Chapter Text
Methodical rain pelted the countryside of the Reach on a cool summer morning.
It had been a week of riding in poor weather conditions. The drizzle had thoroughly soaked through his under armour twice-over and left his newfound spoil of battle, a finely bred chestnut courser, drenched from rainwater. Sam had taken to calling the beast Clover, since it always seemed to stop and snack on that particular weed.
Clover had been his only company throughout the journey, and an easy one it was not. Pain seared from his wound that Curd had inflicted, and without anyone to treat it and exposed to the elements it had grown worse. The area of the wound was inflamed and beginning to leak yellow juices.. A parting gift from a true bastard.
Luckily the beast Curd brought was a capable one, and Clover had been able to follow the Cockleswhent to the Mander, fording the river well. Despite Sam’s weakening strength, the river's moderate depths were coupled with slow-moving waters, meaning the long crossing wasn’t necessarily a difficult one. The well-bred Clover helped of course. That was only yesterday, and the downpour hadn’t ever let up to give them the chance to dry.
Sam shivered in the saddle, the riders’ soreness was now replaced with numbness. Sam’s eyes were downcast, uncertain of where he was, the only option being to move onward.
At this point he didn’t care where he ended up, so long as it offered respite. The path he had taken coincidentally prevented him from the attention of a healer and a warm meal, and for that he was paying the price.
Clover trudged along with much the same dismay that he felt internally, before letting out an uncharacteristic whinny, high pitched and alert. Sam’s eyes barely raised as he patted its knotted mane. “What’s the matter, friend? Cold getting the better of you as-” He heard the sound of steel being bared and Clover half reared itself upward, Sam just barely having the leg strength to hang on. When he returned to eye level he was met with two shoddily armored men bearing no sigils, riding donkeys.
“Which dragon do you fight for ser?” Sam stammered out an answer, relieved to see people again. “Neither, I just need medical attention. I was attacked in The Battle of Castle Ashford”. The soldiers sized him up skeptically, and then sheathed their swords. “You too eh? They killed good Lord Ashford and for naught. He kept us fed and kept the town safe enough for our ma to run the bakery. Even gave us a break on our tax when we had a poor grain harvest a few years back. Well, come with us ser, we have someone who can check you out back at camp.” The two turned their beasts and began trudging along a dirt path, expecting him to follow. Sam detected no deception, so he followed.
The dirt path went on till the sun was overhead, and around this time they arrived at their destination. A great leafless birch tree with visible roots each thrice the size of Clover. The two men, no boys, they’re no older than me or Robb, dismounted and began leading their mounts to the dug out base of the tree. As they walked down the slope beneath the tree's base they disappeared, as Sam followed he realized quickly just how large and deep this went.
His vision adjusted to the semi-darkness, only illuminated by the stray beam of daylight coming in from holes in the trunk of the massive tree, which sat overhead of the large dirt space. The room was comparable to a small-sized great hall, and had spindly corridors that seemed to lead deeper into the earth.
In the center of a room was a large campfire with several smallfolk huddled around it for warmth. In corners of the large room were cots occupied by figures large and small. At the very back of the room was a table with a lantern at its center on top of a map in the shape of the Reach. The table was surrounded by better-armored men than Sam had met at first, and at its head stood a greying knight with a cloak of a hundred different colors. The cloak even seemed to have a red huntsman near its center. And if that was so, that meant this was none other than the Knight of Patchwork himself.
A famous hedge knight throughout Westeros that took no ransom from those he defeated in tourneys, but instead a shred of their cloak or tabard to add to his own. He was the topic of many singers' tales, especially in the Reach.
His gentle brown eyes appraised Sam, before a knight at his side spoke. “It seems one of the giant spawn has wandered down from south the wall! Gods you are large boy, have you come to join our noble cause?”
Samwyl began to walk towards the table before stumbling, the weakness in his injured leg growing as he used it. A septon appeared from behind him and helped him up and towards a cot, shouting over to the assembled warriors “He will be able to answer your jests soon enough Ser’s, but allow me to treat his wounds first. He has seen battle, it seems.” The baby faced septon began by removing his greave so he could better inspect it. He spoke with a wisdom beyond his years. “Fought at Ashford did you friend? You’re not the first we’ve had from there. Would explain why the rot has set in this wound of yours, you’ve left it sit for far too long.”
