Willas tried not to think too much.

It was easy enough, which was a surprise given he used to love thinking, but somehow he had perfected shutting his thoughts off completely over the past few months. He'd learnt how to stop his mind from wandering, and how to stop himself from feeling the absolute sheer agony of his existence.

In the day that consisted of work, of hobbies, of his son. He would spend his morning hunched over his desk working through paperwork about taxes and harvests, reading reports and ensuring all was in place for his newly-inherited kingdom to thrive, then it would be a trip to the kennels, or the aviary, or the stables. Immersing himself in his animals once more was a blessing, for they always seemed happy to see him, especially the dogs who always came running up to him with wagging tails. It was more than Honour had acknowledged him with in the past few months, the wolf sulking around Highgarden like everyone else, everyone but Willas, who had put the pain aside in favour of ignoring it for an easy existence. His evenings were spent alone, a supper tray brought to him in his rooms that often left the next day untouched, as late at night he was only interested in drink. He only indulged in that itch that followed him all day the moment he knew his son was in bed and couldn't see what a mess he would become, but he spent whole nights sat out on the veranda of his chamber with a pitcher of wine and several cups of rum. He wasn't sure how much he drank, just enough to still his screaming mind and dull the aching in his chest, though that amount seemed to grow greater with each day. He often passed out there, slumped on the flagstone floor with his cane discarded out of reach only to wake with the birdsong with a horrific headache.

It was either the veranda or the sofa, but he never slept in the bed. He was tempted to ask for the whole thing to be destroyed, sickened just by the sight of it, but making such a request would make people think that he wasn't fine, which he was. He was completely fine, or at least, he was coping.

He was coping better than everyone else, that was for sure. Uther was all smiles and laughter all day, and once he had found his words he had never stopped talking, but come nightfall when he realised she was not there to sing him to sleep, the tears and the screaming would start, and would only stop the moment he passed out into an unsettled sleep from pure exhaustion. Willas was not sure if he'd seen his mother eat a full meal since the news came, and her fuse was so short the slightest little thing would send her temper awry. His grandmother was plotting, though what she plotted he wasn't sure as Willas had avoided her vigilantly, not wanting any part in any scheme. He hadn't seen Loras properly, his youngest - gods, his last - brother dedicated to nothing but the training yard. Margaery seemed to float between them all, trying to look after them as if she was the only one strong enough to do so, but he'd heard the servants whispering about his sister weeping herself to sleep. As for Leonette... Leonette's condition was not even worth considering, not if Willas wanted to continue to cope as well as he was. It was too sad, too bittersweet yet agonisingly painful, and as the weeks passed, Willas made sure not to cross paths with her, not wanting the reminder.

He tried to stay out of the keep all together. It was ridiculous how full of memories the castle was, considering the one person he was desperately trying not to think of had lived there for barely a year. They were not memories he wanted to spend time on, so when he was sobered up enough and the sun was up, he took his boy out, walking the dogs and Honour in the woodlands with him, almost managing to smile when he would run after the hounds or point to the trees asking about the birds. Honour never left his side, and he'd had to train Uther's pony not to spook at the direwolf's closeness, because even during his riding lessons in the training ring, the wolf refused to leave him. Willas didn't care, glad his son had such a dedicated protector, but that didn't stop him stationing ten guards outside of every entrance into Uther's bedchamber.

The training ring was where he found himself on the morning of the day that marked the fourth month since arriving home. Willas' head was splitting open, his stomach was doing flips from too much rum the night before, and his balance felt so off that he had to lean against the fence. Watching the master of horse lift Uther onto his pony then begin to lead him around the ring with the reins, Willas felt a little dizzy, but knew the fresh air would help. It usually did, as did focusing on Uther, so he watched intently, almost as intently as the direwolf stood by his side, Honour's ears back uncertainly. She used to have perfect instincts, but everything made her wary in the past few months, she spooked and snapped a lot easier, and so Willas took one hand off the fence to scratch at her head. If he thought about it, he could almost feel sorry for her, but that was why Willas tried not to think about anything.

Seeing Uther's smile sat on horseback almost made him feel happy, but instead it made him feel a stinging sensation shoot through him.  Nothing made him angrier than that feeling, the determination for his body to feel some sort of grief despite him rejecting it over and over again. He felt the familiar itch to drown it out with liquor, but none was to hand, and he'd promised himself to not let Uther see him drink, so he let out a long sigh, staring up at the sky as a flock of birds flew past overhead. He wondered if they were migrating, and where they were going. Even without that knowledge, he so desperately wanted to join them. Anywhere was better than where he was.

"My Lord," a voice called, familiar yet altered with exhaustion and grief. Willas did not turn, keeping his eyes fixed on Uther and his pony. "I was wondering if I might speak with you."

"I am busy," he answered shortly, flinching away when he felt the woman in question try to touch his shoulder. "Go back inside, Leonette. Go and get some rest."

"The maester says I need some fresh air," Leonette insisted stubbornly, though she still lingered behind him. "How are his lessons coming along?"

"He's still too little for anything proper, but he's a natural," Willas commented, though a proud smile seemed impossible to form on his face.

"And how are you?" She asked, her voice gentle until he responded with nothing but a grunt and a shrug. "Your knee hurts. I can tell. Perhaps it is you who should get some rest?"

She was right, but he refused to accept that. Not sleeping in a proper bed for weeks had certainly taken its toll, worse than the war ever had done, and maybe not eating properly had also had an effect, but he didn't particularly care. A Maester had told him his injury may strain and hurt as the years went on, with the aches eventually getting worse with age, so why should he complain about what was always inevitable? There were far worse things happening in his life than an old injury that had him gritting his teeth, though none of it was worth thinking about.

"Papa, look!" Uther called excitedly, grinning as his pony picked up the pace. "Gallop!"

"That's a canter, my boy, but excellent either way!" Willas called back, forcing a smile as he waved. The smile died the moment Uther stopped looking at him, and he glanced over his shoulder to look at Leonette, noticing but ignoring her concern. "My knee always hurts, that's what happens when a horse falls onto you."

"Not like this," Leonette insisted. She took a step closer, moving to his side and touching his arm gently. "I've never seen you like this. Pretending you're fine isn't right, not when you're hurting yourself, not when I've never seen you this thin. When was the last time you had a proper wash, or a shave, or-"

"Leonette, leave it," he sighed, glancing up to the sky as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You used to call me Nettie when we first met, do you remember?" Leonette said, almost forcefully. "You only started calling me my proper name after the wedding, and that was because you said I had a more important name, and that was 'sister'. I'm still your sister now, so would you please just look at me?"

He didn't want to, yet he thought of the girl she had been, dressed in her family colours with intricate braids her mother had insisted upon. He remembered her dry wit and dazzling smile, and how she so desperately wanted a family that wasn't her own. Practically raised by her uncles and ignored by her mother, Leonette had wanted to be a Tyrell as much as he had wanted her to be, and she fit in as perfectly as the rest of them. He remembered smiles and laughter while with the whole family, then more melancholic moments alone with just Willas and him where she confessed her desire to fit in, and it was the memory of that girl which made him turn and face her.

It took him a moment to look at her properly, and though he tried to keep his gaze fixed on her concerned face, his eyes couldn't help but wander to where her hands were, cradled around the slightest of swells on her belly. When she realised he was looking she instantly dropped her hands to her sides, as if ashamed she'd drawn attention to it. Willas couldn't help but stare, a wave of disappointment coursing through him as he realised he'd not looked at her properly in weeks, not since his mother had told him the news of Leonette's condition. He'd tried his best to avoid her completely, tried not to think about her at all. He hadn't even realised she was far enough along to be showing like that, had that much time really passed?

