Once he had shed his armor, washed away the dust of the lists, and donned fresh clothes, Sam led William toward the great hall. Garlan had already gone ahead.
The tall corridors stretched far into the distance, their walls lined with lifelike marble reliefs. In the courtyards, hedges and flowers had been cut with perfect care; under the setting sun, they seemed dusted with gold. House Tarly was an ancient house of the Reach and among Highgarden's most trusted bannermen. Their castle, Horn Hill, had been enlarged and rebuilt for centuries, until its vastness and splendor could awe any visitor.
Walking along the stone path beneath the arches, William looked about with easy curiosity, admiring the old yet vigorous castle. Sam opened his mouth a few times, but in the end said nothing.
They say Horn Hill's lands are poor and the Tarlys weak, but with all these decorations and the state of their upkeep, they hardly look short of coin… William was still wondering what Lord Randyll's secret source of wealth might be when Sam suddenly halted. William stopped too, confused. On Sam's round face flickered his usual timidity, but in his eyes there was a trace of resolve. In a trembling voice, he asked:
"Ser… Ser William, I heard that you not only squire under Ser Garth, but that you are also an assistant maester from the Citadel?"
William blinked in surprise. Samwell was the first truly important figure of the story he had met since coming to Westeros. He had avoided seeking him out, worried he might disturb the course of events. He had assumed Sam would remain silent until they reached the hall, then they would part ways. Yet here the boy was, summoning courage to break the silence halfway there.
"How did you know I studied at the Citadel? Am I so famous even here at Horn Hill?"
"Since you won the mêlée yesterday, tales of you are everywhere. The servants spoke of you, said you have a byname—the Magic Knight." Sam shrugged. "With skills like yours, it was only a matter of time before your name spread."
Truly, there are no wrong nicknames—only nicknames too true. Who would guess that the name once meant as mockery, for dabbling in the arcane, should turn out real?
Since the ice was broken, William no longer held back. Stretching his arms, he nodded. "Yes. I have studied at the Citadel for six years now. I've forged two links."
"What is the Citadel like? Will you tell me, Ser William?"
"Mm? The one who treated me during the tilt—he's your maester, is he not? Why not ask him?"
"Maester Dedalus? Yes, but my father forbade me from asking about the Citadel. So he never speaks of it, neither in his lessons nor in private." Sam even curled his lip, disdain plain on his face.
That Samwell Tarly, known everywhere for cowardice, would dare defy his father's command—William could not help but see him in a new light. Not so timid after all. Yet he wondered. By this time, Randyll should have given up on Sam and placed his hopes on little Dickon. Wasn't Sam meant to enjoy a few sweet years of ease before being forced to the Wall? Why still such harsh restraint?
But the Citadel was no secret. Telling him of it would hardly change his fate. So William recounted his memories: the endless shelves of the library, the stalls of the Scribes' Market, the ancient, massive weirwood on the Isle of Ravens, the oddities of the maesters, and even a few jokes about hapless acolytes. Sam listened with shining eyes, utterly enraptured.
William soon discovered Sam was a delightful companion—attentive, curious, asking the right questions, offering thoughtful remarks. They grew more at ease, as though they had always been friends. After William told a jest about an acolyte who tried to catch stars with a fishing rod, both burst into laughter. When their mirth faded, Sam sighed wistfully.
"That must be a marvelous place. I think I would fit there well."
William hesitated. If Sam never goes to the Wall—what of dragonglass, the Others, Jon Snow's flight? Would the story itself unravel? Yet this plump boy truly has talent: wide learning, quick wit, and a pleasant tongue… Well, I never meant to meddle in the North's tale. If trouble comes, it won't be mine to bear.
He gave Sam an encouraging look. "If you wish to go, then go. You have the makings of a maester—perhaps even a great one."
"Truly?" Sam's voice rose in wonder. "I could become a maester? A great maester?"
