Chapter 184: The Fall of the City

The night was silent within the sept.

Lord Yohn Royce's body lay wrapped in the Royce family banner, placed before the statue of the Mother.

Samwell was on watch, joined by Yohn's son, Ser Robar Royce.

"My father lived a life of caution," Robar murmured after a long silence.

"I could tell," Samwell replied, shifting to relieve his numb leg.

"But in the end, he couldn't escape the curse of 'Time'," Robar's face was hidden in shadow, his expression unreadable.

Samwell wasn't sure how to respond. After a moment, he settled on echoing Lord Yohn's final words: "Time washes away all things."

Another silence fell, and Samwell assumed Robar was finished speaking. But then, in a low voice, Robar continued, "The Royce family holds seven suits of bronze armor."

Samwell's eyes flickered with recognition, recalling the strange vision he'd experienced when he first donned Time. He had seen seven figures standing in a godswood.

"These suits of bronze armor…" Samwell ventured, "Do they all carry stories?"

"They have ancient histories," Robar replied, his voice distant and contemplative. "It's said that over eight thousand years ago, or perhaps even earlier, a Royce ancestor became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His name has long been forgotten, but legend tells he had six brothers. The seven of them were the finest rangers on the Wall, champions against the evils beyond.

"Back then, the Night's Watch was not a refuge for criminals as it is now. It gathered the most devout warriors from all Seven Kingdoms, men who were willing to sacrifice everything to protect against the darkness. But the Royce brothers… they fell apart over a woman. Beneath an ancient heart tree, they dueled each other to the death. Six of them perished; only one survived."

"A woman?" Samwell couldn't help but think of the ethereal, ice-like beauty from his vision.

"Yes. A woman, beautiful beyond compare but cold as death. Pale as the moon, yet as captivating as the night itself. She had a spellbinding allure."

"What happened next? Did the surviving Royce marry her?"

"He did. But the gods cursed him for the blood of his brothers on his hands, and he soon perished as well. As for the woman, she vanished beyond the Wall, as if she'd never existed."

"Was she a wildling from beyond the Wall?"

"No one knows. Her entire existence is a mystery."

Samwell stroked his chin, feeling that there was something hauntingly familiar about the story, as if it concealed secrets lost to time.

The Royce family's motto, "We Remember," suggested they might indeed know many of the old mysteries. Lord Yohn's knowing glance at Samwell's greatsword, Dawn, hinted he was aware of more than he'd let on.

As if sensing Samwell's lingering curiosity, Robar added, "If you wish to know more, speak to my elder brother. He's heir to Runestone and knows much more than I do."

Samwell nodded, recalling that the Royce heir, Andar, had attended the tournament in King's Landing, though they hadn't had the chance to spar.

"Our bronze armor has never been given to outsiders," Robar said.

Samwell shrugged. "If, after the war, House Royce wants it back, I have no objections."

"No," Robar replied firmly. "My father made a promise. As long as you kill the Red Viper, Time is yours." His gaze lingered on the armor Samwell wore. "I only ask that you use it well."

"I will," Samwell promised.

They fell silent again, each lost in thought. Eventually, Samwell broke the silence.

"Lord Yohn led the Vale forces south to fight Dorne, but what was the stance of the Eyrie?"

Robar sighed, his tone tinged with frustration. "The Eyrie's response was puzzling. After receiving the Iron Throne's call to war, my father awaited a summons from the young Lord of the Eyrie. But it never came.

"This war is meant to avenge Lord Jon Arryn, yet the Eyrie's reluctance to take part defies understanding. Father eventually grew tired of waiting and went to the Eyrie himself, but Lady Lysa turned him away. He wasn't even allowed to see the young lord.

"In the end, Father had to rally the Vale nobles himself and lead us south."

Samwell nodded, unsurprised. In the original story, Lady Lysa had similarly avoided any involvement in the War of the Five Kings.

