They were up all night, prepared to tend to anything Samwell Tarly needed, but he refused. “I really am fine,” he told Tormund, Edd, Thoros, Gilly and Jon Snow sheepishly, once they had gotten over the shock. “I mean, I don’t know how,” he said curiously, as if he were trying to understand how melted ice became water, “but I can breathe and speak well enough, I suppose.”
Gilly punched him on his shoulder. “Shut up,” she said, but not maliciously. “Is this what I am to tell Little Sam? That you were stabbed in the belly by White Walkers, but you’re fine now?”, to which Sam thought it best to let feeble reiterations rest.
Thoros was still gazing in wonderment at Sam’s scarred body. “The Lord of Light does not wish you dead yet,” he said. “That is clear… but why?”
Edd, who had gotten over the shock as quickly as Tormund had, joined in. “Maybe he’s destined to kill the Night King. How about that, Sam the Slayer?”
But Gilly and Jon Snow had no time or tolerance for japes. Samwell saw them staring at him, eyes brighter than moons. They were a mix of joy and worry, celebrating his return yet wondering if he would drop dead the next minute. “I’m fine,” he wanted to say, not knowing however else to calm them down, before he recalled why Gilly punched him the last time.
The mention of the Night King seemed to remind Jon about matters beyond his friend.
“Edd,” he said, “is everything ready?” The Lord Commander’s voice reverted to gloom.
“Yes,” he said. “If there is a hint of blue beyond the Wall, someone will be here to tell us so. It will not be as chaotic as last time,” he said.
The mention of the time White Walkers breached the Wall brought back silence on an otherwise half-humored company. Edd decided to break it with the worst question possible.
“Are we all going to die?”
The quiet festered and became a solid being in the room. Sam remembered the stabs of the spear against his stomach. He suppressed a shudder. Tormund turned to Thoros. “Are you sure you cannot bring everyone back to life?” he said, trying to break the silence with a jape. “We can build an army of the living, har!”
“I swore an oath to Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon said determinedly. “We swore oaths before old gods and the new. We fight for ourselves, for family, for gods in trees, for the Watch, the Lord of Light, the living. We cannot promise that the dawn is near. But the Night King can take our life, he can also take our deaths, but he will not take what made our lives worth living,” he said. There was silence again, but this one was warmer. “Whatever happens,” he said, “we have each other.”
They sat there, clutching their swords of dragonglass, staring at nothingness. He held tight silver chains that made him the most important man on the Wall. For the Watch, Samwell Tarly whispered to himself, as he, with everyone else, sat in silent anticipation for someone to arrive, to tell them to do their duty.
It was Davos who came. When he opened the door, Samwell heard a flurry of activity from beyond, and knew the others had been told. Jon turned to the half-burned man. “It’s time?” he asked, to which the Onion Knight gave a brief nod.
It was time to kill or be killed.
*
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