"Trust me," William said firmly. "I have known many maesters. I see their likeness in you."
Sam believed him, his face glowing red with joy. He chuckled foolishly, but in moments the joy turned to gloom. "But my father… he does not think so."
He lowered his head, his voice low and heavy. "I know my father's expectations. I know what keeps House Tarly strong. Oldtown has knowledge and wealth, the Redwynes have wine and fleets, but Horn Hill has only warriors and generals. In every great war of the Reach, it is the Tarlys who lead the van, charging first, fighting hardest, never flinching. That is our house's word."
William thought grimly, So he understands it all too well.
"Until Dickon was born, my father wanted me to be the knight he dreamed of. I knew that if I only pretended—if I gave him even half an effort—many things might never have happened. But I truly, truly do not wish to be a knight!" His voice was not loud, but it shook with all his strength, the final words wrenched from deep within.
William needed no further telling. He could see the truth in every line: the scoldings and the beatings, the slaps and the hunger, the nights spent trembling alone to the sound of his father's roars, sobbing under merciless blows, shivering through the cold and the dark.
For a child of only a few years, home must seem the whole of his world, and his father the master of that world. What power, then, allows such a boy to stand against it? Had his younger brother never been born, would he have endured to the end?
'And if it were me in his place, could I, even in a life without the faintest glimmer of hope, remain so unshaken?'
Somehow, William's thoughts turned to Jon Snow. Friendship, he realized, cannot rest on pity alone. What truly won Jon's respect for Samwell must have been this quiet, soul-deep strength. Looking at Sam, head bowed so low, William parted his lips to speak—but in the end, he only placed a hand silently upon the boy's shoulder.
Sam lifted his head, gratitude shining in his eyes as he forced a smile.
After steadying himself and sniffling once, he went on: "When Dickon grew older, I thought everything would change. Well, most things did. Father no longer shouted at me, nor was I driven through knightly drills. I could read all I wished, and enjoy music and fine food. But for some reason, Father still forbade me to have dealings with our maester, or to go to the Citadel." He shook his head, baffled. "I don't know where my future lies…"
William considered. The matter was strange indeed. One son inherits, the others must find other paths—that was the way of Westerosi lords. What difference whether the spare son took the black or forged his chain? If Randyll were standing before him, William would urge him: treat Dickon as the heir, Sam as the second son, and send him to Oldtown. Why fight him so? Promise the Citadel, and he would gladly call Dickon 'brother' for life.
Tiring of pondering Randyll's mind, William seized Sam by both shoulders, fixing his gaze on him. "Most often, in fate's cruelest moments lies the chance for the greatest turn. Whatever comes, hold fast—the moment meant for you will come."
Sam broke into a smile, nodding firmly, moved by the words. "Thank you, Ser William!"
"Eh, you know well enough—I'm no knight yet. Call me William, no need for titles."
"Alright, William," Sam replied without hesitation.
William slung an arm around him with ease—he was taller, older by two years, and sturdier of frame—tucking Sam beneath his arm as they walked on. Bending close, he lowered his voice. "Do you remember those two warlocks from Qarth?"
Sam's face twisted with disgust, hand pressed to his chest. "I think I'll never forget that slimy feeling, nor the stench. Believe me, you'd not want to."
"Hah! Then you must have heard I later took them into my service."
"Of course—that news spread quickly. Many say you're a fool to trust frauds. Even Lady Margaery thinks so."
William snorted. "And how would you know what Lady Margaery says?"
"Lady Margaery is friendly with my sister Talla, so…" Sam pulled a knowing face.
"Well, even if she did say it, she may be fair of face, but beauty doesn't make her wiser than me. How can she know whether I'm a fool? Tell me, Sam—do you think I'm foolish?"
"I couldn't say." Sam grinned slyly. "But those warlocks certainly haven't made me any braver."
That's because you could never be braver than you already are, my friend, William thought, smiling knowingly, though he kept the words unspoken.