With great pride, Samwell Dawes bowed his head and place a gentle hand on the large stone tower. Through the thick leather of his riding gloves, Samwell could feel the jagged edges of crumbled stone that pressed persistently into the palm of his hand and the soft flesh of his fingertips. The autumn chill hung heavily in the night air, rustling dead leaves on large oak trees and disturbing his dark wool cloak that was fastened at his shoulders with the silver lizard his father had passed down to him, just as his father had done he, and all the fathers before them had done with their sons.

All around him, men stood with their heads bowed and their sword hand on the tower. Above them, an old man with dry shriveled skin that resembled squashed grapes stained red and pink with blood sang prayers to the Lord of the Sky, with an old worn out voice that left Samwell holding his tongue; it would not do to curse in the presence of the Lord, or else he risk being sent to the Lord of Death when his time comes. Samwell shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the thought. He turned his attention back to the prayers.
When the prayers ended, the old man croaked, “Lift your heads! Let the Lord see you as you truly are!”
Samwell lifted his head. The moon was large and round, fresh from his feast. His loyal servants stood dutifully around him, shining their light as bright as they possibly can, in hopes to distract those brave and stupid enough to try and rob the Lord of his wealth and life. Samwell squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, and with a mischievous sneer he allowed the Lord of the Sky to see him as he truly was; brave, honorable, and full of courage.
The old man held a candle into the night sky. He cleared his voice and coughed twice more. “When I shout your name –”
No one saw the first arrow. Nor the second or the third or the several after that. They flew across the night sky before they stuck into whatever lay in its path. The first few arrows landed all around him; in the foot of the man to his left, in the eye of another who fell stumbled around in a circle until he collapsed to the ground. Samwell pressed his back against the tower. Men shouted commands, and families peaked their heads outside their homes to see what the chaos was all about.
Chaos quickly ensued. Men were shouting commands. This person is to lead these persons to the riverbank. This person is to see the old man to safety. This person is to gather as many men as he can and meet the enemy on horseback, wielding long swords made of silver steel. Samwell watched them all scatter about like mice in the kitchen. He thought about shielding himself with his cloak, only to realize that it would do no good should he find himself in an arrows path.
Samwell tucked his limbs into himself, hunching his back and darting around to circle the tower. On the other side, dozens of arrows protruded from the dirt. Samwell faltered, and nearly ran back to the other side of the tower. No, he told himself, show the Lord of the Sky who you really are.
With a burst of bravery, Samwell Dawes raced into the open field. He stayed clear of the few patches of grass that was buried underneath the arrow shafts. He was never good with arrows, and he was even worse when the Weapons Master at Thelma’s Spring lit the arrowhead aflame, but Samwell remembered him shouting in his ear, spit attaching itself to his skin, “Don’t aim! Unless ya fancy a’ arrow stickin’ out of ya gut!”
He reached the gate before the next batch of arrows came raining down. The wooden planks stood tall and proud in the midst of all the chaos. Samwell raced into the adjoining towers that linked together a wall made of old chiseled grey stone, washed white from the centuries of summer downpours. Young men barely four and ten years raced past him, some awkwardly holding heavy battle axes, others allowing their fear to dictate their every move, which led to the boys tripping past each other in the narrow stairways. Samwell cursed loudly, and ran up the steps with his shoulder positioned in front of him. The boys scrambled out of his way, leaving him to charge up the remaining steps like a wild boar. Good, he thought, the Lord will ignore these pitiful excuse of men and focus on me.
When he reached the top, he heaved the bitter air. It burned his nostrils, and his limbs screamed in agony. Samwell rolled his shoulders and lumbered down the hall, placing one hand on the stone walls to keep his balance. Small white clouds formed with his every breath. Still faint with the sudden burst of excursion, Samwell considered pausing long enough to catch his breath. No, the Lord is watching.
The chain did not glimmer in the light of the moon. It was rusted red and brown and decorated with small silver dots. Samwell pulled on the chains, slowly easing the wooden planks down across the moat. The Knights of the Spring told tales of how the sea monsters in the moat devoured any enemy foolish enough to wade into the murky waters. These men are no fools, he reflected, they are doing the Lord’s work! The Lord must keep them safe!
It took all of Samwell’s remaining energy to lower the gate. He was not as stout as some of the other men in his rank, but he was not as lean as those more skilled than he. He stood taller than Earworm, who only appeared taller than he was because his head was long instead of round, and all of the hair he once had had been shaved off. The only other man taller than him was Dogskin, and he ranked so high that the only time Samwell was in his presence was for meals.
“For the Lord!” he shouted. He leaned out of the square opening, hoping to see some sort of sign that his brothers had heard. He stared long and hard at the ground until he can hear the sound of hooves thumping against the earth, could hear the battle cries of the brave men below. Their weapons shone when the light from the moon hit it just right, and their armors even more so.
Samwell raced down the corridor. He was eager to join the battle now that his brothers were amongst him, smelling of sweat and metal and blood. They were going to cleanse the sacred town of the whores and cowards who had corrupted it. The blood of the unworthy will mingle with those worthy of the Lord’s love and his sacrifice, and soon the brick pavers will serve as a witness to the great deeds being done tonight for the generations to come.
Down the stairs Samwell went, only pausing once to pick up a forgotten sword that was wet with blood. Samwell ignored the way the handle seemed to move in his riding glove, and pressed the sword into his side, the pointy side sticking out behind him. He will do himself no favors should he loose his balance and take a tumble down the stairs whilst impaling himself on his way down.
Breathless and giddy, Samwell Dawes reached the end of the stairs and raced to the open field. A hand caught his cloak, yanking him back. Samwell flung the sword out to the side, heard a gasp, and several arrows being notched, the wood squealing. “Hold!”
Samwell breathed a sigh. It was Wes of Brandon’s Fork, the man that had entrusted Sam with sacred information. The one who gave him his role for the night, the one who ensured that Samwell knew of the importance of this night. Only Samwell was privy to this information. A smile slid onto his face. Wes will burn them alive for seizing me like this, and damn them seven times for doing it in the presence of the Lord.
  “Release him, boy.”
The boy who held him did as he was told. Samwell wobbled, throwing his arms out to his side. The sword slid from his grasp and landed with a soft thud that was engulfed in the screams of men and steel alike. He righted himself swiftly, the back of his neck igniting in a soft flame that quickly spread to his cheeks and ears. “Wes,” he greeted.
“Samwell, me boy!”
Wes moved quickly, opening his arms as if he was going to take flight. Samwell took the few steps to cross the distance and wrapped his plump arms around the man. When Wes returned the gesture, Samwell cried out. Cool steel embedded itself in the layers of skin and muscle. Blood slowly dribbled out of his wound, trailing the ridges of his spine until Wes pressed the fabric of Samwell’s clothes into his skin when he moved to slide the blade out from his insides.
Wes backed away, laughing as Samwell stumbled forward, hands outstretched. His fingers trembled as he fought to grab onto something, anything. When his fingers brushed against Wes’ cloak, Wes stepped to the side until he disappeared from his line of sight. His knees were kicked out from under him. A rush of air flew past his lips, a ghost of a plea swallowed in a sea of a thousand dying voices.
Samwell was pushed to the ground. There was pain. So much pain. Samwell squeezed his eyes shut. Lord forgive me, for I have sinned. Lord forgive me, for I had sinned. Lord have mercy on me. Lord...
“In the name of the Lord!” Wes spat out a cackle. “Do we look like Saints me boy?”