Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

After the Small Council meeting concluded, the attendees gradually dispersed—except for Master of Whisperers Gavin Mander, who lingered behind.

Samwell glanced at him and asked, "What is it? Did someone misbehave while I was away?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Gavin replied. "Ser Stevron Frey has been in frequent contact with Roose Bolton and Anya Waynwood. And just as you returned, he went to the Lannister residence to propose a marriage alliance with Tyrion."

Samwell sneered, unimpressed. "The Freys are always scheming, but Roose Bolton, Anya Waynwood, and Tyrion Lannister aren't fools. Keep monitoring them, but there's no need for excessive concern."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Anything else?"

Gavin nodded. "Your Majesty, Duchess Nathalie Dayne has just arrived in King's Landing, bringing with her an army of 30,000 men."

Samwell was momentarily stunned. "Dorne has recovered enough to muster a 30,000-strong expeditionary force?"

"The duchess said that in these dire times, Dorne must contribute to the realm's defense."

The memory of Nathalie's sweet, playful face flashed through Samwell's mind, and his lips curved into an involuntary smile. "I see."

Gavin bowed and left without another word.

Samwell sat alone in the hall for a while before rising to leave.

He hesitated briefly in the corridor but ultimately headed toward Nathalie's chambers.

*Knock, knock.

He gently rapped on the wooden door and soon heard light, hurried footsteps.

With a creak, the door opened, revealing the familiar face from his memories.

"Sam—Your Majesty," Nathalie said, quickly curtseying with her gown.

"No need to be so formal with me," Samwell replied, habitually ruffling her hair, undoing the elegant hairstyle she had meticulously prepared, before stepping into the room.

Nathalie closed the door and followed him with a cheerful smile, her tone reverting to their previous intimacy. "Sam, did you just return from the North? Is it true that the Wall has fallen and the White Walkers have come?"

"Yes," Samwell replied, sitting down at the table with a sigh. "The Wall has collapsed, and the White Walkers are real. The Seven Kingdoms now face their most terrifying enemy. The North cannot be defended. I've ordered the Northerners to migrate south and commanded the army to fortify the Neck, where we'll establish a new defensive line."

Noticing the exhaustion in his eyes, Nathalie felt a pang of sorrow. She stepped behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging him gently, her touch tender and comforting—like a devoted wife caring for her husband.

Her unadorned hands, clean and delicate, worked skillfully. In moments, Samwell felt his tension ease.

"I brought 30,000 troops with me this time," Nathalie said softly. "Though most of them are inexperienced recruits, it's Dorne's contribution to the king and to humanity. Take them with you to the Neck."

"Thank you," Samwell murmured, closing his eyes.

He was truly tired.

Though he always presented a confident front, anxiety and unease often gnawed at him beneath the surface.

The White Walkers were the ultimate catastrophe of the Game of Thrones world, an apocalyptic threat marking the final stage of the gods' contest.

From the moment Samwell arrived in this world, everything he had done had been in preparation for this confrontation.

The White Walkers—and the gods behind them—were his true enemies.

Yet, despite all his efforts, Samwell wasn't entirely confident that he could lead humanity to victory.

It is said that only by knowing yourself and your enemy can you win every battle.

But Samwell knew very little about this enemy..

The other party seemed to be shrouded in a fog and could not be seen.

Relying on fragmented ancient legends and his limited observations, Samwell could only speculate and probe.

The more he delved, the more he realized that his opponent was likely even more formidable than he had imagined.

The ancient tales seemed to conceal chilling secrets.

"You will lead us to victory!" Nathalie said with unwavering conviction, her fingers brushing his brow as if wiping away his worries.

Her touch was skillful, as if she had been trained for this, and every movement was precise and soothing, melting his tension.

"Yes, we will win," Samwell said, a serene smile appearing on his face.

He realized that countless people across the Seven Kingdoms, like Nathalie Dayne, had pinned their hopes on him—blindly, perhaps, but with steadfast faith.

He could not disappoint them.

The White Walkers? They were just corpses crawling out of graves.

The gods? Since his schism with them on Bloodstone Island, Samwell had fought them repeatedly.

While others revered the gods, Samwell had always sought to drag them down from their pedestals.

"Sam," Nathalie suddenly leaned forward, her chest pressing lightly against the back of his neck.

The soft, tingling sensation seeped into his skin, stirring something deep within him.

Samwell opened his eyes to find her delicate face mere inches away. The once-innocent girl now exuded a hint of mature allure, though tinged with nervousness and inexperience.

That slight awkwardness made her all the more captivating.

Samwell instinctively raised his hand to wrap around her neck, pulling her closer. He claimed her trembling lips with his own.

"Sam…" Nathalie murmured. "I want a child…"

"Okay," Samwell replied, turning to lift her into his arms.

The night seemed to burst with vitality.

---

Under the crescent moon, stars twinkled in the sky.

Samwell stood on the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, gazing silently at the snow-laden night sky.

After their passionate encounter, Nathalie had fallen into a deep, satisfied slumber. Margaery, Daenerys, and the children were also asleep, but Samwell remained wide awake.

Compared to the biting cold beyond the Wall, King's Landing felt warm—even with snow falling from the sky.

A flock of ravens flew over the Red Keep, their harsh cries echoing as their black wings scattered the white snowflakes.

Samwell's gaze followed the ravens, noting a fleeting glimmer in the pitch-black void.

He pressed his hand lightly on the snow-covered railing and, like a feather, floated into the cold, dark night.

Snow fell soundlessly, wrapping the Red Keep in a white shroud.

Drifting on the wind, Samwell landed in the godswood.

The barren branches were blanketed in snow, and a few ravens perched among them, cawing noisily.

The darkness around him felt like a frozen river, still and unyielding, trapping time itself.

