The Disowned Heir

In late February, the sun blazed over the Reach, the heat so intense it distorted the very air.

This long summer had lasted for seven years, so long that all memories of and vigilance against the cold of winter had gradually faded from people's hearts.

Following the scenic Rose Road south until it intersected with the Ocean Road, one could see the most beautiful city in Westeros perched upon a hill beside the Mander River—

Highgarden.

Within the castle built of white marble, exquisite sculptures, unique fountains, and blooming flowers could be seen everywhere, and of course, there was no shortage of golden roses—

They were the masters of this castle, the symbol of House Tyrell.

"Clang, clang, clang..."

Accompanied by the melodious tolling of bells, three figures passed through the winding corridor and entered the Knight's Hall.

The crests on their chests, however, were not golden roses, but a striding huntsman drawing a bow—

This was the crest of House Tarly.

The man in the lead appeared to be in his forties, his expression stern and humorless. He wore a short, stiff beard, a deep green silk doublet trimmed with white fur, and a heavy greatsword hung at his waist.

This man was none other than the Lord of Horn Hill, Randyll Tarly.

Following behind him were his two sons—

The eldest, Samwell Tarly, and the second son, Dickon Tarly.

Both had inherited their father's dark hair, grey eyes, and tall stature, but Samwell was far too fat; the stern, chiseled features of House Tarly held no majesty whatsoever on his chubby face.

Because of the sweltering heat, the noble doublet Samwell wore made him feel as if he were suffocating.

Yet, he dared not unfasten the collar, forced to endure the misery.

The three stood still in the center of the Knight's Hall, waiting quietly.

As time ticked by, Dickon seemed to grow impatient. He glanced at his brother, who was staring blankly into space, and couldn't help but whisper:

"What are you looking at?"

Samwell answered casually, "The stone pillars."

"What's so interesting about stone pillars?"

"These aren't just any stone pillars." Samwell's lips curled slightly, a look of reminiscence flashing in his eyes. "These are the pillars from the songs of the bards."

"Bards? Oh, brother, did you sneak out to drink last night..."

"Quiet!" Lord Randyll turned his head and glared at the two brothers.

Dickon immediately shut his mouth.

Samwell lowered his head as well, though a trace of loneliness and melancholy flickered in his eyes.

Having arrived in this world three months ago, his sense of isolation grew with each passing day.

But once he realized this was Westeros and that he had become the eldest son of House Tarly, he had no mood for self-pity.

For although Samwell Tarly was the eldest son of a count, he was loathed by his own father.

As one of the finest generals in Westeros, Lord Randyll's glorious military record was beyond count. The most famous of these was during the War of the Usurper, when he defeated the founder of the Baratheon dynasty, Robert I, at Ashford, giving the brave and battle-hardened king the only defeat of his military career.

Such a proud and martial lord naturally could not tolerate his heir being a cowardly, spineless fat man.

While Samwell was not entirely without merit—he was actually quite intelligent, well-read, and compassionate—in Lord Randyll's eyes, the heir to the house had to be a heroic warrior, not a wise maester.

Samwell also knew clearly that, according to the original plot, he would soon be forced by Lord Randyll to go to the Wall to become a member of the Night's Watch, who "take no wives, hold no lands, and father no children," thereby ceding the inheritance to his brother, who was more favored by their father.

He certainly did not want to go to that godforsaken place.

When he first transmigrated, Samwell had tried to change all of this.

He began to control his diet, exercised diligently, and studied swordsmanship and horsemanship in earnest, hoping to restore his image in his father's eyes.

Of course, just as his fat could not be shed in a short time, reversing the deeply ingrained image in Lord Randyll's mind was not something that could be achieved overnight.

And before Samwell could make any progress, his efforts were interrupted by a horse-riding accident.

Fortunately, Samwell's speed at the time was not fast, and his layer of fat acted as a cushion; the accident did not cost him his life, but it did leave him bedridden for over a month.

The family's riding instructor called it an accident.

Samwell, however, suspected that someone had tampered with his saddle.

Clearly, someone did not wish to see the useless eldest son of House Tarly get back on his feet.

Samwell did not know who had targeted him, but he had a rough guess.

Lord Randyll would disdain such underhanded tactics; if he wanted his son to renounce his inheritance, he would say so directly.

His brother Dickon was merely a thirteen-year-old brat. If he possessed such dark schemes, ruthless methods, and superb acting skills at this age, he would likely have a chance to vie for the Iron Throne in the future, rather than remaining obscure as he was in the story.

However, while it was unlikely to be his brother's doing, it was likely the work of those around him.

Samwell had been a failure for too long; not only had Lord Randyll long since given up on him, but many in the household had long viewed Dickon as the future lord.

Therefore, unlike Samwell, who was ignored and isolated, Dickon was tied to too many interests and had long since gathered a group of loyal subordinates around him.

If Samwell continued to be a failure, he might live until the day his father forced him to join the Night's Watch. But if he tried to pull himself together and contend for the inheritance of Horn Hill, he would immediately face a barrage of setbacks, or even assassination!

After this experience, Samwell finally realized that he had completely lost the initiative in this struggle for the succession. It was too late to turn the tide, and doing so would involve immense risk.

Under such circumstances, giving up was the wisest choice.

Moreover, with his familiarity with the plot, he already held the greatest trump card for the upcoming Game of Thrones. Why trap himself in the already lost battleground of Horn Hill to fight a war he had no chance of winning?

Of course, even if he gave up, he had to maintain the initiative and seize reasonable benefits, rather than continuing to play the part of the coward and waiting foolishly for the day his father forced him to the Wall.

Thus, after recovering from his injuries, Samwell took the initiative to find his father and asked him to request a colonization charter from the Warden of the Reach, Lord Mace.

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

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

However, after a moment of thought, Lord Randyll agreed.

If Samwell went to colonize new lands, he would be voluntarily renouncing his inheritance of Horn Hill, which was exactly what Lord Randyll had always hoped for.

Of course, he did not believe his useless eldest son actually had the ability to colonize a new territory.

But that did not matter.

Even if his son died on the journey, he would feel no heartache; on the contrary, he would feel relieved—this was the fate a man of House Tarly deserved.

And so, the three of them made this trip to Highgarden.

Tap, tap, tap...

Crisp footsteps sounded.

Samwell turned his head and saw a fiery red figure stepping into the Knight's Hall.

It was a lovely young girl with brown eyes like a fawn in the woods.

A red silk gown accentuated her well-proportioned, tall figure, and soft brown curls cascaded over her smooth shoulders, making her already snow-white skin appear even more translucent. Combined with her delicate and charming features, she possessed a unique, unforgettable allure.

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