"If you ever find yourself with the option of taking me into town for a night of fun, and I ever find myself stupid enough to agree, I want you to break my other leg," Willas told Oberyn only a few hours after their dragon incident. "Or, in fact, just kill me. Either way, better than this."

Willas looked haggard and drawn out, like he had spent a night trawling around Dornish taverns drinking his troubles away. It was his own fault he looked so terrible and felt so rough, and he could hear his grandmother's cruel remarks in the back of his head, as well as imagine the look of disappointed concern his mother would give him if she could see his state of appearance. It truly was the worst hangover of his life, made worse by the worries of what his family would think should they see him, made worse by the fact that Oberyn looked as glorious as ever, completely untouched by their evening activities and completely amused by his state of exhaustion and panic.

"It is a headache, my dear, you are so very dramatic," Oberyn replied casually, and despite very little sleep was looking as fresh as the daisies that grew in Willas' home gardens.  "You should have gone to sleep the minute we got back here, rather than pace about for hours panicking."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not see the fucking dragon that was staring at us?" Willas exclaimed in baffled frustration.

"They lose their charm once you get used to them," Oberyn shrugged, as if housing three growing dragons in his keep was the most casual thing in the world. He caught Willas glaring at him, and broke into laughter. "I'm joking, they don't. They're a terrifying wonder. You see those beasts and meet their mother, and somehow our ancestors rolling over and surrendering to the conquerors makes a great deal of sense."

Were he not still pacing while Oberyn was on the other side of the room, reclined on the chaise longe by the wide-open window, Willas would have punched him. He wanted to, mostly just to knock off the smug look from his face and make his handsome friend look as rough as he felt, but he was a guest in Oberyn's home, and his parents had raised him to have better guest manners than resorting to spontaneous scrapping. Instead he settled for glaring at him, and he carried on pacing as his mind raced with the prospect of meeting the visitors from the east, whose identity was less of a mystery since meeting who Oberyn had called Viserion.

He'd had about an hours sleep, an hour that had been filled with not only the faces of his lost loved ones as usual, but of his new friend Viserion, and her brother dragons who he was yet to meet and more than happy to not come face-to-face with quite so soon. He wished he'd had the chance for more rest, but what sane man met an extinct beast and didn't have an existential crisis that caused insomnia? It was frustrating, because had he known the guests of the East were so important, he may have restrained his drinking the night before, but instead Oberyn expected him to meet the last Targaryen and her party of dedicated followers as an aching, exhausted mess. He'd strutted into his bedchamber looking as fresh as morning dew, announced that he was going to take him to meet with them, and expected Willas to go along with it all merrily. The reality was quite different, as Willas battled both a hangover and panic at the seemingly never-ending revelations, which was why he was delaying the meeting for as long as possible. The longer he paced, the longer he spent in his night clothes unready for the day, the longer he had to think about everything.

Perhaps spontenaity would have helped, if he had just gone bounding straight to meet the Easterners and the Mother of Dragons straight away, but Willas had never been a fan of spontaneous decisions. He liked to plan, to think things through. His wife had been like that too, never speaking unless she knew exactly what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. She had paused her hesitancy with him when they grew closer, a thing he classed as a great privilege, and he knew with stinging despair that she was the one he wanted to talk to the most about what and who awaited him. The grief that washed over him was almost refreshing, since his hangover and repetitive pacing meant his head ached and his knee twinged, and she was a welcome distraction from his changing world. Everything about the world was suddenly so different, but missing her was familiar.

"I want you to tell me everything before we go in that hall," Willas gently demanded, glancing over to Oberyn, baffled at how relaxed his friend seemed. "Who she is, what she wants, what she's doing here."

"I'm surprised you did not know what was happening in the east," Oberyn said with a shrug. "You always know everything."

"I was a little busy with my own war to be listening to stories from around the world," Willas reminded him. "I'd heard rumours that there were still Targaryens out in the world, and I'd read the stories that dragon eggs still existed. Did you know there's an old folk tale that there are dragon eggs buried in the crypts of Winterfell, sired from a dragon from the days of Jaehaerys and Alysanne? I always meant to ask over them, but it seemed an inappropriate topic of conversation."

"I cannot imagine the Stark's ever cared for any conversation about the Targaryen's," Oberyn mused, and Willas nodded, glad his reluctance was understood. "Did your wife inherit any resentments?"

"My wife was never even told what happened to her grandfather and uncle," Willas remembered, his chest aching as he imagined them all together again in whatever afterlife those who followed the old gods preferred. He imagined his wife and her aunt, together as close fast friends, the way his wife had always wanted. "She cared very little about southern politics though. All she cared for was the north, and her family."

It hurt to speak so openly about her, hurt so much he still struggled to think about saying her name out loud, but Willas knew he was going to be questioned about her. How could he not be, when she had been Princess of the North, her brother's Hand and assumed heir? It would be agony to discuss her with strangers, but in an odd way, he knew it would be something he could take great pride in. His wife had been a remarkable woman, a brave and unflinching force for what she believed in, how could he feel anything but overwhelming joy to boast about her, even if it did come with the stinging desire to have her back by his side?

Oberyn understood that simply by the way Willas' eyebrows creased together, and though he said nothing, he got up from his reclined position, crossing the room to stand in front of him. He blocked him from any more pacing, and clapped his hand onto his shoulder in a gesture of silent support. Willas wanted to point out how ironic it was that he was housing the last living Targaryen in his home given the fact her brother had abandoned Oberyn's sister and was one of the reasons why she and the children had ended up murdered. He wanted to prod at the fact that he was assisting the house that had brought him so much grief and pain, but then he remembered seeing his wife cry at her Aunt Lyanna's tomb, and remembered the stories his uncle had told him from court the day that Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed, and suddenly it was not just his wife who may have inherited resentments.

