Chapter 214: The Hunting Gathering

TL: I've decided to change the name "Time" to "Chronicle" as it makes more sense and doesn't actually represent a concept.

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The morning sunlight was warm and gentle, casting dappled shadows across the floor through the vine-covered window.

Samwell donned the Chronicle armor, feeling the icy aura emanating from the bronze plates, and his initial excitement gradually settled into calm.

Cleopatra didn't seem fond of the armor; every time Samwell wore it, the white dragon refused to perch on his shoulder. After circling in the air for a bit, Cleopatra finally settled on her master's head.

Ignoring the dragon's antics, Samwell slung Dawn over his back, tucked his helmet under his arm, and stepped out of his room with the little dragon on top of his head.

"Good morning, Sam," Margaery greeted him just as he opened the door. Her smile turned to laughter when she saw Cleopatra atop his head. "And good morning to you too, Cleopatra."

Today, Margaery wore a white velvet blouse, layered under a fitted brown leather jerkin. A blue knee-length pleated skirt swayed gently as she walked, and her brown curls were held in place by a diamond-studded headband. With her long, shapely legs tucked into thigh-high crocodile leather boots, she cut an elegant yet dashing figure.

"Good morning, Lady Margaery." Samwell approached and wrapped his arm around her waist, greeting her with a kiss.

Cleopatra, already familiar with Margaery, playfully nudged her nose with its small, triangular head.

"Come, let's head to the hunting grounds," Margaery said, taking Samwell's arm.

The two of them strolled along a winding corridor lined with blooming golden roses, their scent wafting gently in the cool autumn breeze.

Rounding a fountain, Samwell noticed Willas Tyrell, the eldest son of the Lord of Highgarden, sitting alone with a book in his hands.

Margaery paused and asked, "Brother, aren't you coming to the hunt today?"

Though Willas had an injured leg, he could still ride, albeit with a specially designed saddle. Margaery knew her brother loved training falcons, hounds, and horses for hunting.

"I'll pass this time," Willas replied, smiling warmly as he held up his book. "I've just reached an interesting part in the history."

"What part?" Margaery asked, curious.

"A tale about Garth Greybeard Gardener," Willas explained. "During his rule, his heirs' dispute split the vassals into two factions. Blood was spilled across the Reach as internal conflicts escalated. Just then, the Dornish invaded, sacking Oldtown, ravaging Highgarden, and ultimately slitting the king's throat."

Margaery fell silent, understanding her brother's message.

Samwell offered a gentle smile. "Why dwell on old tales? That's all dead history, Ser Willas. Why not join us and help create something truly memorable?"

"I prefer dead history," Willas replied, meeting Samwell's gaze steadily. "Dead history is written in ink, while living history is written in blood."

"There won't be any blood today," Margaery said, looking up at Samwell as if seeking his promise. "Right, Sam?"

Before Samwell could answer, Willas interjected, "Don't be naive, dear sister. How can hunting be bloodless?"

"There are many ways to hunt," Samwell said with a reassuring look at Margaery. "Not all of them involve bloodshed." He seemed to be making a promise as he added, "Not today."

Margaery's face brightened into a happy smile.

Watching his sister, Willas sighed. "Then I wish you both a successful hunt."

With a polite nod, Samwell led Margaery away.

Willas watched them go, his expression complex and unreadable.

After some time, he sensed a presence and turned to find Lady Olenna standing beside him.

"Good morning, Grandmother."

"Good morning, Willas. What are you reading?"

"A tale about Garth Gardener the Tenth."

"That foolish 'Greybeard,'" Olenna scoffed. "He had two daughters, one married to House Manderly and the other to House Peake. His fate was fitting. Fortunately, your father only has one daughter."

Willas eyed his grandmother, reflecting on her words. "You won't be attending the hunt today either, I presume?"

"No."

Willas nodded, understanding her intentions. House Tyrell had only one daughter, and Olenna had already made her choice.

"It's not the present that worries me," Olenna said, "it's the future."

Willas understood her concern. "You're worried I won't be able to keep this eagle in check? Don't worry, Grandmother. I've trained falcons; I know their ways. With patience, experience, and wisdom, even the fiercest will yield."

Olenna sighed. "But he isn't an eagle; he's a dragon."

Willas fell silent, suddenly at a loss for words.

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The sound of wind-whipped banners flapping filled the air.

