House Tarly's sigil was a striding huntsman on a green field, their words "First in Battle"—fitting for a house that had ruled Horn Hill and its environs for thousands of years. With lands stretching across fertile plains and rolling hills, and a population numbering in the hundreds of thousands, they stood among the most formidable bannermen of House Tyrell in the Reach.
The current Lord of Horn Hill, Randyll Tarly, had earned his reputation as the foremost battle commander in the Reach—no small feat in a region known for its chivalry. Even among the great warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, his name commanded respect. It was Lord Randyll who had handed Robert Baratheon his only defeat during the rebellion, at the Battle of Ashford.
Even so, Joffrey played his chosen role with unwavering dedication.
The arrogant, ignorant Prince Joffrey would never trouble himself with remembering the importance of lesser lords, no matter their accomplishments. That was the mask he wore, and he wore it well.
"Jousting, first round, eleventh match," the herald cried out over the din of the crowd. "Ser Horas Redwyne versus Sandor Clegane!"
Joffrey cast a cursory glance toward the arena before returning his attention to Lord Randyll Tarly, continuing their delicate dance of words.
"How do you find my proposal, Lord Tarly?" he asked, his voice carrying just the right blend of princely entitlement and impatience.
Several jousting matches had come and gone since Prince Joffrey had first broached his purpose, yet Randyll Tarly remained visibly unsettled, the hard lines of his face betraying his inner conflict.
Without warning or preamble, Prince Joffrey had descended upon him like a summer storm, declaring his intention to have Lord Tarly's eldest son brought to King's Landing as Grand Maester Pycelle's apprentice and future successor.
Lord Randyll's initial surprise had been only natural.
Before the other courtiers and nobles seated at the table had tactfully withdrawn, Randyll had caught unmistakable glimmers of pity in their eyes—a look no warrior could abide.
This silent sympathy had kindled within him a potent mixture of humiliation and anger. Yet after brief consideration, as the full implications of the prince's offer became clear, a shameful yet undeniable sense of secret joy had risen unbidden in his heart.
Lord Randyll had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that this last emotion took precedence over all others.
He knew he shouldn't harbor such thoughts.
House Tarly did indeed value courage and martial prowess above all else, breeding warriors born for the battlefield rather than the council chamber.
But they were still lords and vassals bound by the ancient customs that governed all noble houses of Westeros.
The warrior's blood was certainly important, but the tacit understandings and unwritten rules that maintained order among the great houses could not simply be cast aside like a dented helm.
The inheritance of the eldest son was a tradition stretching back thousands of years, a legal framework that all houses were expected to uphold, no matter their private feelings.
This was precisely why Earl Randyll, despite his loathing of his eldest son Samwell's unmartial nature, had hesitated to send the boy to the Citadel to forge a maester's chain, or to the Faith to don the robes of a septon.
To strip an eldest son of his birthright, even if decided within the family's walls, would inevitably spark whispers and damage House Tarly's reputation and honor among their peers.
For outsiders to meddle in such delicate family matters would constitute an intolerable disgrace.
But what if that outsider wore a crown—or soon would?
Lord Randyll felt as though a door had suddenly appeared in what had seemed a solid wall of obligation.
The crowd's reaction swelled in volume, both cheers and boos rising in equal measure as "The Hound" Sandor Clegane unsurprisingly claimed victory in his match. The massive warrior did not acknowledge the crowd's response, his scarred face hidden behind his snarling dog's helm.
Earl Randyll remained lost in contemplation, barely registering the tourney's progress.
He had already resolved that upon his return to Horn Hill, he would compel Samwell to take the black, joining the Night's Watch at the Wall and formally renouncing all claims to titles and lands.
The Night's Watch, after all, was still a brotherhood of warriors, at least in name. And it lay far in the frozen North, much further from the Reach than the Citadel in Oldtown, thus preventing Sam from continuing to bring shame upon the Tarly name where it might be witnessed.
Though the family's standing would still suffer somewhat from such a decision, the wound to their pride would be less grievous than if his heir remained.
He had believed he had no alternative.
Yet now, an opportunity to achieve his aims without such sacrifice presented itself, wrapped in the authority of the Iron Throne.
Lord Randyll raised his head, meeting the prince's gaze. "Your Highness, you are truly resolved in this matter?" The question was tentative, a probe to test how firm the ground beneath this unexpected offer might be.
Joffrey suppressed a sigh of exasperation; he had already confirmed his intentions multiple times. How many more assurances would the man require?
Yet he understood that Randyll Tarly's hesitation was not born of confusion or forgetfulness, but of internal struggle. That he wavered at all spoke volumes about his true disposition toward the matter.
Joffrey harbored no concern about ultimate rejection.
Sam's experiences in the original timeline were proof enough that Earl Tarly had reached his limit regarding his firstborn's perceived deficiencies.