Samwell advanced through the snow, his boots crunching softly with each step.

He sensed an energy pulsing in the air, and his eyes gradually turned green.

The shadows around him seemed to ripple, like icy fingers tracing his spine.

"Your Majesty," a youthful voice called from the depths of the forest.

"Bran Stark," Samwell said, his tone cold. "Or should I call you the Greenseer? The Three-Eyed Raven? Or perhaps—the Old Gods themselves?"

The darkness receded as starlight gathered around a weirwood tree.

The carved face on its trunk was etched with sorrow, blood-like sap streaming from its eyes as though it bore the weight of all the world's suffering.

Bran Stark sat in a wheelchair before the heart tree, his figure bathed in ethereal silver light, as if he were part of a dream.

"Call me whatever you wish, Your Majesty," Bran replied.

His eyes were the same shade of green as Samwell's, and their gazes locked in the air, a silent confrontation.

"This is the greensight, isn't it?" Samwell asked. "But why can't I use it to see the past or the future?"

Bran shook his head slowly.

"No, Your Grace. You have the talent, but it is not enough. The power of the Greenseer is not just about talent."

"What else is required?"

"Eyes," Bran said. "Eyes of suffering, eyes of despair, and eyes that weep blood."

Samwell nodded thoughtfully, the green in his eyes gradually fading.

"Tell me, Bran Stark," Samwell continued. "When you handed me Mance Rayder's horn, did you already know it wasn't the real Horn of Winter?"

Bran nodded silently.

Samwell's lips curled into a cold smile. "Give me one reason not to kill you."

Despite the threat, Bran's expression remained calm, his tone unruffled as he replied, "Even if I had given you the real Horn of Winter at the Wall and you had destroyed it, nothing would have changed. The Wall still would have fallen—just in a different way—and the White Walkers still would have come."

"You didn't even have the courage to try. How can you be so sure it wouldn't have made a difference?" Samwell demanded.

The grief in Bran's gaze deepened. "Your Majesty, I won't lie to you. I've seen dozens of outcomes, and the Greenseer before me—Brynden Rivers—saw thousands more. None of them escaped the inevitable. This catastrophe is one that humanity must face; there is no avoiding it."

Samwell stared at the boy in the wheelchair, his golden eyes flickering with a fiery intensity. "To be honest, I don't trust you."

"I understand," Bran said quietly. "When Brynden Rivers first noticed your existence, his initial thought was to eliminate you as a potential disruption."

The King's eyes narrowed, his presence radiating palpable danger.

But Bran remained unfazed and continued, "Brynden first became aware of your unusual nature five years ago, during the skirmish at Horn Hill. To keep the worldline under control, he attempted to correct it..."

Samwell's expression darkened in realization. "He tampered with my horse!"

Bran nodded. "More precisely, Brynden influenced your riding instructor to tamper with your saddle. Yet, you luckily survived.

At the time, the red comet had not yet appeared, and Brynden's powers were severely limited. That was the extent of what he could do.

As you continued to grow and your influence on the world expanded, Brynden considered intervening again. But then, he glimpsed something in the chaotic threads of the future.

'Caesar may bring a new possibility,' he told me. After that, he ceased his interference and even helped you when necessary."

"The Royce family's bronze armor—it came from you?"

"Yes," Bran admitted, "as did other things. Some you may not have noticed yet, but they will aid you in the future."

"What things?" Samwell demanded coldly. "Euron Greyjoy's eye? The real Horn of Winter? The yellow skull of the Faceless Men? Be specific—which of these were gifts from the Old Gods, and what are they for?"

Bran shook his head firmly. "Trust me, Your Majesty. Some things are better left unknown. Each door you open limits the choices before you."

"I hate cryptic riddles from so-called prophets like you!" Samwell growled.

Bran replied calmly, "That's because once we fully explain ourselves, our words become lies."

Samwell's expression shifted, thoughtful yet wary. After a moment, he pressed on.

"What is your purpose? What are the Old Gods' goals?"

"You can rest assured, Your Majesty," Bran said, this time addressing the question directly. "I stand with you. I stand with humanity."

Samwell scoffed, his suspicion unabated. "Pity I don't see much sincerity in that claim."

"How about now?" Bran asked.

Without warning, he reached up and plunged his fingers into his own eyes.

Squelch!

Samwell watched in shock as the boy gouged out both his eyes, blood streaming down his face.

"Your Majesty," Bran said, his empty sockets weeping blood. In that moment, his face mirrored the weeping, blood-stained visage carved into the weirwood behind him. "Consider this my show of sincerity."

Bran extended his bloodied eyes toward Samwell.

The tone is neither hurried nor slow, neither light nor heavy.

It seemed as if the one who became blind from then on was not himself.

"Perhaps you could also see this as punishment—for deceiving you at the Wall."

Samwell stared at the bloody orbs in silence for a long time before speaking.

"Are these yet another gift from the Old Gods?"

Bran nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. You wanted to truly possess the greensight? These are the eyes you lack. With them, you can see both the past and the future for yourself.

But I must warn you: some doors, once opened, can never be closed.

Once you enter the river of time, you will be submerged. Returning to who you were before—untouched, unburdened—will no longer be possible.

Whether this is a blessing or a curse... is hard to say."

"Without your eyes, are you still the Three-Eyed Raven?" Samwell asked.

Bran shook his head, though his expression was one of relief rather than despair. "My mission is complete. The rest is up to you."

After a moment of contemplation, Samwell reached out and took the eyes from Bran's hands. He cast a final, lingering look at the weeping boy.

"Tomorrow, you'll come with me to the Neck," Samwell said. "To the battlefield."

Bran nodded quietly. "As you command, Your Majesty."

(End of Chapter)