Randyll Tarly is in his hall at Horn Hill, addressing his son, Samwell, with a look of cold disdain. The atmosphere is tense, as Sam stands awkwardly before his father, who has always been harsh and unforgiving toward him.

Randyll begins, his voice sharp and stern.

Look at you. Still soft, still weak. I thought by now you might have grown into something more than the disgrace you’ve always been, but I see I was wrong.

He rises from his seat, towering over Samwell with a sneer.

You think this is a life for you? Books, maesters, and… whatever nonsense you bury your nose in? You’re a Tarly. You were born to fight, to lead, to uphold the honor of this house. But you’ve done nothing but bring shame upon it. . He paces, his frustration evident, his voice growing colder.

Do you think the world will care about your dreams, your delicate feelings? The world is hard, and only the strong survive. I didn’t raise you to hide in the shadows or to cower behind walls of parchment.

Stopping, he glares at Sam, his tone dripping with disappointment.

You are no son of mine. You will never wield Heartsbane. That sword belongs to someone worthy, someone who understands duty, not someone who runs from it.

With a final look of contempt, Randyll dismisses him.

Go. I’ve no more to say to you. Perhaps you’ll find a place where your weakness is celebrated, but it will never be here, in my house.

Randyll turns away, his words a harsh, final judgment, as Sam leaves, burdened by his father’s relentless disdain.