Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

After the knighting ceremony, Margaery gracefully departed.

Dickon had also been dismissed by their father.

In the empty Hall of Knights, only Lord Randyll Tarly and Samwell Caesar remained.

Father and son faced each other in silence, with a tense, heavy atmosphere filling the air.

Samwell, eager to return and examine his newly discovered status panel, broke the silence first:

"Father, is there anything you wish to tell me?"

"You hate me." Lord Randyll looked at his son, speaking suddenly.

Before Samwell could respond, he continued, "Don't bother denying it—I don't care."

Samwell's mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.

Lord Randyll's gaze on his son held an unusual, almost unrecognizable glimmer, though his tone remained as cold as ever:

"If a hunter returns empty-handed, his family goes hungry; if a lord suffers defeat, his castle will be burned to the ground. Over the centuries, countless families in Westeros have vanished from history simply because of a weak and incompetent heir.

Here on the borderlands, House Tarly needs a lord who can wield Heartsbane in battle. And you, you don't even have the right to touch it.

So, no matter how much you may hate me, I will never entrust this family's fate to you."

Samwell listened quietly, feeling no great resentment.

After all, the original Samwell did fall short of his father's standards for an heir, and though he had tried to change things since arriving here, it was simply too late.

But that was all in the past now.

After the ceremony, he had taken the name Caesar, cutting all ties with House Tarly.

At that moment, Lord Randyll tossed something toward him.

Samwell caught it quickly and looked down, surprised to find a large bag filled with gold dragons.

"Since you voluntarily surrendered your inheritance, this is your share," Lord Randyll explained indifferently.

"Thank you, Father!" Samwell readily accepted it—he needed funds for his new venture.

"Also, before your departure, I personally dealt with your horsemaster, James."

Samwell was stunned but quickly pieced it together—James must have been the one behind the incident that had caused him to fall from his horse!

His father had not only found him out but had killed him!

"No matter how useless you are, you are still the eldest son of House Tarly! If you are to be judged, it will be by my own hand!" Lord Randyll declared, unyielding.

Samwell felt a mix of emotions, bowing his head in silence.

Whatever his father's flaws, this was, in a way, vengeance on his behalf.

After a brief pause, Lord Randyll spoke again:

"Samwell, do you remember our family words?"

Samwell nodded.

"First in Battle."

As soon as he uttered the words, he understood why his father was so set on choosing a different heir. Samwell as he had once been would never have been able to live up to those words.

Lord Randyll's expression softened slightly. "Though you no longer bear the Tarly name, I still hope you will remember these words.

Schemes and lies may win political victories, but when it comes to true mastery on the battlefield, House Tarly has the real expertise.

Since you had the courage to accept the writ of expansion, it shows that Tarly blood still runs in your veins. Keep this saying in mind. In the challenges of developing new lands, it will serve you better than gold."

Samwell nodded solemnly, warmth stirring within him.

But then Lord Randyll's next words were as cold as ice water:

"If you fail to conquer this new land, do not return to Horn Hill. If you do, I'll take your head myself!"

With that, Lord Randyll turned and strode away.

Samwell watched his father's tall figure retreat, his expression a mix of emotions. Finally, he let out a wry chuckle and rolled his eyes.

---

In a garden filled with blooming flowers, Samwell gripped a silver longsword, practicing thrusts against an ironwood target.

Unfortunately, his bulk made his movements ungainly and severely hindered his speed. Before long, his footwork was a chaotic mess.

But Samwell did not give up and continued awkwardly.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, his clothes were drenched in sweat, and he finally stopped.

He staggered over to the steps, sat down, and gulped down some water.

Once he'd caught his breath, he focused his gaze on his status panel.

The numbers hadn't changed much, except for a small increase in agility, from 0.52 to 0.53.

It seemed his guess was correct—training could indeed improve his attributes.

However, the change was hardly significant.

A whole afternoon of thrust practice had increased his agility by just 0.01, while strength and willpower hadn't changed at all.

Perhaps there had been some change, but it was too small to register on the panel, as the values only went to two decimal places.

Agility had likely increased because it was his lowest stat, making it easier to improve.

Samwell guessed that a typical adult's stats would each average around 1.0. Given his weight, his agility was significantly below normal.

His strength, however, was slightly above average, since he needed it to move his own bulk. His highest stat was willpower at 1.12, likely due to the original Samwell's intelligence and love for reading.

The meaning of strength and agility was clear enough, but Samwell wasn't sure about willpower.

He suspected it might relate to the legendary but mostly forgotten magic of this world.

After all, this was a fantasy realm, with dragons, White Walkers, the Children of the Forest, sorcerers, and the old and new gods…

While many magical beings had either gone extinct or faded into legend, with miracles scarcely seen on Westeros in ages, with summer ending and winter approaching, the Game of Thrones would soon resume, and the world of mysticism would gradually reawaken.

Perhaps if he raised his willpower to a certain level, he could unlock some of these mystical secrets.

But that was the problem: Samwell hadn't yet found a way to add points directly.

Through knightly training, he could slowly improve his strength and agility, but the process was painfully slow.

As these stats increased, it would become even harder to make progress.

As for willpower… could reading actually raise it?

Still, Samwell felt encouraged. Even if he couldn't directly add points, quantifying his attributes was immensely helpful.

He could experiment with different methods, observing the changes in his stats to find the most effective way to improve.

For example, with the swordsmanship of House Tarly, he could refine and perfect it based on feedback from his status panel.

Moreover, while he couldn't add points now, who's to say he wouldn't be able to in the future?

Samwell guessed that once he successfully established a domain and recruited some vassals, the status panel might unlock new functions, perhaps even allowing him to add points directly.

Lost in thought, planning with renewed ambition, Samwell suddenly heard footsteps behind him.

He turned to see a maid approaching, who bowed respectfully and said:

"Ser Caesar, the steward asked me to remind you that the banquet begins at six in the main hall of the keep."

"Very well." Samwell rose and instructed, "Prepare hot water for my bath."

"At once, Ser."

(End of Chapter)