Now, even with Jon Arryn's death demanding vengeance, she hadn't managed to prevent the Vale lords from taking matters into their own hands and marching to war. Without Littlefinger, Lysa likely lacked the nerve to oppose those seeking justice for Jon.

It struck Samwell that, with both Jon Arryn and Littlefinger dead, the Vale now had a power vacuum. Lysa couldn't control the Vale, and her sickly young son would struggle to rule.

Since Jon Arryn had left no other children, the Arryn heir was actually a knight of House Hardyng, his claim traced through the female line. But the Hardys were a minor family; it was their liege, House Waynwood of Ironoaks, who held real power in the region.

If young Robert Arryn were to die, House Waynwood might well push House Hardyng's heir forward as a candidate to rule the Vale.

Yet Samwell suspected that House Royce, one of the Vale's most powerful families, wouldn't simply stand by and allow a minor noble to claim the Eyrie. The Vale's future seemed poised for strife and conflict.

Lost in their thoughts, the two men kept silent, keeping watch until dawn.

As the morning light filtered through the sept's windows, Robar turned to Samwell.

"Lord Caesar, as our commander, the morning prayers should be led by you."

"Of course."

Samwell gathered the men, leading them in a prayer before the Warrior's statue, asking for courage and strength. In that moment, he felt profoundly devout himself. They needed the gods' blessing now more than ever.

Their situation was dire, and even Samwell was losing hope. He didn't know how many more days they could withstand the Dornish onslaught, nor when—or if—the Iron Throne's army would break through.

It seemed that only a miracle could save them now.

But miracles did not come.

Days turned into weeks. Samwell lost track of time—was it the eighteenth day? Or perhaps the twentieth?

The number of comrades dwindled, from the initial three hundred forty to a mere forty. Of these, only a handful could still stand. The entire sept was saturated with the scent of death.

"We should consider surrendering," Robar whispered, limping over to Samwell.

"If surrender were an option, I'd have done it already," Samwell replied, stifling a curse. "The Red Viper killed his own daughter. What makes you think he'd spare us?"

Robar fell silent. Deep down, he knew surrender was futile. The only reason they'd fought this long was that they understood surrender would mean death.

But how could they keep fighting in this condition? One more push, and the sept would fall.

Yet, curiously, no final assault came.

As night descended, Samwell and Robar stood by a window, watching the northern horizon. Suddenly, a realization dawned.

"The Dornish might be at their limit!" Robar's spirits lifted, his fatigue momentarily forgotten.

Samwell sent his falcon to scout, its sharp eyes capturing the Iron Throne's forces swarming the northern wall, banners waving high.

Was the city finally falling?

Cautiously optimistic, he held his excitement in check, fearing another disappointment. But this time, the tide truly turned. Dornish forces retreated, one wall after another falling. The gates soon creaked open, and the Iron Throne's forces poured into the city.

"It's over! We're saved!"

Samwell rushed to share the news with the others, who burst into cheers after days shrouded in despair.

But their jubilation was short-lived. A grim message arrived.

"Lord Caesar, the Dornish are approaching!"

"How many?"

"At least six or seven hundred! And they're led by the Red Viper!"

"Damn it!" Samwell cursed. He hurried upstairs to the window, where he saw a sizable Dornish force surrounding the sept, preparing for a final assault.

"It looks like the Red Viper doesn't plan to leave us alive," Robar said with a grim smile, resigned to their fate.

Samwell's expression darkened as he returned to the main hall, gathering the last survivors.

Looking each one in the eye, he said, "The city is lost to the Dornish, but they're determined to take us with them. This is their final act of madness. I won't lie—holding this sept is impossible. We have to break out."

"How?" a knight asked.

"We ride out on horseback. Break through and reach the Iron Throne's forces at the northern gate. That's our only chance."

"But we don't have enough horses," Robar reminded him.

"We have six left."

"Six horses aren't enough for everyone…"

"Then six of us will ride," Samwell replied, and at his words, the others' expressions shifted.

These six horses were now six final chances for survival.

(End of Chapter)