Original subtitles

RANDYLL: Most houses take wild beasts for their sigils,

calling themselves bears, lions, or stags,

as if a cloth banner could make them so.

That isn't the way of House Tarly.

Our sigil is the huntsman pulling his bow,

and it isn't some idle fancy.

As soon as a son of House Tarly can hold a spoon,

he gets a bow.

As soon as the boy can sit a horse, his father takes him on a hunt.

They return with a stag, a buck, a boar, a brace of pheasant,

even if it takes days.

Even if it takes a week.

Even if it takes the boy's whole life.

Horn Hill is ours.

A fitting home for one of the oldest and most honorable families of the Reach.

Legend has it that Harlon the Hunter and Herndon of the Horn,

two sons of Garth the Greenhand,

raised the castle in the Age of Heroes,

and shared a home and a wife for 100 years.

Most of the great houses spout such nonsense about their origins.

At least my family doesn't claim some long-lost ancient crown, like the rest of them.

House Tarly breeds soldiers, not kings.

When House Gardener ruled the Reach, we served them well and loyally.

When House Gardener died,

and Aegon gave the Reach to their stewards, the Tyrells,

we served them well and loyally.

We know our place,

even if the Tyrell women don't.

When Aegon's son faced rebellion from the Vulture King of Dorne,

my ancestor, Savage Sam Tarly, led the royal forces on a Vulture Hunt.

Heartsbane, our ancestral Valyrian sword and the pride of our house,

soon ran red from point to hilt with rebel blood.

When Robert Baratheon rebelled against Aerys,

l led the Tyrell van,

and handed him his only defeat in the war at Ashford.

But a hunter knows that a moment's slip can cost him the game.

Great houses have fallen from a single, weak heir.

Samwell looked like a son when he was born,

but he grew up plump and soft as a daughter.

l'd catch him in the kitchen shoving cakes into his ever-growing mouth,

or reading in the garden when he was supposed to be training.

l brought masters-at-arms from all over Westeros to make a man of him.

He slept in chain mail, bathed in bull's blood,

was dressed in his mother's clothes and paraded through the castle

to shame him into valor.

He only grew fatter

and more craven.

l despaired of the future of our house until my wife gave me another boy, Dickon.

A real son and worthy heir.

Or he would have been, if Sam wasn't squatting in his way.

One morning l had Sam brought into the woods outside the castle.

l told him he'd given me no cause to disown him,

but Heartsbane should go to a man strong enough to wield her.

And Sam wasn't worthy to touch her hilt.

Either he would take the black and renounce all claim to his brother's sword and title,

or l would hunt him down like the pig he was.

Of course, faced with danger and exertion,

he chose the coward's path

and waddled north to the Wall.

Some may call me cruel for what l did,

but l don't care.

l am responsible for House Tarly

as my father was before me and his father before him.

lf the hunter returns with empty hands, his family starves.

lf the warrior carries an empty scabbard, his home burns.

House Tarly has stood for thousands of years.

lt will not fall on my watch.

No matter how many tears my family sheds.