'What would she look like now?' He couldn't help but think then despite his best efforts. 'Around six or seven moons, she'd be rather big, suffering but not complaining of back ache and lack of sleep. She'd love the fact Leonette was experiencing it all too, love the sisterhood of it and that the babes would grow up close together.'

No. No, he would not think of her. He wouldn't think of her, or what they lost. He wouldn't think about his lost second son who never got to live, or-

"I'm going back to the keep," Willas said sharply. "Tell Uther I've had to go do some work, he'll understand."

He'd begun to flee, leaning on his cane heavily as he turned to venture up the path back to the keep. Except, he couldn't get far, not as Leonette grabbed his arm and refused to let go, staring at him desperately as if she had missed looking at him and was willing him to look at her too. He could barely manage that, but when he did she sighed.

"He won't understand, and you know it," Leonette told him firmly. "You're to stay here, and talk to me, and when his lesson is done we're to spend some proper time with him."

"I do spend time with him," Willas retorted, biting back the fury he felt wash over him at the thought of someone telling him what to do with his own son.

Despite everything, he still wanted to be a good father. He had to be, it was the one thing he could do, the one thing that mattered. The rest of his life would rot, but Uther... He had to be a good father. He had failed at so much, and Leonette made it sound like he was failing at being a father too. The thought of it made him feel uneasy inside, it made him feel as if he could barely breathe.

"When was the last time you sat with him and talked with him?" Leonette asked, persisting in her quest of riling him. "It is fine enough taking him out for walks around the ground or for riding lessons, but in Riverrun-"

'In Riverrun I had been happy, how in the middle of a war with a wife on the edge of her nerves was I truly the happiest I'd ever been?' Willas thought against his will, instantly flinching like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Don't talk about that place," he said, hoping his voice was firm but feeling as if he was begging.

"Why not? There is so much I am owed to know, so much that goes unsaid because no one dares upset Margie, or angers your mother, or set your grandmother off on one of her plots, or..." Leonette ranted, before stopping, looking him up and down. She sighed, softening as she reached out for his arm once more. This time he didn't flinch away. "We are all grieving, we are all in pain. I had hoped that the two of us could have bound together, our losses being the most similar, yet you push us all away, wanting us to think you are fine so you can govern your kingdom and look after your family, but did you know that your mother feels as if she is grieving two sons? Did you know Margaery has a miniature portrait of her brothers on her bedside cabinet just so she can still feel close to you all? Your grandmother does nothing but plot revenge and insist that you are clever enough to have plots of your own, but it is all just a distraction because she too weeps over them all. Did you know Loras is scared that you'll drive yourself to madness or abuse your health so badly that he will have no choice but to one day become Lord of Highgarden? He hates the thought of that more than even Gar-"

She cut herself off before she finished his name, her composure slipping. She sounded as if she choked, and her hand flew to her chest as if she couldn't breathe. It took her a moment to compose herself, standing up straighter than before, but that moment left Willas horrified, because he saw his goodister's grief, and looked on knowing of no way to comfort her or make it right. How could he, when he felt as if he'd been stabbed in the gut? She'd not even finished saying the damned name, yet the man's ghost struck them both like lightning.

Gods, what a mess the pair of them were.

"All I wish to say is that you are surrounded by people who love you," Leonette sighed eventually, when she was capable of talking once more. "We are all in pain. We all miss them, and we all burn for some sort of vengeance. Do not shut us all out."

"I am not shutting you out," Willas attempted to protest, but Leonette silenced him with a raised eyebrow.

"Fine then, have supper with your mother tonight and talk to her," Leonette suggested, and despite trying his best, his reluctance to do such a thing must have shown on his face. "Your mother is just like us, you know... A widow."

"I think you'll find my proper title is widower," he corrected her, a force of habit no matter how painful.

"You are an insufferable know-it-all," Leonette scowled, before she laughed. It sounded more like a sob, and she was smiling sadly. "I have missed you so dearly."

He didn't want to, but he smiled back at her. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was his first smile in four months that wasn't forced just for Uther. He didn't want any more contact either, but he didn't protest when Leonette embraced him and drew him close. Hugging and touching had become alien to him, so it took him a moment before he wrapped his arm around her, and it was so overwhelming he felt his balance go. She kept him upright though, and when they parted kept her arm around his waist for extra support. He wanted to ignore the way she looked him up and down concernedly, but it was impossible not to see the worry in her eyes.

"I'm fine," he said shortly before she had the chance to say anything.

"You reek of alcohol, my dear, and you're shaking," Leonette corrected him, trying to joke to hide how worried she was. "When was the last time you ate something proper, Will?"

Was it breakfast the day before? He couldn't be sure. He rarely felt hungry, or if he did he'd stopped an acknowledging it a long time ago. When she pointed it out though, he felt his stomach growl, and grimaced when he realised Leonette had heard it.

"I didn't want to eat either, I think had I not been told to and if not for..." she began strong but trailed off, clearly not wanting to talk about her condition. "Doesn't matter. Once Uther's lesson is done I'm going to the kitchens and having them make you something."

She was true to her word, because the moment Uther was lifted off his pony and he sprinted over to them giddily, making Honour's tail wag, Leonette swept him up into the air and carried him back to the keep as Willas trailed behind. Willas was secretly glad for her then, because so often after riding Uther liked to be carried back to the keep, and Willas knew with stinging disappointment that he wasn't strong enough, his balance too off and his leg too achy. He hated the fact he was silently admitting to needing help, he hated that Leonette led him to his solar and could see the state it was in as the cleaning servants picked up his mess of empty flagons and wine skins with his clothes from the past few days thrown around. When he sat down at the table and the muscles around his knee screamed he had to fight not to grimace or curse, but Leonette had known him long enough to see, so when she sat down she heaved Uther up her knee and made sure not to draw any more attention to it. He was glad for that, because as concerned as she had been, as uncomfortable as he felt having her in his space after being so determined to shut everyone out, she knew not to make things worse by drawing attention to his injury in a way that made him feel weak.

Neither of them spoke, though Uther was chattering away to the both of them as Honour curled up under the table. It wasn't until a platter of meats, cheeses, and fruits was set in between them, with another plate of breads and cakes placed next to it with two big flagons of water, that Leonette actually looked at him. Or, at least he thought she was looking at him, but in reality she was looking at the doorway, though Willas didn't realise that until he felt a pair of arms snake around his shoulders. Instinct made him curse in surprise and reach for the small knife buried in the wheel of cheese in front of him, but he heard a yelp and whoever it was jerked away quickly.

"Seven hells, Willas!" Margaery exclaimed, forcing a laugh.

In shame Willas quickly stabbed the knife back into the cheese, though he was still scowling. What sort of man was he if he threatened a defenceless young lady, what kind of brother was he to pull a knife on his little sister?

'A man who's had some of the most important things torn from him,' he couldn't help but think, wishing there was wine rather than water. 'A brother determined not to lose anything else.'

"I'm sorry, Margie," he croaked out, fighting away the sudden urge to burst into tears.

If she was angry for his threat she didn't show it, immediately going to sit next to Leonette, pushing a kiss to her goodsister's cheek as she scooped her nephew up. She tossed Uther up into the air, tickling him before settling him onto her knee. It was only seeing how affectionate and playful his sisters were with his son that made him realise that perhaps he had only been giving half of himself to the boy. It was also then that he noticed Margaery was no longer wearing black, and when she smiled she seemed genuine. If Willas hadn't noticed the bags under her eyes or the fact her eyes were tinged pink, he would have been angry at how normal she was acting.

