HORNHILL (reach) 286 sixth moon
The fever had tried to kill him.
For four days the fire had raged, burning through flesh and bone alike, leaving behind only sweat-soaked sheets and whispered prayers. Servants came and went in hushed terror. The maester spoke of imbalance, of humors gone wild. His mother had not left his side.
And his father had stood at the foot of the bed like a sentry carved from iron.
When the fever broke, it did not fade gently.
It shattered.
Alan Tarly's eyes flew open as if some unseen chain had snapped within him.
Air filled his lungs — cool, steady, controlled.
And with it came memory.
The crash.
Rain against glass. The violent spin. The weightless moment before impact. Then the white void. The god of light and silence. The bargain.
Perfect body.
Genius with the sword.
And now—
Horn Hill.
The canopy above him was dark oak carved with hunting scenes. The scent of herbs lingered in the air. His body felt… light. Whole.
Not the fragile weakness of a child recovering from illness. Not the ache of muscle after training.
Balanced.
Refined.
As if reforged.
He pushed himself upright.
A sharp intake of breath came from beside him.
"My lord!" the maid whispered, nearly dropping the basin in her hands.
His mother rose from her chair so quickly it scraped against the stone floor.
Lady Tarly gathered him into her arms at once, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. Her eyes — deep brown, warm and frightened — brimmed with tears.
"Alan," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Seven save us, you frightened me so."
Her embrace was tight, almost desperate.
He stiffened instinctively — then forced himself to relax.
She smelled of lavender and salt tears.
"I am well, Mother," he said quietly.
His voice sounded steady. Older than five.
Behind her, the maester stepped forward, chain clinking softly with each movement.
And near the hearth stood his father.
Randyll Tarly did not rush forward. He did not weep.
He observed.
Tall and broad, Randyll Tarly carried himself like a drawn blade. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with iron-grey at the temples. His beard was close-cropped, severe. His face was sharp-boned, weathered by sun and war, with eyes the same piercing blue as his sons — eyes that judged and measured without mercy.
He wore riding leathers even indoors, as if battle might call at any moment. His hands were clasped behind his back.
"You wake," he said.
Not relief.
Not affection.
A statement.
Alan met his father's gaze without lowering his own.
"Yes, Father."
A flicker passed through Randyll's eyes — something assessing.
The maester cleared his throat and moved closer. Thin fingers pressed against Alan's brow. Then his throat. Then his wrist.
He frowned.
"That is impossible," the old man murmured.
"What is it?" Lady Tarly asked, fear returning instantly.
The maester pressed again, more firmly this time. He listened to Alan's breathing, examined his eyes, his tongue.
"The fever…" he whispered. "It is gone."
"Of course it is gone," Randyll said sharply. "He lives."
"No, my lord," the maester replied, confusion creasing his face. "It is not merely faded. It is as though it never was. His pulse is strong. His humors balanced. There is no weakness remaining."
Alan felt it too.
No lingering fatigue.
No trembling.
Nothing broken.
The maester leaned back slowly, awe mixing with unease.
"The fever is broken," he said at last. "Completely."
Randyll Tarly gave a single nod.
"Good."
He stepped closer to the bed now, his shadow falling across Alan.
"A Tarly does not die of a fever."
There was no warmth in the words — only expectation.
Lady Tarly stiffened, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"He is only five," she said softly.
"And he is my son and a tarly," Randyll answered.
Silence filled the chamber.
Alan looked from his father to his mother.
Brown eyes filled with love.
Blue eyes filled with iron.
He understood both.
He remembered another life — discipline before dawn, bruised knuckles, endless repetition until technique became instinct. He remembered the god's voice. The bargain.
This was not a world for weakness.
And he was not meant to be weak.
"I would stand," Alan said.
His mother gasped. "No, you must rest—"
But he was already moving.
His feet touched the cold stone floor.
No dizziness.
No collapse.
He stood straight.
The maester stared openly now.
"Remarkable…"
Randyll's gaze sharpened.
"Walk."
Alan did.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Each movement smooth. Controlled. Balanced beyond his years.
He stopped before his father.
The room felt smaller somehow.
Randyll studied him for a long moment.
Then, finally—
A faint nod.
"Good."
Not praise.
Approval.
And in Horn Hill, that was worth more than gold.
Behind him, the banner of House Tarly stirred gently in the draft — the red huntsman poised forever on green.
First in Battle.
Alan Tarly felt the truth of it settle into his bones.
He was the elder brother to Samwell — though Sam was still a soft child chasing songs and sweets. Different. Gentle.
Alan would be something else entirely.
The game had begun.
And this time—
He would not fall to something as small as a fever.