A Hunter Made

Fifth Day of the Eighth Moon of the Year 285 AC.

I stalked my prey with a hunter's grace. The target blissfully unaware of it's impending doom.

Feet making no sound. Breath steady. Eyes and ears taking in every detail of my surroundings.

I was a shadow fading into the background, unknown and unknowable. Nothing for my quarry to worry about or care for, at least until I struck.

So with calm precision I continued my hunt, never letting the beast leave my sight. Watching as it went about it's day, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver my wrath.

Yet, I could be patient. Holding myself to dark corners and shadowed spaces when need must.

Until the moment came.

I took a deep breath in and slowly let it out.

It was time.

I opened my eyes and tensed from my spot.

One, two, three long strides I took, releasing a ferocious shout to spook the prey as I did, the bestial sound echoing through the area.

At my third step I coiled and leapt, a grin on my face as I sailed ever closer to my prey.

It never had a chance.

X X X X X

Randyll Tarly was making his way to his solar when he heard the pitter-patter of his son's feet behind him.

He didn't pause in his long strides as he turned the corner, using the change in direction to catch a glance at the hallway behind him. Doing so, he spied the boy, four months past his second name day, ducking into a shadowed alcove.

A slight smile tugged at the Lord of Horn Hill's lips, both at the game Samwell had begun playing a few moons ago and at the head of dark hair that stuck quite noticeably out of the alcove.

He would have words with the boy about that. While keeping line of sight was well and good, it shouldn't be done at the expense of revealing his position.

Randyll agreed with his lovely, if slightly overprotective wife, that his heir was much too young to begin any proper martial training, no matter how quick he was for his age, both of the body and mind.

However, that didn't mean he had to be hands off. There were always more subtle means to introduce proper habit, even at such a young age. And this game of hunter and prey that young Samwell had begun proved to be fertile grounds for some early lessons.

With that goal in mind, he did his best to feign ignorance of the boy's slightly clumsy stalking, which in return helped to foster a warrior's instinct in his heir. The Tarly words were First in Battle after all.

And, once he was inevitably caught and the game ended, Randyll would once more go over the boy's mistakes along with ways to improve.

For instance, the well polished bastard sword that hung upon the wall of his solar worked as a serviceable, if poor mirror. Thus while his back was turned to young Samwell, he still saw more than the boy knew.

So as Randyll shuffled a few papers at his desk, he saw the dark haired boy peek into the room, dart inside and quickly hide behind the thick wooden door that he had left ajar.

Hiding his amusement, he sat down and began reading through some of the correspondence Maester Harwin had delivered earlier that day. Ignoring the faint sounds of shuffling, the Lord took his time, seeing this as a good lesson on patience.

The minutes stretched on before he deemed Samwell had done well enough, the young heir having stayed hidden and relatively still despite the wait.

Finishing the last letter, Randyll made to cross the room when the little hunter finally revealed themselves.

"Rawr!"

Still a bit ungainly due to his age, the boy howled, bolted from behind the door and threw himself at his father.

No longer hiding his amusement, Randyll cracked a smile as Samwell glomped onto his leg, staying wrapped around the limb despite the Lord continuing to walk.

By the time Randyll made it to the courtyard, the boy has scampered up his back and onto his shoulders, little fists holding handfuls of his hair to keep steady. Yet Randyll didn't mind the tugging, it was a small price to pay for his son.

X X X X X

Nearly two and a half years since I began this new life and I can honestly say that Samwell Tarly, the original, was an idiot.

I get that each individual is unique. That everyone comes with their own strengths and weaknesses.

But by god did that kid royally fuck himself over.

The Tarly's are a Martial House. Full stop. Some may call us, rightfully so, the preeminent Martial House. It shouldn't take more than a casual glance at our Coat of Arms and House words to prove it.

Most Lordly Houses of the Reach follow one of two themes. Some are centered around nature such as the Tyrell Golden Rose, the Fossoway Apples, the Golden Tree of House Rowan, the Oakheart's Three Leaves and the Grapes of House Redwyne.

Which, don't get me wrong, makes a great deal of sense regardless of how toothless they may seem. After all, the Reach is the breadbasket of Westeros and our power largely stems from the wealth and population that such food brings us.

The other camp of Lordly Houses bear small animals or insects. The Cranes of House Crane, the Fox of House Florent, the Butterflies of House Mullendore or the Spider of House Weber.

Now there are exceptions, Houses Caswell, Ashford, Vyrwel and Hightower to name a few. But by and large the Houses of the Reach follow those two patterns.

With that in mind, it shouldn't take long to see where House Tarly differs. The striding Huntsman, red on green, and our words, First in Battle. Either speaks to the type of House we are, warriors through and through.

So it shouldn't surprise anyone when Randyll Tarly finally snapped after 15 years of utter disappointment.

Some nights while I waited for sleep to take me, I imagined a hypothetical Lordly House that held intelligence and scholarly pursuit above all. Maybe they sent all second sons to become Maesters and were known throughout the land as being the greatest lawmakers and sages.

What would happen if one generation, their heir was a dullard. Just as stupid as they came. No matter what the father tried, the child failed at all intellectual pursuits. He could barely read and do his numbers, and would cry when forced to study and learn.

Well, that's about what happened to the original Samwell, merely framed in another direction.

He was grossly overweight and weak. He failed at all physical pursuits and cried at any violence no matter how small. For Randyll to have a heir so ridiculously inept at all aspects of the warrior could have spelled doom for the house. Not to mention the absolute shame it brought.

The books made him out to be this poor, sympathetic character, abused and misunderstood by his father. Yet I can't help but see him as a waste and an idiot. His father didn't give up, no matter how heavy handed his actions may have seemed. He tried and tried, and only after fifteen years of sloth and indolence did he make his ultimatum.

The Lord of House Tarly (future or not) is one of the most powerful men in Westeros. Easily in the top twenty if I had my guess. A position of such privilege and luck that even my modern mind sometimes has trouble grasping it.

It guaranteed that you were far, far above the millions of peasants that barely squeezed out a living in an existence filled with pain, suffering and very little justice. Not to mention the thousands of merchants, knights and lessor lords that would kill for such wealth and power.

And yet the original Samwell couldn't be assed to tough it out. To force himself to work through what was (for him) highly uncomfortable and difficult ordeals in order to keep his birthright. He may never have been naturally talented, nor was he born with a mindset that easily lent itself to such actions, but I get the feeling he didn't really put in the effort either.

That he was loath to leave his comfortable routine and make some personal sacrifice for the good of his House.

With that in mind, it took so very little to make my new father, Randyll Tarly, proud. I ran around and played. Took an interest in swords and bows. And generally showed myself to be a bold and quick child.

And the Lord of Horn Hill loved me for it.

For if there were one thing I took from the failures of the original Samwell Tarly, it was that not everyone is born a Hunter, but that doesn't mean you can't make yourself one.