Sitting across from his sisters made him feel oddly on edge. They were people he loved, people he trusted, yet he felt as if his chest was tight whenever they glanced at him. It felt like a test, it felt like they wanted him to prove himself to them. They wanted to see how fine he was, how well he was coping. It made him want to reach for the wine once more, and his odd urge to cry that had hit him earlier disappeared with the bitter determination to show just how fine he was.

He began that quest by tearing into a chunk of bread and slicing off some cheese, though that backfired on him rather quickly when he remembered who would have enjoyed such a meal far more than him. He used to constantly joke about her surviving solely off such foods, but really he should have just been happy she was eating. He wondered if she'd ever noticed how little she ate, if she ever realised in looking after everyone else around her she often neglected herself. That was a dangerous path for his mind to wander down, and his throat tightened to the point of being unable to eat after all. He refused to look up from his plate, knowing the girls were watching him, waiting for him to slip, and he refused to acknowledge that he'd stumbled at the first hurdle.

If they noticed his turmoil, they were gracious enough not to say anything, and Willas thought he'd gotten away with not eating by simply moving his food about his plate. He was almost smug about fooling them, until he felt a grape bounce off his cheek. He looked up in outrage, and though Uther was laughing and Leonette was smirking, it was Margaery who looked the most pleased.

"Do you mind?" He snapped, unable to help his glare.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew that there's food in front of you to be eaten," Margaery shrugged, one of her more daring smirks in place. Usually such an expression would have charmed him into laughing or at least rolling his eyes, but he couldn't bear to give her the satisfaction, which made her smile fall rather fast. "It's a joke, Willas."

"Not a particularly funny one," he said, unflinching. "Do you think all those hungry children in your favourite orphanage will appreciate you throwing food about?"

"They aren't hungry in the orphanages," Margaery replied, stubborn and protective. "They get well fed, I've been making sure of it. You, however-"

"Am fine," he answered sharply, though was betrayed by his stomach rolling again. Margaery looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Eat," Leonette insisted, gesturing to Uther sat upon Margaery's lap, helping himself to one of the cakes on her plate. "It is so easy he can do it."

As if to prove a point he stabbed a slice of cheese with his fork and ate it, chewing stubbornly, fighting the urge to gag as he swallowed it, feeling bitterly victorious when he managed what felt like a monumental task. Both women seemed satisfied with that, but that didn't stop their concern.

"I'm sorry, brother, that I've not looked after you better," Margaery said after a moment, earning a frown of disregarding surprise from Willas and a nod of support from Leonette. "We all are, and don't you dare say that you are fine again, because we can all see you aren't. None of us are, but you've pretended like you are so you can suffer alone rather than burden the rest of us."

"I don't need your help," he told them both sternly before either could imply that he did. Leonette grimaced, rubbing her hand across her forehead, while Margaery was unfazed and leaned across the table to be closer to him. "Please, the pair of you, I'm absolutely fine as I am."

"Are you, though?" A new voice called from the doorway, and Willas swore loudly as Loras took a seat next to him. "Do you really want your son to learn words like that?"

'He'll learn far worse things than a few swear words,' Willas wanted to scream, feeling cornered and attacked, surrounded by patronising sympathy they were using to try and control him in place of genuine care. 'What about when I have to tell him what happened to his mother and her whole family? What about when he asks me about his Uncles and his grandparents? What if he remembers all those who had cared for him in the Riverlands and I have to tell him what happened to them? What about when he asks me his mother's name and I have to say it outloud despite even thinking it making me want to throw myself into the Mander?'

He said none of that though. If he did he might start crying, or screaming, and the ache in his chest was more than enough of an embarrassment. Weeping wasn't something a 'fine' person did, so he refused to do so, tightening his fist around his fork as he fought against the feeling of claustrophobia. If his knee wasn't aching so badly he might have gotten up and left to show just how annoyed at them all he was, but that wasn't an option, so he merely glared at the table, and braced himself for battling off more condescending concern.

"I think you should speak with grandmother," Loras suggested to Willas, and his lack of concern surprised him. "Once you've eaten, obviously, and maybe have a wash first too."

"And why should I go and speak to her?" he questioned, unable to stop himself from eating another piece of cheese in front of him, hating how the women seemed to sigh in relief at the sight of it.

"Because she's been dealing with the letters you threw into the hearth of your study," Loras said, holding back a laugh when he saw Willas' confusion. "Were you that drunk when you threw them in there, did you not realise there's never a fire lit in there?"

"Loras," Leonette warned gently, seeing how Willas was clenching his jaw. She sighed again, and knowing that Loras was only going to aggravate Willas more, she continued, "I think what your brother is trying to tell you is that you've been dealing with a lot of matters that help with the ruling of Highgarden and the Reach, but there were letters you threw away in a haste that were rather important. We understand you didn't want to deal with them but-"

"But that is what we are here for," Margaery finished, smiling at her brother in what was trying to be a supportive expression as she handed another cake to Uther. "I've been looking at them with grandmother, and a few of your other correspondences that have been coming in. We've been trying to find ways that we can-"

"Get the rest of ourselves killed?" Willas finished for her, slamming his cutlery down.

Slamming wasn't something a fine person did, but he had just heard his family had been snooping around in what he thought was his private study, so he allowed himself the exception of not being fine. He'd thrown those letters in the hearth for reasons that made sense to him, reasons that he didn't think his family needed to know, not while they were busy in their grief.

The one from Lord Tywin was absurd and his conditions had been cruel, so while he was determined to protect the family he had left, he was not going to do so by risking their lives and sacrificing their remaining dignity. Send Margaery right into the lion's den, send Uther away as if he was nothing and not the most precious thing he had left? Lord Lannister could put their keep uner seige all he wanted, but Willas could call that bluff easily, knowing exactly where the Lannister troops were and how they could not afford an attack on the Reach.

The one from Oberyn was foolish too, as he seemed to just want to drag him into another war, or drag him down south to try and help him settle into widowhood in a way that made him feel sick. Oberyn would think he was helping, he would take him to parties and to brothels, he would pay for him to visit the most beautiful of ladies in the hopes that it would cure his lonely soul. Oberyn had done that for him before, as way of apology for the damage he'd inadvertently caused to his leg, it made perfect sense if that was the way he thought best to help his grieving friend. Willas had been to Dornish brothels, he'd seen the women there, and while they were beautiful and spirited, they were not as beautiful as... Well, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Willas didn't want to go to Dorne.

As for the letter from the Riverlands... Brynden Tully had never liked him anyway. He had been far too protective to ever form a proper relationship with him. His letter did nothing but guilt him and remind him of everything that had gone wrong and continued to go wrong in the kingdom that had been their home for a year. Out of all of the letters, he would have considered that one the most, especially in the dead of night when liquor made him furious and crave nothing but revenge, but it came with the condition of having to return to the Riverlands, and Willas knew himself to be incapable of such a thing.

He'd intended on ignoring all three, waiting until they wrote again or greater consequences occurred. He made the decision to just wait and see what happened and not tell anyone of what each letter had said. No one needed to know that Willas was hoping the Reach would be forgotten in his silence, no one needed to know that decision had come after a long night of drinking, just to cope with the sensation of feeling so spineless. It had made him feel ashamed, no matter how many times he told himself it was for the greater good to protect all he had left, no matter how much wine he downed.

That night he'd slept and dreamed of his late lady wife, stood in the crypts of Winterfell. She hadn't turned to face him, but he'd known her well enough to know it was her, known her every blemish and curve so closely, known how her body felt against his, known how silky her long hair felt against his fingers. He knew her so well that she was engrained in his mind perfectly to the point that merely thinking of her felt as if she could be right in front of him, yet that night in his dreams she was. He had screamed her name, begged for her to come home, pleaded for her to be real and to speak. All she did was call him a traitor. She did not speak his name, did not look at him, but her voice was clear as day, and in her thick northern accent that had never wavered even after living in the south, she called him a traitor.

