After removing his armor, scrubbing off the dust of travel, and changing into clean clothes, Sam led William toward the banquet hall. Garlan had already gone ahead.
The grand corridor stretched far into the distance, its sides lined with intricate marble reliefs that looked almost alive. Outside, the courtyard gardens flourished in lush, vibrant colors, all meticulously maintained. Bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, they shimmered as if dusted with gold. The Tarlys were an ancient and esteemed family in the Reach, long trusted vassals of the Lords of Highgarden. Their seat, Horn Hill, had been expanded and renovated over countless generations, and now stood as a testament to their wealth and taste—both vast and extravagant.
Walking the flagstone path through the halls, William strolled with easy curiosity, his eyes roaming across the living history etched into every corner. Sam, on the other hand, looked like he had something on his mind. He opened his mouth a few times, but hesitated, swallowing his words.
"I always heard Horn Hill was a poor domain and that the Tarlys weren't particularly powerful," William mused aloud, eyes drifting over a silver-inlaid wall sconce. "But looking at the decorations and upkeep here… they definitely don't seem strapped for coin."
Just as William was wondering if Lord Randyll had some secret source of income, Sam suddenly stopped in his tracks. William turned in confusion, only to see Sam's round face tightening in what looked like nervous determination. With a voice that trembled but held firm, Sam asked:
"S-Ser William, I heard you're not just training in the knightly arts under Ser Garlan… but also an acolyte at the Citadel?"
William blinked, caught off guard. Samwell Tarly was the first major canon character he'd encountered since arriving in Westeros. He'd intentionally avoided initiating contact, worried that interfering might ripple into the future and skew the plot. He'd assumed this timid boy wouldn't dare speak to him directly—that they'd simply walk to the banquet hall in silence, then part ways.
But Sam had surprised him, mustering the courage to break that silence halfway through their walk.
"How'd you find out I studied at the Citadel? Am I already famous here at Horn Hill?"
"Ever since you won the melee tournament yesterday, everyone's been talking about you. I overheard the servants saying it. They even gave you a nickname—'The Mage Knight.'" Sam shrugged. "Considering how good you are, it's only a matter of time before the whole realm hears about you."
William chuckled inwardly. Funny how a name meant to mock me for dabbling in the arcane turned out to be true.
Since the conversation was already flowing, William decided not to keep up the act. Stretching his arms, he nodded. "Yeah, I've studied at the Citadel for six years. Forged two links on my maester's chain."
"What's the Citadel like? Could you tell me more, Ser William?"
"Hm? Isn't your house maester—what was his name—Dedalo? Why not ask him?"
"Dedalo? Yes, but… my father forbade me from asking about the Citadel. The maester won't teach me during lessons, and won't say anything in private either." Sam pouted, clearly irritated.
William raised an eyebrow. Samwell Tarly, defying his father's orders? Now that was unexpected. So the coward had some spine after all.
Still, it was odd. By now, Randyll Tarly should've already disowned Sam, placing all his hopes on his younger son, Dickon. Hadn't Sam lived a few peaceful years before being sent to the Wall? So why the continued restrictions?
Whatever. It's not like Citadel knowledge is some closely guarded secret. William thought. Telling him a few stories won't derail the plot.
He began recounting tales of the Citadel—its vast, smoke-scented libraries; the scroll-covered stalls of the Scribes' Market; the massive, ancient weirwood tree on Ravenry Isle; and the bizarre habits of various maesters. He threw in a few cheeky jokes about fellow apprentices too. Sam listened with rapt attention, eyes shining, completely enthralled.
To William's surprise, Sam turned out to be a fantastic conversation partner—attentive, inquisitive, and thoughtful. He'd nod at just the right moments, ask insightful follow-ups, and offer the occasional sharp observation. As they chatted, the two grew more animated, more at ease, as if they'd been old friends reunited.
After William finished telling a joke about an apprentice who once tried to fish for stars with a rod and string, both of them burst into hearty laughter. When the laughter faded, Sam shook his head wistfully.
"That place sounds amazing. I think… I'd really belong there."
William hesitated.
If Sam doesn't go to the Wall… then who'll find the dragonglass? What about the White Walkers? Who'll stop Jon Snow from deserting the Watch? This might throw off a lot of the plot... But still—this guy's got a real gift. He's smart, curious, and speaks well. Ah, screw it. I wasn't planning to get too deep into the North arc anyway. Whatever happens, it's not my headache.