Even so, a Targaryen girl with three dragons who'd grown up far from Westeros was a far better choice for the throne than any Lannister. Willas didn't even have to meet the girl to make that decision, but there was still so much he had to think through. He was Lord Tyrell, he was the Warden of a Kingdom, which meant he held so many lives in his hand. He knew exactly what he was wanted for, what his house was wanted for. He didn't need Oberyn to tell him what the girl wanted, or why he had been summoned, and he didn't need to meet her to know that she was not simply holidaying in Dorne. The Targaryen girl wanted his army, and his fealty, because there was only so much that dragons could do. To reclaim her family seat she would need the support of the seven kingdoms, which was fine enough for him. A stranger who had grown up far from Westeros appealed to him far more than Joffrey or any Lannister, but to take her side had consequences that he was already too familiar with. Siding with the Targaryen girl could have been an easy choice if it didn't mean going against the Lannisters yet again when he already had so many reasons to prove why such a thing was a bad idea.

Would his wife want him to play that risk? Would she understand anything he did was in her honour to avenge not just her but his father and brother, and her family too? His wife had cared very little for southern politics, so would she hate him for getting involved in plots and betrayals just to make the Lannisters bleed for taking her from him?

A knock at the bedchamber door broke him from that spiral, and though he knew he looked as much of a state as he felt, he called for the newcomer to enter. It was more than one, as Arianne entered first, grinning with sparkling eyes, followed by Ellaria, looking tired yet as radiant as ever as she carried with her a small bundle. At their entrance Oberyn's eyes lit up, looking at his paramour the way that surely every woman wanted to be looked at, with absolute love and adoration, like he would burn the world just to keep her safe. Willas hoped he'd looked at his own wife enough like that.

"I heard you had an exciting night," Arianne remarked, taking her place at Willas' side as Oberyn greeted his lover with a passionate kiss before grinning down at the babe she was holding. She caught Willas' exhausted, anxious grimace, and laughed. "By all accounts Viserion likes you."

"I'd hate to think what would have happened had she not," Willas sighed, wondering if he was the talk of the keep, if the story would end up becoming an anecdote that would chase him forever. "I understand the secrecy now. One does not just go around boasting that you're hosting Targaryen's and dragons."

"Not if one likes their head to stay on their neck," she elbowed him with a wink, before she turned her attention to her Uncle. "The Dragon Queen is with your girls, and I'm concerned they're a bad influence. Tyene is quizzing her about Eastern poisons, Loreza is begging for a ride on the green one."

"I would expect nothing else," Oberyn grinned, prouder than any man in all seven kingdoms, especially as his arm snaked around Elaria's waist, drawing her closer as the baby in her arms squeaked and wriggled. He looked at Ellaria like she was the only woman in the world as she gently placed their daughter into his arms, then glanced up at Willas. "Care to meet another wild Sand Snake?"

Willas moved closer, though didn't get chance to look at the little girl before Ellaria had taken hold of him. She held his face in both hands, looking him over affectionately, both motherly and adoringly, and Willas realised he'd never known he was so loved by the Dornish folk. Were they all being so kind because they felt sorry for him? Were they treating him so nicely because they felt bad that his father, brother, and wife were all dead? Or, did they actually like him and value him as a true close friend, and it all took him by surprise because he was used to tough love and awkwardness? Either way, he smiled back, and took hold of her hand and squeezed it.

"It is good to see you," she told him, though her eyes glanced down at his beard with an amused smirk. "You need a-"

"A shave, yes, many people have told me," Willas cut in, rolling his eyes boredly before he regained his smile. "May we discuss other matters? Like the fact the pair of you have yet another daughter? I had no idea that was on the cards."

"Neither did we," she shrugged, glancing over to Oberyn with a loving smirk. It made Willas' insides ache only a little.

"Dyana, was it?" Willas asked, before he opened his arms out. "May I?"

Ten years before, Willas would have never imagined that he would be friends with the Red Viper of Dorne, or any Dornishman. The day he met Oberyn Martell in the jousting arena he never expected all that would come, not just his injury but the years of friendship and companionship. He never imagined the man who accidentally led to his knee being crushed would one day welcome him into his home, encourage him to be a part of his family's lives, help him on a quest for vengeance, and entrust him to hold his youngest daughter. Generations of feuds between the Reach and Dorne seemed foolish and trivial the moment he held five-month old Dyana, and his grin was instant and inevitable.

Oberyn had said his newest daughter looked like his sister, but when Willas looked at her he saw nothing but his friend. His dark eyes, his dark hair, and even at that young age, his smile. She was beautiful, and it was an instant endearment as Willas grinned at her. He dare not think about how when Uther was that age they'd been at war for four months and the three of them had been living in a tent. Personal space was a distant memory back then even if they were lucky to have one of the larger tents, but Willas knew he would not have changed it for the world. It would have been sweeter to be at home, of course, it would have been safer too, but instead he knew he had secretly enjoyed every moment in their cramped living situation, and would trade anything to be back there in that time. One smile from Oberyn's little girl made Willas feel homesick for his own son, longing to have him be that little again, because if he was that little then life would be easier and his wife would still be with them.

He dare not think too about how in six months time he should be holding a child of the same age that was his own. He was meant to be three months off having his second son, an Eddard Tyrell with Tully-Hightower looks. He could hear Oberyn talking about how all his girls were loving and adoring older sisters, but all Willas could think about was how he was meant to be seeing his own son becoming an older brother and how he knew he would have thrived with a sibling, the way he did, the way his wife did. He'd loved Uther from the moment he'd first seen him, but there had been something quite terrifying about becoming a father, something that he'd assumed wouldn't overshadow the birth of his next son in a way that meant all fear and nerves were overtaken by excitement. It had all been for naught though, and he'd not really considered the fact that his son would remain an only child until holding Oberyn's ninth daughter.

Nine children. Willas had never realised it was what he wanted until he knew it was impossible.

"She's remarkable," Willas told Oberyn with a smile, because he decided that if he spoke then he wouldn't spiral in his thoughts. "Many congratulations to you both."

"A fine future lady of Highgarden, what do you think?" Oberyn joked, though part of Willas assumed that he was not entirely joking, even if both women were laughing at him.

"Ignore him," Ellaria rolled her eyes as she took Dyana back into her own arms, shooting Oberyn an amused glance, but one that carried so much love and lust.

"My son might never even end up being Lord of Highgarden if the Lannisters get their way," Willas reminded them, earning a scoff and a glare from Oberyn. "They would have me send him to the Wall the moment he is old enough and wed me to a woman of their choosing for more heirs."