Thinking of that made him want to weep, and he would have done had he not had an audience. They didn't need to see that. They might be his family, but he was their lord, and lord did not sob, no matter what.

"We're to discuss that matter no more, tell grandmother to burn those letters," he told them all firmly.

"That isn't your decision to make alone," Loras argued, his arms crossed. "What about what we want? I want to make them pay!"

"As do I!" Margaery agreed, forever siding with her closest brother. It made Willas scowl, feeling more cornered than ever, his stomach lurching and head spinning again. "You can't just leave us out of decisions like this."

"I can," he snapped, hoping that they couldn't tell how out of breath he felt, how there was a burning in his chest that made it feel impossible to breathe. "I am Lord of Highgarden. All decisions are mine to make."

"He was our father too," Loras snapped as well, his voice shaking as it rose. Willas felt his face burn, and his hands clenched into nervous fists, his vision blurring as adrenaline coursed through him. He realised it was the first time any of them had named their losses aloud in months. "Garlan was our brother too, and we all loved Edd-"

"Enough," Willas cut in, his voice almost venomous despite how suffocated he felt. He felt sick, like he needed to flee, but they were all staring at him, and he knew he needed to seize the opportunity to get them to take him seriously. "I will burn the letters myself, and if any of you dare mention them again, or even mention the notion of war or vengeance or anything else that risks our lives, you can find somewhere else to live. Are we done here?"

He's not meant to shout, not meant to expose himself in such a way, but it was too late. Loras stared at him, wide-eyed in shock, Margaery looked at him desperately, while Leonette looked close to tears. He wondered if she knew that she had her hands resting on her stomach, or if it had been an unconscious move just to help her nerves. He'd known someone else to do that too...

Damn his knee, he clutched his cane and heaved himself to his feet, and did not wait for any of them to say anything more. He heard Uther call for him and his sisters softly explain that he needed to go work, and Willas managed not to feel too guilty. Even if it did, it just joined the rest of him, how rotten he felt, how badly he felt like he couldn't breathe, how dizzy his head was, how desperate he was to sit back down and rest his screaming muscles that felt as if the horse was on top of him all over again. He fought on, and managed to get out of the doorway and into the corridor.

He did not, however, manage to get any further, not as he found himself stumbling and colliding into the wall. He would have smashed down onto the flagstone floor, were it not for one of the guards standing by, but it didn't particularly matter, as either way he found himself enveloped in darkness.

***
It was unbearable to see Eddmina in his dreams, yet there she was, and he had no choice but to endure it.

She was laid in his arms, her head on his chest, her hair tickling his skin as he lay barechested beneath her, pushing featherlight kisses to the top of her head. She was humming the tune of some song as she always did when she was content, and the sun was shining down on them through the open window of their bedchamber. Somewhere he could hear the voices of two children, and then their boys were with them, climbing onto them and giggling. Eddmina had been so sure that their next babe was a boy, one with the Tully and Hightower look, so while Uther had his mop of Stark-dark curls, the younger one had curls the colour of fire. As desperately as he tried to see him, there were no details to the little boys face. That didn't matter, it just let him imagine the boy to look like Eddmina. Two sons with her features and her spirit... gods, what a blessing.

"Let us stay like this forever," Eddmina had whispered to him, smiling so perfectly that he wanted to stare at her until the end of the world. She was his wife, it was his right to stare all he wanted. "The four of us, let us stay here. My Ser Willas, my love."

He had felt that dream fading, feeling his body burn and itch as he so desperately fought to stay with her. It was what she wanted, it was what he needed. As the image of her face blurred and faded, he felt himself shiver, cold and trembling for being away from her, sick to his stomach to lose her once more. He couldn't stop shaking, and perhaps he was sick at one point, but it all fuzzed together in one dark cloud, stuck in a limbo of being unable to shake off the haze and wake properly yet being incapable of joining the love of his life in the heavens once more.

It made him furious. He had wanted nothing more than to block her from his mind just to stop it hurting, yet when he finally gave in and let her fill his mind once more she was torn from him again. What made him angrier were the tired voices that surrounded him. He couldn't see who was speaking, but he heard his mother sounding close to tears, he heard his little brother trying to take charge of the situation, he heard his sisters trying to comfort their mother, he heard his grandmother running the show. What they were saying he couldn't tell, their voices too distant and blurred, and though he could feel hands on him touching his head, touching his damned knee, he felt as if he wasn't real. Every touch brought pins and needles, as if it was a painful reminder to being alive, each sound sent his head spinning, and all over he felt a panic settling over him. After everything, was he dying?

It was a sweet thought at first. He hadn't realised he was sick, hadn't realised his way of being fine was actually not fine at all, but it didn't bother him. Dying meant joining Eddmina. It meant having her back in his arms again. It meant getting to see his brother again, and his father. The first thing he would do would be apologise to them both, he'd promise to be better, to never let them down again, but of course, if they were all gone, he could never disappoint again. It was nice to think like that, but before he could relax, panic struck him once more, because no matter how much he wanted to be with them all, how could he leave Uther? The rest of his family too, but Uther, the son he'd always been told he would one day need yet never knew just how much he would adore, how could he just lay back and rot away and leave his boy orphaned?

He tried to say his name, to call out for his son and promise him it would be alright, but if he managed to make any noise he didn't hear it. Instead he felt someone pushing a goblet to his lips, and he smelt the poppy's milk, the nightshade, and the dreamwine. It was a smell he'd recognise anywhere, having drank his fair share of the first one after the joust, and the other two just reminded him of his bedchamber in Riverrun.

'We're a pair of nervous wrecks, my love,' he wanted to laugh, but the woman he was speaking to was in no condition to hear him.

He had no choice but to swallow as the concoction was poured down his throat, and then darkness was surrounding him yet again.

What he dreamed of that time was impossible to remember, a haze of faces and voices, though none louder than the sound of his brother's laugh. Gods, he hoped he never forgot the sound of Garlan's laugh, or the feeling of pride he always enjoyed whenever he managed to amuse his brother so much he laughed. He heard his father's voice too, heard him telling him he was proud. That had been a rare occurrence, and Willas swore to himself that if he woke that would be the first thing he would say to Uther, regardless of if the boy understood. He heard Robb's laugh too, his wonderful, foolish, brave goodbrother's amusement rarer than Garlan's but no-less important to him. He should have told him he loved him, because it had been the truth.

He wanted to stay with them all as badly as he had wanted to stay with Eddmina. He'd seen her so clearly, he wanted to see Garlan like that too. He'd held Eddmina in bed, why couldn't he have dreamed of Garlan so clearly too, out on horseback or fishing in the Mander, or enjoying a fierce game of cards where Garlan would only throw the cards at his face when he lost. He would've given anything for a dream like that, rather than just a distant laugh. He would have given anything to trade places with Garlan and have his brother live. He was younger, after all, he was meant to outlive him.

When those voices cleared there was nothing for a while. For a long while, actually. It was peaceful, and Willas felt almost as if he could rest properly. He didn't realise how much he needed it, how nice it felt to simply lie there with nothing in his head, no echoed voices, no repressed thoughts bubbling to the surface. He didn't realise how nice it was until another voice came, stern, stoic, and northern.

"You promised you would look after her," the voice of his late wife's late father called coldly. He did not appear physically, but Willas felt himself shiver, as if his goodfather's ghost had brought the winter he always spoke of with him. "You swore to take care of her. Making her happy was all you wanted, you said. Where is she now?"

"I'm sorry," he spoke when he found the words, his voice rough and shaken. "I love her. I miss her."

