Chapter XIII: Samwell II – Family
There was nothing quite as terrifying as being a father, Sam thought as he saw Little Jon crawl over to where his brother was playing with wooden knights and dragons. Every little step, he worried. Would he hurt himself on an edge? Would he fall? Would Little Sam refuse to share his toys and they’d have to keep the boys apart until they calmed down? Gilly, of course, only glanced up from her book every so often. The story of Florian and Jonquil, not quite her thing, she had told him, but she’d heard some of the ladies mention it and thought she should know about it.
In the end, Little Jon didn’t hurt himself, fall or upset his brother. He just took a wooden horse and began sucking on it while Little Sam tried to engage him in a story about – something. Sam couldn’t really tell.
“You worry too much,” Gilly told him with a hint of amusement in her voice. She’d grown up around little sisters, Sam supposed. Dickon and Talla hadn’t been that much younger than him.
Sam shrugged. “I can’t help it.” And he couldn’t. It hadn’t been this bad when it had been only Little Sam, when he had survival to worry about, wildlings, the Watch, the White Walkers. Maybe this was what peace meant: constant worrying about little things.
Gilly just smiled at him fondly and was about to turn back to her epic love story when Sam remembered something. “Oh, I got a letter today.”
Gilly looked at him expectantly as Little Jon gurgled and Little Sam babbled.
“My mother and sister are coming to the city,” Sam said, and he still didn’t know how to feel about that. They were family. Sam loved them. But he’d also not done anything to avenge his father and brother. Not really. He’d just cowered when he was faced with dragons. Dickon, at least, had deserved more.
“They’re going to love Little Jon,” Gilly assured him. “They’re both nice.” Unlike your father was left unspoken.
“I know,” Sam protested. “It’s just …”
“You worry too much,” Gilly said sagely.
“Yes, I worry too much.”
They both laughed, and their sons joined in, even if they didn’t know what they were laughing about. The wooden horse tumbled to the floor, forgotten, and the fire from the hearth flickered merrily.
Fin