Rest would have been ideal after his conversation with his mother, but there was one thing Willas had discovered about being Warden of the South and Hand of the Queen: rest was difficult to come by.

It would take Daenerys' party at least two days to catch up to them in Highgarden, so while they waited Willas decided the best way to spend the time would be to set his affairs in order with his bannermen and ensure they were all on his side. He asked Leonette to show Daenerys around the keep - only if she was feeling up to it, which she was - while Loras accompanied him to the hall to deal with the men. Except, before he even made it to the hall, his mother requested him once more, and so he found himself trekking to the office he had inherited from his father, wondering just what was so important that it could not wait a few hours.

"I did not want to ambush him when he first arrived," he heard his mother's voice from the ajar door. "It did not seem right to tell him then, especially not with him asking about his father and brother, but it is only right he sees you now. You're more important than his bannermen, after all. You are practically family, the pair of you."

"Who's practically family?" Willas asked with a tired sigh as he entered the study, seeing his mother seated in the chair that should be his, a woman sat opposite him.

Upon him entering, his mother rose to stand immediately, beckoning him in with a smile. It had only been a few hours since he saw her in his solar, but she looked completely different, as if having him home and talking through their troubles had lifted a weight off her. He couldn't help but smile back at her, but his smile quickly faded the moment their guest stood and turned to face him.

"Good gods," he exclaimed in a whisper, the words escaping before he could stop them.

How could he not curse like that though, when the woman stood in front of him he hadn't seen since his wife removed her from their service in Riverrun? He would never forget Talisa of Volantis, her face engrained in his mind since she was a crucial part in one of the most important nights of his life, but he had assumed that she would be nothing more than a memory. Assumption was wrong, however, because there she stood, looking just as awkward as he felt, offering him a nervous smile.

It was her, he'd recognise her anywhere, but she looked vastly different in the months that had passed. Almost a whole year had gone by, yet he hadn't expected her to look so worn in that time, her olive skin much paler, her face thinner, her eyes marked with dark shadows of exhaustion. He noticed how much skinnier she looked even though she had always been slender, and how the mere act of standing seemed to wear her out to the point that she seemed to be trembling. It was clear as day to him that she was not a well woman. Of course, it did not help that all her strength was focused on the little child she was holding despite their best attempts at fidgeting.

Willas had tried not to look too surprised at her appearance, but trying not to be surprised when he looked at the babe she held was far trickier, especially when he noticed that while the child was her image in terms of colouring, they sported a pair of Tully blue eyes and auburn hair. If it was clear that she was not as healthy as she once was, then it was just as obvious who's child she held.

"His name is Robbert," she told him when she noticed him staring and knew the cogs of his mind were whirring.

He knew what she wanted to say next, the words she didn't need to speak: "Named after his father".

"Good gods," Willas whispered again.

"Perhaps you should sit down," his mother advised, but he had already sunk into the seat opposite the one Talisa was stood in front of, one hand running through his hair while the other pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn't sure what to think, his mind running far too fast, shock making it a little too hard to breathe. It all seemed to come to a halt when one single thought cropped into his mind, drowning all others out: 'not another parentless child'. Uther had lost his mother, Leonette's child had lost their father, and now he was being presented with another child who lost a parent at that damned wedding? He felt sick, he wanted to scream, but how could he when that felt so selfish to look upon a broken woman and a fatherless boy and make their pain all about him?

He so desperately wanted to hug Talisa despite never having that sort of contact with her before. His wife had told him that she had made arrangements to ensure that whatever life Talisa lived once being sent away from Riverrun would be comfortable, but whatever she had planned out hadn't gone as smooth as she had intended. It worried him to think about what she had been through, alone, scared, sick. To be sent away from the man she loved for the good of a cause only for him to lose the cause by still marrying the wrong woman, to be promised comfort and stability by the man's sister only to end up in front of them in a state, to have to leave a place that was not just home but work too under the assumption she would be safe and able to chase more education and training only to find herself with child.

She had sat down again, clearly relieved to rest once more as she let out a long shaky breath, her eyes closed, looking as if she was fighting to stay awake. Willas didn't want to stare, didn't want to make the fuss he knew she would no doubt hate, so he instead looked at her boy. He was around the same size the Uther had been at six months, and after counting back and recounting the months that had passed, he realised with a sickening dread that little Robbert would have been born just before his father and his family were murdered.

Oh, gods, how his wife would have loved him. A little nephew, a little version of the twin she so desperately adored, it stung to imagine how, if things had been different, how worshipped the boy would have been.

"I'm so sorry," Willas spoke eventually, and Talisa opened her eyes to look at him, a frown on her exhausted face. "I am so, so sorry. For you being sent away, for what Robb did, for what happened to them all, for what you have endured. Gods, I cannot imagine..."

"Your wife was very kind to me, as was your mother," she spoke, shooting a grateful glance over to his mother, who was trying to hide her sympathy behind a smile. "The Princess had generously offered me a place here, or at Oldtown, whichever I preferred, but I did not want to accept charity, so I left Riverrun to seek out wherever else the war had affected to help those injured soldiers. I didn't realise I was... I didn't know about Bertie until he was nearly here, and by that point I couldn't go back to the Starks because, well... Robb had found himself a wife, and I refused for our son to be seen as just Robb's bastard."

"He wouldn't have allowed him to be treated like that," Willas shook his head quickly, remembering how beloved Jon Snow was to Robb, how both of them hated their half-brother's derogatory treatment. "Marrying Jeyne was a mistake."

"A mistake that cost him his life, and meant my son will never know his father," she said bluntly, though it was obvious it was just a facade to hide how heartbroken she was. "I loved him, I truly did."

"I know," Willas nodded. "He loved you as well. He and my wife hardly spoke after you left."

"He loved her a great deal, and I thought very highly of her," Talisa forced another smile. "It was for her that I came here. I tried to survive on my own, but having Bertie nearly killed me, and then I heard what had happened and... I tried to last as long as I could, I didn't want charity-"

"It is not charity," his mother spoke up, gentle yet firm. "You are as good as family. You are both welcome here."

"A kindness I will never be able to repay," Talisa smiled again, repositioning her son on her lap as he fidgeted. "Princess Eddmina would not have wanted her nephew to suffer just because I stubbornly want independence, especially when it's getting harder to survive on my own. I... I'm not as strong as I was. I remember the Princess, how much she bled, how tired she was in the days that followed yet she was fine enough the longer time went on. I thought it would be the same for me, but it's been the opposite, and it's only getting worse."