The alternative Joffrey now offered was advantageous to all concerned parties.
"Lord Randyll, I assure you of my utmost seriousness in this matter," he replied, allowing a touch more maturity to seep into his tone than his princely persona typically displayed.
"Consider the benefits: House Tarly gains a more suitable heir in your second son, who has already proven his martial valor today. Your eldest son, who clearly cherishes learning above swordplay, may devote himself wholeheartedly to scholarly pursuits. And Grand Maester Pycelle receives a diligent apprentice to assist in his increasingly burdensome duties. All are served by this single arrangement."
Randyll Tarly remained silent, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Sam, why could you not have shown even a fraction of courage? Do not lay the blame for this at my feet.
Joffrey waited patiently, observing the lack of response with growing interest.
Gradually, a notion began to form in his mind.
"Lord Randyll, what cause have you for hesitation? What objection could there be to serving as disciple to the Grand Maester? I propose this for your son's benefit as much as for the realm's!"
Earl Tarly maintained his stoic silence. The moment of decision had arrived, and he would not be rushed, even by a prince.
Joffrey grew more certain of his assessment with each passing heartbeat.
He rose to his feet, assuming an imperious mien, and delivered what amounted to an ultimatum.
"Earl Tarly, in the name of Joffrey Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, I command your compliance. Do you dare defy the dragon's blood?"
The surrounding spectators turned to observe the confrontation, conversation dying away as tension mounted.
Randyll Tarly stood abruptly, his eyes widening, his face flushed with what appeared to be barely suppressed rage.
The two stood facing one another, neither willing to yield ground in this test of wills.
Just as Joffrey began to doubt his judgment of the man's character, Earl Tarly finally broke his silence.
"I shall obey the Crown Prince's command and deliver my eldest son, Samwell Tarly, into the tutelage of Grand Maester Pycelle." His voice was controlled but edged with steel. "However—"
Lord Randyll's expression hardened, his jaw set with unmistakable determination.
"I must emphasize that this arrangement does not originate from my wishes, nor does it represent the will of House Tarly!"
With those carefully chosen words still hanging in the air, Earl Tarly turned on his heel and strode away, his back rigid with apparent indignation.
The atmosphere among the remaining onlookers cooled instantly, like a forge doused with water.
Observing the suddenly subdued gathering, Joffrey could readily surmise their thoughts.
Randyll Tarly, you old fox!
Joffrey knew his assessment had been accurate.
The crafty lord had orchestrated the perfect outcome: House Tarly would remain stable and unified, its image unblemished. They would gain a more suitable heir in Dickon while preserving the appearance of having been forced to yield their eldest to royal decree. All blame for disrupting the natural order would fall squarely upon Joffrey and the royal house.
And knowing King Robert's temperament, once he learned of this affair, he would inevitably feel indebted to the Tarly family for their "sacrifice" in service to the crown.
It was a masterstroke that brought all benefit and no harm to Horn Hill.
These very advantages had doubtless influenced Earl Tarly to accept King's Landing for Samwell rather than the frozen wasteland of the Wall.
As for Joffrey, he merely risked his already tarnished reputation, perhaps earning a few harsh words from the king—a negligible price to pay in exchange for a valuable connection to House Tarly and the acquisition of a knowledgeable, capable mind who would understand precisely where he stood.
Samwell Tarly.
In the original timeline, Sam had proven himself Jon Snow's most steadfast ally, one of the principal forces arrayed against the White Walkers—an unambiguously positive character despite his physical limitations.
Kind-hearted, quick-witted, astonishingly intelligent, broadly learned, and blessedly lacking in ambition. Though his presence might not command the same respect as the primary figures in the great game, he possessed potential that should not be underestimated—the capacity to become a minister-level adviser capable of standing on his own merits.
If Joffrey could gather a dozen such talents around him, they might just provide sufficient foundation for the political structure he envisioned.
And the more such gifted individuals he could collect, the better his chances of success.
The characters Joffrey sought to bring into his orbit numbered far more than a mere dozen.
After all, one of the chief advantages afforded by his knowledge of future events was an intimate understanding of the key players and their true natures.
Who in the normal course of events could claim to truly know another's heart? The time required, the risks entailed, the trust that must be built—such investments were simply incalculable in their scope.
As one transmigrated from another world, Joffrey recognized his duty to seize this unique opportunity, gathering talented individuals to his cause, employing those who might serve his purposes, and planting seeds of doubt among his enemies.
With Tyrion, the Hound, and now Sam, a small but promising team was taking shape. All that remained was to secure the necessary funding for his ambitions.
Joffrey turned his gaze toward a plain, unadorned pavilion standing apart from the more lavish encampments that surrounded the tourney grounds.
It's up to you now, he thought, his eyes fixed upon the black dog banner that hung limply in the still air.
The Hound.