Growing 1.6

First Day of the Second Moon of the Year 288

I wake up confused and a little shaken. My mind heavy with the weight of my dreams.

But, as is usually the case with our nighttime reveries, they defy all attempts to hold onto them.

All too quickly, the scenes and images that were as real as anything during my slumber begin to fade away like a moth eaten tapestry.

While I rub the sleep out of my still tired eyes, the last image that lingers is that of two glowing golden orbs, trailed by the faintest note of a song, before it too breaks apart into nothing.

All that remains is a vague itch in my mind that something was once there. But I can no more bring it back then I could rewind time or catch the air itself.

That feeling, however, soon joins its predecessors when a new thought jumps out, all but screaming for attention.

A wide and giddy smile takes over my face.

Today I turn five.

X X X X X

The family and I break fast in the Great Hall, joined by the closest members of our household.

I feast on some blackberry preserve spread on toast along with spiced sausage and bacon. The various voices, scraping of fork on plate and the crackling of the hearths sets a relaxing atmosphere for the day.

Swallowing the last of the bacon, I look around and spot Uncle Alyn, Head of the House Guard, enter the Hall. He's really my Father's cousin, but enjoys the title nonetheless. The older knight has shaggy black hair without a hint of grey, framing a hard if handsome face. Shorter than my Father, though a bit stockier in his chest and limbs, he saunters in and sends me a tired wave.

Uncle Alyn doesn't have any children of his own, unless you pay heed to the rumors of a bastard or two scattered around the villages of our lands. I'm not sure what to believe myself. On one hand, it would be nice to have some family my age. However, I love the man and it would be disappointing enough to know he sires bastards. Worse if he washes his hands of them, leaving the children to struggle without his help nor care.

Maybe it's a conversation I can breach with the man when I'm older. For now, I'll just have to trust that he's the kind man I've always known, ready with a story or five.

He eventually sits down at a lower table, the high table reserved for the immediate family of the Lord of Horn Hill.

At the same table as Uncle Alyn sits the Steward of Horn Hill, Ser Orwen Wythers. He's an older man, with greying hair and a body gone slightly to fat from his sedentary lifestyle, the Striding Huntsman of House Tarly sitting next to the Grey Squirrel of House Wythers on the breast of his surcoat.

I haven't had much interaction with him, the Steward usually too busy at work to bother with a child, even if he's the heir.

I did once ask Father why we have a Steward at all, when a capable enough Lord should be able to do the job themselves. That, indeed, it seemed unwise to let a non-Tarly hold so much control over the running of the land. Even if they are of a loyal and sworn House like the Wythers and Hunts are to us.

Thankfully, Father did not become upset at what I later realized could have been taken as a jab at his competence. No, he agreed that a Lord should have a strong hand in the running of his castle and lands. But that it was tradition to have someone in place to run Horn Hill when the Lord was off at war, as was often common in our long history. And I had to agree it made sense.

I continued to people watch until my Father wraps his knuckles on the table to get the attention of the Hall.

"Today we celebrate the fifth Name Day of my Son and Heir, Samwell Tarly."

The Hall explodes into a cacophony of whistles, clapping and cheers. I know that some (if not most) of the exuberance is due solely to my status and position. Though I like to to think that the original Sam never got quite so loud an ovation. My cheeks grow warm regardless of the source of the cheers. It's a heady feeling, to be sure.

"And while it's tradition to wait for the evening feast before presents are exchanged, there is another tradition that I place above that. One I do not believe should wait."

Father makes a motion to Anders, the castle's head blacksmith, who crosses the floor with a wrapped bundle. It's all I can do to stifle an excited squeal. The square faced and thickly muscled man hands the package to Father before heading back to his table.

I raise my eyes from the gift and lock eyes with the Lord of Horn Hill.

"What are our words Sam?"

"First in Battle," I repeat.

"Indeed my son. We have ever been a Martial House. A House of the hunt, battle and war. But what kind of Father would I be if I didn't prepare you to take up such a mantle."

The Great Hall quiets at my Father's words. Mother grabs my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze.

"As my Father did for me, and his Father before him, I gift you with steel for your fifth name day. To begin your training with the sword. To prepare you for any struggles you may face. And to make sure you are worthy of one day inheriting our ancestral sword, Heartsbane."

He shoots me a proud smile and unwraps the sword.

It is a shortsword, more of a long knife to most, but perfect for my age and size. I won't pretend to be an expert of steel, but even I can see it is of the highest quality, a silvery sheen that would speak of danger if it weren't for the blunted edges.

The sword is devoid of ornamentation besides the grip, pommel and guard molded to look like our family's Valyrian steel sword. Likely meant to get me used to the design. Or maybe just a simple flourish for a five year old to enjoy.

Either way, I cannot wait to hold it.

X X X X X

It's many hours later, when my arms feel like they might soon drop off my body, that I finally relinquish the sword. As I suspected, the training was monotonous. Composed of developing proper technique and muscle memory as I swung the same stroke over and over again.

Ser Willas and Father both standing by to correct my form and stance as sweat dripped down my back and my muscles burned.

And yet, as I go to Maester Hawrin for some ointment, blisters beginning to form on my hands, the ear to ear smile on my face just won't go away.

X X X X

After my hands are treated, I wander around the castle, looking for Mother and Talla.

I finally find them exiting the Castle Sept, its stained-glass windows sending streaks of color from the midday sun over the surrounding snow.

I've never been a fan of the Seven, at least in the privacy of my own mind. I understand its use as a tool and make sure to present the image of a faithful, if not overly pious lord. The last thing I need is to come across as some degenerate heathen. The Faith is a useful shield from some of my oddities, if nothing else. I'm not an adult mind in a child's body, but blessed by the Crone is all.

My Mother, however, has been spending more and more time in the Sept as of late. Understandable with the recent swelling of her belly. The Mother is the aspect of fertility and motherhood after all. And it warms my heart to know she pray every day for the health of my unborn sibling. A sister again if I remember correctly.

I pick up Talla in my arms to her delighted squeals, muscling through the ache of my tired body as we walk back to the Keep. I tell them of my training while Mother frets over the bandages on my hands.

I hum a small tune when we part ways. It's been a good day, and I cannot wait for dinner.

What can I say, who doesn't love presents?