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x The investiture ended quickly after that.
Margaery left with her attendants.
Dickon was sent away as well, though he looked back more than once, curiosity written plainly across his face.
Soon only Lord Randyll and Samwell remained in the great hall.
Father and son stood in silence.
Samwell wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner and study the panel that had appeared before his eyes.
Instead, he kept his posture still and asked, “Father, do you have any further instructions for me?” Lord Randyll stared at him for a long moment.
“You hate me.” Samwell did not answer.
“Good,” his father said.
“Hatred is not the worst thing a man can carry.” He turned toward the high windows, where the afternoon sun lay across the marble floor in long bright bars.
“A hunter who returns empty-handed lets his family starve.
A lord who loses a battle may watch his castle burn.
Noble houses vanish because one weak man is allowed to inherit what stronger men built.” His voice was cold, flat, and without apology.
“House Tarly guards the marches.
Its lord must be able to take Heartsbane in his hands and lead men into battle.
You could not.
I will not entrust the fate of our house to you.” Samwell listened in silence.
If this had been the original Samwell, those words might have cut deep.
For him, they landed differently.
The body he had inherited had never been fit to succeed Lord Randyll.
By the time he had arrived in this world, too much damage had already been done.
Now he had a charter, a new name, and a path of his own.
Horn Hill no longer belonged to him, and he no longer belonged to Horn Hill.
Lord Randyll tossed a leather pouch to him.
It hit Samwell’s chest and fell into his hands with a heavy clink.
Gold dragons.
“Your share,” his father said.
“You surrendered the inheritance without making me drag you to the Wall.
This is what you are owed.” Samwell tightened his grip on the pouch.
“Thank you, Father.” Lord Randyll’s eyes narrowed, as if gratitude itself offended him.
“Before I left Horn Hill, I had James put to death.” Samwell froze.
James had been his riding instructor.
The riding accident that nearly killed him had not been an accident, then.
“No matter how useless you are,” Lord Randyll said, “you were still my eldest son.
If judgment was to be passed on you, it should have been mine to pass.” Something complicated shifted in Samwell’s chest.
The man before him had cast him out without mercy.
He had also avenged him without hesitation.
Lord Randyll stepped closer.
“Do you remember the words of our house?” “First in Battle.” “Remember them.” His father’s voice lost a fraction of its edge.
“You may no longer bear the Tarly name, but Tarly blood is still in you.
Schemes and lies may win men their places at court.
On a battlefield, House Tarly knows what matters.” Samwell bowed his head.
“I will remember.” The softness vanished.
“If your settlement fails, do not crawl back to Horn Hill.
If I see you begging at my gates, I will cut off your head myself.” With that, Lord Randyll turned and strode out of the hall.
Samwell watched him leave.
Only after his father’s steps had faded did he let out a breath and give a short, helpless laugh.
That was Lord Randyll Tarly to the bone.
By late afternoon, Samwell was in one of Highgarden’s training yards.
The garden walls were heavy with flowers, but the practice ground itself was bare earth, packed hard by years of boot heels.
An ironwood post stood at its center, scarred by countless blades.
Samwell took a blunted longsword in both hands and began to thrust.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His fat body moved badly.
His breath came too soon, his arms tired too quickly, and sweat ran down the back of his neck within moments.
He kept going.
By the time the sun lowered toward the castle walls, his fine clothes were soaked through and his hands trembled around the hilt.
Only then did he stagger to the side of the yard, drink half a skin of water, and summon the panel in his mind again.
His Strength had not changed.
His Spirit had not changed.
Agility had risen from 0.52 to 0.53.
So training worked.
Slowly, but it worked.
Samwell wiped sweat from his eyes and began to think.
If an ordinary grown man in this world measured around 1.00, his Strength was barely above average, helped mostly by the weight of his body.
His Agility was pitiful.
His Spirit, oddly enough, was the highest of the three.
The original Samwell had been timid, but he had also been clever and fond of books.
Perhaps that had left something behind.
Or perhaps Spirit measured something stranger.
This world had dragons, White Walkers, children of the forest, warlocks, priests, gods, and things that wore all those names uneasily.
The long summer would not last forever.
When winter came, the old mysteries would wake with it.
Maybe Spirit would matter then.
For now, Strength and Agility mattered more.
He needed to live long enough for mysteries to become useful.
The panel did not give him points to spend.
It did not speak.
It did not explain itself.
Yet even as a silent measure, it was precious.
He could test food, training, sleep, weapons, books, prayer, anything.
He could find what changed him and discard what did not.
That was enough.
A maid approached from the path and curtsied.
“Ser Greenhand, the steward says dinner will be served at the sixth hour in the main feast hall.” Samwell looked down at his sweat-soaked clothes and aching arms.
“Tell him I will be there.
And have hot water sent to my room.” “Yes, ser.” When she left, Samwell looked back at the ironwood post.
His arms hurt.
His legs hurt.
His lungs burned.
For the first time since waking in this body, he smiled as if the pain belonged to him.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.