After a long silence, unable to endure the torment of his own nerves, Samwell finally decided to test the waters and spoke: "I once read in a book about some of the Vale's legends—"
"They say this path is called the 'Uphill Road.' Quite a hard climb, they say… and sometimes you can even spot a shadowcat."
Samwell said it while pretending to admire the scenery.
Hearing him speak, Kal instinctively turned his eyes toward him.
Samwell, who had been focused on Kal all along, shrank his neck at once, panic flashing across his round face as he hastily added, "Of course, this is already the best route, my lord. I wasn't complaining."
Then, timidly, he sneaked another look at Kal, fear plain on his fat features.
Kal, noticing Samwell's rabbit-like reaction, suddenly found the dull journey becoming amusing. He reined in his wandering thoughts of the Eyrie and lightly tugged the reins of his horse, slowing its pace.
At this moment, the steed beneath him was no longer Fawkes.
Since he had chosen to take a stretch of the journey by boat toward the Eyrie, Kal had left Fawkes with the Northern host, entrusting the army's horse-handlers to care for him.
The horse he now rode had in fact been a gift from House Cox, given to him before leaving Saltpans.
Finding Samwell so entertaining, Kal narrowed his eyes with a faint smile.
"Sam, you don't need to be afraid. I'm not exactly a good man."
"And… I am glad you chose to join my company."
As he spoke, Kal bared his white teeth and patted the gilded longsword at his waist, the sharp clap, clap echoing into the surrounding forest.
Hearing both the words and the gesture, Samwell nearly burst into tears.
Behind them, Jon, Jory Cassel, Kennedy, and the others exchanged furtive glances at the sight.
After some "discussion," Kennedy finally shook his head slightly.
He admitted that even as one of the old hands of the Blackstone Mercenaries, he himself couldn't quite understand why his lord, Kal Stone, had stopped the heir of Horn Hill—who had "volunteered" to join the Night's Watch—and then gone so far as to force him into their company.
As far as Kennedy knew, Lord Kal Stone had never before used such methods.
After exchanging glances with Jon and the others, Kennedy frowned as he looked ahead at the two riding in front.
To be honest, none of the four could figure out why their leader had dragged along such a useless-looking fat boy—one who seemed good for nothing but slowing them down.
Yet out of politeness, and perhaps restraint, none of them had voiced the question.
So that doubt had lingered in all their hearts for two whole days.
Ever since he had been "abandoned" by the Night's Watch wandering crow squad, Samwell had been with them. Now, two days after leaving Saltpans, after two days of enduring it all, he could no longer hold back.
His face was drawn in misery, his eyes full of pleading as he looked at the man who had dragged him away by force—Ser Kal Stone.
"Ser Kal… I truly did volunteer to join the Night's Watch. I don't understand why you pulled me out of their ranks—"
At last, the fat boy spoke up.
Kal, however, remained leisurely as ever. Riding on, he admired the winding mountain path before them, not even glancing at Sam as he replied, "I have an excellent company."
He paused deliberately, and the ears of Jon and the others behind pricked up.
"But unfortunately, not many of them can read. So I thought perhaps you'd be a good fit among us." He let the suspense linger a moment, then added calmly, "At the very least, I'd say it's better than sending you off to that land of ice and misery."
"So you don't need to thank me."
At that, not only Samwell Tarly himself, but even Jon Snow and the others following behind, were left dumbfounded.
What kind of excuse is that?
They all muttered inwardly.
Samwell, though, only grew more distraught. "But—but I have a reason I must go to the Wall. I have to become a man of the Night's Watch—"
He stammered the words out, as if hoping such an appeal might make this iron tower of a man relent and let him go.
"And then what?" Kal asked, a trace of curiosity in his tone. "If you don't go, will you die?"
At those words, Jon and the others all turned their eyes toward Samwell Tarly.
Truth be told, they too were curious. Why would the heir of House Tarly abandon his inheritance and willingly choose the Wall?
