At the end of February in the Reach, the sun blazed fiercely, the very air shimmering under the suffocating heat.
This endless summer had dragged on for seven long years—long enough that memories of winter, along with the vigilance it once demanded, had all but faded from the hearts of men.
Following the scenic Rose Road south until it met the coastal highway, one would eventually reach the banks of the Mander, where atop a gentle hill stood the most beautiful city in all of Westeros—
Highgarden.
The white marble castle was adorned with elegant sculptures, quaint fountains, and gardens bursting with blossoms. Of course, none were more abundant than the golden roses—
the proud sigil of the house that ruled this land: the Tyrells.
Clang… clang… clang…
As the sound of bells echoed softly through the halls, three figures passed through a winding corridor and entered the great hall of knights.
But upon their chests was not the golden rose. Instead, their surcoats bore the sigil of a striding huntsman drawing his bow—
House Tarly.
At their head was a stern man in his forties, bearded, unsmiling, clad in a deep green silk tunic trimmed with white fur. At his side hung a massive two-handed greatsword, its weight a testament to the man's strength.
This was Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.
Following him were his two sons—
the elder, Samwell Tarly, and his younger brother, Dickon.
Both had inherited their father's dark hair, gray eyes, and tall frame. Yet on Samwell, his bloated face stripped those features of any sharpness or majesty. His excessive girth smothered every trace of the Tarlys' martial bearing.
The heat pressed cruelly upon him, his noble attire suffocating, the fabric tight against his throat. But Samwell dared not loosen his collar. He could only endure in silence.
The three halted at the center of the knight's hall, waiting.
Minutes dragged by. Dickon fidgeted, growing impatient. He glanced at his older brother, who seemed lost in thought, and whispered,
"What are you staring at?"
"Those pillars," Samwell replied absentmindedly.
"What's so special about pillars?"
"These aren't ordinary pillars." Samwell's lips curved faintly, a glimmer of memory lighting his eyes. "They're the same pillars sung of by the bards."
"Bards? Gods, brother—did you sneak off drinking last night?"
"Silence!" Lord Randyll turned sharply, his glare silencing them both.
Dickon immediately shut his mouth.
Samwell lowered his head, though a shadow of sorrow flickered in his eyes.
It had been three months since he awoke in this world. His loneliness had grown heavier with each passing day.
And yet, once he discovered he had been reborn in Westeros, as the firstborn son of House Tarly, he no longer had the luxury of self-pity.
For Samwell Tarly, though heir by blood, was despised by his own father.
Randyll Tarly was counted among the finest generals in Westeros, his victories too numerous to name. Most renowned of all was the Battle of Ashford during Robert's Rebellion, where he bested Robert Baratheon himself—handing the fearsome warrior-king the only defeat of his storied career.
Such a proud, warlike lord could never stomach a cowardly, soft-bodied son as his heir.
Samwell was not without merit—he was clever, well-read, and compassionate. But in Randyll's eyes, an heir must be a warrior, not a scholar.
Samwell knew well what fate awaited him. In the original tale, his father would soon force him to take the black, joining the Night's Watch at the Wall, stripped of land, title, wife, and children. His inheritance would fall instead to Dickon, the favored son.
He had no wish to waste away in that frozen wasteland.
At first, Samwell had fought against it.
He ate less, trained harder, learned swordplay and horsemanship—all to prove he could be a proper heir.
But just as the fat on his body would not vanish overnight, neither would the scorn in his father's heart.
And then came the accident.
Thrown from his horse during practice, he might have died had his bulk not cushioned the fall. He spent a month bedridden.
The riding master called it misfortune.
Samwell suspected otherwise. Someone had tampered with his saddle.
It wasn't his father—Randyll would never stoop to such underhanded means. He'd strip his son of inheritance openly, blade in hand if need be.
Nor did Samwell believe it was Dickon. At thirteen, his younger brother was still but a boy. If he already possessed such ruthless cunning, he might one day vie for the Iron Throne itself, not fade into obscurity as the story once told.
No, it was likely one of Dickon's supporters.
Samwell had lived too long as a failure. Many in the household already treated Dickon as the rightful heir, and clustered around him for favor.
As long as Samwell remained the family disgrace, he was harmless. But the moment he strove to rise again, he became a threat—and threats must be removed.
That was the moment he realized the truth. He had already lost this battle for succession. To fight further would only invite ruin—or death.
To yield was the wiser choice.
Besides, armed with knowledge of the story yet to unfold, he already held a greater advantage in the game to come. Why waste himself clinging to Horn Hill, fighting a battle he could not win?
But even in yielding, he would not crawl like the craven of old. He would make his retreat on his own terms, and seize what benefits he could.
So when he recovered, he went to his father and requested something no one expected:
A royal writ to carve out new lands.
Randyll Tarly had been stunned.
His cowardly son—daring to speak of frontier conquest?
Yet after a moment's thought, he agreed.
For by seeking a charter to claim new lands, Samwell was voluntarily surrendering his claim to Horn Hill. That alone was enough to satisfy Randyll.
Whether his eldest son perished in the attempt mattered little. Better to die forging a new holdfast than disgrace the family at home. That, at least, was a man's death.
And so, father and sons found themselves journeying to Highgarden.
Tap, tap, tap…
The light patter of footsteps echoed through the hall.
Samwell turned—and saw a figure robed in scarlet step gracefully inside.
She was a vision, with doe-like brown eyes and delicate beauty. A red silk gown hugged her tall, slender frame, soft chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulders, pale skin glowing against the fabric. Her features were refined yet alluring, her charm unforgettable at first sight.
She was none other than Margaery Tyrell—the famed "Rose of Highgarden."