Willas worked extremely hard to hide his discomforted shock as reality set in and he began to understand exactly what she was saying and what she was doing in Highgarden. If she had turned away the initial offers of help to pave her own way, if she had tried for so long to remain independent, to carry the care of her son alone and without the intervention of either Stark or Tyrell, then something must have gone terribly wrong for her to be sat in Highgarden. She was a clever woman, a healer taught to understand health and welfare, so she was well trained to understand her own wellbeing. It was more than obvious what she was avoiding saying to them both, what she didn't want to say for her own sake as she looked down at her son with a loving glance.

"What do you need me to do?" Willas asked, knowing that they would be the same words his wife would say.

"I need..." she began but trailed off, grimacing as if she knew the words would only break her heart. "I need you to look after him. If it... If it is no great burden I would ask that you look after him while I go home. I left Volantis for a reason, I do not want my son to grow up there, especially not if I... There are healers there who may be able to help me, better than Westerosi maesters, and if they do then I will be straight back here to collect him, but if... if they cannot help me then..."

"Then he will be raised here, well loved and cared for," Willas replied soundly, wanting to leave her with no doubts even if his voice did tighten over the battle against his emotions. How awful it was to listen to her struggle over her own fate, how brave she was to face it so diplomatically; he could do nothing but try and match her courage. "He will want for nothing, I promise you. Highgarden will be his home for as long as he needs it to be."

Talisa said nothing. She nodded, then to hide how tearful she had become she focused her gaze on her son, little Robbert reaching up to her face, and Willas looked to his mother, wanting to avoid just how heartbreaking he found the whole situation. His mother looked at him with a weak smile, her eyes haunted with grief. He wondered if she too was remembering when his wife said her goodbyes to Uther, how they had thought it merely a parting of a few weeks and not at all a proper farewell. He wondered if his mother was thinking about how she hugged Garlan goodbye, if she regretted not savouring it more. He wondered if Talisa preferred to think of it as a proper goodbye to little Robbert, if keeping the hope of seeing him again would be far too painful, or if she would rather pretend that she would be seeing him again soon.

Willas tried not to let his mind linger on the unlikelihood of that latter idea. He tried to ignore how her hands seemed to tremble a little, and how pale she was, her skin seeming almost grey. She stroked a hand through Bertie's thick auburn hair, and Willas clenched his jaw as he remembered seeing the boy's father brush identical hair out of his own eyes countless times after sparring, recalling just how the iron spiked crown of the North had balanced uncomfortably on top of his wavy hair. Robb's hair was darker than Sansa's, who's long locks shone like flames, and Willas wondered just what Robb's son would end up looking like, if the Highgarden sun would bring out the light of his hair, if it would make his skin freckle, if he would keep the olive colouring given to him by his mother. He assumed Talisa was thinking the same, except Willas knew he would get to see the eventual truth, while her speculation was haunted by the reality of her health.

"One more thing," Talisa said, unable to tear her gaze from her son until the last possible moment. "He is to have my surname, or Flowers or Snow or whatever fits him best, but he is not a Stark. He is not his father's heir, nor will he ever be. I will not have him be endangered like that. No one is to ever fight any wars over him, he is not to march off to a war for an inheritance that wasn't promised to him by a father who didn't even know he exists. Robb would have loved him, I know that, but..."

"But Robb isn't here," Lady Tyrell spoke up, and Willas was glad of it, because Willas would have found saying the same words impossible, even though he managed to nod along and fight the burning in his throat. "You have nothing to worry for. We will keep him safe."

Willas stood then, unable to fight against the instinct to flee. He shouldn't run from the room, he knew that, but he also knew that there was a hall full of his bannermen waiting to see him, and they would provide him with the perfect excuse to escape from the suffocating bittersweet sadness that had fallen in his study. He hadn't thought twice about offering to take Bertie in, he didn't regret it nor would he ever, but it was yet another reminder of the wedding and what had been taken.

Robb Stark's son growing up in Highgarden alongside Eddmina Stark's son... the memory of the twins of Winterfell would be inescapable.

He tightened his fist around the hilt of his cane, his jaw still clenched, and hoped to all seven gods that he didn't look as wrecked as he felt. It was one thing to know a child was orphaned, but to see a child be handed over by their only remaining parent was a whole other sense of bitter sadness. He couldn't bare it anymore, couldn't stomach seeing someone he trusted and respected be so worn and tired doing one the most heartbreaking yet selfless acts he'd ever witnessed. He couldn't bare to be in that room blocking out how in the back of his mind he was wondering what his wife would think to not only having a nephew but having to witness him being practically orphaned.

"My lord," his mother's voice called gently, and it made him snap to attention. When he looked at her, he saw her offer him a quick smile and an understanding nod. "Perhaps you should entrust me with arranging all the necessary plans?"

'Don't call me that, that's what you call my father, it doesn't feel right,' he wanted to cry, but knew exactly why she'd chosen to use his title.

"Yes, I..." he nodded without thinking, then realised his mother was giving him a way out of that study without seeming rude. He shot her a grateful smile before he looked back to Talisa, knowing he could handle his emotions for just enough time to dismiss himself. "I'm afraid I need to go and join my brother in treating with our banners, but if there is anything you want or need, my mother will see to it. I'm sure I will see you again before you leave, but in case I don't... well, I wish you good fortune."

He nodded, hoping the gesture didn't look as awkward as he felt, then made his escape, trying not to seem too eager to get out of the room, though as he shut the door and leant back against the door, he let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Good gods, what he would have done to make the world stop spinning, to make the gods stop throwing more twists his way. What he would have done for a simple life, an existence where he wasn't lord, where he had a functioning knee, where his family was alive and safe, where he could do nothing but stargaze with his wife and teach his children how to enjoy the natural world around them.

He had imagined taking his boys horse riding, teaching them how to go fishing and hawking, spending time out in the woodlands with their dogs. Uther and Eddard. He wanted to do all that his father had done with himself and his brothers with his boys, but some cruel twist of fate meant that Uther would be an only child, and the place that had once been meant for his second son was to be filled by his poor soon-to-be orphaned nephew. In another world they would have been cousins who rarely saw each other, one of them the heir to the Reach, the other a prince of the North, but instead the gods saw it fit to rob both of them of a parent and make it so they grew up alongside each other. There was a strange sort of comfort to that, knowing neither would grow up alone, but Willas couldn't yet get past the bitter sadness he felt for both boys.