At the hunting camp, the noblemen shed their silken robes, donning steel armor and taking up spears and bows, transforming themselves into formidable knights.

In Westeros, grand hunting events often had the feel of military exercises. Nobles hunted not only for game and trophies but also to hone their instincts for battle and practice tactical coordination.

Hunting and war shared many similarities.

Reconnaissance came first.

With the help of hunting dogs and falcons, nobles sought traces of prey and located their hiding spots. Upon finding their quarry, they conveyed the information to their companions, assigned roles, and began the chase.

Different prey required different tactics: baiting, surrounding, herding, and chasing.

Every hunt was a small-scale skirmish.

"Whoosh!"

An arrow shot out, sinking into the grass with a glint of blood.

"Got it! Got it!" Margaery cheered, clapping her hands from atop her horse.

The young squire, Noah Rowan, rushed forward to retrieve the rabbit Samwell had shot.

"At last," Samwell muttered, lowering his bow, though his face showed some embarrassment. It had taken five arrows to hit a single rabbit—not exactly a feat worth boasting about.

Archery was not one of his strengths; even with his stat boosts in strength and agility, his aim left much to be desired.

But he didn't dwell on it. The hunt was far from over, and rabbits were hardly the most prestigious game.

Perhaps frustrated by her master's clumsy pace, Cleopatra flew off on her own hunting venture, disappearing into the sky.

As the group continued across the fields, a distant horn sounded.

"Someone's found big game!" Margaery called out excitedly.

"Let's go!" Samwell urged his horse forward, heading in the direction of the horn's call. Soon, they were met with the sounds of barking hounds.

Cresting a hill where the trees thickened, Samwell saw the banner of House Florent with its sigil of a flowered fox.

And there, he spotted the prey—a pack of seven wild boars.

Wild boars were some of the most dangerous animals to hunt. Their thick hides, immense strength, and deadly tusks made them formidable opponents. When in groups, especially with sows leading, they became even more challenging.

Ser Alekyne Florent, who had discovered the boars, wisely refrained from engaging them directly. Instead, he blew his horn, signaling for reinforcements.

The sound of hooves grew louder as knights and squires gathered from all directions, soon forming a circle of over fifty riders around the boars.

Banners from various houses fluttered above, mingling with the whinnies of horses and the fierce barking of hounds, creating a symphony of the hunt.

Samwell urged Margaery to stay outside the circle and then joined the others, spear in hand.

A pack of wild boars was highly dangerous; a single misstep could easily lead to casualties. The first task was to break up the group.

Since Ser Alekyne had spotted the boars first, he took the role of commander. The experienced knight ordered archers to fire from a safe distance, prodding the boars without serious injury. The goal was to agitate and scatter them, to weaken their cohesion and make them easier to tackle individually.

Once the boars grew irritable, the hunting dogs would bait them, luring each one away for the knights to confront.

The first boar, maddened by the provocation, charged out of the pack. Cheers and shouts rose among the knights, their excitement palpable.

Samwell deftly sidestepped as the boar charged toward him, his spear striking forward as he did.

The boar's hide was tough, layered with a hardened crust of mud and sap that made penetrating it difficult. A single blow wasn't enough to kill it; even breaking its defense required considerable force.

Fortunately, Samwell was strong enough. His spear plunged deep into the boar's back, sending up a spray of blood.

The beast continued charging, undeterred. More knights joined in, driving their spears into the boar until it finally collapsed, its body bristling with spears.

Yet even then, it continued to struggle, snarling and thrashing in a pool of blood.

Ser Alekyne approached and drove a spear through the boar's eye socket, ending its cries.

The hunt continued as the knights repeated the process, angering and separating each boar until every last one was felled.

In the end, thirteen dogs had been lost, and two knights had been unseated by boar charges, though thankfully, there were no serious injuries among the men—a fairly successful hunt.

Samwell was about to go and congratulate his uncle when he saw a middle-aged knight who looked a little bit wealthy come up to him, take off his helmet, smile, and say:

"You are Samwell Caesar of Eagle's Nest, right? You're quite skilled."

"Thank you for the compliment." Samwell looked at the three black castle emblems on the other person's armor and knew that he was from the Peake family. Just as he was about to ask about his identity, he heard his uncle's voice behind him.

"Sam, this is Lord Titus Peake."

(End of this chapter)