"I cannot see that happening," Arianne pointed out stubbornly.

"The Lannisters are busy enough with the revolting Riverlands and the perfect distraction of your sister and Joffrey's wedding to even notice what is going on down here," Oberyn reminded him, though the mention of Margaery made his nerves twist. "They will not care about one little boy's inheritance the moment the tide turns against them again."

Willas' hand slipped into the pocket of his robe then, hoping to hide how the mention of Lannisters caused his fist to tighten. His little sister in the Lion's den, his son's fate at the mercy of them, it was sickening and rage-enducing, and Willas was keen to keep his temper under wraps. Yet, as he buried his hand into the pocket, he did not find his knuckles resting against the inner fabric, but a sheet of parchment. With a frown he unfurled his hand and pulled the parchment out, wondering what it was, how long it had been there. With a sinking in the pit of his stomach he realised the last time he'd worn that robe had been in Riverrun, when he used to leave it hanging up on the desk chair and so often saw his wife borrowing it if she woke up earlier than him and needed something to help fight off the draught in the chilly keep. He'd not worn the robe since getting home, not even taking it out of his trunk. That was how it had ended up in Dorne, merely packing more things on top of it, not wanting to disturb the robe.

Yet there he was, wearing it without realising, discovering a secret of months gone by. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, and instantly wanted to break down when he saw his wife's handwriting spelling out his name. It was definitely his wife, because only she managed to smudge her capital letters a little while still making it neat. There was another folded letter too, but that one had his son's name on it, and it was bad enough seeing his wife's handwriting spell out his own name that he had heard her say with a laugh whenever he joked or with a content sigh whenever he was making her happy. To see her writing the name that had taken them days to choose for their boy, the name that had made her beam when he had suggested it as she kissed their son on the top of the head, trialling it out with a tired laugh... It was a memory he rarely thought of, one he'd not considered since the moment they named their son, but seeing her little smudge over her capital 'U' threw him back to their bedchamber in Winterfell, to a sweeter time when they were all safe. It made his heart ache, wishing Uther was with him so he could see the ghost of his wife in their son, wishing to hold him close and weep over what they had lost.

Could two letters really do that to him? Unravel him so completely? It turned out to be the case, as he had frozen, staring at both letters in his hand, unaware that his hand had started to shake and that everyone was staring at him. Oberyn stepped closer to him, glancing at what he held, and only stepped away when he realised what it was. Any ideas of Targaryens and revolutions were forgotten instantly, and Willas barely knew he was in company until he heard Oberyn curse under his breath.

"Shall we leave you?" he suggested. Willas didn't answer, completely unable to as a lump formed in his throat, but somehow he found the strength to nod once. "Right. I will delay the meeting. Come find me when you are ready. There is no rush."

Willas wished he could find the words to tell Oberyn how grateful he was to him, especially as he nodded for the two women to follow him. Oberyn squeezed his shoulder in passing, and both women pushed kisses to his cheek, but Willas barely felt any of them. He didn't hear the door click shut, or feel how he stumbled back to sit on the edge of his bed. Numb to the world around him, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he plucked up the courage to open the letter. He set Uther's aside, knowing it was not his to read, deciding to save it to read with his son the moment he was old enough and had understood what had happened. Deciding that opened him up to all new horrors that he had tried not to think about, wondering what Uther's reaction to the reuth would be. Would his son hate him for not forcing his mother to not go to the wedding, or would it break him into bitter, distrustful fury? It would surely ruin him to know the truth of how his mother had died, as it already had given the way that his son still screamed for her at night time. She wouldn't want that, she wouldn't want him to be scared, or angry, or sad, and perhaps that was one of the reasons why his mind shut off, not wanting to consider Uther's fate anymore.

That just left his own letter to deal with, feeling his heart pound as he forced himself to break the seal and unfold the parchment.

'My dearest Ser Willas.

I write this on the occasion that I do not make it home to you. Whether that be treachery on the road, an unexpected attack, or a natural cause issue we may have not foreseen (I.e., my carriage flipping on the road, that sort of thing.) Highly unlikely, but perhaps we should always prepare for the unlikely.

Falling in love with you was unlikely. I never saw it coming. You met me as a stubborn girl who wanted to do right by her family even if it went against everything I personally wanted, and I met you as a dutiful man embarrassed by the positions your family had forced you into. We made quite the pair, an unlikely duo, but somehow with all duty and expectation removed we manage to find peace with each other in a time where peace was unimaginable. Without you by my side I think I may have lost all sense of myself, nor would I have truly found what sort of person I am meant to be. I always knew I would be a wife and a mother, society dictates that much, but I never knew that those roles would be the greatest things to ever happen to me. You and Uther have brought me such joy and endless love, and for that I thank you. You've taught me strength and patience, you've taught me compassion and affection, and you have shown me that life can be an adventure even if you are simply at home just as long as you're with someone you care for.

I care for you, a great deal, more than I ever intended. A sensible woman would have stopped herself falling so madly and deeply in love, but lucky for the pair of us I am anything but sensible when it comes to you. I would tear all seven kingdoms apart for you. I would bring down castles and keeps, I would march into battle alone for you, and I would do so with pleasure, because I know you would do the same for me. You have made me feel safe, cared for, loved, and you've done it all even when I felt unlovable and undesirable. You took on a great task when making me your wife, convincing a whole kingdom that you are worthy, that I am worthy, and you did so unflinchingly with unwavering dedication. I thank you for it, and I love you for it.

This war did not have to be your fight, and you could have ensured it wasn't mine either. You could have insisted that we go south, avoid any and all conflict, and it would have been your right to do so as my husband. Instead you supported my family, you supported me, and you made what should have been the worst months of my life bearable. I am sorry for all the times I came to bed late or not at all, for all the times I allowed my temper and nerves to boil. I'm sorry for all the times I did not put you and Uther first to prioritise the war. I hope you understand why I did such things, that because before I was your wife and Uther's mother, I was eldest daughter and sister first, and that role remains as important to me as always. Everything I have ever done has been for you and our son, but also for my brothers and sisters. You are all the only things that matter to me in life, and I will fight until the end for all of you.

