Samantha Tarly, known as Lady Sam, was a member of House Tarly who wed first Lord Ormund Hightower and later his son, Lord Lyonel Hightower. She was the founder of the Bank of Oldtown.
Summary: Being the daughter of the Lord Tyrell, Tourneys and jousts were your favorite, but you weren't aware that a specific bee knight would catch your favor or your heart.
A/N: I had this idea really randomly last night and I just had to write it. This man and his damn mustache needs to be appreciated. I'm just gonna pretend the Humfreys didn't die and are just living their best live with their pretty wives totally fine. Don't tell me anything else. lmao. I really wish he had more screentime. AND I seem to have everyone dance? Why I really don’t know. lol
Tags: Fem pronouns. no use of Y/N, sweet honeyed mustache. Just cuteness really. and kissing.
Word Count: 3.2k
The lists had always been your favorite part of any tourney.
Not the feasting, though Highgarden’s tables groaned enough beneath sugared lemons and swan pies. Not the dancing, though the minstrels did play sweetly in your father’s halls. No, it was the thunder of the hooves, the splinter of wood, the breathless hush before the impact, and to see which knight would win out in the end. That was where your heart thrived for.
And this tourney was yours. Your father’s reasoning for having such a tourney was for how bountiful this year’s harvest was as if it wasn’t bountiful every year for the Reach. You thought perhaps it was just another reason for your father to hold another party.
But Highgarden never looked so fair. The banners of House Tyrell; green and gold roses on fields of spring fluttered from every tower. The scent of roses drifted on the breeze from the gardens below the lists, mingled in with the hints of trampled grass and horses. The knights glittered like a field of fallen stars.
You sat with your cousins beneath a silk canopy embroidered with the golden roses. Your father’s voice carried somewhere over your shoulder as he spoke with another liege lord of the Reach, but you weren’t listening. Your eyes were fixed upon the field before you.
“That one,” you said suddenly, leaning forward.
“Which one?” your cousin Ellyn asked, fanning herself lazily.
“There,” you insisted, pointing rather unladylike with your fan towards a knight in a bright checkered surcoat of yellow and black that rode into position. His helm was the shape like the head of a bee, with black strips and delicate gilded wings flaring back from the temples.
Your cousin Theo barked a laugh. “Seven saves us, is he going to sting someone?”
“He already has,” you said under your breath.
For the knight was not merely a spectacle. He sat his horse well. His back straight and his movements assured. When he lowered his lance, there was no hesitation. His opponent a man from House Caswell thundered toward him.
The crack rang like a clap of thunder. His lance struck true. The other knight fell against him, tumbling from the saddle in a scatter of splinters and dust.
The stands erupted.
You found yourself on your feet before you realized it. Cheering for him rather loudly.
“That is Ser Humfrey Beesbury,” Ellyn said, peering up at you. “From Honeyholt.” She grabbed your silk sleeve pulling you back down to your seat.
“Of course he is,” you murmured.
He removed his helm then, and you felt something quite unladylike twist inside you.
His hair was dark gold, sun touched. But it was his mustache that undid you, thick and proud, curled faintly over this top lip. It was the exact shade of clover honey. It caught the sun like amber.
Theo leaned closer. “You stare like a cat at cream.”
“I am admiring his form,” you said primly.
“You are admiring his face.” Ellyn corrected.
“And what a face indeed.” You replied, unable to stop yourself. “Look at him. He looks as though he’s stepped out of some storybook. And that mustache…”
“What of it?” Theo grinned wickedly.
You lowered your voice. “I wonder if its smells of honey.”
Ellyn choked on her wine.
“And if it tastes of it?” you went on, softer still. “I would not mind finding that out.”
“You are a wicked rose.” Ellyn whispered, half scandalized, but half delighted.
“Bees and roses do belong together.” You said matter-of-factly.
Ser Humfrey rode back to his pavilion amid cheers, and you felt the day change in that instant. The lists were no longer simply your beloved sport. They were him.
For three days he rode. For three days he did not fall.
His bee helm became a terror of the lists. Knights twice his size had cracked before him. Once, an opponent from House Hightower struck him squarely upon his chest, and you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat, but he held fast, steady as an oak.
“He rides like a man who has something he needs to prove,” Theo noticed.
“Or of something to win,” you whispered.
On the third evening, when the sun was sinking behind the towers of Highgarden, you made a decision.
“You cannot,” Ellyn insisted.
“But alas, I can.” You said back.
“But you are a daughter of House Tyrell!”
“Yes.” You smiled. “Did you forget? Roses are not shy flowers.”
Before courage could deserted you, you descended from the stands. The knights dismounting, squires bustling about like ants. You could feel eyes upon you as you crossed the trampled grass in your green silk gown.