He leant back so that his head could rest against the cold stone wall, his eyes closed as he willed time to move backwards, to have both Stark twins back not just so that they could see their children but so he felt less alone and less helpless. He was used to longing for his wife, used to feeling sad over Robb, but he felt the grief for both of them wash over him like a tidal wave.

"My lord?" a quiet voice called, almost timid. Willas' eyes snapped open and landed on the young lad he knew was supposed to be his new personal steward.

He wasn't quite sure what had happened to the last steward, or why his apprentice had taken his place, but knew that it was probably a decision made by his mother in his absence. He trusted her and her judgement, he just wished he could remember the lad's name, and for the lad to not seem as wary around him. Willas sighed, rubbing his hand across his brow one last time before he forced a smile and turned to face the steward.

"My lord, they..." the steward hesitated again, and Willas realised not for the first time just how much he hated his new station and how it made people act around him. "They're waiting for you in the hall. The bannermen, that is, and your brother... Ser Loras, I mean."

"It's hardly going to be my other brother, is it?" Willas muttered bitterly, not intending on the lad hearing, but given his look of horrified regret, he knew he'd said it too loudly. He began to walk in the direction of the hall, and the steward dashed after him. "I'm sorry, I did not mean... What's your name again?"

"Byren, if it pleases, my lord," the steward told him, and Willas tried not to cringe at how desperate he was to impress.

"It does, you seem like a good lad, so stop worrying," Willas said, trying not to sigh, trying to make the smile he offered him seem less forced. It wasn't his fault he had to work for such a bitter and broken person, the least he could do was make things bearable for him.

Even with that mild compliment, neither of them spoke for the rest of the walk to the hall. He wished Byren would say something, anything, desperate to have even a foolish silence-breaking statement to distract him from thinking about Bertie, and Talisa, and Robb, and... He couldn't afford to think of his wife, not when he was about to walk into a room of lords, the majority of whom had once tried to have him disinherited. He needed to focus, needed to come up with a plan, but they were at the doors before he knew it, the guards opening them up for him, and one glance into the hall he could see everyone turn and look at him.

Gods, he was in over his head. Surely he would wake up at any moment and his whole life for the past few months would have been a horrible nightmare. He would wake up, his father would be alive, he wouldn't be the lord, he would still just be the heir with few responsibilities outside of looking after his own growing family. He didn't want to be the lord, not alone, not without his lady wife at his side. He couldn't do it, he couldn't be the Lord of Highgarden or the Warden of the South, he couldn't...

Is that how his wife used to feel when her nerves got the better of her, tight-chested, light-headed, like he couldn't breathe and the world was about to cave in?

"I thought it was customary for bannermen to stand when their liege enters a room?" a voice called through his spiral.

He realised it was Loras, his voice a sarcastic snarl as he stood at the top table on the dais next to the seat that was meant for the lord, glaring at the rest of the men in the room. For a brief moment, Willas caught his brother's gaze, and he noticed him nod subtly, desperate to be reassuring yet not let anyone else in the room catch on to the situation. Had his brother really noticed his instant panic even from the other side of the room? Somehow it helped him snap out of it, push his nerves aside, and he stepped into the room, keeping his eyes fixed on the seat that was waiting for him.

Each step he took he counted in his head, taking a breath each time. If he focused on that, then he didn't give in to himself and his desire to hide. With his mind solely focused on getting to the top table where his brother was waiting for him, then he wasn't thinking about how everyone was staring, nor was he analysing just how they were looking at him. Were they watching with raised eyebrows, glaring at him, sneering or laughing? He didn't care, they didn't matter. If his wife could shove her worries aside and convince an entire kingdom to trust and respect her, then surely he could do the same.

Even so, sinking into his seat felt like a victory, and it was a relief when his brother sat down next to him. He felt Loras staring at him, but his look was different than those he could feel from everyone else in the room, so he glanced to him quickly, giving him a nod of thanks.

"They are your men, they follow you," Loras whispered to him, and the it was that which made Willas look out to the crowd, seeing the faces of at least thirty serious men.

"They are father's men," Willas hissed back, still feeling completely out of his depth. "They never wanted me, they wanted Garlan. I could have died in the joust and none of them would have cared."

"Then make them regret ever thinking that," Loras crossed his arms with a shrug, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

Perhaps he could benefit from a slice of his brother's confidence, so Willas took yet another deep breath as he looked out to the crowd. He found it easier to study who was in the hall, knowing they were all familiar faces yet hoping to find an ally in at least one of them. Sat at one of the front benches was Lord Ambrose, who was married to his mother's younger sister Alysanne, who's heir Alyn was betrothed to his cousin Elinor. Family ties would surely win him on side, and he hoped the same with the man sat to his left, who he immediately recognised as Leonette's father, a red apple emblazoned on his cloak, though given how sour he looked Willas knew he couldn't be sure of his support. There was a party of green apple Fossoways sat a few rows back, the house that his Aunt Janna was married into, and alongside them were the Redwynes sat a few rows back. Lord Paxter Redwyne was both his cousin and his uncle, yet Willas could feel his doubtful stare, so quickly looked away only to fight against cursing when he saw the group of Lords he could have done without seeing.

Sat to the rear of the hall was the collective of lords who had all, once upon a time, tried to convince his father to make Willas step aside as heir in favour of his knightly younger brother, despite said brother having no interest in inheriting a kingdom. Lord Randyll Tary was sat with a scowl, his heir Ser Dickon sat next to him, though he was whispering to the other young heir next to him, Lord Rowan and his son seated on the same table. Opposite them was none other than Lord Oakheart, his elder two sons sat either side of him, though thankfully his daughter and her husband were nowhere to be seen.

Each one of those lords had at one point been vocally against him, yet there they were, expected to follow his command. They had thought him unworthy and broken, and it had taken his grandparents to put them all back in their place. Despite it being a long time ago, he wished they were both there in that hall with their unyielding support yet again, but Lord Hightower was in Old Town and the rest of the Hightowers were still days away from Highgarden, and Lady Olenna was far away fleeing to Dragonstone with Margaery. They had been his most vicious champions, but then so had his brother, who was one of the reasons why they had all been summoned. He owed it to his absent grandparents to prove them right, and he owed it to his lost brother to avenge him and embody the bravery he always showed.

