Chapter 7: Growing 1.7
First Day of the Second Moon of the Year 288
"No."
The word has a finality to it that cuts through my Name Day Feast and sends a shiver down my spine. Slowly, conversations trail off as a weight settles over the previously joyous celebration.
"Now, Randyll –"
A glare from Father has my Mother pause her entreaty. A frown is quickly wiped from her face and she forces a smile, this time more carefully choosing her words. Especially as we are in full view of our Household.
"My Lord... surely it's fine. Sam has been nothing but dutiful in his training and always strives to meet your expectations."
She waves a hand in my direction, shifting the attention of much of the Hall to me. Compared to the cheers earlier today, I very much prefer to avoid all this regard. If I had known the outcome, I never would have asked Mother for such a gift.
"Look, his hands are bandaged from his sword practice yet he hasn't made a peep."
"As is expected of him." Father cuts in.
"Expectations, which as I've said, he has met and surpassed without fail."
She takes a breath and continues.
"Don't let this ruin the evening my Lord. It's such a small thing."
"I will not have my son and heir playing music like some common tavern minstrel. Such pursuits are for small folk and women. Sam is neither."
His words come out near a growl by the end and my fists tighten under the table.
This. This is a Randyll Tarly that I had though to be dead. A phantom of a future that never was. It seems I was wrong.
Despite being everything he could have wanted, intelligent, charismatic, athletic and bold, he still can't let me have this.
I played the guitar in my past life. Not to any great level of skill, but enough to bring fond memories. There's something about playing an instrument, once you get beyond the initial awkward fumbling, that is incredibly soothing. As if it were an outlet to let the soul sing.
Musicians, while not an everyday staple, are common enough during feats and celebrations here at Horn Hill. While it is often stilted and outdated to my ear, music is still music and I love it.
Especially the lute. Close enough to the guitar I knew to catch my interest. Enough to mention it to Mother.
A mistake it seems.
I hunch over myself before I become aware my posture and straighten my back. Such an obvious show of weakness will not help anyone, let alone me.
At this point, I don't even care about the blasted lute. I see the confused and anxious look on Talla's face as her parent's fight and I just want this to end.
If Father wants to be an ass, then so be it.
I honestly thought that I would have earned some goodwill, some breathing room to pursue things like music if I so desired.
Looking back, maybe my diligence did the opposite. If I were as sloppy and cowardly as the original Sam, something like an instrument would just be one more indignity for Randyll. Something barely noticed among everything else. He was already a disappointment, what's a little more?
But now that I've become this idea in my Father's head, of the perfect heir, the perfect solider, he has decided to fight against anything that might spoil me.
And, if I'm being generous, maybe it hasn't been so long since the rebellion. When a certain, now dead Prince was known for playing the harp.
Perharps he's looking after me, in his own twisted way. Shielding me from being associated with Rhaegar and all the connotations that man carries. He was known as a prodigy after all.
I don't know. I'm not sure if I ever will.
I just want it to stop.
So I tug on Mother's sleeve to get her attention and give her a short shake of my head.
"It's fine Mother," I speak, more for the audience than her. She can probably see enough of my feelings in my eyes. "I appreciate the thought, but if Father says no, then that's that. Let's enjoy the rest of the meal?"
And so we do.
Father settles down, and if his demeanor his a little more stoic, his words a little more curt, at least I don't have to see Mother fight, and lose, on my behalf.
So I ignore the vaguely pitying looks I get from Uncle Alyn and others. I don't need it. Nor their concern.
It's been a shock, but better to be surprised now, over something so relatively unimportant, than something higher stakes in the future.
Besides, I am the future Lord of Horn Hill, one of the luckiest people in Westeros. I lambasted the original Sam for squandering his good fortune to be born as a powerful Lord. I won't be a hypocrite and whine over my Father being strict as I dine on the best foods, surrounded by wealth and comfort in my future castle.
It doesn't mean I like it, but so it goes.
X X X X X
The smack of wood on wood sounds out in the night. A harsh soundtrack to the smouldering Hunter's Moon that hangs from the night sky.
With it as my witness, I swing my wooden sword. Over and over and over again.
I discard any and all form I learned this morning and simply strike out in a barrage of sloppy technique. To spite Father his perfect solider, if only for the night.
Eventually, I relax my grip on Sapling as my arms grow weary and and the sting in my hands becomes a sharper pain.
I take in deep, gulping breaths, steaming the cold air in front of me, partly from the exertion and partly from my lingering ire.
Fine. Maybe I'm not quite so unruffled as I made myself out to be.
I think I'm entitled to be pissed. I may not have made a scene. I may have acquiesced to Father's demands, but I'm allowed to take my anger out on the various trees of the Horn Hill Godswood.
I hit and move, hit and move.
Each blow knocking loose the snow held on their bare branches.
After getting the cold substance dumped on my head, I make sure to stay light on my feet after each strike.
Moreover, I make sure to avoid the large Weirwood in my act of catharsis. It would just feel wrong to strike the tall and stately tree. It's bone white bark stands out among the more delicate Magnolia and Dogwood.
Not that it needs anything special to draw the eye. The tree is massive and old. Its roots tunnel throughout the garden, peaking out here or there when not covered by snow. And its thick branches flow outward, long and graceful, some even sweeping to the ground. The Weirwood's reach is ever-present here, where my ancestors once worshiped.
I do make sure to keep to the opposite side of the Heart Tree's face. The carved countenance always made me uncomfortable. It might almost look happy, were it not for the blood red tears of sap. At best it seems bittersweet. At worst, crazed.
And wanting to vent my frustration in privacy means no witnesses, carved or not.
So I continue my moon-lit dance until the last dregs of my anger drain away. It's difficult to hold onto such feelings in light of exhaustion and pain.
Pain that I feel all too well.
I look down to my hands and grimace at what I find. A red to match the fallen Weirwood leaves has soaked through my bandages. My blisters having opened up and worsened in the last hour. A small stream of blood having even escaped to trail down my arm.
I'll have to treat and rewrap them the best I can once I sneak back to my room. I'd rather not wake up Maester Harwin and risk it coming back to Father. No need to seem a petulant child, even if that's closer to the mark than I would like to admit.
With a sigh, I step over to the Weirwood and slide down the trunk, settling myself between two roots. On the opposite side of the face, of course.
It may not be the Raven's Nest, but I can still see the amber moon through the branches and trees.
And really, despite all my exertion, that's all it takes.
The radiant watcher, high in the sky, soothes my soul like nothing else.
I don't have to think about how hurt my Mother seemed, how upset Talla looked or how disappointed I am with the Lord of Horn Hill.
I can simply let the cold, yet fiery light wash over my front as I'm held by the ancient tree to my back. My blood almost humming in content.
Worries, pain, even my thoughts fall away.
And as my eyes close and I slip into a peaceful sleep, soon to wake up to a very flustered guardsman, I fail to notice the smiling Weirwood begin to cry red.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
GoMagikarp
GoMagikarp So Papa Tarly is still a bit of a jerk. Maybe.
And no lute skills for Sam to make the ladies swoon. I guess he'll have to find another way.
Also, some totally unimportant stuff later in the chapter. You can ignore it. Just flavor text.
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