He stood near his pavilion, helm tucked under his arm, speaking to his squire. Up close, he was broader than you’d realized. His shoulders were strong and his skin was sun kissed.
His mustache was even finer up close.
He noticed you at once. His words faltered.
“My lady,” he said, bowing low. His voice was rich, like a warm summer’s mead. “You honor me.”
“Do I?” you asked lightly. “I had thought it was you who has honored us all these last few days.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Thank you, my lady. But I only ride.”
“You do more than that.” You admitted.
He studied you then, carefully and respectfully. “You are of Highgarden.”
“I am.”
He hesitated. “A Tyrell.”
“I am that also. Daughter of Lord Tyrell.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Unsure if it was surprise or calculation. You could not blame him. A daughter of Highgarden did not usually wander into a knight’s pavilion unescorted.
“I have watched you ride, Ser Humfrey,” you said plainly.
“And I have felt your gaze also, my lady.” His tone soft. “It has steadied my lance.”
A heat crept up your neck.
You drew the silken ribbon from your wrist, a length of greens embroidered with golden roses. “Then allow me to steady it once more,”
He stared at the favor you were offering as though it was a relic of the Seven themselves.
“My lady,” he breathed, “I am not worthy of such a favor. Especially not of one of a daughter of Highgarden.”
“Win,” you said. “And then we shall really see.”
His hand brushed yours as he accepted your favor. His fingers were calloused and warm. The faintest scent reached you, a mix of clean steel, leather, and something sweet.
Not quite honey, but something very close.
He tied the ribbon to his wrist with precise care, as though if he pulled too hard it might break. “For you, my lady. I will unhorse the realm.”
“See that you do.” You said sweetly. “But I must return to Highgarden before my father knows that I am gone. I will see you on the morrow Ser Humfrey.”
“Yes, my lady.”
As you exited his pavilion you paused before finding your cousins. You looked back at his black and gold tent and noticed when the breeze moved the opening he stayed rooted to where you left him, staring at the green ribbons adorning his wrist.
You felt your heart flutter beneath your chest. You let out a deep breath, hitched up your green silk skirts and made your way back to Highgarden and your cousins who probably will never let you hear the end of this.
The final day dawned bright and merciless.
The lists were packed beyond reason. Word had spread that Beesbury was to go up against House Fossoway, the last tilt. Gold against red.
He rode out with your ribbon proudly displayed against his sleeve. Brightly it sat upon his wrist for all the tourney to see.
You could not sit. You could not breathe. And then they charged.
The impact cracked like the breaking of the world. Both lances shattered against shields, but both men stayed horse. Tilt upon tilt had passed. Each time a lance splintered, a shield went soaring, but each time the riders stayed seated. This time before they were off on the last tilt Ser Humfrey quickly looked to you in the stands and you gave him the slightest of nods, before he charged again.
This time Ser Humfrey’s lance had struck true, he hit square upon the shield, and the red apple of Fossoway spun through the air as its wearer fell from his horse.
Silence, then thunder.
Highgarden roared.
He did not remove his helm at once. He sat still, as though he did not believe that it had happened. Then he turned his horse toward the stands. Towards you.
When he lifted his bee helm this time, his hair was damp with sweat, his mustache slightly disordered, and you had never seen a finer sight.
He was declared victor of the joust of Highgarden.
And when the time came for him to name the Queen of Love and Beauty, he did not hesitate. He rode straight to where you stood.
“My lady,” he called, his voice carrying across the hush. “You granted me your favor. Will you grant me the honor of crowning you?”
Your father looked between you and Ser Humfrey. Unsure of what was transpiring in front of him.
Your heart beat so fiercely you feared you might burst.
“You may.” You said. You stood making your way down the steps of the stands to the dusty list below. He dismounted from his horse in one swift motion. You met each other halfway, the wreath he held lightly in his hands.
You looked up to him smiling. He placed the wreath of blue roses upon your crown. Your eyes met once more, but this time close enough you could see the flecks of amber in his.
“And now?” he asked softly, for only you to hear.
“Now,” you replied, leaning just enough to feel the warmth of him, “I believe you must discover whether victory sweetens a man.”
His mustache twitched.
“My lady,” he murmured, voice low as dusk, “you are a dangerous rose.”
“And you,” you said, brushing your fingers ever so lightly against his wrist that held your favor, “are a very tempting bee.”
The crowd cheered, but you scarcely heard them.
Later, that night the castle hummed like a hive at dusk.
Servants hurried through the corridors of Highgarden with trays of spiced wine and roasted fish. Minstrels tuned their harps in the great hall. The victorious knights were to be presented and toasted before all of the Reach.