He gave Sam a warm, encouraging smile. "Then go. Honestly, I think you've got the makings of a maester. Maybe even a great one."
"Really?" Sam's voice rose an octave in surprise. "You really think I have that kind of talent?"
"Believe me." William's tone was firm. "I've met a lot of maesters. I see the same spark in you."
Something in Sam's eyes lit up. His face flushed with excitement, and he let out a goofy little laugh. But the joy faded quickly, replaced by a troubled frown.
"But my father… he doesn't agree."
He lowered his head, voice growing soft.
"I know what he expects from me. I know what's kept House Tarly strong. Oldtown has knowledge and coin. The Arbor has wine and fleets. But Horn Hill only has its warriors. In every great war in the Reach, the Tarlys led the charge, fought in the vanguard, bled first and most. That's our family legacy."
William nodded inwardly. So he understands everything.
"Before Dickon was born, my father tried to mold me into the knight he wanted. And I knew—if I'd just gone along with it, even a little… a lot of things wouldn't have happened. But I couldn't. I truly, deeply don't want to be a knight."
Sam's voice was barely audible, but William could tell he'd poured every ounce of his strength into that last sentence.
William didn't need an explanation. He already knew. The beatings, the insults, the starvation. He could almost see a small, chubby boy trembling under his father's roars, crying beneath a flurry of cruel strikes, huddling through sleepless, freezing nights alone.
For a child, the world begins and ends with the home—and a father's word is law. What kind of strength does it take to defy that? If Dickon hadn't been born, would Sam have survived? Could I, in his shoes, have held out so long without ever giving in?
For some reason, Jon Snow came to mind. Friendship isn't built on pity. Jon didn't admire Sam because he felt sorry for him. He admired him because, deep down, Sam had this quiet, unshakable strength.
William reached out and gently clapped Sam on the shoulder.
Sam looked up, his eyes damp, but smiled in return.
After wiping his nose, he continued, "When Dickon got older, I thought things would change. And they did—somewhat. My father stopped yelling at me. I didn't have to train anymore. I could read, enjoy music, and feast all I wanted. But… he still wouldn't let me near the maesters. He banned me from the Citadel."
He shook his head, lost. "I don't know what my future holds."
William frowned. It was puzzling. Among Westerosi nobles, it was normal to send spare sons off—to the Night's Watch, to the Citadel, wherever. Either way, they gave up claims to lands and heirs. What did it matter? Why did Randyll care so much?
If Randyll were here, William thought bitterly, I'd tell him—just pretend Dickon's the heir and let Sam go study. Problem solved. Sam would call Dickon 'big brother' every day if it got him to the Citadel.
Tired of guessing Lord Randyll's motives, William clapped both hands on Sam's shoulders and stared into his eyes.
"Often, it's in the worst moments that the biggest changes begin. No matter what, don't give up. Your time will come, Sam. I promise."
Sam grinned, visibly cheered, and nodded vigorously.
"Thank you, Ser William!"
"Oh, come on," William laughed. "I'm not a knight yet. Just call me William."
"Alright—William," Sam said, not the least bit shy now.
William slung an arm over Sam's shoulders—he was taller and older by a couple of years, and it was easy to pull him in like a big brother would. As they walked, William leaned down and whispered:
"Remember those two warlocks from Qohor?"
Sam gagged dramatically and clutched his chest. "I don't think I'll ever forget that sticky feeling—or the smell. Trust me, you don't want to experience it firsthand."
"Haha. Well, guess what? I hired them."
"Everyone knows. People think you're crazy for trusting those frauds. Even Lady Margaery said so."
William snorted. "Oh? And how would you know what Lady Margaery thinks?"
"She and my sister Talla are friends. So… y'know." Sam gave a conspiratorial grin.
"Well, she might be beautiful, but that doesn't mean she's right. How would she know if I'm crazy or not? What about you, Sam? Do you think I'm crazy?"
Sam grinned slyly. "I'm not sure. But those two warlocks definitely didn't make me braver."
That's because you're already as brave as anyone I've ever met, my friend. William gave him a knowing look, eyes full of admiration, but said nothing.