"Missing her won't change anything, will it, Lord Tyrell?" Lord Stark spoke again, very unlike the man who he briefly knew.

"I'm not Lord Tyrell, I'm-" he began, a force of habit, but choked as he realised he really was. He was not simply acting as regent or working in his office as a hobby, he was truly Lord Tyrell. "I don't want this. I don't want any of this. I want them all back."

"Then fight for me," he heard Eddmina's voice once more, a sound that was enough to make him weep. "Fight for me, my love. Fight for our children, for my family. Don't let me have died in vain."

"Don't leave me, come back," he wept, choking and stumbling over his words. "Please don't leave me. Please. I need you. "

"I'm right here," a voice called. Soft, gentle, heartbreakingly loving, but not Eddmina, and it took him a moment to realise it was not a voice in his dreams. The feeling of hands wrapping around his arms in a comforting embrace was what truly tipped him off. "I'm right here, my boy."

He had cried so many tears that his vision had blurred badly enough for him to not be able to tell if he was still in his unconscious void. Whoever had been looking after him in his state of sleep had fueled him with enough poppy's milk and dreamwine that he couldn't tell what was real or what was a dream, fogging his mind and making his body numb. It took him a while to come around, possibly even a few days more, but the whole time he could feel someone holding him, someone telling him that they were there. He hated whoever had filled him with so many substances that he didn't recognise the sound of his own mother's voice until what had to have been a day at least, but if his mother knew his turmoil it didn't phase her.

He didn't need his sight to know she had cried plenty herself, but when his vision did finally clear and he managed to blink through the blinding sunlight that poured through the curtains of his bedchamber, he saw his lady mother sat upon the edge of the bed. A wreath of the Seven on rested on her lap, though her hands were wrapped around his arm as if she was tethering herself to him, and when she saw him look at her properly, clear of the haze of alcohol, sleep, and medication, she broke into tears properly, crumpling in on herself until she threw her arms around him, embracing him properly. Still a little dazed from sleeping for what he knew must have been a while, it took him a moment before he hugged her back, but when he did he made sure to do it as tight as he could.

"Oh, my boy," his mother wept onto him. "My dear, lovely boy, I am so sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, his mind still a little fogged.

"That we left you to suffer alone for so long, that you have to go through all of this," she explained, not baring to sit up and look at him properly, still hugging him. Willas felt her tears soak through onto the shoulder of his nightshirt that someone must have changed him into. "I am so, so sorry. I should have known you weren't as alright as you were pretending to be, I should have taken care of you!"

"I'm alright," he said, because it seemed like the best sort of thing to say at that point. His mother scoffed in between her sobs. "I don't even know what's happened."

It turned out drinking excessively without eating properly was a very bad idea. He should have known, remembering his wife's brief stint of alcohol reliance that kickstarted her nervous attacks, except the way his body reacted was different. He'd been shaking that morning because of withdrawals, and hunger, and pairing both of them with the pain of straining his knee carelessly and the sheer amount of anxiety that lunch with his siblings brought meant his mind and body decided they'd had enough. Had he continued to abuse himself so badly he would have ended up joining his wife far sooner than he expected, and so the Maester had kept him drugged up and unconscious while his body purged itself of the wine, and while he tended to his incredibly swollen knee. It couldn't have been long since the last time he'd had poppy's milk poured down his throat since he couldn't feel his leg at all, but according to his mother a new brace had been fitted to help with the months of neglect he'd served the old injury, and the year of constant travelling during the war.

He felt a fool to have commanded such attention. His injury was an old one, and his way of pretending he was coping had turned out to be so bad it almost sent his family back into mourning. He wanted to be angry at himself for it, for making them all worry when there was far worse things happening in the world, but if his mother was angry at him for his behaviour, she didn't show it, not as she continued to hug him and cry into him as if he was all that mattered in the world.

"Where's Uther?" He asked the moment he felt his mind wrap around what had happened to him. "Is he safe, is he-"

"He's absolutely fine, dear," his mother was quick to reassure him. "Margaery and Leonette have been taking it in turns looking after him. I think Leonette sees it as good practice. He's been asking for you though, and for... Well, he misses both his parents, and you must make sure that he still has at least one of them. Please, Willas, for his sake you can't abuse yourself like this again. He cannot lose both of you, we all cannot."

Willas nodded, fiercely determined that he would make sure of that. He couldn't orphan his son, no matter what grief overcame him. It made him feel ashamed that he'd even risked such a thing, and he wanted to apologise profusely over and over until he felt like he'd scratched the surface of the burden he'd put his whole family through. Yet, he knew apologising would only upset his mother, who looked on the verge of tears yet again.

"I promise, mother, I'll take better care," he vowed, but Lady Tyrell looked more fragile than he'd ever seen her before. "Please, mother, don't cry."

"I will, because I feel like a failure," she sighed, burying herself in his embrace once more. "We were all so caught up in our own troubles, I barely even noticed you drowning yourself."

"You shouldn't have to worry, why should you have looked after me when you all had your own grief to battle with?" Willas shrugged, earning a disbelieving scoff.

"Because you're my son," Lady Alerie said as if it was the most simple thing in the world. She sat up, removing her hands from him to instead cup his face, drawing him closer as she pushed a kiss to his forehead. "My boy who I've already nearly lost once. I am running short on sons lately, you'd think I would have taken better care of the ones I have left."

The dry, bitter joke left Willas feeling breathless, and he stared at her dumbfounded for a moment as he tried to figure out if she was going to laugh or cry. It turned out both, which made him do both too. Everyone had always said his brother inherited his humour from their rather jolly father, but with such dark jokes like that, perhaps it had been a Hightower trait too.

"I miss him," Willas said eventually when they had cried together for what felt like forever. "I feel like... Like part of me is missing and I'll never get it back. I, he... Garlan is my best friend, he was sometimes my only ally. He's the greatest of us all, followed me around like an annoying, wisecracking, better-looking shadow, and now I'm expected to go the rest of my life without him?"

"I worried when he was first born that you would resent him, you know," his mother sighed, eyes fogged with nostalgia and brewing tears. "You'd been an only child, you were the first grandchild, then here comes another son to share the spotlight. I thought you'd hate him, or he'd envy you, or... I don't even know, it all seems foolish to think about now. It turned out that watching the two of you adore each other was my greatest joy in life. The greatest part in being a mother is watching your children love and protect each other. I never cared for any of my own siblings half as much as the two of you loved each other."

"I never told him," Willas shook his head, recalling all the times he rolled his eyes or called his brother a nuisance. "I never told him enough that I-"

"He knew, lovely boy, of course he knew," his mother stroked his face and kissed his forehead again, and Willas felt a fool; it was her son who was dead, yet she was comforting him? "He was brave and valiant and we will remember him always, won't we? Well, we will have no choice, because there will be a small version of him running riot in this keep one day soon, and soon enough they will want to know about the man their father was."

"He would have been the best father," Willas sighed, eyes screwed shut as he contemplated how cruel the gods were to rob him of that experience, to take him away before he even knew his wife's condition.

"Yes, he would," his mother nodded, looking as if she was fighting off tears again as her voice strained. "We owe it to him and to Leonette to make sure his child knows that."

Willas nodded again, dazed. It was one thing to admit that his brother was gone, to actually speak of him in the past tense, but to promise to step up and take his place in a role that he knew his brother would do desperately want... There was a reason he doted on Uther, there was a reason he had been so caring and protective to Willas' wife each time she was with child. Garlan had wanted children, he'd wanted a family with Leonette, and he would never get to experience it. To consider it all was agonising, but Willas forced himself to think it through, knowing that it would be a pain he'd have to get used to living with.