Sam had never been a devout man but even his father had taught him to have respect for men of the faith. “Yes good Septon, I wish I could have found someone to treat it but I feared being followed. I was making haste for Goldengrove.”
He reached from beneath the cot and produced a dish with small moving creatures. He scooped from it and placed them upon his wound. Sam shuddered as the things moved inside his skin. “If you wouldn’t have ran into us then you surely wouldn’t have made it that far.” He peered closer at Sam’s wound. “However it doesn’t seem to the point of mortal danger, as the maggots are having their fill to clean the wound. I’d say after a few days' rest and continually cleaning the wound you will be able to continue on your way.”
Sam went to rise to speak with the knights but was met with a wool blanket being pressed into his chest. “The Ser’s can wait till the morrow friend. Lie down for now and enjoy a moment of reprieve. You are safe here beneath The Singing Birch.”
Sam felt the exhaustion overwhelmingly but still fought to ignore it to speak with his hosts. A courtesy expected of a lordling. Against his wishes however, the blanket gave him a measure of comfort and relief, despite its scratchiness. It was warm and comforting after many days of riding. It reminded him of afternoons spent in front of the hearth with his mother nursing his wounds he earned from father’s training regimen.. His eyes fluttered before closing peacefully into a dreamless sleep.
Sam awoke from his slumber only once, when he felt a soft press on his lips, but his eyelids were too heavy to open…
–
Eventually he found the strength to rise and sat up from the cot. His gift from Curd no longer throbbed angrily, and for that he was grateful. He stood uneasily and gazed about the den beneath the birch.
The bark walls hummed with a breeze, causing subtle melodic vibrations throughout the room that put Samwyl at ease. He no longer heard the steady drip of rain either. As he glanced around the room it was less populated than before, many of the commoners no longer here. The knights remained however, still standing at their table, speaking in hushed tones with the Knight of Patchwork at its head. Standing his opposite was a familiar woman who had grown more beautiful than the last time he had seen her, Lady Faye Rowan. His future good sister had the typical Rowan golden locks and sharp emerald eyes that currently bore their way to his core.
Sam took a cautious step up from the cot, finding his legs beneath him and stout. He was now unarmored, and his few belongings lay against the cot, excluding Heartsbane, which sat just beneath where he slept
Amongst friends he didn’t see the need in rearming himself. He strode to the table and paused in the only empty standing room near the table, between Lady Faye and Ser Patchwork. The group quieted at his approach, allowing Sam to fulfill his sacred duty.
“Lady Faye, I bring news of your family. There is no easy way for me to tell you so I’ll just-“
A tankard of ale collided into Sam’s roughspun clothes, Lady Faye’s accusatory finger pointing his direction. “You fought for the man who killed my brothers, didn't you Samwyl? Speak it true for the friendship we once shared..”
His face burned in shame. To those who hadn’t seen his plight that would be a fair conclusion to make. However it was imperative that he explain to her why.
“Faye, as Gormon’s squire I had no choice! I had no idea that he would treat noble hostages with such venom. I had tried to save your mother but even she-“
He was interrupted once more as Faye spoke “You were like a brother to me Samwyl. If the word of the survivors is to be believed you fought savagely for Gormon Peake and his cause. You fought alongside the men who would kill my eldest brother in the field. You watched as they snapped both my little brothers necks as punishment for our escape. And then you have the gall to tell the young Maester you ride for Goldengrove. To tell us what Samwyl? That you let another of my family die?”
Her eyes streaked themselves with tears as she scoffed. “No, we need not your honeyed words. What I required of you it is clear you don’t possess. A spine.”
Sam felt smaller than he had ever felt before. His father and Gormon both had torn him apart in such a manner. But it felt different coming from someone he truly cared for.
What have I done? Could I have truly stopped it? Fought Gormon or even put the boys under my protection?
Tears welled at his own eyes, he wiped them away in shame. “Please forgive me Faye, I was in a terrible situation and knew not what to do. Daemon will punish Gormon for his transgressions. I swear it on my honor as a Tarly!” His voice cracked in desperation, hand hovering over his heart in a vow.
