Growing 1.5

Fourteenth Day of the First Moon of the Year 288

It's on days like this that I'm most appreciative of being reborn into the Reach, as opposed to one of the Northern Houses.

Winter is bad enough when it lasts a few months. A winter set to last two years is the kind of thing that weighs heavily on my soul. At least it's relatively mild here in the breadbasket of Westeros. Although the Red Mountains do make the Tarly lands a little more susceptible to snow than the northern and coastal lands of the Reach.

From what I remember (vaguely) from my past life, the high peaks block moisture in the air from easily moving from one side to the other. It's why the northern side is so verdant and lush while the south quickly turns to sand. Most of the time it does do great things for the land, but the moisture also brings snow during these long winters.

It was great fun at first. Snowball fights with the various children of the castle. Ser Willas Hunt's young son Martyn got me in the face with one before I tackled him to the ground and stuffed handfuls of snow down his tunic.

I reveled in exploring the immediate landscape of Horn Hill, transformed into something new and wondrous from the snow. The spindly and grasping branches of the forest, eerily quiet from an area that was once so full of life.

The frozen surface of the Lilly Pool, perfect for sliding across once the ice became thick enough. Mother was very strict about waiting until the ice was a few fingers thick. Apparently, many winters ago, during my Grandfather's generation, a cook's kid drowned after falling through some too thin ice.

It was all a great deal of fun. For a little while at least. All too soon the novelty wore off and I wanted nothing more than chirping birds and the heat of the sun on my face.

There are enough blazing fires in the various hearths scattered around the castle to keep certain rooms warm, but the hallways are inevitably freezing, no matter my wishes. It's become a game of sprinting from room to room when I must travel the castle.

And for better or for worse, my training hasn't abated due to the change in seasons.

The courtyard is kept meticulously free of ice and snow. Father said it would be an embarrassment for our soldiers to grow dull due to a little snow. That proper training must continue in all elements.

So I continue to run in my small set of plate, now layered over a great deal of padding to protect me from the cold. My Father and Willas, while tough, aren't so heartless nor stupid to risk me getting sick or frostbite from the freezing metal.

And I've wrangled promises from the two men that I can begin sword training on my fifth name day, which so happens to be in half a moon. I doubt it will be anything fancy. Probably just learning footwork, proper hand placement and the like. But it's a start and I'll take it.

Better than this endless running. My endurance has improved by leaps and bounds, to a surprising degree, but it's gotten old, fast.

And as with most things, the cold only makes it worse.

X X X X X

I run through the keep from Maester Harwin's rooms, which take up the level below the Raven's Nest, and make my way towards Father's solar.

Unfortunately it's on the other side of the castle and I have to brave the chilly air before reaching his door. Bouncing from one foot to the other I give the wood a few knocks.

"Father, it's Sam."

I get permission and dart my way into the warmth, a crackling fire giving immediate relief despite the thick layers I wear.

The room is comfortable, with a thick Myrish carpet and colorful Norvosi Tapestries.

One that always catches my eye depicts a hunt through the woods, with what looks like dead Dornish soldiers littering the ground. The detail are so fine you could make out the colors and various coat of arms on the scattering corpses.

The purple on one has to be House Dayne. And the hooded blue hawk is easily recognizable as House Fowler, one of our most ancient foes. The black on yellow is House Blackmonte, not Yronwood, which is both too far to the East and not quite the right shade of yellow. And the last one I can recognize is the crowned skull of House Manwoody, the arms referring to the slaying of an ancient Gardener King. Which one I have no idea. There are others, but they're either very minor Houses or extinct.

As Marcher Lords of the Dornish Marches, I understand why my ancestors might have displayed such a design, bloody and macabre as it might be. The history of House Tarly is filled with clashes between the various Dornish houses that make their home in and beyond the Red Mountains. And it's ever been my family that has thrown them back again and again.

That being said, I can see why Father has it kept to his solar, as opposed to out in the Great Hall. It has been a few hundred years since Dorne has joined the Seven Kingdoms and while not common, we've hosted various Dornish Lords in the times since. Better to keep the tapestry away from easily offended eyes.

Father looks up from his work and does a little stretch.

"So. What has you bursting into my solar, Sam? Besides the fire of course."

I take a seat in front of his desk, the thing is heavy and old, but beautiful in its design.

"I had a question that Maester Hawrin wasn't able to answer. He thought I might have more luck with you."

"Oh?" Father gives a small smile and a wave to continue.

"Well, I asked why the Lilly Pool is called such when it doesn't have even have any Lillies." I pause and tilt my head in thought. "Maester Harwin said it might have once held them, hence the name, but simply no longer does. House Tarly has a long history after all, going back to the First Men."

Father scratches the stubble on his chin and leans back.

"I see," he taps his fingers on his desk. "No, Harwin wouldn't know. For all the Citadel's knowledge, they don't quite know everything. Something to remember Sam. Every house has it's own history, and some secrets are their own."

I lean forward, already spellbound, but get an amused chuckle in response.

"You can calm down Sam, I doubt it's quite what you're thinking. Tell me what you've learned of the founding of our House."

I think back and tell him what I know. Of the legendary twin brothers Herndon of the Horn and Harlon the Hunter, sons of the even more legendary Garth Greenhand. How they met a beautiful woods witch who lived upon Horn Hill, eventually taking her for their wife. That they built their castle atop the same hill and lived together for hundreds of years, none aging as long as they shared a bed whenever the moon was full.

At the last, he raises an eyebrow in my direction.

I cough and look away. "That what it said in one of the books I read."

"You're not wrong. That is the legend passed down in the Reach."

"There's more?" I can practically feel the sparkles in my eyes.

"There's always more, that why it's called a legend. The trick is whether or not you still remember the truth. Whether you can pull apart fact from fiction."

He smirks at my look.

"But that's neither here nor there. I believe we are getting off topic."

I want to interject, but I know it's futile. The man doesn't bend easily.

"I'm sorry to stem your enthusiasm, but the truth isn't quite so fantastical as you might want. As a gesture of love, the brothers named the pond at the foot of their new seat after their new wife. Lilly."

I blink at the man.

"That's it?"

"That's it," he responds in a slightly smug tone. "We Tarly men have ever been romantics. You'll understand such gestures when you're older, I'm sure."

I narrow my eyes and glare at the man. He slowly breaks out in a grin at my obvious frustration until I all but storm out of the solar.

I think it's time I visited the library.