If something should happen to me, do not waste time weeping. I hope you'll miss me, obviously, but do not let yourself be destroyed by sadness. I know you, I know your temper. Do not let it get the best of you. Talk to your parents, talk to your brothers and sisters. They will be there for you, I know it, and in return you must be there for my family. There aren't many left, I know, but please ensure their safety. Keep them safe, keep yourself safe. Do not worry for me, as I want you to know that should something happen I will be thinking of you, and will be with you regardless. We promised each other that wherever one goes the other will follow, and I promise that I will remain with you whatever happens.

Should something happen to the northern cause, please do not let it get forgotten. Don't let my father and all his men have died in vain. Don't let Arya, Bran, and Rickon be forgotten. Don't let Sansa be treated with the same cruelty that met the rest of them. Let Jon know what Robb and I did for him and let him know how much I love him. Be a support to my mother. Keep Robb safe. He is my other half, as much as I know the two of you struggle to see eye-to-eye sometimes, and I would be lost without him.

If something should happen to us, keep yourself safe, but do not let us die in vain. I am not a woman of vengeance, or at least I hope I am level-headed enough to not be, but at the same time I know that should something happen to you then I would want the whole world to burn. I'm not suggesting you do something that drastic, just... do not let us be forgotten. Don't let the north be forgotten, and do not let us be forgotten. Do not let anyone in these gods forsaken seven kingdoms forget that Eddmina Stark loved Willas Tyrell, and the two of them would do anything for each other.

Teach our boy to be kind, and clever, and brave, all the things we want him to be. Teach him what it means to be northern and of the Reach, and never let him forget how much I love him. Never forget how much I love you.

Yours, forever and always,
Eddmina Tyrell.'

Foolishly, Willas brought the page to his lips, pressing them against her signature, his eyes screwed shut as he fought the urge to weep. Crying with the paper still against his face would have meant ruining the ink, and he was determined to preserve it forever, so gently brought it away to instead stroke his thumb over her name.

Eddmina Tyrell was his wife, and she had been too damned clever for her own good, imagining a world where she didn't survive and so had to leave behind a reminder of who she was. Even from beyond the grave she was thinking of others, her overwhelming sense of selflessness shining through even in death. She was the greatest thing to have ever happened to him, and the letter in his shivering hand proved that she would continue to be, forever, for as long as he lived.

"My brave, clever little wolf," he whispered, then laughed at the foolishness of talking to himself.

It was like she'd known he would lose himself, like she knew he would need a reminder of who she was, what she wanted. She hadn't known everything though, she hadn't known he would lose his brother and father too. She hadn't known that rebuilding himself from losing her would also come with becoming a lord and looking after a whole kingdom as well as his family. She hadn't known that if she had been the air that he breathed, Garlan had been the sun, and his father the earth. All three of them ripped away at once, the world was a vastly different place, one easy to be lost in, one easy to shrivel away in and bend to every will inflicted upon him.

No. She had been clear on that much. She hadn't known what would really happen, hadn't known he would be stuck without any of them with her entire family destroyed, but she had been clear on what she wanted should she die. She wanted him to be strong, she wanted him to remember all that they had been through, and she wanted justice. Not for herself, she would never be that selfish, but she wanted justice for the north.

He could do that much for her, at least, and even if it wasn't what she had said, he could do it in her name. Everything he did would always be in her name.

He folded the letter back up, ready to slip back into his pocket, but found his hand wrapping around something else, something he hadn't felt in the blind panic of finding the letters. He pulled his hand back out, wondering what other heartbreaking trasures his wife had left behind for him, only to find a band of leather strips braided together, a little tattered as if it had been worn non-stop for years, the knotted clasp worn away to mere frayed edges that had unravelled. His nameday gift to his wife, one he'd put onto her wrist the moment he gave it to her and never saw her take off. It had not ended up in his pocket by choice, that much he knew given her fondness for it and the state of the clasp, and he imagined her slipping the letters into his pocket only for the bracelet to drop in with them, and given the stresses of their last morning in Riverrun he assumed she hadn't even noticed. He hoped she had not worried for it, hadn't wondered where it had gone and assumed it had dropped off on the road to never be found again when it was safe with him the whole time.

He held it up to the light, his heart aching as he saw where he had branded their intials together. E+W. He had wanted to make her another one one day, with their children's initials, but knew with sinking giref that he'd never get chance to give her any other gifts again. Yet, as his thumb ran over the 'E' initial, he knew he could give her one final gift.

That was why he forced away all his pain and worries, forced away his tears, knotted the bracelet around his wrist, and called for one of the servants to bring him soap, water, and a razor. Shaving had become something alien to him, but when he had disposed of his much-hated beard and left himself with only his moustache, he decided it had been a mistake to let it go on for so long. He'd grown it to fit in with the northerners, but he should have realised a long time before that he was not a northerner. What he was was Eddmina Stark-Tyrell's husband, and as he dressed in a black and gold doublet with a little wolf embroidered on the cuff of the sleve, he knew he would not rest until every soul in Westeros with Lannister blood would regret ever separating the two of them.

***

Hell-bent on revenge, Willas had already decided his allegiance lay with the mother of dragons, but what he hadn't expected was to feel any sort of loyalty barring what the woman could do to avenge his losses. He had expected to feel nothing when, a few hours after finding his wife's letter, Oberyn took him to meet with the Eastern party. He'd spent years at war, had been married to a woman called Princess by people who adored her, why should he be impressed by anyone else? Yet when they entered the hall and he caught sight of Daenerys Targaryen for the first time, he hadn't expected to feel floored by the spectacle of her.

She was a girl who'd grown up in basic poverty, fleeing for her life, made special by nothing but the bloodline she carried. Such an ubringing would have broken others, had them condemned to a life of squalor and broken dreams, but it was clear such things had not happened to her. The Targaryens were some of the last proof of Old Valyria, Willas had been a fool to expect nothing less than grandeur, even if she was a teenage girl. She was mesmerizingly beautiful, regal and etherial, with perfect posture and poise, yet didn't carry any notion of superiority. She wore no crown, nor any jewellery, and was dressed simply in an airy blue dress of Dornish fashion. He assumed the dress was mostly to honour her hosts, and the multiple complicated braids she wore in her hair were to honour the two guards stood by the seat she sat upon as if it was a throne; he imagined she could make a simple footstool appear like  throne. The Dothraki did not sail, yet there they were, in Dorne, staring him down as if he was a threat until he caught their eyes drift to the cane he leant on. Their queen didn't look anywhere but his face, save when an advisor stepped closer to whisper something in her ear.