Lady Faye exhaled and her face bore a look of disappointment. “It is clear you are yet to understand the error of your actions. There will come a time when you better understand my grief. But worry not Samwyl, it is not my forgiveness you require, but hers. And I believe her mind has been made.”
Lady Faye picked up her skirts and walked towards the exit of the tree, a solitary Rowan man at arms awaiting her. Just beyond him, Sam saw her. Kyra. She walked from The Singing Birch into the bright sun, his eyes losing track of her as soon as he saw her. He made to follow her, but the young Maester put a hand on his shoulder.
“She wished to leave Ser, and you cannot accompany them. Based upon their wishes as well as your condition. If you want to keep the leg I advise you stay at least another few days, the inflammation should be close to zero before you depart.”
He felt tremendous grief at that moment. Grief not only for the deceased members of house Rowan, but also for his relationship with Kyra. It had been so perfect. I would escort her to the coronation a decorated knight. And now how can I ever possibly rekindle our love?
The Knight of Patchwork handed him a skin filled to the brim with a strong smelling liquid. “Firewine, I’m trying to kick the habit with my newfound duties. It’ll dull the senses lad, I believe that may be just what you need.”
Sam pressed the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Several gulps went down and burned his gut like nothing he had felt before. “Drink up, and once the warmness settles in, we ask your advice.”
He wiped the wine from the corner of his lip and looked to the stout knight for wisdom. “What advice would a famous knight need from a lowly squire?” The pain was audible in his voice.
“A squire of a noble house, milord. We need to know anything you can tell us of Gormon Peake and his war plans. The more smallfolk we have avoid him, the better. And to you lad I am but Ser Hallis, forget the fancy titles in my presence.”
Sam pondered for a moment the consequences of giving them information on Gormon’s strategy. On one hand, it meant exposing some of Daemon’s campaign to those who likely don’t champion his cause. But then again, these men seem to have the interests of the innocent as their noble goal, one he appreciated more in recent days.
Ignoring the cruelties of Gormon would be to spit on house Rowan’s memory. I will spare more folk from his wrath if possible. It’s the least I could do for my failures.
He moved his hand to the marker of Ashford on the map. “Gormon has three separate forces he has given orders to. One headed for Lannisport, another sieging Highgarden, and the last with himself in Ashford. Daemon tasked him with pacifying those not willing to take up our cause in the Reach. I’d wager that means he is either headed to Highgarden to ensure its capture or for Bitterbridge to confront Lord Paramount Leo. However I believe he only heads towards Bitterbridge if Highgarden has been taken by Ser Lyman. Perhaps you’ve heard news of Highgarden Ser’s?”
A burly knight with a squirrel on his tabard spoke “When we came to represent The Seven here, my squire and I passed Highgarden. Trebuchets had left sizable holes in the defenses but Lord Leo’s banner still flew above the keep.”
Ser Hallis spoke next “Then that means Gormon is headed for Highgarden correct?”
Sam pondered for a moment “I’ve also considered the possibility of him reinforcing Starpike, but Gormon was never one for sentimentality. If losing his keep temporarily increased their chances of a decisive victory he’d do so without hesitation. No, it must be Highgarden or Bitterbridge, and my wager is Highgarden. It is too valuable to the Reach to leave in the hands of opposition.”
Ser Hallis looked around the assembled knights, their count thirteen excluding Samwyl, and loudly clattered a wooden marker on Highgarden. The marker bore a shoddy resemblance to the Seven Pointed Star, which told Sam all he needed to know.
“You plan to stand against Gormon?” He sounded incredulous he knew, but men of the faith bearing arms was already questionable legally. And now they mean to pick a side?
Hallis shook his head gravely “I would never command such leal men to do such a thing. They offered their swords to The Faith, not Lord Leo or The Iron Throne. Nevertheless, so long as Gormon commits atrocities against smallfolk he will present a danger to our kingdom, and thus he must be slain. Highgarden will stand so Gormon can fall.”
This whole situation befuddled him. According to Maegor’s law, it forbade The Faith from arming themselves. “Aren’t you afraid of King Daeron disapproving of your actions, whether they aid his cause or not you are defying Targaryen law.”
