When he left Gilly in the room, bolting it from outside and telling her to do the same within, Samwell Tarly realized how terribly alone he was. “There’s no time for that,” he had told himself, as he sprinted to the armory and gathered the dragonglass, trying to find reasons to be hopeful, finding none.
However, when Sam stood at a corner of the courtyard, handing weapons of obsidian to anyone who came his way, there was for a brief moment the sound of shatters, followed by cheers from the tunnel. It was in that moment he felt the hope seep back into his blood, realizing it could be as fierce an epidemic as fear. “The Wall was built with strong magic,” Sam whispered the words from Oldtown, making him smile, filling him with hope. A beautiful lie.
It was now Jon Snow, leading the pack that retreated from the snaky tunnel, who was yelling. They’re here. They’re here.
The wights leaked through the Wall like cold water from ice. Their screeches filled the air. Sam nervously held a bodkin of obsidian. His hands were shivering, but thankfully the cold meant they could not be sweaty enough for the dagger to slip between his fingers.
Sam was at a farther corner of Castle Black, away from the tunnel, away from the fighting. The men were positioned against the tunnel, but the wights had broken through the lines of defense. Then came the two White Walkers on horseback.
It was a massacre. Even those who had dragonglass in hand forgot to use them when they saw the monsters charge. The blizzard prevented him from sight, but not from the shrieks of dying men. Sam kept a tentative hand in front of him, retreating further into his corner. Please don’t come near.
Fire broke ice.
Up in the distance, Samwell Tarly saw the shape of a dragon, roaring flames on the other side of the Wall. “Rhaegal!” he shouted, to no one in particular. The dragon made sure no more wights tried to pass the gates. All that were left to destroy were the ones in the courtyard. We’re saved… for now.
A figure ran his way. Sam yelled, and tried to throw the dagger in the way of the silhouette. It only slightly missed Beric Dondarrion. “I need dragonglass, Sam!” he yelled without preamble. “Now!” Sam turned to his corner, where daggers and swords were laid out on a cloth. He forced his mind to click. Dragonglass, yes. You can do this. His hand rashly plunged into the cloth, and Sam felt blood spill. His finger had recklessly scraped against a sword.
Hand still stinging, he grabbed the hilt and turned.
Beric Dondarrion had fallen, and behind him was a blue man beside a dead horse.
Without thinking, Sam swung the sword in its direction. His fingers were sweaty enough for it to slip. The White Walker looked at the sword, fallen near Beric’s body, and then at him.
Sam closed his eyes. He did not want the last image of his life to be the force of death and its lifeless horse.
When the spear slipped between his belly, Sam first felt the warm liquid dribble down his body. Then came the pain, making him fall. The tears forced his eyes open. He was flat on his chest, senses failing. Beside him lay Beric. Blood gushed through his mouth, but Beric’s eyes were alert. His hand was on the sword.
Dondarrion’s arm moved like the wind. Samwell felt the shards of ice rain upon him. He heard the shattering echo around Castle Black. He did not know if it was because of the falling senses, but all he heard were Dondarrion’s last breaths, right beside his ear.
He tried to think of last words, but his mind drowned into silence sooner than he thought.
*
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