It truly was a rag-tag bunch of people he found himself stood before, and wished he could go back in time and tell the Willas of the past who felt out-of-place with the northerners that he would one day meet a group of people who would make himself and his brother fitting in with the northerners seem so easy. He recognised the advisor closest to her first, thanks to the bear that he wore on the shoulder of his armour; Mormont. Though he'd been too young to really remember the northern man that his Aunt Lynese had been married to, Willas had heard Lady Maege curse her nephew Jorah enough to know it was the man himself, not to mention he had the same colour eyes as his cousin that made recognising him easy. The thought of Dacey stung, and Willas forced himself to look away, at the next man stood just behind her seat, the aged one with grey hair and a silver beard. Willas had met him once before, briefly and with a conversation that didn't extend beyond pleasantries, but it had been in Winterfell, and Willas had committed everything that happened there to memory, making it impossible to forget Ser Barristan Selmy. Odd that he was there, considering he was a King's Guard sworn to Robert and then Joffrey, and given everything that had happened to his wife's family in the capital, the sight of the man made his spare hand clench unconsciously into a fist.

Another thought he wanted to avoid, so Willas looked at the strangers, the ones he definitely didn't know. A girl, around Sansa's age, tanned skin with the most remarkable curls he'd ever seen, dressed in a fashion that resembled the queen she looked at with equal adoration and protection. A man, closer to his age than the other two, handsome and rugged in leather armour, looking as if it was all one big adventure but that would not stop him from killing everyone in the room to protect the queen he was so obviously infatuated with. The two dothraki, looking more out of place than the rest of them, straight out of a textbook or one of Old Nan's stories that the Stark children would encourage from her then immediately regret when it got too scary. They carried Araks, weapons that he remembered his brother having a strange fascination with, but when he begged their father for one and tried it out in practice immediately sliced his hand open and fainted from the blood. The memory would have made him laugh as it always did, but instead he was left wondering and worrying over the fate his brother met at the wedding, if he had been scared when knives had been drawn, if he had gotten the opportunity to feel dizzy at the bloodshed, if he'd died before he could faint-

Involuntarily, Willas grimaced and his hand clenched around the handle of his cane so tightly that his knuckles paled. It was embarrassing to face such painful grief in front of strangers, feeling as if he was having to fight to stay standing and not crumple to the floor and weep over how much he missed his brother, but then he heard one of the Dothraki laugh to the other, muttering something lowly that made his friend bark out a laugh. Their queen shot them both a look as if telling them to be quiet, while the girl stood to the queen's side looked uncomfortable.

"My queen, they act like this broken man is a king," one of the dothraki remarked to Daenerys, who looked at them wih faint embarrassment. His accent was so thick that Willas struggled to decode the language. "He would not have been allowed to survive back home, now they want you to grovel to him."

"I'm not broken, nor am I a king, nor do I want anyone to grovel," Willas spoke calmly, hiding how much he enjoyed the expressions of shock from most of the room, the frustration from the dothraki of them being understood, and the impressed shame Daeneyrs wore. Oberyn was the only one to vocalise his amusement, letting out a scoff that echoed in the room. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You know Dothraki?" Daenrys asked, a small frown of surprised amazement growing on her face. Willas couldn't help but think she had the most remarkable face, so expressive and kind, so open. "I did not think there was much call for it over here."

"There isn't, but when one is confined to months of bedrest and begins to feel their mind rotting away and hears whispers that people think they've lost their wits, its a good mental exercise," Willas explained with a shrug, shooting Oberyn a look to see a quick expression of remorse pass over his face before he regained himself and fired a wink his way. "I found Dothraki harder than High Valerian, but easier than Rhoynish."

"Your pronunciation was off a little, you needed more emphasis on the..." the girl stood to Daenerys' side began, but drifted off, catching herself. She glanced to her queen, then to the floor. "My apologies."

"None necesarry, you're always welcome to correct me on information, otherwise how do any of us learn?" Willas shrugged, enjoying the way the girl smiled, enjoying the way Daenerys smiled. "I'm Willas, by the way."

"Yes, forgive me for forgetting my manners, this is my good friend Lord Willas Tyrell, recently made Warden of the Reach," Oberyn spoke up, clapping his hand onto Willas' shoulder blade in a way that seemed almost brotherly, a gesture that stung just as much as the use of titles. "My dear Lord Tyrell, I would like you to meet our other honoured guest, Daenerys Targaryen."

"That's Queen Daenerys," her Mormont guard corrected Oberyn sharply, though he was still eying Willas suspiciously. "Last I heard you were marrying Ned Stark's daughter."

'I did,' Willas wanted to snap, hating how spiteful the man said his goodfather's name. 'I married her and it was the greatest thing I ever did and will ever do.'

"Last I heard you were marrying my Aunt Lynese, how did that go for you?" Willas shot back, quick and defencive, before his gaze snapped to the other man stood behind Daenerys, the one who wore a white cloak the last time they had met. "And the last I heard you were sworn to the man who had my goodfather murdered and my goodsister tortured."

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled away his embarrassed anger, while Ser Barristan Selmy looked away in almost shame. Willas wondered if there was a single person in the room that was not haunted by the past, that was capable of doing anything without a ghost of a time before hanging over them. He found it bitterly satisfying to cause such reactions, feeling less alone in his frustration, feeling less like a chased deer surrounded by a hunt as he felt himself be eyed up and examined by the pack of Easterners. The role of newcomer was not one he cared for, disliking being the one who knew the least in the room.

"We all have a past," Daenerys spoke on behalf of her shamed-looking advisors. "I heard that during the rebellion your family fought on my family's side."