Willas rose to his feet and cleared his throat. He'd watched his father address the banners countless times. He'd been taught the names of every man in the room from the moment he was allowed to attend functions. He had been raised to be the Lord of Highgarden. It was all he had been prepared for, the least he could do for his father was live up to expectations.

"My lords, it's good to see you all, thank you for coming and my apologies for keeping you waiting," Willas began, trying to look amongst them all. "I'm sorry too for the delay in inviting you all here following the death of my father but I'm sure you'll all understand that given the circumstances my family and I needed time before any action was taken."

"Time would be a week, two weeks at most," one Lord muttered, and Willas felt his temper twist and threaten to rear its ugly head. "Five months to summon us is absurd."

"It seems perfectly acceptable when you take into account that we were not just grieving our father, Lord Caswell," Loras explained coldly, sounding remarkably like their grandmother. "Or has the delay in summoning you made you all forget they also murdered my brother and goodsister too, along with all of her family?"

'Don't flinch, don't cringe, don't let them see,' Willas chanted desperately in his mind, but Loras' words felt like a punch to the chest. 'It's for them, everything we do is for them. Just get on with it, get it over and done with, you can cry and drown your sorrows in wine later.'

"My brother is right, we were blindsided by our losses, though I agree, we hesitated for too long," Willas spoke. "If I could go back a few months I would have done things differently, including taking a stand against the Lannisters sooner."

"The house you sent your sister off to be wed to?" Another Lord called, and Willas heard Loras mutter a curse under his breath.

"My sister suggested she go as decoy, to forge our fealty while I myself took the time to source more genuine alliances," he explained, speaking quickly to prevent Loras jumping in protectively once more. "Besides, Margaery's marriage to Joffrey hardly matters. He's dead, thank the Seven-"

"That was the king!" One outraged sounding Lord cut in. "A sovereign appointed by the gods!"

"A bastard born of incest who had my goodfather killed, my goodsister tortured, and the rest of the Starks destroyed, forgive me for showing no sympathy in the loss of such a man," Willas replied coldly, clenching his jaw in an attempt to keep his temper under wraps. "His brother is a child of seven, still uncrowned and under the regency of his mother, his grandfather miles away trying to bring the North and Riverlands to heel. If Tommen Waters is allowed to rule, if we allow for the Lannisters to rule for him, all the losses my family has endured goes unanswered. The tyranny which held the kingdoms my wife once called her homes will only spread until we too are trodden underfoot, mocked into submission and forced into simply playing a part in someone else's rise and manipulation of power. I do not intend to see that happen any longer."

"And what do you intend to do instead, my lord?" one banner called, and Willas caught a doubtful look from his crowd.

"I recommended a different monarch to the High Septon, one better suited to rule, one who has the interest of all seven kingdoms at heart instead of their own greed and gain," Willas continued, ignoring the whispers that rose up around him. "I trust a few of you might have gotten our ravens from Dorne? Or you might have seen the three dragons out there flying over the Mander?"

He wanted his banners to figure out what he was implying. He wanted them to be smart enough to understand the situation without him having to say it outright. Maybe that was a little fear on his part, scared to take the last step of committing himself to Daenerys fully, but then he remembered how she had made him her Hand, and he saw the dubious looks from the crowd. No one would believe him until he said it directly, and he owed it to her to be honest. He spared a glance to Loras, relieved when his brother gave him an encouraging nod. It meant a great deal, to see his unwavering support, considering he still didn't know the full story.

"I have sworn myself to the cause of Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Mother of Dragons, and she has honoured me with the position of being her Hand," Willas explained. "It was the desire for revenge that drew me to her, but over time I realised she is the best option for not just for all of us but every single person in Westeros. I understand you may have questions, but for now I wish for us all to align ourselves to her cause in removing the Lannisters regime and seating her on the Iron Throne."

There was a beat of silence that rang through the whole hall, echoing as Willas felt everyone staring at him. Even his brother watched him carefully, though while Loras smirked supportively, Willas realised almost everyone else watched him with brewing concern. The quiet seemed to last a little longer, almost too long as he began to worry, but then men began to rise from the seats, each one of them shouting a different question, each one of them louder than the last.

"You intend for us to bend the knee to dragons once more?" One Lord called.

"You mad fool," another whispered.

"At least the Lannisters are known to us, this Targaryen girl is a foreign stranger," another debated.

"A woman no less, no woman should sit the throne lest the kingdoms fall to ruin!" Another added, earning a few grunts of support.

"The last time the Reach aligned with the Targaryens we were almost pushed to ruin!" yet another lord protested.

"What should happen if this woman decides to turn the dragons against us, makes another Field of Fire?" a worried call rose up.

"Why should we ally with her when Dorne has as well?" a furious lord shouted. "The Dornish and the Martells have been our enemies since the beginning of time!"

"It seems that joust really did knock the wits from him after all," a cold voice confirmed.

Randyll Tarly had been quieter than the others, but Willas heard him even so. Willas was sure that he would have heard those words even if every man in there had screamed at the top of their lungs over him. It was not just what he had said that bothered him, but how he looked too, a faint smirk creeping onto his face. He was a man that didn't suit a smile, with his face being too stern and sour like he was constantly displeased, yet in that moment he seemed smugly satisfied, his expression seeming like he had just been proven right. The worst part was that it seemed to be contagious, a few of the other nearby lords and heirs falling quiet as they nodded along, murmuring agreements.

A few men were still voicing concerns, though their shouts died when they realised Willas was descending from the top table. He barely felt himself move, didn't feel Loras try to grab his arm and stop him at all, but soon enough he was crossing the hall, and all that could be heard was the click of his cane against the flagstone flooring. For the first time in a long time, his mind was still and focused, and he was glad of it as he approached the table. A few of the nearby lords looked a little uncertain and concerned, and Willas realised he must have seemed intimidating, cutting a lordly figure vastly unlike the one his father had been. His father had been stern when he had to be, he'd been ambitious and greedy with a good mind for getting the glory he wanted, but he was also jolly, and far preferred making people happy than threatening them. Willas hadn't made an active decision to make himself into a threat, but as Randyll Tarly rose to meet him he knew he had no choice but to be one. With a little smug satisfaction of his own, Willas realised he was at least two heads taller than Tarly.

"Do you have something to say, my Lord?" Willas asked calmly, though when Lord Tarly remained silent and stony, he continued with, "That joust was ten years ago."

