At the end of February, the Reach was scorched by blazing sunlight. The heat was so intense that even the air itself seemed to twist and shimmer.
This long summer had already lasted seven years—so long that memories of cold winters, and the vigilance they demanded, had gradually faded from people's hearts.
Following the picturesque Rose Avenue all the way south until it met the coastal road, one would see the most beautiful city in Westeros, standing atop a hill beside the Mander River—
Highgarden.
Within the white marble castle, exquisite sculptures could be seen everywhere. Unique fountains sparkled beneath the sun, flowers bloomed in abundance, and among them, naturally, were golden roses—
The symbol of the castle's master, House Tyrell.
"Clang, clang, clang…"
Accompanied by the clear, melodious toll of bells, three figures passed through the winding corridors and entered the knights' hall.
The sigil on their chests was not a golden rose, but a walking hunter holding a bow—
The sigil of House Tarly.
The man leading them appeared to be in his forties. His face was stern, his expression severe. He wore a short beard and a dark green silk robe trimmed with white fur, and at his waist hung a massive two-handed greatsword.
This man was the Lord of Horn Hill—Randyll Tarly.
Following behind him were his two sons—
The eldest, Samwell Tarly.The second, Dickon Tarly.
Both sons had inherited their father's dark hair, gray eyes, and tall build. However, Samwell was far too fat, and the Tarly family's traditionally sharp and resolute facial features showed not the slightest hint of authority on his round, fleshy face.
Because of the heat, Samwell felt as though the noble garments he wore were suffocating him.
Yet he did not dare unbutton his collar, and could only endure it in silence.
The three stood still in the center of the knights' hall, waiting quietly.
Time passed little by little. Dickon grew somewhat impatient. He glanced at his absent-minded elder brother and asked in a low voice:
"What are you staring at?"
Samwell replied casually, "The stone pillar."
"What's so interesting about a stone pillar?"
"This isn't an ordinary stone pillar." The corners of Samwell's mouth lifted slightly as memories flickered in his eyes. "It's the stone pillar from a bard's poem."
"A bard?" Dickon frowned. "Brother, did you sneak out drinking again last night…?"
"Quiet!"
Randyll Tarly turned his head and shot the two brothers a sharp glare.
Dickon immediately shut his mouth.
Samwell lowered his head as well, but a trace of loneliness and regret flashed through his eyes.
After arriving in this world for three months, his sense of isolation had only grown stronger with each passing day.
Yet after learning that this was the continent of Westeros—and that he had become the eldest son of House Tarly—he found no joy at all.
Because although Samwell Tarly was the earl's firstborn, he was deeply despised by his own father.
As one of the finest generals in Westeros, Lord Randyll had countless glorious achievements. His most famous feat was defeating the founder of the Baratheon dynasty during the War of the Ninepenny Kings at Ashford, handing Robert I—the brave and formidable king—the only defeat of his military career.
Such a proud and martial lord could never tolerate his heir being a cowardly, obese man.
Although Samwell was not useless—in fact, he was intelligent, well-read, and compassionate—in Randyll Tarly's eyes, the heir of House Tarly had to be a fearless warrior, not a learned scholar.
Samwell knew very well that according to the original course of events, he would soon be forced by his father to join the Night's Watch at the Wall, becoming a man who "takes no wife, fathers no children, and holds no lands," thereby surrendering his right of inheritance and handing it over to the younger brother whom their father favored more.
He had absolutely no desire to go to that damned place.
Once he realized how things would unfold, Samwell tried to change his fate.
He began eating in moderation, exercising diligently, and seriously studying swordsmanship and horsemanship, hoping to restore his image in his father's eyes.
Of course, just as body fat could not vanish overnight, the deeply ingrained impression Randyll had of him was not something easily overturned.
Before Samwell could make any real progress, his efforts were abruptly halted by a fall from his horse.
Fortunately, he had not been riding very fast at the time, and his excess weight served as a buffer. The accident did not kill him, but it confined him to bed for more than a month.
The family's riding instructor said it was simply an accident.
Samwell, however, suspected that someone had tampered with his saddle.
Clearly, someone did not want the useless eldest son of House Tarly to rise again.
Samwell did not know exactly who had struck against him this time, but he had a rough idea.
Lord Randyll would never stoop to such underhanded tactics. If he wanted his son to give up his inheritance, he would say it outright.
As for his younger brother Dickon—he was only thirteen years old. If a child that young were capable of such scheming, ruthless methods, and flawless acting, then he would surely have the potential to compete for the Iron Throne someday, rather than remaining as insignificant as he was in the original story.
Still, even if Dickon himself was unlikely to be responsible, it was probably someone close to him.
Samwell had been considered worthless for far too long. Not only had Lord Randyll given up on him, but many within the household had already begun to regard Dickon as the future lord of Horn Hill.
Thus, unlike Samwell—lonely and powerless—Dickon had many interests tied to him and had already gathered a group of loyal followers around his side.
If Samwell continued being a useless waste, he might still live until the day his father forced him to take the black. But the moment he tried to reclaim his strength and fight for Horn Hill's inheritance, he would face relentless suppression—and even assassination.
After experiencing this incident, Samwell finally understood that he had completely lost his chance in the battle for succession. Reversing the situation now was not only too late, but also extremely dangerous.
Under such circumstances, giving up was the wisest choice.
What's more, with his knowledge of the future plot, he already possessed the greatest bargaining chip in the coming Game of Thrones. Why trap himself in Horn Hill—a battlefield where he was already at a complete disadvantage—fighting a battle with no hope of victory?
Of course, even if he chose to give up, he still had to take the initiative and seize reasonable benefits, rather than continuing to play the coward and foolishly wait for the day his father sent him to the Wall.
Thus, after recovering from his injuries, Samwell took the initiative to seek out his father and requested that he ask the Lord Paramount of the Reach, Duke Mace Tyrell, to grant him a development charter.
When Lord Randyll first heard his eldest son's request, he thought he had misheard.
He never imagined that his timid and cowardly son could possess such resolve and courage.
After a brief moment of consideration, however, Lord Randyll agreed.
Because if Samwell went off to pioneer new lands, he would voluntarily relinquish his inheritance rights to Horn Hill—exactly what Randyll had always wanted.
Of course, he did not believe that his useless eldest son truly had the ability to open up new territory.
But that didn't matter.
Even if this son died during the pioneering process, Randyll would feel no grief—only relief. To him, that would be a fitting end for a man of House Tarly.
And thus, the father and sons made this journey to Highgarden.
Blah blah blah…
Crisp footsteps echoed through the hall.
Samwell turned his head and saw a figure clad in fiery red stepping into the knights' hall.
She was a lovely girl, with brown eyes like a fawn in the forest.
A red silk tunic dress accentuated her tall, well-proportioned figure. Soft brown curls spilled over her smooth shoulders, making her already fair skin appear even more radiant. Her delicate features possessed a unique charm—one that left an unforgettable impression at first sight.
She was the daughter of Duke Mace Tyrell—
The Rose of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell.
(End of this chapter)