WILLAS
The ravens descended from the sky together, as twins.
One of the sights was familiar to Willas Tyrell's eyes, the other less so. The second raven opened its huge white wings and cawed loudly as it alighted upon the windowsill. It gave an impatient flutter of its snow-coloured feathers, demanding the attention of all in the vicinity. It was white in its entirety, save for the scarlet flap at the back of its throat and the beady jet-black eyes set above its shiny beak.
Maester Lomys reached out with shaking hands, lightly caressing the bird's talons as he untied the message from around its ankle. At once, the bird took flight with a flapping of pale wings, ascended, and disappeared into the clouds above the green slate roofs and crenels of Highgarden, cawing in its departure.
The maester spoke gravely. "White wings bring winter tidings," he said, turning to Willas with a dark look in his eyes. In his hands, he held a letter, with green ink scrawled on pale white parchment. But Willas did not even have to look at the words to know what it said. Winter has come.
"The bird is not alone," he noted.
"No…" Maester Lomys jerked his hands about awkwardly. "In the olden days, the Citadel did not send any other birds in the succeeding half-moon of the white raven's flight, for reasons of ceremony. Of course, that proved rather impractical in matters of emergency... and especially in troubling and tumultuous times like these..."
Willas sighed. "There's another bird, maester," he repeated, somewhat exasperated. As a boy, he had enjoyed the maester's lengthy and pointless anecdotes, but now they had a tendency to irritate him.
"Oh," Maester Lomys said, turning to address the issue in question, which awaited on the sill, cawing impatiently with every passing second. "Yes." He untied the letter from the raven's leg. "Dark wings, dark words, they say, yet the white raven brings winter, and winter rarely brings glad tidings either. The crops die slow deaths, the harvests never come. The sun hides behind clouds and the wind batters the trees and the roads-"
"Wonderful," said Willas, snatching the letter from the old man's hands. The seal affixed to the letter was that of the Oldtown maesters, and the spidery handwriting was unfamiliar to him. He glanced down at the words. "Perestan," he said thoughtfully.
Maester Lomys hopped impatiently from one foot to the other. "My lord?"
"They have made Perestan the seneschal," said Willas, passing him the paper. "I suppose this letter is something that interests you more than it does me?"
"Ah..." said the maester, seeming somewhat lost, "the new seneschal… to replace Theobald."
"Perestan owes his loyalties almost entirely to the Citadel if I recall correctly," said Willas. "Not to the Lannisters, nor to the Targaryens... but not to us either. Still, we have Gormon in King's Landing." Lord Mace's uncle had been named the Grand Maester by the conclave, to replace Pycelle.
Lomys shrugged. "The Grand Maester serves the Iron Throne... traditionally. I daresay that traditions have become somewhat... neglected... in recent years..."
"If he's travelling from Oldtown to King's Landing, he'll most likely be taking the roseroad." Willas gave a cursory glance at Maester Lomys.
For a moment, the old man looked confused, and then the realisation came to him. "I'll send ravens to the other castles, my lord. I-I'll get them to tell us when the Grand Maester starts towards Highgarden. B-but, my lord, surely you do not mean to..."
"To kidnap the Grand Maester?" This time, Willas could not hold back his laughter at the look on Lomys's face. "I fear that your wits have become addled, old man. No, my great-uncle will doubtless visit his family anyway. For the wedding." And that is another matter entirely.
The maester bit his lip uncertainly. "Oh... my lord," he muttered. "Well... I'll... I'll go and ring the bells." Then he was going down the steps.
Willas waited a moment longer, surveying the skies for signs of another bird, then followed down the spiral stair in Maester Lomys's footsteps. Birdsong followed him, a different tune to the song of summer. Now there were robins, finches contributing to the cacophony, but gone were the sounds of the hummingbirds and the larks. Things have truly changed, Willas thought, just as I have. He still walked with a cane, but the pain in his leg had lessened considerably since the Oldtown battle. He had not used his wheelchair for nearly a month now. Maester Lomys had called his recovery a miracle, but the words felt bitter - especially when Garlan remained confined to his bed with his injuries from the same battle. Injuries that were Willas's responsibility, after all.