"It should have forfeited your place as heir," Lord Tarly stated bluntly. In the distance, Willas heard the scrape of a chair falling as Loras shot to his feet defensively, though Willas knew if he tore his eyes from his opponent to look at his brother, he would be lost. "You should have been sent away-"

"Where to? The Wall, like your own son?" Willas seethed, enjoying the look of cold frustration on Lord Tarly's face. "Come now, do you really think the husband of the Princess of Winterfell truly has no communication with the Wall? Do you think I never heard the true tale as to why your former heir left behind Horn Hill for Castle Black? There is great honour in the Watch, though, and if you were my father, it wouldn't have taken threats on my life to make me go, I would have left willingly, and a long time ago too."

"How dare-" Lord Tarly began, but Willas merely smirked and cut him off with an unbothered shrug.

"I do dare, I'm your liege," Willas continued, before glancing down at the wary-looking Dickon Tarly. "My apologies, by the way, that you had this brute for a father and not a man like mine own. He had his faults, I won't lie, but at least I knew he rooted for me, wanted me to be here and be his legacy. He would have never hidden me or sent me away or prayed for me to be different. I count myself lucky, though truthfully it is less luck and more a failure of every other man here for not raising their own families the same way."

"How do you expect any of us to follow you into a war you will not even fight in yourself?" Lord Tarly demanded, red-faced, clearly desperate to distract from his humiliation, though Willas could hear whispering and the odd stifled laugh. "You did not even injure yourself in battle like a true man, it was a joust that broke you. You cannot fight, you cannot even hold a sword, that is weakness, that is-"

Willas kept his gaze cold as he stared at Lord Tarly, almost enjoying listening to his insults. He knew what he was, knew what he was capable of, and he wanted to listen to what Lord Tarly thought was wrong with him while he plotted just how to prove him wrong. Except before Lord Tarly had the chance to finish speaking, he was recoiling back from a punch to his jaw, and Willas spun round to see his brother flexing and stretching his fist, scowling. Willas wanted to feel humiliated, having his little brother run to his defence, yet Loras placed a hand on his shoulder, and he remembered all the time their other brother had defended him too. He remembered all the time himself and Garlan had defended Loras. He was his brother, that's what he was there for. Losing Garlan had felt infinitely isolating, but he quickly realised that it didn't have to be. He still had a brother, he didn't have to face the world alone.

"Insult my brother again and you'll face worse than that," Loras told Lord Tarly as he recovered, forcing himself to stand up straight. Willas assumed he was grateful for the dim lighting for hiding the already-forming bruise and the pink tinge of humiliation rising up in his cheeks. "My brother was knighted for his bravery in battle at the age of ten-and-three. He is an accomplished horseman, has a wealth of knowledge in all manner of subjects, and was known as Ser Wise by all the northern lords for his work with their cause. He was a respected ambassador for the King in the North, and had things gone differently there would have been an alliance between King Renly and King Robb that would have been down to my brother. If you think one joust disqualifies him from being a liege worthy of your respect then you are a damned fool."

"He cannot fight!" Lord Tarly protested coldly once more. Willas took hold of Loras arm to stop him surging at the lord once more.

"It's a good job that I can then, isn't it?" Loras concluded, before he looked amongst the room. "Anyone else have any complaints? Anyone else want to disgrace the memory of their former liege lord, who wanted nothing more than for my brother to follow him, regardless of a bad knee?"

The hall was silent once more, only broken by the awkward sounds of people clearing their throats, not knowing what to do or where to look. Willas kept his gaze fixed on Lord Tarly, until the silence of the hall was broken by him letting out a frustrated yet defeated grunt as he took his seat once more, the bench scratching against the floor. He tried not to smirk in satisfaction and relief, but that became easier when he heard Loras walking back to his seat, and decided to follow him. He was halfway across the hall when he heard another chair be pushed out, and turned to see Lord Oakheart on his feet.

"My Lord, what happened to your Lord father, brother, and the Lady Edmira was a great tragedy-" the lord began, and Willas couldn't help but snort out a bitter laugh.

"Your daughter consistently called my wife the wrong name too, did you know that?" Willas cut in, enjoying how Lord Oakheart immediately fell quiet and turned an unmasculine shade of pink. "My wife was called Eddmina, and she was no lady. She was Princess of the North, Hand of the King. She would have been a fine and formidable Lady of the Reach, this whole kingdom is poorer for her absence."

"My Lord, women die all the time, war constantly leaves behind tragedies," Lord Oakheart continued, and there it was again, the burning of Willas' temper desperately being contained. "But is it really necessary to ally with not just a woman but the dirty bloody Dornish too?"

"Did you know your son Ser Arys is currently down in Dorne guarding Princess Myrcella?" Willas asked, enjoying the baffled expression on Lord Oakheart's face that told him he very much didn't know. "Well, I say guarding. Last I saw him he was more distracted by the local charms of the country, my dear friend Princess Arianne, for example."

It was infamous that Lord Oakheart hated the Dornish, and Willas took great pleasure in how red his face went, how his mouth gaped open as he searched for something to say, how he eventually sank back into his seat to the chorus of the surrounding lords whispering chuckles and amused remarks. Willas didn't allow himself too feel to victorious at the embarrassment of the man who would have once been his goodfather, preparing himself for any other opponents, looking around the hall just as Loras had done. Except, much to his surprise, no one else seemed keen to rise and face him. Willas took that as his cue to return to his seat, and was relieved to sit back down and feel Loras knock his hand into his side, glancing over to see his brother smirking at him.

"You can be quite scary when you want to be," Loras whispered.

"I never realised you liked me that much," Willas whispered back with a shrug. Loras merely rolled his eyes, so Willas turned back to the crowd and raised his voice. "I understand how uncertain things must feel. I am still new to my position, one that many of you probably thought I would never inherit. I am asking for us to ally ourselves with people who have in the past brought us danger and deceit. The Dornish have famously disliked our kingdom, and the last time the Reach fought for the Targaryens it ended in our near-ruin. The Queen I believe in is supported by misfits and outcasts, and should the Lannisters catch on to her cause then the bards may as well write another verse of Castamere. It is a risk, one that may fail and take all our lives. I have wondered constantly what my father would think. He was an amiable man, he merely wanted his lands to thrive and his people to be happy, he was not a man suited to warfare or hardships. He would not wish to see us all running off to battle if it was not a worthy cause, and it is for his sake that I promise you all: Daenerys Targaryen is a worthy cause. She is worth the risks we will take, she is worth the trust I am asking you to find not just for her but for me too."