Among this group, more than half were Northerners. Jon and the rest knew all too well what the Night's Watch truly was.
They knew better than any Southerner what the Wall meant.
There was no romance there as in the stories—only harsh reality. Ice and snow that could freeze a man to death, and bitter winds that never ceased.
"...Yes," caught so bluntly on the very point he feared, Samwell fell into silence. But then, with a hint of grievance, he nodded slightly toward Kal. "Ser Kal, you may see it that way."
Samwell did not refute Kal's words.
Lifting his head, a trace of determination flickered in his eyes as he looked at Kal Stone. "I have my reasons. I must go to the Wall and become a man of the Night's Watch."
Noticing his gaze, Kal turned his head, raising a brow slightly.
Without the slightest hint of surprise, he asked, "And then?"
"The price is giving up Horn Hill, the inheritance that should have been yours, and handing your fate over to the Seven?"
"You're certain you're prepared for that?"
Kal's tone sounded almost concerned.
But then, all at once, his expression shifted into mockery, his voice sharpening.
"Oh, no… once you enter the North, most of the folk there follow the Old Gods. Will you pray to them instead, begging they keep you from freezing to death in that merciless cold?"
"Or perhaps you're placing your faith in your own fat—"
"Maybe the Others will split open your belly with their crystal blades and let the wights feast on it."
Kal's eyes seemed to drift into memory as he spoke, but his words did not slow; if anything, they came faster, more urgent.
"Perhaps you'll watch your golden fat spill out of your torn stomach, rolling over itself in a desperate heap. And in the time it takes to piss, the cold beyond the Wall will freeze it stiff, no longer soft as when you touch it now."
"Believe me—the dead, once warm-blooded and breathing, don't mind at all."
A faint weight pressed in his voice, Jon thought—like when Old Nan had told them stories as children.
But Kal's tale pressed on, unrelenting.
"The wights will claw into your belly with hands missing fingers, tearing out your guts."
Here, Kal paused briefly, as though waiting for the image to bloom fully in their minds.
Samwell's face turned pale at once, rigid with dread.
Only then did Kal ease his tone and continue, "And then you'll see your own body scattered before you—falling from their rotting throats, spilling from their torn bellies."
"Because before this, they were just like you."
"And after that, you'll gradually become one of them. You'll feel your strength fading, every struggle weaker than the last, your warm blood seeping out, spreading into the cold earth as your final bed."
"Until at last your eyes turn from—mm—gray, into the starlit blue."
"Then you'll rise."
"So tell me, Sam—are you still so eager to become one of those soulless husks, stripped of everything, nothing left of Samwell Tarly but an empty shell that moves?"
Kal recited his horror story without changing his expression.
He did not realize that his words left not only Samwell staring in shock, but even Jon Snow and the others behind them—men who had all heard such tales before—looking just as bewildered.
As Northerners, how could they never have heard such a detailed story before?
And with such vivid description—anyone would believe it if you claimed to have seen it with your own eyes.
Kal was deliberately spinning his gory tale to frighten Samwell Tarly, the former heir of Horn Hill.
And it had worked astonishingly well. Sam was nearly scared out of his wits.
He stared blankly at Kal, mouth opening and closing with half-formed words, trying to protest.
"But… but…"
"The Others' stories vanished thousands of years ago, didn't they?"
At last, Samwell managed his rebuttal.
"Oh? Are you sure?" Kal, who knew the truth, narrowed his eyes slightly. Yet he did not intend to linger on the subject.
Instead, he shifted the topic smoothly: "Alright then, you're no child. I'll admit a story alone won't scare you."
"So what you really fear is this—when your father, Lord Randyll Tarly, learns you did not obediently don black as he wished, you'll suddenly fall from a horse and break your neck, won't you?"
"Perhaps it will be during an unsuccessful hunt… or even some ordinary riding practice?"
"You fear—truly fear—that your father would kill you himself, just to clear the way for another heir."
Kal spoke plainly, laying bare the truth in Samwell's heart.
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