And one of the victors was a bee.
You did want to look your best tonight, so that a bee might pick this rose to pollen. Your maid laced your gown of Tyrell green that was threaded with gold so pale it caught the candlelight like nectar. Also hugging every curve of your body in all the right places. A small circlet of golden roses rested in your hair. Proper. Untouchable. Ever the beautiful rose.
You dismissed your maid stating you just needed a few moments to yourself and then you would be down. You waited till you were sure you no longer could hear her footsteps. Once you were sure you slipped out of your chambers near the garden stairs.
The air outside was sweet with night blooming jasmines. Lanterns flickered along the path towards the pavilions and tents, but most of the knights had already gone inside to dress for the feast. Laughter drifting through the tents.
Your heart beat as it had just like it had before that final tilt earlier today.
His tent stood near the edge; black silks marked with yellow bees. The guards at a distance paid you no mind, even though they probably should have. Why would a daughter of House Tyrell venture into the shadows alone?
You lifted the flap before your courage escaped you.
He stood within, half armored still. His breastplate laid discarded on a near by chair, but he wore his yellow and black checkered gambeson unlaced at his throat. His hair was damp from washing; his mustache freshly combed, the ends curling handsomely.
He froze when he saw you.
“My lady.”
“Ser Humfrey,” you said softly.
For a moment you both simply stared at one another, the quiet thick between you. A single lantern burned inside.
“You should not be here. You should be at the feast,” he said at last, though he did not move to usher you away.
“Yes, I should be. You are right.” You agreed. “And you will be the most toasted man in the hall.”
His gaze warned. “That is all because of you.”
You stepped closer.
“No,” you said. “Because you rode like a storm sent by the Seven themselves. I have watched jousts since I was but a little girl, Ser Humfrey. I have seen champions and fools, brave men and reckless ones too.” Your voice faltered. “But I have never seen a knight who made my breath catch in my throat.”
He swallowed. Briefly looking between you and your lips.
“You made me feel as though the world narrowed to a single lance,” you continued. “As though the lists were not earth and dust, but something almost sacred.”
He took a step toward you, slowly and reverent. “You steadied my hand. When I rode, I thought of you in the stands. Yours eyes upon me like sunlight on a field.”
You smiled faintly. “Then promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Do not lose my favor.” You touched the green ribbon still tied around his wrist. “When you ride in other tourneys, when you find yourself facing some monstrous knights twice your size. Please remember that a rose of Highgarden watches you still.”
His hand clasped gently over yours where it rested at his wrist.
“I will never ride without thinking of you.” He spoke. “Not if I live to be an old man with grey in my mustache.”
You tilted your head. “Your mustache would not suit grey.” Saying that wrinkling your nose at the thought.
He laughed at that. “Would it not?”
“No. It is meant to be honey.”
The word lingered between you two. He then went very still.
“And my lady, have you come,” he said quietly, “to test that theory at last? I have been made aware of your thoughts that you had said in the stands.”
Your pulse fluttered like wings.
“So, I have.”
The boldness of it shocked even yourself but you had never been one to let sweetness sit untouched.
You rose onto your toes and laid a hand against his cheek. His skin was warm, faintly rough. His mustache brushed your fingertips, soft surprisingly so.
“May I?” you whispered.
“My lady,” he murmured, his voice had gone husky. “You may command me.”
You leaned in. The first touch was tentative, a brush of lips against the curl of his mustache. It tickled slightly, and you nearly laughed. But when you pressed closer, and he bent towards you, his hand hovered at your waist before settling with care.
He kissed you properly then. His lips were warm, firm but also gentle. He tasted of wine and something sweet. Not honey exactly. But close enough.
When you drew back, your cheeks burned.
“Well,” he asked softly.
You pretended to consider his question. “Not honey.”
His brow furrowed in mock offense.
“But sweeter.” You finished.
His answering smile could have lit the pavilion brighter than any torch.
“My rose.” He murmured against your skin.
“My bee,” you returned.
Outside, a horn sounded meant to summon the guests to the feast.
He exhaled slowly. “If I do not attend, they will assume I have been carried off by brigands.”
“Then we must not give them cause to search the rose gardens,” you said.
Reluctantly you stepped away knowing you had to get to the feast before your disappearance had been noted.
But before you slipped out, you turned back one more. “Humfrey?”
“Yes?” he answered back.
“When you ride again, and the lance lower, and the world goes silent. Please remember tonight.”
“Oh, my rose. I will always remember. I would never forget,” he said. “And I will ride as though you are waiting for me in the stands.”