"House Tyrell did the bare minimum then grovelled to survive," Willas shrugged, remembering all the times his grandmother had chided his father for his poor role in the rebellion, feeling a sting as he realised it was no longer his father's decision about where his family stood in wars. "I suppose you are going to ask for me to do a little more than that and help you stage a new rebellion, help the usurped become the usurper?"

Daenerys looked scandalised at such a title being applied to her, trying to conceal her anger. It was obvious she'd had a lot of practice in that with whatever she had been doing wherever she had been. Willas wished he'd been more obvservational, wished he'd paid more attention to the whispers of what was happening in the east, but he'd been too focused on the war and his wife, and then afterwards he'd wanted nothing more than to forget everything. The four months he'd spent in a pit of grief had never seemed like more of a waste, wishing he had listened simply so he did not feel so uneducated in front of the woman sat before him, the woman who owned three growing dragons who could easily make him their dinner should he annoy any of them.

His comment about usurpation had caused the dothraki to mumble more insults, ones he couldn't quite catch, but he did catch how all her advisors seemed to glare uneasily at him. He was a newcomer, and he realised he was the first lord of Westeros she had presented herself to. Her rag-tag bunch of advisors had all chosen to follow her for whatever cause she was leading, she had earned their trust and they had followed loyally, but he was the first one of the great lords that she was exposed to, the first one she had to convince onto her side and prove her worth to.

Perhaps coming face-to-face with a dragon was enough for him. The power, the size, the sheer magic of it... there was something about a dragon that was not to be argued with. He remembered reading history books about Targaryens being closer to gods than to men but it was their bond with their dragons that made men yeild, bow, and marvel at their greatness. As a nature-loving boy, he'd always found it disappointing that he had never gotten to epierience the wonder of seeing a dragon, and he'd only realised that he'd never outgrown that curiosity the moment one was staring him down. For him, that was enough, and he knew within seconds just why so many lords had allowed themselves to be conquered. Oberyn had cited silver hair hand beauty, and while Willas understood that completely... Dragons.

He wasn't going to let her catch onto that, though. Out of pride he couldn't stomach the thought of a stranger knowing he was ready to immediately swear alliances and help with whatever conquest she was plotting. Dragons were convicing, as was beautiful silver hair, but nothing was more convincing than the desire for revenge. Any role he played in whatever she planned was mostly caused by the need to see those who'd hurt him suffer, making arrangements mutually beneficial. He could have his revenge, as could she.

It was too soon to reveal that stance though, keeping his thoughts concealed as he kept a calm stare on his face, wanting her to prove herself. He'd seen his wife do it countless times, having to earn every respect she was shown right up to the last moment he saw her. If his wife had to fight even with her bloodright, family history, and a direwolf at her side, Willas expected a girl who'd lived in exile all her life to do the same - even if she had three dragons.

"You're not in Dorne for a holiday," Willas remarked, killing the silence, though his choice of sarcasm left everyone glaring at him again while his insides twisted as he remembered someone else who was far better at jokes. "What is it that you want?"

"I want what is mine by right," she replied calmly, though there was a fierceness to her.

"And how can I help with that?" he asked, just as calm. "My dear Prince Oberyn does like to summon me down here ocassionally, but he knows I'm a busy man, he knows I cannot come upon any and every whim. He would only call me down here if this is serious, if you are serious. What do you want me for?"

"I want..." she began, almost angrily, not caring for the way he needled at her. He didn't blame her, and was impressed when she stopped and calmed her temper; it was more than he could do sometimes. "The throne is mine. Perhaps that was not the way it was always meant to be, perhaps once upon a time I was meant to be nothing more than a princess or a curiosity across the sea, but I do not care for either of those. I do not want to sit and let the world pass me by while the throne forged by my ancestors is warmed by usurpers and traitors. That is not what I was born to be."

"And what were you born to be?" Willas pushed, having to hide how much he enjoyed her strength, how he liked her self-belief, how he was desperate to pledge himself to her because she was not only the only one who could help him in vengence but because he already massively preferred her to all alternative monarchs.

"The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Mother of Dragons," she answered simply, a small smirk on her face that Willas found impossible not to mirror. "I hear you met one of them early this morning."

"Coming home drunk," the Mormont advisor remarked under his breath.

"I'd never known how to drink as well until I spent time with your family," Willas shot back, clenching his jaw, hating how he had been pulled out of his conversaton with Daenerys. "My condolences, by the way, since I can only presume your aunt and niece perished with my wife and her family at the Wedding."

Using them against him stung, and Willas wanted to regret it. Dacey had always been a kind friend, a good support for his wife, and her Lady Mother had been a fierce supporter of the Northern independence. He saw the way Jorah Mormont tried not to flinch, tried not to clench his jaw, and to his credit he kept his eye fixed on Willas'. Northern stubborness, oh, how Willas had missed it.

"What happened to the Starks and to your own family was a great tragedy, one I regret my part in," it was Ser Barristan Selmy's turn to address him, though Willas would have referred them to all stay quiet and let their queen speak. "Lord Eddard was a good man, and your brother Ser Garlan was one of the best fighters I've ever seen, I saw him training in Winterfell with Lord Stark's bas-"

"You saw him training with Jon Stark, the King in the North," Willas cut in, desperate to not hear anymore about his gallant brother from a stranger. The use of 'King' made Daenerys frown slightly, so Willas turned back to her with raised eyebrows. "My goodbrother was a King, he died for his kingdom's freedom. I will not see the same happen to his half-brother who was legitimised by the last act of his princess sister. He will rule the north as king in memory of his brother and sister. That is one of my only conditions."

"Conditions of what?" she asked, blunt and clearly bothered by his own bluntness.

"Conditons of this alliance between ourselves that you are skirting around," Willas stated, unable to help his small smirk. You have dragons, you have a small army and a band of dedicated supporters who would clearly do anything for you. That is good, it is a start, but it is not enough, is it? You need me and my kingdom, and I need you, too. Perhaps we would be better discussing this in private? That way we can talk politics without your men glaring at me."

His call for privacy earnt him another glare from the Mormont, the Dothraki and the sellsword. Ser Barristan looked at him surprisedly, as if he was vastly different to how he expected, and the girl looked at her Queen uncomfortably. The only one who showed any sign of not hating Willas was Oberyn, stood behind him and stifling laughter. Despite it all, Daenerys nodded.