It should have been me, he had told himself a hundred times over. Garlan only came back for me. Yet the gods had played their cruel hand, and it was the second Tyrell brother who had come out worst. Garlan was not alone… Baelor Hightower and his brother Gunthor had both perished in the fighting, alongside their father, Lord Leyton Hightower, the Old Man of Oldtown. Great men rose and fell in that war… and yet by mere coincidence I remain. The crippled heir. The broken lord of Highgarden.
His chambers were in the Old Keep, two turns of the staircase below his father's apartments, across the courtyard from Margaery's, with views over the overgrown shrubbery that Lady Olenna could not be bothered to maintain and the Lord Mace did not dare to cut down. He found two men leaning against the corridor wall outside his solar, beneath the tapestry of Harlen Tyrell, the house's first lord. One man was Ser Garrett Flowers, a bastard son of Garth the Gross, the captain of Willas's personal guard. The second was broad of shoulder and barrel-chested, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. On his surcoat were blazoned the arms of House Roxton, two crossed golden chains against a blue field, linked in the centre by a golden ring.
"Ser Myles," said Willas, addressing the latter knight. "I did not expect to see you here this morn." He pointed to the door of his chamber. "I suppose my sister is within?"
"Aye," replied Ser Myles Roxton, sworn sword to the queen. "Her Grace wishes to talk to you about - well, I think she'd prefer to talk to you in person, my lord."
Willas pushed his way through the outer door into his chambers. The place was dismally untidy, littered with couches and furs and trophies in a seemingly random arrangement. Oak shelves overstuffed with fat books and sundry trinkets dominated one wall. Sunlight streamed in through a high bay window that stretched from wall to floor on the southern side, almost blinding him entirely. He could only just barely make out the two figures seated beside one another upon the chaise.
His sister's voice reached across to him. "I'm sure you'll make a good lord in time," Margaery was saying as she placed her wine-cup down.
The other figure reached out and picked up the flagon of Arbor gold. As he bent over to pour the wine, Willas could out his silhouette against the glare of the light, but it was the forlorn sound of his voice that gave it away. "But won't I need to go back to Oldtown soon?" Erron Hightower asked. At barely turned fourteen, he was the youngest lord of Oldtown in a century, and the responsibilities of his lordship weighed on him heavily. Already his curly brown hair was beginning to turn to grey in places - a most unusual thing, the maesters all agreed, but not unheard of.
Willas listened to his sister's words from the archway. "Mayhaps so, cousin," she said. "Mayhaps... but for now I think that it is best that you stay here, no?" She reached up and ruffled their cousin's hair. "Here you have all your aunts and uncles and all of us to help guide you. My father is lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South; I can think of no-one better to teach you the principles of lordship."
That was a lie, but Willas saw no reason to dispute it. He stepped forward from the eaves of the room and out into the light. "I did not expect your visit so early, sister."
His sister shrugged. Today she had opted for a long green gown with wide sleeves. Her hair was down, chestnut brown curls coming down almost to her chest, and her cheeks were coloured rosy with happiness, something that Willas had not seen in a long while. "Of course you didn't expect it," she said, with a hint of a smirk. "I never told you that I was coming, so I didn't expect you to expect me… if that makes sense."
Willas glanced between her and Erron, who was sitting quietly on the chaise. He sighed. "Erron, would you give us-"
Margaery leaned across and pressed a gentle kiss to their cousin's forehead. "Run along now. I'm sure you have lots of important duties to attend to as lord of Oldtown."
Erron staggered to his feet, blushing bright red in the face. "My lord," he said, uncertainly. "Your Grace." Then he turned awkwardly and half-ran out of the room.
Willas stared at his sister, smiling faintly. "Gods, Margie, what did you do to the boy?" he asked.
She smiled, if only briefly. "The same thing that I did last time. Speaking of which, my pampered little shit of a husband-"
"Are we talking about the same husband here?"
Margaery punched his arm lightly, then chuckled loudly. "By 'pampered little shit', yes, I do mean King Tommen of the House Lannister, First of His Name, King of the-
Willas held up a hand to quieten her. "Lannister?"