There were many pains like that, and since he was opening up and being so honest with his grief, he found himself saying:

"I miss father too. Why did I waste time being angry with him for so long?"

"When I find the answer to that one myself I will let you know," his mother sighed, looking as if she was taken aback by his bluntness, looking as if she wanted to bury the topic, but forcing herself to cope. She wiped her eyes before doing the same to him. "He was a strange man, stubborn and prideful and more ambition than wits, but... Gods, he could make me laugh. He was charming too, and handsome. You may not think it, you might think me a madwoman for such claims, but... I love that man. Loved. Whichever it is, it doesn't matter. He was suggested to my father for a betrothal, and I think had he not come with future titles your grandfather would have laughed him out of the High Tower and never let him near me again. I wanted to dislike him at first too, until I actually met him. He presented me with a garland of roses and told me I was the most beautiful lady in all seven kingdoms, and when I told him that was obviously not true, he merely said 'well I don't care for the rest, you are the one I want to build my life with.'"

"I never knew he could be so romantic," Willas laughed in disbelief, feeling an ache of grief stir in his chest, especially when he noticed his mother's sad smile, looking as if she was hollowed out and in the middle of rebuilding herself.

"Where do you think you all inherited it from?" she pointed out, taking his hand once more, her other hand still stroking his cheek, her fingers attempting to comb through the beard he decided he hated. "He's a good man. Was a good man. He only wanted the best for you all, we fought constantly over what we both thought that looked like. I wanted you all to simply be happy, but he thought happiness meant greatness. Perhaps it was because he knew that he wouldn't be remembered as a great scholar or warrior himself so he wanted you all to be his legacy. He might not have shown it, but by the Seven, Willas, he adores you. Adored. Gods, when will I get it through my head that he's not just down the hall singing some stupid song waiting for dinner?"

"I thought he hated me sometimes," Willas said, unable to stop himself even when he saw how pale his words made his mother. "Loving Margie seemed to be easy for him, and Loras is always so perfect, and... well, Garlan is, was. Fuck, Garlan was glorious."

"I am terribly biased, but I find all of you glorious," his mother sighed, squeezing his hand. "Your father thought the same, but... Have you ever looked at Uther and wondered what he means to you? He's your heir, he's the one who will follow you after you're gone, and that is like a constant reminder of your mortality."

"He's my son," he corrected her, knowing he'd never once seen him as anything else, but now he was Lord, that did complicate things.

"Yes, and you are your father's son too, the one he was immeasurably proud of," she continued calmly, no tears left to cry. "He knew your fate, knew you would take his place one day, knew that when you would need him most he would be gone an unable to help, and for that he wanted you to be nothing but the best. I think your understandings of 'the best' was where the two of you differed. You frustrated each other constantly, he was always wanting you to prove yourself, always wanting more, and I cannot imagine how hard that was. I am sorry that I never made him go easier on you, especially when you were in the North and building a family of your own, but he loved you, and he knew you were bound to to great things. He loved you, Willas, I hope that you will remember that."

"I will, mother," Willas nodddd, knowing it was what she needed to hear, glad when he felt a little of his pain fade away.

Perhaps if talking felt so hard yet healing it would help to talk about her, about his wife. He wanted to, or at least he did at first, but the words didn't come, then they felt impossible, and he forced the urge away. Talking about his wife would have been helpful, especially with his mother who was also experiencing the loss of a spouse. If he started that conversation he knew his mother would sit and let him speak, she'd hold his hand and comfort him through the ordeal, but his mother looked so tired, and he too was exhausted. It had been hard enough talking about his brother and father, the agony of his wife could wait for another day.

His mother stayed another few hours until the sun set, catching him up on trivial matters that he had missed, but not discussing anything of great worth as if not to strain him. She watched him vigilantly as supper was brought to him, only cracking a faint smile when he ate the entirety of the broth that was put in front of him. When Maester Lomys came to check him over and decided to leave a vial of dream wine on the bedside cabinet, his lady mother looked between him and it expectantly, waiting for him to take it, and when he downed it with a bitter grimace, she smiled again and pushed another kiss to his forehead.

"Will you promise me something?" He asked, his thoughts making sense to no one but himself as he yawned. "Can we burn this bed? I don't want it any more, it feels too empty."

"Whatever you want, lovely boy," she sighed, looking close to tears once more.

It was a dreamless sleep that met him, thankfully, as was most of the day after, but when he finally woke up he was not greeted by his mother. He would have preferred that, but instead he heard shuffling and tutting, and glared though the streaming sunlight to see his grandmother examining his desk. Willas gave her a moment, waiting to see if she'd notice he'd woken, but when she continued he cleared his throat and attempted to sit up. She didn't jump or startle, but instead glanced over to him with faint disinterest.

"Oh, you're awake are you?" She greeted him, crossing the room to reach his bedside, looking down at him as if he was a boy again.

"Do you always rifle through my belongings when I'm asleep?" He sighed, grimacing in pain as he struggled to sit up, fighting against the faint throbbing in his leg.

"Only when you've been neglecting your duties to your family," she replied simply, glancing at him again before she leant down and hit his shoulder sharply. Before he had the chance to voice his outrage, she did it again. "That is for scaring us all. You always were the best of us, now look at what you let yourself become. A self-pitying mess. Well, this ends here. I thought the Northmen called you Ser Wise, drinking yourself to oblivion is hardly wise, is it?"

"Gods, grandmother, give it a rest," he ran his hands through his hair, screwing his eyes shut in frustration. "I've made my apologies to my mother-"

"And you can make your apologies to the rest of us tomorrow, my Lord," she told him strictly. It didn't matter if he outranked her; she would forever be the head of the family. "Your mother is insisting on us letting you rest, but we do not have time for that, not if we are to act."

"And what sort of action do you intend?" Willas asked, eyebrows narrowed while his grandmother stared at him. "Gods, what plots don't you have up your sleeve?"

Willas intended on questioning her until she gave her secrets away, but the door swung open and he heard a howl and a small voice calling his name, and before he knew it a direwolf had him pinned to the headboard as she licked his face all over, while a small boy climbed onto him. He couldn't help but laugh, a sensation that had been impossible for months, but as he scratched at Honour's fluffy neck and pulled his son close the moment the wolf ceased her affections, Willas realised he hadn't felt as light for such a long time.

"Missed you, Papa!" Uther cheered as he jumped onto him, wrapping his arms around his neck. Willas tried not to cry at that, feeling utterly unworthy for the adoration the boy showed him.

"Mind your father's leg, darling one!" His mother's voice called as she ran into the room, though she too was smiling. "Do you care about the wolf being on the furniture?"

"Not at all," Willas shrugged, holding his son in an embrace with one arm while the other leant over to pet Honour as she curled up at his side. He caught his grandmother's disgruntled look and raised an eyebrow. "Do you care?"

"Not at all, I care more about your mother interrupting when she knew I was coming here to talk with you," the elder Lady Tyrell stated coldly, while the younger Lady Tyrell perched on the edge of her son's bed with an unflinching look, one that showed she'd dealt with her goodmother for years. "I told you-"

"And I told you, don't bother him with such things yet, he needs more time to rest," his mother said calmly, with a look of steel. She turned to the doorway with the exact same look as the door creaked. "You as well, lad."

Unfazed, Loras entered the room, and Margaery was not far behind him. Their mother wanted to send them both away, it was obvious, but neither Willas or their grandmother would allow them to. Margaery looked paler than usual, as if she hadn't been sleeping, while Loras was still sweating as if he was fresh from the training yard, and both made him want to resort back to being their caretaker, shoving away his own emotions in favour of focusing on theirs, but he couldn't face it anymore. Instead, when Margaery leant down to hug him he kissed her cheek and held her tight, and when Loras held his hand out as if to shake he pulled him in for an embrace too. By that point Uther had settled at Willas' side, playing with Honour who wagged her tail at him, and though Willas kept an arm around him, he focused his attention on his siblings.