Silence again. This time Willas felt his chest tighten and had to look down at the floor. That silence was more unbearable than all the others combined, because in his heart he was so sure that the men would begin to laugh, or mock him, or outright refuse to follow him. What was keeping them sworn to him anyway, aside from a few ancient vows? If they all traced their ancestry back they'd all surely have more claim over the Reach than he did, the Tyrell's being stewards until the dragons came. What would stop them from deciding that he wasn't a worthy Lord, that the word of the Conqueror wasn't worth abiding anymore and removing him and his family from power? The Bolton's had been sworn to the Starks, the Freys to the Tullys, and they had broken all their vows, what was stopping his own men from doing the same?

He didn't realise he was holding his breath until he heard a chair scrape back and he saw Lord Ambrose stand. No one was laughing, he noticed, no one was whispering or planning how to undermine or usurp him. Willas stood again.

"May I ask what the Hightowers think, my Lord?" Lord Ambrose asked, and Willas caught how his heir Alyn nodded along with his father's words. Alyn was half-a-Hightower, just like Willas, of course he would want to know that detail.

"My Lord grandfather has agreed to assist in whatever cause I decide to follow," Willas explained. "He's remaining in Old Town, but is sending half his forces to Highgarden led by my uncle Ser Humphrey, they should be arriving in a few days time with the rest of Queen Daenerys' party."

"Well then, that is our part in this settled," Lord Ambrose concluded with a nod. "We followed your father for Renly, what's the harm in following you with this dragon queen?"

Willas had half-expected him to storm out rather than move from behind the table and slip to one knee, his son doing the same. He hadn't expected that, nor had he considered making the lords swear any vows that had been in place for three centuries, yet once Lord Ambrose and his son had done the deed, the other lords followed. Some of them were eager, like Lords Ashford, Beesbury, and Merryweather, while Lord Fossoway seemed to scowl in thought for a moment before shrugging and joining his peers. Lord Costayne sighed and shrugged too, but his son shard a keen glance to one of the other nearby heirs as he knelt. Lord Webber muttered some low comment to Lord Peake about war and glory, both of them sharing ambitious glances before they too knelt. Lord Rowan seemed to hesitate, and Willas wondered if he sank to his knee only when he remembered that his lady sister was married to Lord Hightower and not at all out of support for his new liege. Willas didn't care, not while he was too distracted by the only remaining standing Lord.

"I do not think-" Lord Tarly called, his face stubborn, his hands clenched into fists. His son Dickon kept glancing between his father and his Lord, unreadable in his concern.

"No surprises there," Willas cut in, setting his expression into a cold glare. "Go home if you don't care to follow. I'll ride after you and hang you as an oathbreaker, you and your son. Perhaps I'll write to the Wall for a pardon for your former heir."

Slowly, and still glaring, Randyll Tarly slipped to one knee. Dickon Tarly followed quickly.

***

"I hate this," Willas sighed, head in his hands. "I hate this so much."

The Lords had all been dismissed after a few more hours of discussion and planning, followed by the servants bringing up supper of roasted lamb cooked with mint and summer vegetables. Once they all left, only then did Willas dare to pour himself a large goblet of wine, followed by a second and a third, possibly even a forth, though he couldn't remember if he had a fifth too. He almost forgot that Loras had stayed sat next to him until he quietly removed the flagon of wine from in front of him. Willas would have protested, but he was too tired, his mind a swamp that he couldn't be bothered to dig into to brew any emotion other than exhaustion.

"You're rather good at it," Loras offered, leaning back in his seat as he let out a long sigh.

Willas was glad he didn't have to elaborate for his brother to know exactly what he was talking about. He doubted there was anyone else in Highgarden who understood him, which was a surprise considering how they had spent their youth. He had always adored his little brother, but he had been the golden child, the favourite son, and he was closer in age to Garlan, making him an easier ally. The loss of that ally ached like the loss of a limb, causing him more grievance than his bad knee ever had, hurting so badly that he wanted to reach for the wine once more, yet he glanced up at his youngest brother. He didn't have to feel as alone as he did, he didn't have to waste himself away when he still had family. He still had a brother to fight for.

Even so, his misery in that moment was worth dwelling in.

"I don't want to good at this, I don't want to be Lord fucking Tyrell," he muttered bitterly. "I want father back to deal with all of this. I want to actually know that father wants me as Lord so I don't feel like a bloody fraud. I cited him at least a hundred times earlier, 'my father wanted me to do this', 'my father wanted me as heir'. Who's to say? Imagine if he rose from that bloody grave and announced that actually, no, fuck me, fuck tradition, lets shake it up and make Margie the first Wardeness of the South, and fuck the Targaryens too, lets bend the knee to dead Stannis and see what happens."

"This is why we all told you to stop drinking, you're talking like an idiot," Loras rolled his eyes, but Willas could tell it was to hide his own grief for their father. "It wouldn't matter if father was here and if he said you were one of the Seven in mortal form, that your word should be taken as gospel from a second Seven-Pointed-Star. Those pricks would have still been difficult with you."

"They'd be happier if you were their liege," Willas concluded, then hissed as Loras leant over and flicked the back of his ear sharply. "Ow! What was that for?"

"For being ridiculous," Loras rolled his eyes again. "I don't want to be Lord Tyrell, have you ever considered that? Garlan didn't want it either, so don't think about making some bad joke about him returning too. Father loved Margaery, but he certainly wasn't some radical who would've made her Lady over the three of us. You're the only heir, you always have been."

"Even after the joust?" Willas asked, his voice croaking a little. Loras cursed under his breath, cringing at the memory. "They thought I was unworthy-"

"Yes, they did, yet they all knelt!" Loras protested, scowling when Willas snorted a laugh. "What, are you going to make a bad joke about how you can't kneel at all? By the Seven, Willas, I thought I was saved from insufferable jokes when I found out I'd never see Garlan again."

His last comment floored them both, sobering Willas instantly and making Loras sit up straighter once more. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't meant it to sound so cruel. Willas' head sank into his hands again, running his hands through his hair, tugging at his curls as he tried desperately not to think about his brother. If he thought about Garlan, then he'd think about father, and if he thought about father then he'd think about his wife, and then he truly would be lost.

"I just don't want them to have died for nothing," he sighed, sounding more hollow than he realised. "I don't want them to be forgotten, but I'm scared that I'm not good enough to help Daenerys' cause let alone avenge all of them. I'm scared I'm not enough, and I'm scared that all of them know it too."

