Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

At the end of February, the Reach basked under a blazing sun, so intense that even the air seemed to ripple with heat.

This endless summer had persisted for seven long years, so long that all memories and caution of winter had gradually faded from people's minds.

Following the picturesque Rose Road southward, all the way to its intersection with the Ocean Road, one could spot, on a hill beside the Mander River, the most beautiful city on the continent of Westeros—

Highgarden.

Within the white marble castle, exquisite sculptures, unique fountains, and blooming flowers could be seen everywhere. And of course, golden roses were a must—

They are the symbol of this castle's rulers, House Tyrell.

"Dong, dong, dong…"

Accompanied by the melodious sound of bells, three figures walked through the winding corridors and entered the Hall of Knights.

However, the emblem on their chests was not the golden rose, but rather a hunter drawing his bow—

This was the sigil of House Tarly.

The man leading them looked to be about forty years old, with a stern, unsmiling face, a short, bristly beard, a dark green silk tunic trimmed with white fur, and a heavy two-handed greatsword at his waist.

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

Following behind him were his two sons—

His eldest, Samwell Tarly, and his younger son, Dickon Tarly.

Both sons had inherited their father's dark hair, gray eyes, and tall stature, but Samwell was far too overweight. The stern, strong features typical of House Tarly held no trace of dignity on his round face.

The noble tunic Samwell wore was almost suffocating him in the heat.

But he didn't dare loosen the collar, so he endured it.

The three stood in the center of the Hall of Knights, quietly waiting.

Time ticked by, and Dickon seemed to grow impatient. He looked at his brother, who was staring off into space, and couldn't help but ask in a low voice:

"What are you looking at?"

"Stone columns," Samwell replied absentmindedly.

"What's so interesting about stone columns?"

"These aren't just any stone columns," Samwell's lips curved slightly, a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. "These are the stone columns sung about by the minstrels."

"Minstrels? I bet you snuck out for a drink last night, didn't you, big brother…"

"Quiet!" Lord Randyll turned and glared at his sons.

Dickon immediately fell silent.

Samwell also lowered his head, but a hint of loneliness and melancholy passed through his eyes.

Three months had passed since he arrived in this world, and his sense of isolation was growing.

But upon learning he was on the continent of Westeros and that he had somehow become the eldest son of House Tarly, he couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity.

For Samwell Tarly, though he was the eldest son of an Earl, he was despised by his own father.

As one of the most skilled generals on Westeros, Lord Randyll Tarly had countless illustrious victories to his name. His most famous was his defeat of Robert Baratheon, the founder of the Baratheon Era, at the Battle of Ashford during the Rebellion, marking the only defeat in the warrior-king's entire campaign.

A proud, martial lord such as Randyll could hardly tolerate a cowardly, rotund heir.

While Samwell was not without his own merits—he was intelligent, well-read, and compassionate—Lord Randyll insisted that the heir of his family must be a brave warrior, not a learned scholar.

Samwell knew full well that in the original storyline, he would soon be forced by his father to take the black and become a Night's Watch, a man who could "take no wife, father no children, and hold no lands," thus yielding the family inheritance to his more favored younger brother.

He had no desire to go to that wretched place.

At first, Samwell had tried to change everything.

He controlled his eating, exercised diligently, and studied swordsmanship and horsemanship, hoping to improve his standing in his father's eyes.

However, just as his excess weight couldn't be shed overnight, neither could his father's deeply-rooted opinion of him change quickly.

Before he could make much progress, his efforts were thwarted by a fall from a horse.

Luckily, he hadn't been riding too fast, and his weight provided a cushion; the accident hadn't killed him but left him bedridden for over a month.

The family's horsemaster called it an unfortunate accident.

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

Clearly, someone didn't want the useless eldest son of House Tarly to regain his footing.

Samwell didn't know for sure who was responsible but had his suspicions.

Lord Randyll, for all his disdain, wouldn't stoop to such underhanded tactics; if he wanted to strip Samwell of his inheritance, he'd simply say it outright.

And Dickon, his younger brother, was only thirteen—if he was already that scheming, ruthless, and cunning at this age, he'd be more fit to vie for the Iron Throne than to remain an obscure character as in the original storyline.

Still, it likely wasn't Dickon himself but someone close to him.

Samwell's failure had been a long-standing fact, and not only had Lord Randyll given up on him, but many in the family had also come to see Dickon as the future lord.

Unlike Samwell, who was overlooked and isolated, Dickon had amassed a circle of loyal supporters.

If Samwell remained the family's disgrace, he might survive long enough to be forced to the Wall by his father. But if he tried to prove himself and reclaim his right as heir, he'd face constant attacks—and perhaps assassination!

After the accident, Samwell finally understood that he had lost any advantage in this succession struggle and that any attempt to turn the tide would come with serious risks.

In this situation, giving up seemed the wisest choice.

Moreover, with his knowledge of future events, he held the greatest advantage in the coming Game of Thrones; why trap himself in the losing battle for Horn Hill?

That said, even if he chose to surrender his claim, he would do so on his terms and seize reasonable benefits, rather than quietly awaiting the day his father would force him to the Wall.

So, once he recovered, Samwell approached his father and requested an official writ to claim new lands in the Reach from the Lord Paramount, Mace Tyrell.

Lord Randyll, hearing his son's request, thought he had misheard.

He had never expected his cowardly son to have such courage and resolve.

After some thought, he agreed.

After all, if Samwell were to establish new lands, he'd be voluntarily surrendering his claim to Horn Hill, something Randyll had always wanted.

He didn't actually believe his useless son could conquer new lands.

But that didn't matter.

If his son died in the process, he'd feel no sorrow; rather, he'd be pleased—that would be a fitting end for a Tarly.

And so, the journey to Highgarden began for the father and his two sons.

Tap, tap, tap…

Clear footsteps echoed.

Samwell turned and saw a red figure entering the Hall of Knights.

It was a lovely young girl with brown eyes, as gentle as a fawn's.

In a red silk gown that accentuated her slender, graceful curves, with soft brown curls cascading over her shoulders, her fair, snow-like skin seemed to glow against the fabric, her features delicate and captivating—a sight impossible to forget.

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