The great hall of Highgarden blazed with candle and torchlight. Gold and green draperies hung from the rafters; roses floated in silver bowls upon the tables. The scent of roasted meat and spiced apples mingled with roses filled the air.
You sat upon the high table beside your father, every inch the composed daughter of House Tyrell.
Ser Humfrey sat below at the victor’s table, garland in praise and surrounded by the other victors of the tourney games. Which they were also surrounded by lesser lords eager for the victors’ favors.
And yet. He looked at you. Constantly.
You felt it even when you did not meet his gaze—the weight of it, warm and intent. When you dared glance down, you found him already watching.
Ellyn leaned toward you. “If you stare any harder, cousin, you will set him aflame.”
“I am merely ensuring our champion does not choke on his wine,” you replied sweetly.
Theo snorted. “Right. You do not do so for the rest of the victors I noticed. You look as though you are planning to devour him.”
“A rose does not devour,” you retorted. “She entangles.”
Across the dais, Humfrey’s mustache twitched with a smile, as if he heard.
The minstrels struck up a lively tune. Lords and ladies began to rise for the dance.
To your surprise and the visible shock of half the hall, Ser Humfrey Beesbury stood from the victor’s table and made his way towards your table.
He bowed before your father first, properly. Words were exchanged, courteous and measured.
Then he turned to you and offered his hand.
“My lady,” he said, voice clear. “May I have this dance?’
Every eye in the hall seemed to sharpen in your direction.
You placed your hand in his.
“You may.
His palm was warm as he led you to the floor. The dance was stately at first, measured steps and turns beneath the watching eyes of the court. But when the figures shifted and you found yourselves closer, his voice lowered.
“Honeyholt is beautiful this time of year,” he said. “The fields are heavy with bloom. The air smells of clovers and wildflowers.”
“Does it?” you asked lightly.
“It does.” His thumb brushed faintly against your fingers. “The bees are busiest at summer’s height. The roses grow well there too.”
“Do they?” you asked again.
“If tended properly.” His gaze held yours. “I would see one bloom there always.”
Your breath caught.
“You are very bold, Ser.”
“I have learned that sometimes sweetness must be pursued,” he said. “Else another bee would set to claim it.”
You smiled slowly. “And what if the rose prefers the bee who won her favor?”
His answering looked fierce and soft all at once.
“Then,” he murmured, drawing you close through the final turn of the dance, “I will spend my life proving worthy of her sunlight.”
Never had anyone spoken so freely about you to you, but it felt right when he said it.
When the dance ended, you did not step apart at once. Around you, Highgarden glittered and whispered.
But all you could think was this. A rose of Highgarden had found her bee.
And you did not mean to let him fly far from you again. As you said, ‘A rose entangles.’
"The Reach,historically the Kingdom of the Reachor the Green Realm,is one of the constituent regions of the Seven Kingdoms on the continent of Westeros. It was formerly a sovereign nation ruled by the Kings of the Reach before Aegon's Conquest. It is the second-largest of the kingdoms behind the north and is considered the most fertile and heavily-populated part of Westeros.
The Reach is considered the home of chivalry in Westeros. It is the place where knighthood is looked upon with the greatest reverence and esteemed the most. It is also the place where the rules for tourneys are the most stringent and managed.
The Reach is ruled from the castle of Highgarden by House Tyrell. Notable houses have included, Fossoway,Hightower and Redwyne.
Noble bastards born in the Reach are given the surname Flowers."
Hair/Veils - Lots. of. veils. Very complex braids which convey the amount of leisure time that ladies in the reach have available to them as well as many ladies in waiting. Women would decorate braids with jewels/pearls if available. Bottom left gives Hightower vibes while bottom right could be house Florent or Fossoway.
Dresses - Lots of floral motifs to relate to the agricultural importance of the reach, intricate embroidery, heavy/rich fabrics that make up structured dresses that are relatively modest (due to the popularity of the seven in the reach - especially around oldtown). Bottom left is particularly how i would picture Margaery's wedding dress (most likely to Joffrey as her dress in her wedding to Tommen is described as more understated) with lots of 'Myrish' lace, a white gown with a veil to convey her piety.
In The Reach, gowns are made from some of the finest fabrics - these gowns are typically detailed with floral embroidery, featuring puffed sleeves, and short bodices.
Ladies prefer to wear their hair in partial updos, decorated with gold netting, pearls, and other delicate fabrics.
Modeled by the ladies of the Reach: Elyn Hightower, Flora Tyrell, & Alerie Florent
thank you as always to the creators! @vixxiesims @westerosisim @goldenrosesims @tfi-sims @kyusims4offical @the-melancholy-maiden @simverses @plazasims @buzzardly28