"We're sorry," Margaery spoke for the pair of them, Loras nodding along. Willas was sure he'd never seen them both so sincere. "We really are. We thought giving you space was best, then acting like normal-"

"Neither of you have anything to be sorry for," Willas shook his head, earning a scoff from his brother.

"Yes, I do," loras told him firmly. "You were there with me when I lost Renly, and I couldn't show the same to you. I thought acting normal was what you needed, but... I'm sorry."

"We lost more than just my wife, we all had our own grief," Willas accepted, feeling an ache in his chest. He nodded at both of his siblings, knowing they were what he had left, knowing he would do unspeakable things to protect them both. "Perhaps we should get on with making it all right once more."

Both of them looked surprised at that, given his previous outburst at the notion of vengeance, but they nodded almost eagerly. His grandmother looked relieved too, as if glad he had kept his wits and was finally on the same page as the rest of them. The same couldn't be said for his mother who managed to shoo them all away before any real conversation could begin, convincing them that rest was what he needed rather than revenge. No one was happy about it, least of all Willas, who for the first time in months was thinking straight and desperate to plot and plan. He felt as if he'd woken up from a horrible nightmare of passivity, and was ready at long last to fight again.

He was not, however, ready to fight with his mother, and so agreed to her terms, contenting himself with his son curled up at his side and a book on his lap, reading certain parts aloud. Even Honour was content, not grumbling or pacing for the first time in months, and when Uther fell soundly asleep without complaint Willas wanted to weep with joy. He stared at him, watching intently how he slept, and managed not to grimace or shy away from all the similarities he spotted between his wife and their son. He really was the spit of her, a blessing and a curse. Willas wondered if looking at his son would ever stop hurting, but he knew it was a pain he'd have to live with, as there was no way he could live without his boy. When his mother carried Uther off to his own room and Honour followed, Willas felt like he'd lost part of himself again, but before he could feel the sting of it, his mother had turned to him in the doorway and simply said:

"I cannot keep you all at bay forever, they're coming back tomorrow to talk properly."

It was strange, but that concept had him so buzzed that he could barely sleep. It was a relief to want to use his mind again, and when the next morning rolled over and his family descended onto his chamber, he sat expectantly as they all gathered around. Margaery sat across from him on the bed, cross-legged and eager looking, while Leonette sat at his side, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. Loras remained standing, though leant on the post of the bed, and his grandmother sat behind his desk, several letters spread out in front of her. Lady Alerie kept her distance, wanting no part in the plotting, yet lingered in the doorway as if she couldn't bare to leave. All looked full of anticipation, yet no one looked as if they knew where to start.

"I've answered several correspondences on your behalf," Lady Olenna broke the ice, speaking up first, as fitting her nature. "Several more letters arrived while you were lazing away."

"He was resting, grandmother," Margaery corrected before their scowling mother could say anything too harsh.

"Tell me about the letters," Willas implored, hating to feel like the least informed person.

"A letter has come from the North," Leonette spoke gently, her hand tightening around his shoulder. The way Margaery and Loras exchanged a look and the way their mother winced, Willas knew Leonette didn't have good news. "I am so sorry, Willas, but Harrion Karstark is dead."

It certainly was a harsh place to start, as Willas felt his chest constrict and his skin prickle. That news hurt more than he expected. Kind, shy, brave Harrion. His goodbrother. Harrion was so quiet that upon their first few meetings Willas had thought him sullen and obtuse, yet as time went on he realised he was simply incredibly shy, and far more sensitive than his brash younger brothers. He had been strong, a force of unwavering northern spirit, yet when he held Sansa's hand or addressed his lady wife, there was no one sweeter.

He wouldn't have been able to stop it, not as he was so far away, yet he couldn't help the guilt, couldn't help but feel responsible. He'd supported the northern cause, given Sansa and Harrion his blessing to go reclaim their lands, but he'd never considered the dangers. If he did, his goodbrother may have lived.

"How?" Willas asked, then almost choked as he realised the more important question: "Sansa? Please tell me she's not-"

"He died protecting her, by all accounts," Leonette continued. "It was Lord Baratheon who wrote to us about it all. Lord Edric, that is, since Stannis is dead too by the sounds of it. Sansa's party didn't get north quick enough to meet with Stannis before his force had attacked the Bolton's for control over Winterfell. The Bolton's hold Winterfell too, by the way. Ramsay Bolton was legitimised as form of apology for his father, and according to Lord Edric, wishes to rid the whole of Westeros of the remaining Starks in revenge."

He felt a burn in his chest at that. Winterfell, the place of so many beautiful, bittersweet memories. His wife's home, his son's birthplace, the site of so much history for not just the Stark family but all of Westeros. He had thought it a ruin, and he had thought the Bolton's ruined too, along with every other northern house that went to the cursed wedding. The tale Leonette told sounded different to what he knew though, inconsistent details bothering him.

"Lord Bolton... he died in the Twins too, didn't he?" Willas asked, bothered by his lack of truth.

"He did, your wife killed him," his grandmother told him, unable to hide her pleased smile, even when Willas looked horrified. "Oh you fool, didn't you know? He was the one to betray them, and by all accounts he was the one to finish off Robb Stark. Apparently Roose Bolton tried to comfort your wife after she saw her brother die, and in return she stabbed him through the throat with her brother's crown, then strangled the life out of anyone who came near her."

Despite it all, Willas felt pride swelling in his chest. Being told one's wife was a murderer was not a normal thing to make one proud, but knowing his wife went down fighting was a comfort to him. Learning of the betrayal was difficult to comprehend, and it stung to consider that his wife might have been caught off-guard or scared, or... but it hardly mattered, because in the end she had enjoyed the upper hand. Lord Roose had double-crossed them, and paid for the mistake with his life, at the hands of no one but the Princess of the North. At least she had still got a fire in her when she was taken from him, at least she had a rage burning inside. It made his own burning rage easier to understand.

"You're smiling," his lady mother called, sounding baffled yet close to tears in surprise.

"She fought until the end," Willas shrugged, feeling the stab of pain at the sentiment, yet it felt less debilitating and more like fuel.

"As will her sister, apparently," his grandmother continued, having no time for emotional breakthroughs. "I always thought her the soft one of the bunch, not like your wildling or the wolf-like sister."

"If you think Sansa is anything but steel you haven't been paying attention," Willas spoke protectively. "Is she safe?"

"Bolton infiltrated her camp, killed half of her men and let the other half return to their homes in exchange for fealty," Loras explained. "They went fleeing like dogs with their tails between their legs, and I don't think I blame them. No king, all their allies killed, all those they swore to are dead and cold and the choice was joining them or seeing their families again. He wouldn't have been as kind to offer Sansa the same deal, so she had no choice but to flee, her and Edric. According to his letter they're smuggling themselves to the Wall to seek refuge with her half-brother, but he asks if it is possible to send support, since the Riverlands is still filled with Lannisters, and Edric fears his own men will not leave their homes to fight for what seems like a lost cause."

Everything was a lost cause. They were lucky to have their lives, and it was a great deal to wrap his mind around. His head ached as he contemplated it all, feeling as if he was forcing several rusty cogs to turn and work together after decades of nothing. It had been four months, had he really let his mind rot so badly in that time? He shook his head, ran his hands through his hair and pinched his nose, desperate to snap himself awake properly and get his mind back onto strategy.