***

They met over dinner, in a much smaller hall with a table set out with enough food that would have fed the northern army for at least three days. Neither of them had gotten changed, not caring about physical appearances, though Willas remembered his manners to stand from his seat when she entered and served her plate first. There were guards outside the door, both Tyrell men and Easterners, but inside it was just them, just the Warden of the Reach and the would-be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

They exchanged pleasantries, then ate in relative silence. It was the most Willas had eaten in a while, and while he'd poured Daenerys a goblet of wine to be polite he drank only water. His mind needed to be clear, he needed to focus, and the stupid reality was that the smell of alcohol made him want to gag, still tired out from the night before. It was strange to think at that exact time the day before he was downing shots and kissing strangers, and instead of continuing such adventures he was sat across from a woman who would make herself conqueror of his country and needed his alliance. Funny what a few hours could do.

When the food was done, when the servants had cleared away their plates, Daenerys looked at him with faint disappointment. He wondered if she had been waiting for him to bring up war and rebellion. It had been him to call for a private meeting, after all, but it was her who wanted to conquer. Willas had been waiting for her to bring it up, to see how much she wanted it, to get another taste of her fire and strength. He reclined in her seat a little, looking her up and down. She would certainly look better on the back of a coin than Joffrey Baratheon, that was for sure. A beautiful, etherial, magical sight, but she was not nearly as beautiful as his wife had been. No one ever would be.

He was doing it for her. Would he have any interest in unseating Joffrey if not for his wife?

"From the first moment of my arrival here, Prince Oberyn has been telling us all tales of you," Daenerys began. "He says you're one of the cleverest men in all the Kingdoms."

"He flatters me greatly," Willas replied courteously. "He said you were a wonder to behold, and one look at you and your dragons explained exactly why our ancestors rolled over to conquest. Not his though. The Dornish are famously stubborn against being invaded."

"I'm not here to invade," she defended herself quickly.

"You technically are," he pointed out. "You're here to reclaim th throne that was once your family's, while no other family remain either alive or in these kingdoms, with an army from abroad. I think that is the perfect definition of invading."

"Prince Oberyn also said talking to you was like having a conversation with a stubborn dictionary," Daenerys muttered as she rolled her eyes. Somehow she managed to make it look dignified. "My advisors tell me that the Reach would be a greatly beneficial alliance, but that you are an ally that I should be wary of."

"Yes, because I am clearly a fearsome warrior that could best your guards and kill you," Willas rolled his own eyes, gesturing to the cane that rested against the arm of his chair. "My fighting days are over. I'm no threat to you or any of your advisors."

"They meant that you would never truly support me," she corrected him, looking a little uncomfortable before he nodded at her to go on. "They believe that you will never truly follow me, and any alliance between the two of us would be for nothing other than vengance."

She had him there. It didn't matter that he was impressed by her, or that he thought she would be a great queen just through their brief interactions. His desire to swear to her cause had been founded in revenge, and telling her otherwise would be pure lies. He glanced down at the table, thinking about his wife's letter, thinking about how she didn't want her kingdom to be forgotten. So much needed to be done and set right to allow her and all the others who died at the wedding to rest properly, and Daenerys was the key to it, but the thought of telling her that was uncomfortable.

"Your goodbrother was Robb Stark, wasn't he?" she pushed gently. "He called himself King in the North?"

"No," Willas shook his head, resisting the urge to reach for the flagon of wine. "Robb did not want to be a King. He was called to it. The northerners called him King, and he did it for them."

"They called your wife Princess too?" she asked, warier than before.

"You had never met a woman less inclined to be a princess than my wife," Willas managed a sad laugh, remembering her shock the first time the title had been used, the first time they presented her with her crown. "She didn't care for titles, or royalty, or status. She didn't want any of it. She never even thought of the north as her kingdom either, not really. They were always her father's men, then her brother's men, but they loved her. She was one of them."

"I never wanted to be a Queen either," Daenerys confessed, her quiet, gentle tone contrasting her firm declaration of herself from earlier. It made Willas look at her and see her properly for the first time. "I just wanted to go home. I remember an old house where m brother and I grew up, with lemon trees and a red front door, and when we were forced away, all I wanted was that house again. Wherever I went, the red door was all I wanted, not the throne. I was a scared little girl, but there are millions of scared little girls out there, millions of scared people hunted by poor rulers and broken by a system that keeps them down. I did not seek power on purpose, but because someone needed to look after the people who needed help. The best way to do that is from the throne, from the seat that was once my ancestors. Perhaps your wife would have understood that."

She would. Of course she would have understood that, a selfless calling to protect people and fight for those who couldn't fight for themselves. Willas took a moment, remembering how his wife had been dedicated to running Winterfell even when she was nothing more than the Lord's daughter, how she had helped everyone, talked to everyone, and how in return she was beloved. She had never thought herself popular, or the sort of person to posess many friends, but she had been blind to the fact everyone in the North seemed to respect her. She had earned it, she had worked all her life for it, and so had Daenerys.

"I cannot imagine it has been easy for you," Willas stated, glad she was proving herself but hating how many similarities he was seeing to his wife.

"Is it ever easy for anyone?" she replied, though there was a weight behind her words that spoke of ghosts and past pains. "My whole life has been running, evading capture and killers. They called my brother a Beggar King simply for fighting to keep us both alive. He was not... Everyone all speaks so highly of you and your siblings, how deeply you loved the late Ser Garlan, and though I loved Viserys, I think he resented me, resented the responsibility of me. I did not get the pleasure of enjoying the same relationship that you have with your own brothers and sister while we were fighting for our lives."

Willas had lost his brother, and the loss hurt more than any other pain he'd felt in his life, but at least he'd had him. At least he'd had the opportunity to experience life with Garlan, his smile, his terrible jokes, his gallantry. A life without him completely would have been far more painful than grieving him, surely. At least he still had Margaery, Loras, and Leonette, and one day soon a minature Garlan who would surely terrorise them all the way their father had done. Daenerys didn't have any of that, no family, no one left. She was completely alone. It  was the first time Willas was grateful for his losses, because at least they meant he had experienced family and companionship, at least they gave him a reason to fight.

