In the Reach at the end of February, the sun burned like a furnace, hot enough to warp the air itself.
This long summer had already lasted seven years, long enough for memories of winter and the old fear it carried to fade.
Where the Roseroad met the Ocean Road, on a hill beside the Mander, stood the most beautiful seat in all Westeros: Highgarden.
The white marble castle was filled with exquisite statues, elegant fountains, and flowers in full bloom.
Golden roses climbed and clustered everywhere.
They were the symbol of House Tyrell, the family that ruled from Highgarden.
As the bells pealed, three figures passed through the winding corridors and entered the great hall.
Their sigils were not golden roses but a striding huntsman drawing a bow.
It was the sigil of House Tarly.
The man leading them looked to be in his forties.
Stern-faced and unsmiling, with a short, bristling beard, he wore a deep green silk doublet trimmed with white fur.
At his waist hung a heavy greatsword.
This was Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.
Behind him came his two sons.
His firstborn, Samwell Tarly.
And his second son, Dickon Tarly.
Both brothers had inherited their father’s dark hair, gray eyes, and tall frame.
Samwell was different: he was far too fat.
The sharp, stern features of House Tarly looked almost absurd on his plump face.
Because of the heat, his formal clothes nearly choked the breath out of him.
Yet he did not dare loosen his collar.
He could only endure it.
The three of them stopped in the center of the great hall and waited.
The silence stretched.
Dickon soon grew impatient.
He glanced at his older brother, who was staring at the stone pillars beside them, and whispered, “What are you looking at?” “Stone pillars,” Samwell answered absently.
“What’s there to see in stone pillars?” “They’re not just stone pillars.” His mouth twitched.
For a moment, his gaze went distant.
“These are the stone pillars from the songs.” “Songs?
Brother, did you sneak out drinking last night…” “Quiet!” Lord Randyll turned and glared at the two brothers.
Only then did Dickon shut his mouth.
Samwell lowered his head as well, the old loneliness settling over him again.
Three months had passed since he had woken up in this world, and the loneliness had only grown heavier with each day.
But once he learned this was Westeros, and that he had somehow become the firstborn son of House Tarly, he no longer had the luxury of self-pity.
Although Samwell Tarly was a lord’s eldest son, his own father hated him.
Lord Randyll was one of the finest commanders in Westeros, with more victories to his name than most men could count.
His most famous triumph had come during Robert’s Rebellion, when he defeated Robert Baratheon at Ashford, the future king’s only defeat in battle.
A proud, martial lord like that could never tolerate an heir who was timid, weak, and fat.
His son was not without virtues.
He was clever, well-read, and compassionate…
But to Lord Randyll, the heir of House Tarly had to be a brave warrior, not a bookish scholar.
Samwell also knew exactly how things were supposed to unfold.
Before long, his father would force him to go to the Wall and become a man of the Night’s Watch, one sworn to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children, so that the family inheritance could pass to the younger brother their father favored.
He had no desire to go to that miserable place.
When he had first arrived in this world, he had tried to change everything.
He began eating less, training hard, and studying swordsmanship and horsemanship in earnest, hoping to salvage his father’s opinion of him.
But years of fat could not be shed in a few days, and Randyll’s contempt would not change overnight.
Before he could make any real progress, a fall from a horse cut his efforts short.
Fortunately, he had not been riding quickly, and all that extra flesh had softened the fall.
The accident did not kill him.
It merely kept him in bed for more than a month.
The family’s riding master called it an accident.
He suspected someone had tampered with his saddle.
Whoever had done it did not want the family’s useless firstborn to find his footing again.
He did not know who had acted against him, but he had a good guess.
His father disdained such underhanded methods.
Even if he wanted to force his son to give up the inheritance, he would say so to his face.
As for Dickon, his younger brother was only thirteen.
If he already possessed that kind of cunning, cruelty, and self-control at such an age, then perhaps he really would have a chance to contend for the Iron Throne one day.
As far as Samwell remembered, Dickon had faded into obscurity.
Still, although Dickon was unlikely to have done it himself, the culprit was probably someone close to him.
Samwell had been useless for too long.
His father had given up on him long ago, and many within the household already regarded Dickon as the future lord.
Unlike the ignored and isolated elder son, too many people had a stake in Dickon’s future.
Loyal men had already begun to gather around him.
If he continued to play the part of the useless son, he could still live until the day his father forced him into the Night’s Watch.
But if he tried to rise again and fight for the inheritance of Horn Hill, the blows would come one after another.
Perhaps even assassination.
After that incident, he finally understood that he had fallen too far behind in the fight for succession.
It was too late to recover the ground he had lost, and the danger of trying was enormous.
In that position, giving up was the wisest choice.
Besides, with his knowledge of what was to come, he held a better card than Horn Hill could ever offer.
Soon enough, the realm would tear itself apart over the Iron Throne.
Why trap himself on a battlefield where he was already at a crushing disadvantage, fighting a battle he could not win?
Even in surrender, he meant to choose the terms.
He would not go back to pretending to be the same weak coward as before, meekly waiting for the day his father forced him to the Wall.
So after his injuries healed, he went to his father and asked him to request a charter to settle new lands from Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Mander.
When Lord Randyll first heard his eldest son’s request, he thought he had misheard.
He had never imagined his cowardly, weak son had that much daring in him.
After a moment’s thought, he agreed.
If his eldest son went to carve out a new territory, he would be giving up his claim to Horn Hill of his own accord.
That was what the lord of Horn Hill had wanted all along.
Not that he believed his useless eldest son could truly carve out lands of his own.
But that did not matter.
Even if this son died during the attempt, he would not grieve.
He might even take comfort in it.
For a man of House Tarly, it would be a proper end.
And so father and sons had come to Highgarden.
Crisp footsteps rang across the floor.
Samwell turned and saw a figure in red enter the great hall.
It was a lovely young woman with doe-brown eyes.
Her red silk gown was fitted at the waist, setting off her tall, graceful figure.
Soft brown curls spilled over her smooth shoulders, making her snow-pale skin seem even more luminous.
With her delicate features and easy charm, she was difficult to forget after a single glance.
She was Lord Mace’s daughter, the Rose of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.