"Enough now, all of you," his mother snapped, glaring at them all as she moved to his bedside, wrapping her hand around his arm protectively. She looked at him with concern and love, as if he was a delicate vase about to shatter right in front of her. "You need rest, my sweet boy, you do not need-"

"If I rest, more people die, and my wife doesn't get avenged, neither do yours and Leonette's husbands," he told her gently, looking at his brother and grandmother eagerly. "What is the situation in the Riverlands?"

"Did you ever hear of a band of mercinaries when you were there called The Brotherhood?" Loras asked him, making Willas shake his head. Yet again, someone else knew more than him, and yet again it made him uncomfortable. "They're wreaking havoc, killing any Lannister or Frey they can get their hands on. Lord Walder is claiming Riverrun as his own but his sons can't get to it, since Blackfish Tully won't surrender to their siege."

"I see now that your wife inherited her stubbornness from the Tullys," his grandmother remarked, and despite it hurting, Willas smiled again. "So all that is left to do is plan where we stand in this."

"We send men north," Willas stated as if it was the most obvious choice in the world. "They liberate Riverrun from the Freys, then go north to help Sansa. Surely we can call up enough men to keep our own lands protected while also helping them?"

"You'd think," Loras rolled his eyes, before tossing at least ten scrolls of letters onto the bed. "Our own bannermen. They write and want an audience. They want to know what is to be done about father, if we intend on avenging him. You should have called them all to council the minute we got the news of what happened."

"Loras," their mother warned, not liking the mention of violence in her husband's name, nor the way her youngest was instructing the eldest. "Vengeance and bloodshed-"

"Is unavoidable," their Lady Grandmother stated bluntly, looking at her goddaughter as if she was an idiot. "They killed my son-"

"They killed my son!" Lady Tyrell replied hotly, and Willas felt Leonette flinch.

"Stop it the pair of you," Willas called firmly. He was head of the family, as strange as it felt, it was for him to take charge. He looked to Loras first. "I will write back to the banners. Tell the Lords to come. It is about time they swore themselves to their new liege. If you could write to Lord Edric, he knows you better than I. Tell him to keep Sansa safe at all costs and that we are finding the men to help. I'll write to Sansa, and to Jon Sn-"

He wasn't Jon Snow though, was he? The last thing his wife told him was of her brother's inheritance, how she and Robb had legitimisdd Jon and made him Prince of the North. If Robb fell without issue, if he died before his Queen could give him heirs of his own...

"I will write to Jon Stark and tell him that his brother and sister made him King in the North," Willas told them, earning looks of surprise from them all, especially his grandmother. "Do you really think my wife would have done anything less than legitimising her brother?"

"But what about-" his grandmother began, and she didn't need to finish for Willas to know she intended on bringing up Uther.

"No, he's not to be the King in the North," Willas replied shortly. "Making him heir would have put him in danger. He's not even two, he cannot be heir when he doesn't even understand what that means. Jon's a man grown, he can protect himself, and he's the son of Ned Stark."

"And some tavern wench, most like," his grandmother stated, earning a glare from her eldest grandson. "A foolish decision."

"A decision made by my wife for the good of her family so I would ask you to hold your tongue and show some respect," he snapped coldly, earning a small smirk from his sister and a look of faint approval from his grandmother. "What?"

"You sound like a true Lord," Margaery said with a shrug and a proud smirk before she got back to business. "What do you want us to do about the letter from Lord Tyw-"

"Ignore it," Willas snapped again, instantly riled. His mother gripped his arm tighter, hating his temper, but he didn't care. "I'm not even humouring his terms with a response. Giving Uther away as if he doesn't matter, sending Margie away to that monster?"

"What if I want to go?" Margaery stated calmly.

The only other person who looked calm was their grandmother. The other three looked as if they had been convinced to stay quiet but none of them liked the idea, while Willas was glaring instantly. To willingly go into enemy territory, to throw herself into the Lion's Pit, was she stupid? Willas remembered the scars that Sansa bore, both mental and physical, all from Joffrey Baratheon. He swore he'd never let so anything like that happen again, especially not to his own dear little sister, yet there she was offering herself up. He was shaking his head before he could think properly, clenching his fists.

"No, I forbid it," he said. "As your brother, as your Lord, as the head of this bloody family, don't you dare even think about it."

"What if I have a plan?" Margaery interceded. At his side, Willas heard Leonette let out a long sigh. "What if-"

"No," he cut in.

"We have to play our part," their grandmother told him firmly, speaking with age and authority. "You think they will let you get away with ignoring them and pretending like everything is normal? Or do you think the moment they can they will march down here and do far worse to us than what they did to all those in the Twins?"

"You don't understand them," Willas protested, memories of endless nights of planning attacks in cold tents swarming his mind. "You don't know what he's capable of. Joffrey is young, he's also a madman. Do you know what he did to Sansa?"

"I do," Leonette replied quietly, earning all eyes to fall onto her. "Sansa told me in Riverrun briefly, and so did Garlan. He told me that if anyone mistreated his sister the way Sansa had been he would... Well, he did a lot of swearing."

Willas drew Leonette closer, pushing a quick brotherly kiss to her temple, feeling her shiver at the mention of her husband. He wanted to scream and sob thinking about how magnificent he was, how they were all damned by his loss, but he couldn't, not if he was holding Leonette. He forced his emotions down, squeezed her tight and gave her a reassuring smile. He owed her that much, especially since the rest had their own reactions to merely hearing Garlan's name. Margaery looked close to tears, as if the reminder of her lost brother made her reconsider her reckless plan, and Loras clenched his fists and looked up at the ceiling, his jaw tight. It made their mother sigh and hide her face in her hands, while their grandmother hardened, looking at each of them with steel and fire.

"Margaery will not be in a position to be mistreated the way Sansa Stark was, because Joffrey will not live long enough to do such things," Lady Olenna replied coldly, flashing a small daring smirk. When she saw everyone's looks of horrified shock, she laughed. "Do you really think I would follow that awful man's conditions and see my granddaughter married to such a beast? No, we play our part, we grovel, apologise, and take the olive branch of peace, then we shove it down their throats and make them hurt the way we do. Do you trust an old woman who's outlived a great number of beastly men to know what she is doing?"

"I trust no one more," Willas nodded, realising that he may be Lord, but could not fight such a plan, especially when it appealed to him so much. "It is a risk. You must swear to me that you will keep yourselves safe."

"As safe as we can be,"
Margaery nodded eagerly, clearly relieved he was on the verge of agreeing as she leant closer and took his hand. "We're only there as a deception anyway."

"A distraction for the Lannisters while you are off making new alliances," Lady Olenna informed him, and though he was frustrated so much planning had been done without consulting him, it was his own fault for letting himself rot. "I do not like the Dornish, and that devil you call a friend is my least favourite Dornishman, but he is possibly the one man to hate Lannisters as much as you do right now. You should go and speak to him, see what he has to say."

Willas wanted to disagree. He wanted to have all the plans be thrown out and for them to sit and plot something safer, something that wouldn't risk all their lives. Yet, part of him knew that risks were important in war, and without risks and dares, his wife and her brother wouldn't have run rings around the Lannisters to the point they needed to be betrayed to be defeated. He owed it to them to keep taking risks, he owed it to his father and his brother. Risks were the only way they could get their revenge.

He had wanted to be a good Lord. All his life he'd wanted to rule over Highgarden and the Reach justly, calmly, and in a way that the history books would remember as plentiful. He could hardly do that with his wife's memory hanging over him. She had made him a better person, and she was gone. He owed it to her to be a very different sort of Lord.

Willas nodded, agreeing to the plans, hoping silently that they would all still be alive by the end of the year to see the benefits.

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