"Forgive me, and do not answer if you are not comfortable to do so, but..." she began to speak again when Willas remained silent. When he met her eye, she was looking at him with cautious concern. "No one has told me what happened to them all, what happeed with the North. I was simply told that there was a betrayal, and that the Lannisters had killed them all."

"Perhaps if I tell you what happened you will understand why your advisors are wary that I am only interested in vengeance," Willas remarked, feeling his insides twist as he finally reached for the wine and poured himself a goblet. He took a swig, and saw she was still looking at him. "My goodbrother Robb was a good man, and a good king, but like all Starks he had a great sense of blind duty and honour. He made a mistake, slept with the daughter of a Lannister bannermen, and because he had dishonoured her he dishonoured himself by breaking his betrothal vows to marry Lady Jeyne. The father of his previous betrothed was a horrid, bitter man, and did not take the slight lightly. He withdrew his support for Robb's cause instantly, and because of the dishonour it served my wife since she was the one to arrange the alliance, I nearly withdrew our support too."

"What stopped you?" Daenerys frowned, clearly invested, even as Willas sipped his wine again.

"Eddmina," he said, then nearly choked when he realised her name had come out so effortlessly. It took him a moment to regain himself, grimacing, screwing his eyes shut, before he took a deep breath and looked at Daenerys once more. "My wife. She... She was her mother and father's daughter. Incredible sense of duty, put others before herself constantly, would have done anything to protect her loved ones. She would have done anything for her twin, and she did. She was his Hand, and no King ever had a greater advisor. He told her that he wished to make amends with the Freys, the house he had dishonoured, and so she helped him arrange it. Lord Frey's condition of alliance was another wedding, between their uncle Lord Tully and the daughter Robb had disgraced, and I was fool enough to think it safe for them to attend."

"I was under the impression that Westeros uses an honour code of guest rights?" Daenerys asked when he hesitated. Willas snorted out a bitter laugh.

"So was I," he replied. "I will never know what truly happened at that wedding. All I know is that I waved my family off and will never welcome them home again. I know that it was the Frey's wanting revenge, the Boltons wanting the opportunity for power in the north, and despite trying to pretend he had no part in it all, Tywin Lannister pulling the strings from afar. He did the same to Oberyn's sister, you know, ordering his men to kill the Princess Elia and her children. Innocents are always killed in war, it is the way of things, but it does not stop it being a violent injustice."

He had not realised he had finished the whole flagon of wine until he went to take another swig of his goblet and found it empty. He moved to get up and retrieve more but sank back into his chair quickly when he discovered grief had robbed him of his balance. He clenched his jaw, fighting the shame of seeming so vulnerable in front of a stranger, desperate to not seem like the fool he obviously was. He suddenly realised just why his wife hated sympathy when he caught Daenerys' horrified look, and how she was looking at him with absolute pity. He would not let himself be a pitiful creature, knowing it was not what his wife wanted from him, so he steeled himself with a deep breath, and forced a smile that accidentally betrayed even more heartbreak.

"Did your advisors tell you that my wife was with child when they killed her, or that my brother's widow is also with child?" Willas said, unsure where such honesty was coming from, but if Daenerys felt sorry for him then he wanted her to have the full picture. "If your advisors knew the way that the Lannisters have torn apart my family and left us all in a broken wreckage of ourselves, then perhaps my desire for revenge would not seem so foolish and something to be wary of."

"Lord Tyrell-" she tried, but that made him laugh again.

"I am unused to that, still," he explained. "I used to love correcting people, telling them that I am not Lord Tyrell, for my father is still alive and well. I presume he died protecting my brother, but he could have easily had his throat cut without chance to fight, at a wedding he did not even need to attend. I will never know the truth of how he died, of how I became Lord Tyrell, and if that is not enough to justify revenge, then I will never know what is."

His temper was always a risk, especially when discussing what had happened to his family. He had tried to ignore it, desperately attempting to bury his grief, but he had decided to stop with all of that. He needed to see the Lannisters and everyone else who's presumed to take his loved ones away pay. He needed revenge, and didn't care how it happened. He didn't care if it made Daenerys' advisors wary of him, didn't care if it made him seem like a madman. He needed to know that his wife could rest upon her killers being made to suffer, he needed to know his father could see he was an unflinching and fearless lord who would rule their kingdom with strength, he needed to know his brother wouldn't be forgotten.

If Daenerys was offended or off-put by his blunt grief, then she was excellent at hiding it. Instead of recoiling like he thought she would have, she instead leant across the table to where he had left his hand. At some point it had clenched into a fist, but she placed her own on top of it, taking him by surprise. A gentle smile was on her face when he dared look at her.

"Perhaps it is the pain of the past that paves the way for my invasion," she offered. "I do not want to be the Queen of Ashes, but-"

"But you have three dragons, and without three dragons your ancestors would have never conquered the kingdoms in the first place," Willas reminded her.

"Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys, with Balerion, Vhaegar, and Meraxyes," Daenerys nodded. "I have conquered cities in the east, I know bloodshed is necessary in some circumstances, but not the blood of innocents. I know it is a risk, I know it is a lot to ask of you when you have already lost so much, but I swear to you, if you help me reclaim what is mine, I will help you seek the justice you crave."

Willas thought briefly of the war, of all the bloodshed he had aleady seen. To subject his kingdom to more of that, to ask more men to fight for a cause that would risk their lives... It was unthinkable. It was unfair, and surely none of his bannermen would see sense to it. Yet, there had been no sense to the betrayal of guest rights, and there was no sense to himself, his mother, and Leonette all losing their spouses while those who'd taken them away got to live comfortably. Why should a system of evil prevail if a ruler presnted herself with a whole new set of ideals? It was a great deal to ask of his bannermen, but there was a great deal of benefits that would come with the risk paying off.

With a sigh, Willas mustered his confidence, and adusted his hand, unfurling his fist so that he was instead holding Daenerys' hand. Trying not to be too firm, he shook it, and earned a satisfied smile from his new Queen.

"I would bend the knee, but..." he joked with a shrug. She let out a small laugh, yet again surprised by him. "Shall we begin?"

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Word count: 11691

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