The Disowned Eldest Son

At the end of February, the Reach was blazing beneath the sun. The heat was so intense it made the very air shimmer.

This long summer had lasted seven years, so long that all memories and warnings of winter had gradually faded from people's minds.

Follow the picturesque Rose Road south until it met the Ocean Road, and on a hill beside the Mander River, you would find the most beautiful city in Westeros—

Highgarden.

Inside the castle built of white marble, exquisite sculptures, elegant fountains, and blooming flowers could be seen everywhere. And of course, there were golden roses—

the symbol of the castle's masters, House Tyrell.

"Clang, clang, clang..."

Accompanied by the sonorous chime of bells, three figures passed through a winding corridor and entered the Knight's Hall.

The sigils on their chests were not golden roses, but a hunter striding forward with a drawn bow—

the sigil of House Tarly.

The man at the head looked to be in his forties. He had a stern face, a short, bristly beard, and wore a dark green silk doublet edged with white fur. A massive two-handed greatsword hung at his waist.

He was Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.

Following him were his two sons—

his eldest, Samwell Tarly, and his second son, Dickon Tarly.

Both had inherited their father's dark hair, gray eyes, tall stature, and other features. But Samwell was so fat that the Tarly family's firm, dignified features held not the slightest trace of authority on his round face.

In the sweltering heat, his nobleman's clothes were so tight that Samwell could barely breathe.

Yet he didn't dare unfasten his collar. All he could do was endure it.

The three stood in the middle of the Knight's Hall and waited in silence.

Time ticked by. Dickon seemed to be growing impatient. He glanced at his brother, who was staring off into space, and couldn't help asking in a low voice:

"What are you looking at?"

"Stone pillars," Samwell replied casually.

"What's so interesting about stone pillars?"

"These aren't ordinary stone pillars." Samwell's lips curled slightly, and a nostalgic look flickered in his eyes. "They're the stone pillars from a minstrel's song."

"A minstrel? Aha, brother, did you sneak out for a drink last night...?"

"Quiet!" Lord Randyll turned and glared at his sons.

Dickon fell silent.

Samwell lowered his head too, but a trace of loneliness and melancholy flickered in his eyes.

Three months after coming to this world, his loneliness had only grown.

But once he learned that this was Westeros—and that he had somehow become the eldest son of House Tarly—he no longer had the luxury of feeling sorry for himself.

For though Samwell Tarly was an earl's eldest son, he was hated by his own father.

One of the finest generals in Westeros, Lord Randyll had won countless glorious victories. His most famous came during the War of the Usurper, when he defeated Robert I, founder of House Baratheon, at Ashford. The mighty warrior king had tasted the only defeat of his entire military career.

A proud, warlike lord like him could never tolerate having a timid, cowardly fat man as his heir.

Samwell was not without virtues. He was clever, well-read, and compassionate... But in Lord Randyll's eyes, the heir to the family had to be a brave warrior, not a wise maester.

Samwell knew perfectly well that, following the original story, his father would soon force him to go to the Wall and become a man of the Night's Watch—one who "takes no wife, fathers no children, and holds no lands." That way, the family inheritance would pass to his younger brother, whom their father favored.

Of course he didn't want to go to that godforsaken place.

When he had first crossed into this world, Samwell had tried to change things.

He had started eating in moderation, worked hard at exercise, and studied swordsmanship and horsemanship in earnest, hoping to restore his father's opinion of him.

Of course, just as he couldn't shed all that fat in a short time, he couldn't undo the deep-rooted impression in Lord Randyll's mind overnight.

And before Samwell could make any progress, his efforts were cut short by a fall from his horse.

Fortunately, he hadn't been riding fast, and his ample bulk had softened the fall. The accident didn't kill him, though it did leave him bedridden for over a month.

The family's riding master said it had been an accident.

Samwell suspected someone had tampered with his saddle.

Clearly, someone didn't want to see the useless Tarly heir get back on his feet.

Samwell didn't know who had set the accident up, but he had a general idea.

Lord Randyll wouldn't stoop to such underhanded tricks. If he wanted his son to give up his claim, he would simply say so to his face.

His younger brother, Dickon, was only thirteen. If he already had that kind of dark cunning, ruthless methods, and polished acting at his age, he might one day have a shot at the Iron Throne instead of fading into obscurity as he had in the show.

Still, though Dickon was unlikely to have done it himself, it was probably someone close to him.

Samwell had been useless for so long that not only had Lord Randyll given up on him, but many in the family had already come to see Dickon as their future lord.

Unlike Samwell, who was ignored and had no one to rely on, Dickon had too much at stake. He had already gathered a group of loyal followers around him.

If Samwell kept being useless, he might live long enough for his father to send him to the Night's Watch. But if he tried to get back on his feet and fight for Horn Hill's inheritance, he would immediately face one blow after another, even assassination!

After this incident, Samwell finally realized that he had completely lost the initiative in the battle over the inheritance. It was too late to turn things around now, and trying would put him in great danger.

In these circumstances, giving up was the wisest choice.

Besides, with his knowledge of the story, he already held the greatest advantage in the Game of Thrones that was about to begin. Why trap himself on the losing battlefield of Horn Hill and fight a battle he couldn't win?

Of course, even if he gave up, he would still seize the initiative and take the opportunity to claim his fair share, rather than go back to acting like the coward he had been and stupidly wait for his father to force him to the Wall.

So, after recovering from his injuries, Samwell went to his father and asked him to request a Colonization Charter for him from Lord Mace, Warden of the Reach.

When Lord Randyll first heard his eldest son's request, he thought he must have misheard.

He had never imagined that his timid, cowardly son would have such nerve and courage.

But after a moment's thought, Lord Randyll agreed.

If Samwell went to colonize new lands, he would be giving up his claim to Horn Hill of his own accord—exactly what Lord Randyll had always wanted.

Of course, he didn't think his useless eldest son truly had what it took to carve out a new domain.

But that didn't matter.

Even if his son died while trying, he wouldn't feel any grief. He would be pleased instead—that was the proper fate of a man of House Tarly.

And so the three of them had come to Highgarden.

Tap, tap, tap...

A clear series of footsteps rang out.

Samwell turned and saw a flame-red figure striding into the Knight's Hall.

She was a lovely young woman with brown eyes like a little fawn in the woods.

Her red silk gown cinched at the waist showed off her tall, shapely figure. Soft brown curls fell over her smooth shoulders, making her already snow-white skin seem even more luminous. Her delicate, alluring features gave her an unforgettable charm.

She was Lord Mace's daughter, the "Rose of Highgarden," Margaery Tyrell.