Willas didn't realise he was shivering until he felt Loras clap his hand on his shoulder. It felt like a brotherly gesture, like the sort of thing men do to show affection without risking seeming soft, but it quickly changed into a side embrace as his brother threw his other arm around him. It felt wrong, he was the older brother, it was meant to be him who protected him, uplifted him, defended him against everything. It wasn't supposed to be Loras' job to look after him, and Willas was desperate to resist, determined to be strong, but he was too tired, and it felt far too nice to sink into his brother's embrace. He only had one left, after all, he had to treasure whatever brotherly love he could get.

"You have always been enough, stop talking horseshit," Loras told him firmly, and his blunt reassurance meant far more to him than if he had soliloquised for hours about how much he loved him. "We have two days until everyone else arrives. You are good enough now, you'll be good enough then, but while we wait just relax."

Relax he did, too. The two of them stayed up until the early hours discussing everything but war and their losses, ocassionally even managing to share a laugh. If he had been in Dorne and spending the night with Oberyn instead of at home with his brother, Willas was sure spirits would have made an appearance, but Loras kept the wine out of reach to the point that his tipsy haze quickly departed him and he was thinking clearly once more. Even so, he was still exhausted, the emotions of the day on top of the travel catching up to him, so no matter how much he was enjoying the company of his brother, he knew he had to call it a night.

When he eventually chose to retire to bed he was greeted by a distressed maid at his chamber door telling him how his son was refusing to sleep. Not even then could he rest as he instead went into Uther's room, trying not to wince when he walked into the dimly lit room and could hear his son's tearful snuffling from underneath the quilt of his bed. He let out a small sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, before he went over to the bed, sitting down on the side and reaching over, scooping his son up onto his lap. He squirmed a little in his arms, but wrapped his arms around his neck anyway.

"Papa," he whined tiredly. Willas ruffled his hand through his son's messy curls. "I want my mama."

"Oh, my boy," Willas breathed out, trying not to let that one little statement break him. "I... I know. I'm sorry."

"You miss her?" he asked, though it felt more like a statement.

"Of course I do," he sighed, wincing as he tried to think his words through, not wanting to upset his boy anymore. "But I know that she wouldn't want you to get yourself all upset over her. She loved you more than anything else, and would want you to be happy. What can we do to make you happy?"

"Ponies," he mumbled tiredly, his voice stubborn and resistant as if he didn't want to be helped.

How someone so small could be so headstrong he had no clue, but Willas couldn't help chuckle, ruffling his hair again as he pushed a kiss to the top of his head. Uther wrapped his arms around him tighter, and didn't resist when Willas got to his feet, carrying him back to his own bedchamber. At some point during the walk to his room Uther had fallen asleep in his arms, and miraculously stayed asleep when he set him down onto the bed, and despite being so exhausted, Willas barely cared that his son took up most of the bed, and fidgetted in his sleep. He was just glad to have him close, and anytime he accidentally hit him in the night it was a relief to have something take his mind off the thought of his wife. That was tricky when he saw how his son had his arms wrapped around the small plush wolf he always slept with, and couldn't help but remember just who had made it.

Come the morning Uther was cheery again, and it was like his midnight tears had never happened. That was a regular occurance, but that didn't make it any easier. Willas distracted the pair of them with a trip to the kennels, then to the stables, saddling his son's pony himself, relieved when Uther laughed as he lifted him up onto the pony's back, savouring the peace of leading the pony's reigns through the woodlands as he led his son on a hack. His mother was right, Uther did know all the different bird calls, and delighted in pointing them all out to his father. They stayed out until sunset, and come suppertime Willas carried his son back to the keep where a family supper was waiting for them.

It was a little slither of peace amongst the chaos, and Willas knew to savour it, because come the next morning the rest of Daenerys' party had arrived, along with the few Dornish who had decided the make the journey, and the Hightowers. It was straight to business, and Willas had them all gather in the pavilion tent he had erected just outside the keep alongside the Mander where the dragons had first landed. It would have been easier to use one of the halls in the keep, but Willas couldn't bare turning his home into a war room, especially since it was Uther's home too, and his whole life had been one long war camp. He refused to subject him to that again, and so left his son behind in the care of his mother and Leonette, both of whom refused to have any part in the war council that was about to begin.

"They should be here," Loras argued with his brother as they walked to the tent. "Both of them were more affected by that bloody wedding than anyone else who's gathering around that table."

"Do you really blame them for wanting to stay away?" Willas tried to justify. "All these strangers in their home, surely you envy them a little? I do, there's things I would much rather be doing than planning a usurpation, but yet here we are."

Loras quickly caught onto just why Willas envied the women, because not only was the tent filled with their bannermen, representatives of each house, but all of Daenerys' party was there too, both groups stood on opposite sides of the table glaring at each other awkwardly. Willas kept his brother close as he took his place at Daenerys' side, though while everyone else seemed happy to dwell in the tension, the Queen was watching her dragons, the three of them basking in the sunlight and rolling in the grassy hills. Out of the window that morning at breakfast Honour had caught sight of them and spooked, her heckles up as she growled, and the lords of the Reach seemed equally unsettled as they either stared in horror or outright refused to look at them.

Willas felt a hand snake onto his waist, and managed not to jump or curse, knowing exactly who it was due to the muttered curses he heard from his bannermen. He didn't need to turn to see Oberyn, or how he smirked at the deliberate annoyance he'd caused the Reachers. Even so, Willas looked at him to shoot him a glare, silently asking him to behave as even his brother didn't look pleased. The Prince of Dorne rolled his eyes with another smirk, firing a wink at Loras who flushed pink, before he stalked to the other end of the table, sinking into the armed chair, kicking his feet up onto the edge of the table, his boots only narrowly missing Tyrion Lannister's head. If Tyrion cared, he didn't show it, but perhaps that was because he was distracting himself by studying the maps laid out in front of them, knowing that if it was a competition for who was recieving the most glares, it would be him. In fact, most were staring at him, all except for Humphrey Hightower, who was instead watching Ser Jorah with disgust, who as usual was looking nowhere but Daenerys.

"Well then," Willas began, exchanging a look with his brother. "Shall we begin?"

It was easier said than done. His bannermen had a habit of being rather stubborn, not wanting to agree with anything any of Daenerys' eastern party suggested, muttering insults and quietly suggesting incompetencies. As shameful as Willas found it, he knew a little of it was prejudice too, knowing that his men would disagree with anything the easterners suggested just to make themselves feel smarter. None of them were used to taking orders from a woman either, which clearly frustrated Daenerys. She had proven herself to all those who stood on her side of the table, but to the opposite side she was still just a girl, crown or no. When one of the lords suggested she needed a husband to be taken seriously, the shriek of one of the dragons echoed into the tent.

