider coming with me to Eagle's Point?"

"Thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no. This is my home. I was born here, and here I will one day die."

Samwell studied the shaman's calm expression, surprised.

He had assumed that Sallu's decision to place Katu in his service had been a calculated move, a kind of political opportunism. But now it seemed there was more to it than that.

"If you stay here, you might find yourself meeting an unexpected end." Samwell tried again to persuade him.

After all, by presenting Katu to him, Sallu had effectively put a leash around Chinmu's neck, which might make the new chieftain resent him. And Chinmu was not known for his mercy; a man who could kill his own father and brothers would hardly hesitate to remove a troublesome shaman.

Sallu simply smiled and replied serenely, "My lord, death is a fate none of us can escape, myself included."

Samwell sighed, realizing that Sallu was likely set on atoning for his role in the death of the old chieftain and thus had resigned himself to an early death.

For some reason, however, Samwell felt it would be a waste to let the old shaman die so pointlessly.

After a moment's thought, he proposed, "How about this, Sallu? Although I've waived the taxes for Tiger's Fang Village for the next three months, we will eventually need a tax officer here. Would you be willing to serve in that capacity?"

Sallu looked slightly taken aback. He understood that Samwell was offering him this position as a form of protection. Having this title would effectively make him an agent of the lord, which meant Chinmu would have to think twice before laying a hand on him.

But rather than accept right away, Sallu hesitated, frowning.

Samwell tried to encourage him, saying, "Consider it, Sallu. If only for the sake of the people here, you owe it to them to keep going. I'm not comfortable leaving the village solely in Chinmu's hands."

Finally, Sallu nodded and said, "Very well, my lord. If that is your wish, I will serve you in this way."

"Now that's what I like to hear!" Samwell laughed heartily. "Don't give up so quickly, Sallu. The world is vast and full of wonders. I'd like to take you all to see it someday."

"The world beyond does not belong to us..."

"Says who?" Samwell interrupted. "You are as much the descendants of the First Men and the Andals as any other. Why should you be considered lesser? You lack neither intelligence nor courage—what you lack is someone who can bring the mountain tribes together."

The shaman lifted his gaze, staring intently into Samwell's eyes. He could see there, clearly, the young knight's ambition.

To unite all the tribes of the Red Mountains?

At that moment, Sallu remembered something. His tired, ancient heart seemed to skip a beat, filled with an unexpected surge of life and purpose.

"You're right, my lord," Sallu replied, his eyes shining. "The mountain tribes have waited for a hero for thousands of years, someone to lead them out of the shadows! I remember hearing the winds through the mountains—whispers from the gods, who said that after the Long Summer would come a time of darkness. Out of that darkness, a great king would be born in fire. He would be the light in the long night, the savior of the people, the herald of divine will!"

What?

Samwell was taken aback, startled by the intensity of the old shaman's words.

What he had meant as a somewhat boastful comment had ignited a spark of religious fervor in Sallu.

But Samwell quickly took note of the terms Sallu had used—"the Long Summer," "darkness," "fire," "light"—all of them echoing elements of the prophecy that the Red Priestess Melisandre had once mentioned. The stories bore an uncanny resemblance to one another. Was it a coincidence? Or were the gods spreading the same prophecy across the world to all their followers?

In that instant, an idea came to Samwell.

Why shouldn't he make use of this prophecy?

In this world, bloodline was usually the easiest way to wield influence, but unfortunately, Samwell lacked such an illustrious heritage. House Tarly was respected but not among the most ancient of noble families. Besides, he was now known by a different name altogether: Caesar—a name unknown to the people of Westeros.

To wield greater influence and gain more support, he needed to try another method.

Faith.

Nothing drew followers like a shared faith.

While the Faith Militant had been disbanded long ago, history showed that religion, once embraced, could command the loyalty of thousands, and even came close to toppling the Targaryens. Ancient rulers often used divine symbolism—fabled omens, mysterious births, heavenly signs—to build a kind of mythic authority.

If figures like Melisandre could see him as the prophesied "savior" figure, all the better. When the time came, he could stoke the flames of prophecy, creating an image that would magnify his influence and inspire trust. With enough power, that trust would become undeniable proof for many that he was the true hero of the realm.

At that moment, he could even convince Melisandre herself that he was the chosen one.

Considering all this, Samwell allowed himself a slight smile and finally met Sallu's gaze directly, saying, "Sallu, would you like to hear the story of my childhood?"

"It would be my honor, my lord."

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(End of Chapter)