Ser Hallis chuckled, and reached beneath the map table into a deep chest. Pulling forth cloaks of rainbow, he handed one to each knight assembled around the table. “The law of a tyrant king! King Daeron will not uphold such outdated laws. And besides, we were given an epiphany by a Septon worth his salt. The, High Seer, they call him. He has taken residence in Oldtown as the leader of The Most Devout among The Starry Sept. He told me that in my pursuit of justice and protecting the innocent, I would come upon the reincarnation of Hugor of the Hill himself.”
Hallis sized Sam up as he handed a cloak to the knight before him. “I had considered the possibility it was you but alas, the more we spoke I determined you didn’t fit the prophecy as he told it. However, that doesn’t mean we couldn’t use your sword.” He offered an outstretched hand with a rainbow cloak to Samwyl.
“I’m afraid I must decline, I am needed elsewhere. However I owe you and your men a debt I intend to repay one day for healing me.”
Hallis nodded sagely “I figured as much. Youth tend to be averse to matters of morals and would rather concern themselves with matters of the heart. But as The Seven have it, not sure there is any amount of fight you could muster to win Lady Kyra’s affections back, young Sam.”
He felt a pang of anger before forgoing that foolishness. Perhaps he had the answers Faye alluded to. How could I right these wrongs? Hallis’s wrinkled eyes seemed to hold wisdom within their deep chestnut pools.
“How do I fix it then? If not by winning this war and asking for Gormon to be brought to justice by Daemon, then how do I write the wrong?”
“Refuse the Game of Thrones boy. It harms all who play it and those they stand with. Faye was disturbed that you hadn’t learnt that lesson despite what you’d been through. It showed your delusions with this quest to seat a King upon a throne of corpses, this is not a war fought for justice or peace but of pride.”
Sam let Hallis’s words rest in his mind for a moment. Is it possible to leave behind this war and my cause? Is it not just for all the reasons Daemon has stated and more?
Sam’s hand twitched at the still visible rainbow cloak…
As he stared at the cloak, his eyes glazed over at the red and green of the rainbow. Old memories flooded into his mind of a young Samwyl in the yard, being beaten to a bloody pulp by an older squire as his father barked orders with the huntsman tabard on his chest.
Meeting his cous Robb Reyne as a boy. The first boy his age he had been allowed to run about the yard with and act like a kid. His eager prodding one particular night led to him securing a kiss from the older Faye, sparking a jealous romance between him and Kyra. A summer of childish love.
Then, a trip to Highgarden as an older boy, riding in the tourney yard with Daemon as he instructed Sam, Robb, and Harrold Osgrey on the artistry of using a lance. They then drank themselves into a stupor as Daemon clashed Blackfyre against Brynden Bittersteel. The three squires watched the brothers clash blades until day turned to dusk.
For all those memories and more, he could not forgo his cause. No, I cannot forgo my friends. For them, I would perish.
With tears in his eyes he spoke in a low tone “l simply cannot abandon this yet. My friends have need of my sword, and until good men sit upon the throne I cannot rest. I only hope she will forgive me once I return victorious.”
A sad smile graced The Knight of Patchworks face at that moment. “As you say young man. Consider your debt paid for the information, and bear in mind that your involvement will not leave this room, for your fealty to Daemon. Now let’s hope your predictions hold true and we can bring the Peake bastard to justice.”
The knights of the table began marching for the entrance, Ser Hallis at their rear.
“I take it you’ll be gone by the time we return Samwyl?”
“If the gods are willing, I plan to ride hard for Lannisport. My cousin Robb leads a force there that I intend to join.”
Ser Hallis followed his men to the exit of the tree and raised his hand goodbye without ever turning back to face Sam, his patchworked cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze, forming a rainbow of its own.
The Warriors’ Sons reborn and they plan to kill Gormon for his crimes? Perhaps The Seven are real..
Sam walked back to his cot and sat. The young Maester from before brought him a trencher with a fried egg smothered in Dornish pepper jelly and some hardtack bread with a mug of goat's milk to wash it down.
He took a hearty bite from the bread and did something unfamiliar. He clasped his hands together and said a silent prayer for his cousin Robb in the Westerlands, to survive whatever battles he may be facing so that he could see him once more. If only Ser Hallis could see me now..
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