Willas decided he hated men. Or, at least, he hated stubborn, prideful men. He hated how they would not yield to see anyone else's perspective even if it would benefit them in the end. He hated how they saw their masculinity as an immediate win over everyone else, how they thought they were superior automatically just because of anatomy. How many women had been belittled and undermined just because of male dominance? How many women were put to the side because a man thought he knew better?

Would it be ironic if he then stood up for Daenerys, if he yelled at his men to listen and see her side, see her for the great ruler she would be? Would he be just as bad as the rest of them? He'd never interviened when his wife had to make herself be taken seriously, he had always just taken a back seat in her politics, wanting her to flourish in her own right, but that had seemed easier with Northerners who loved her so easily. Could he make the Reachers love Daenerys, and was it even his place to do so?

Of course it was, he was her Hand. After yet another lord made a snippy comment about one of her eastern advisors being a fool, Willas cursed loudly, his fist colliding with the table.

"I implore you all to look across the field and see those three fucking dragons, do you want to be on the wrong end of their fury?" he snapped, hating how relieved he was that all his men fell silent. "I am ashamed of your conduct. You swore to follow me, to follow whatever cause I thought would be best for our kingdom to thrive, and yet you act like this when I present you with the cause."

"Thank you, my lord," Daenerys added quietly, though every eye fell to her as she looked to the maps. "You once advised me to go north first-"

"For his own gain, I'd wager," Lord Tarly muttered. "Avenging that wildling wife-"

No one saw Oberyn move from his seat, but they did however hear Lord Tarly scream, and when Willas looked he saw a thin little Dornish dagger protruding out of Lord Tarly's wrist, pinning his hand to the table. Chaos ensued, the other men of the Reach shouting curses at the Dornishman, Lord Tarly grasping the hilt of the dagger, though some shred of logic in him had clearly won as he hesitated in removing it. Willas glanced at Daenerys to see her faint fury, though when he looked at his friend, he saw him sit back down with an elegant shrug.

"Apologies, I think I must have slipped," Oberyn's voice was a casual drawl, ignoring how everyone's vitriol was suddenly targeted at him, the men of the Reach because he'd hurt one of their own, the members of Daenerys' party because he'd caused such an almighty distraction.

"Should I see about summoning the maester?" Loras whispered to his brother, though he sounded reluctant. When Willas frowned at him, wondering why his brother would hesitate, Loras merely shrugged. "He did deserve it."

"You dirty Dornish bastard!" Lord Tarly snarled, though he was yet to remove the dagger, and Willas had noticed the brimming tears of pain shining in his eyes.

"You might want to get that cut seen to, I've known men to lose their hands from such injuries," Oberyn told him simply, before firing a wink to Willas, and suddenly he realised it was not just an attack from a flare of his temper.

It was his right hand he had stabbed. It was calculated perfectly, as the wound could leave Lord Tarly without a hand, and even if it did heal it would greatly impact his ability to fight, or use a sword. All that talk of Willas being an unworthy lord thanks to one injury suddenly seemed arrogantly ironic. Willas wanted to laugh, wanted to toast his friend with whatever spirits they had to hand, but he had to stay stoic, had to at least act like he was offended on behalf of his bannermen, but a small smug smirk of victory was impossible to hide. How he adored his Dornish Prince.

He was about to suggest one of the lords remove the dagger and take Lord Tarly to the maester, but before he had the chance to speak the tent opened and in the doorway stood his steward. Byren looked alarmed when he saw the anarchy he walked into, gazing between the reclining Dornish prince and the bleeding Tarly with wide eyes, looking at the outraged Reachers and the frustrated Easterners with a confused frown. Willas didn't blame the poor lad, and would have laughed at his baffled expression if not for the two figures he saw stood behind the steward. Both of them had longer dark hair and beards, both of them were pale and war-worn, and both of them were wearing brown leather armour with a sigil on their chests that Willas had been certain he would never see again.

"My Lord," Byren called, though struggled to look at him in favour of Lord Tarly as he screamed and cursed as he pulled Oberyn's knife from his flesh. "My lord, there are two envoys here, from the... from the-"

"I know where they are from," Willas nodded, his voice croaked. Subtly, he felt his brother elbow him, and it felt as if everyone was staring at him, even if he knew Lord Tarly was attracting far more attention. "What are they here for?"

"Lord Tyrell," one of the northerners called, stepping in front of the hesitating steward. Willas had seen the man before, in Winterfell; it was like seeing a ghost. "We're here by order of the Queen of the North. We come with a gift for Prince Uther... Perhaps we could discuss this in private?"

It took Loras elbowing him again to make him move, make him think, make him breathe. He hadn't even noticed how he had held his breath until he felt his chest ache, his head spinning, and he gripped onto his cane tighter than ever, his other hand steadying himself on the table. He'd seen the man in Winterfell a long time ago, in a time that felt like another life, when he had been happy, when the Starks had been alive. What was the man's name? His wife would know, she knew everyone by name, and everyone knew her, their helpful and selfless Lady Edd. Was it Harwin, the master of horse's son, the one who had gone south with Lord Stark? Was he truly a ghost stood before him?

Good gods, he'd said Queen of the North too. Sansa? What had happened there, was Jon dead, had the remaining Northerners crowned her to avenge their kings and princess? Why would she send men to him, a gift to Uther, when Willas hadn't aided her cause at all?

His chest hurt. There were too many questions, too many uncertainties, too much of the unknown, too much...

"We are done for the day," Daenerys announced, her voice loud enough to break through his storming mind. She turned to him, wrapping a hand around his arm, though he barely felt her touch, barely noticed how she had placed her other hand on his cheek to make him look at her. "Go."

Willas didn't feel himself move, yet he did anyway. He didn't notice how Loras instinctively moved with him, nor did he recall turning to Oberyn and demanding he follow them too. All he could feel was his heart thundering in his chest, his mind desperately battling through the fog of confusion and panic as he tried to understand what was happening. He hardly noticed that he was out of the tent and into the fresh air, hardly heard the dragons shriek at each other as they took to the air.

All he could think of was Sansa, this supposed Queen of the North, and just what she wanted to give his son.

***

Word Count: 11761

***