His sister withdrew a letter from the sleeve of her gown. One edge was smeared with crimson wax, the colours of Casterly Rock. "By the king's royal command," she said dryly. "Father received another one that was somewhat more… blunt. It seems that the 'Baratheon' siblings have finally acknowledged themselves as true Lannisters. Of course, Tommen probably only agreed to it because Cersei told him to." She sighed a little. "And he only ever does what his bitch of a mother tells him to do."
"I thought your love for the 'pampered little shit' was undying, the love that holds the Seven Kingdoms together?"
For a moment, Margaery glanced out of the window, staring out over the fields of corn and wheat that ringed Highgarden. "Believe me, Willas; I have no affection for a fourteen-year-old boy who has barely spoken to me in half a year." She gave a bitter little laugh. "To his credit, though, he did manage to write some rather passable poetry: 'never have I been happier, than from when the garden I chose, for me and for me alone, the finest golden rose.'" She shrugged. "It's like the poetry Renly wrote, only shittier."
Willas raised an eyebrow. "Renly wrote poetry for you?"
"For Loras."
Margaery took a long sip from her chalice. Would that I had a cup as well, Willas thought, looking around for another goblet. I have plenty of sorrows to drown. He coughed and cleared his throat. "How is Garlan? Is he with Loras, I mean?"
Margaery did not say anything at first. She choked back a cough and spoke. "Loras... rarely leaves Garlan's bedside, no matter how often Garlan and Mother both implore him to leave."
"Those should have been my wounds to bear," Willas said quietly. The words tasted funny in his mouth.
Margaery took his hand in hers and rubbed it softly. "You've got to stop telling yourself that, Willas." She squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed hers back. "Garlan will live," she continued, "and he'll be... alright... mostly… the maesters all agree on that."
Aye, Garlan will live, but he will never be the same. He did not want to talk about that anymore. "Is… is there another reason you are here, Margie?"
She did not waste any time. "Grandmother wants to see you."
"When?"
"Now."
Willas blinked, and then blinked again. "What?"
"Have you had breakfast?"
"No."
Margaery gave a tired little laugh. "Well, neither has she." She grabbed Willas suddenly by the arm and hauled him to his feet so quickly that he nearly fell over. "And neither have I," she added, pulling him through the room and out of the door.
Ser Myles and Ser Garrett fell in behind them. The bells started ringing in the cloister. "We received the white raven," he told his sister, "I was up there with Lomys."
"I know. Erron told me. He said you spent half the night up there, waiting."
"A man only gets to see the white raven but a few times in his lifetime."
Margaery smiled. "I think your white raven might be wrong, Willas. This still looks like summer to me."
She was not wrong. The sun beat down from overhead and arced through the archways, soaking the courtyard in a bright white glare. Willas felt overdressed and overly warm in his wool cloak, so he pulled it off and handed it to Ser Garrett as they went. The breeze was mercifully cool against his face, and the morning air smelled of sweetness.
They ventured out into the garden, passing beneath the shadow of beech trees and redwoods, between hedgerows where green candle buds bloomed and through the rose garden with its flowering shrubs, past bushes dotted with specks of pink and gold and baby blue.
By the Mirror Pool, cool fountains made sparkling jets of water leap into the air from between the lips of carved stone fishes. Maidens, servants, and young children alike bathed in the waters, splashing and shouting. "What does Father's... missive... say?" Willas asked.
"The queen - well, me - is requested to return to Casterly Rock, the new capital of the realm, to reaffirm her house's loyalty to the Crown.'"
"I trust that you're not planning on going?"
Margaery snorted a little. "To become Cersei's hostage?" Then she began to laugh. "Do you know what's ironic about the whole thing? In the king's private letter to me, he says that he will end our marriage on the terms that I did not consummate it. As if I will take the blame for his indifference to the matter of… ahem… well, you know." She squeezed Willas's hand. "I say, let him end it. The Lannisters need us far more than we need the Lannisters."
He tapped the ground impatiently with his cane as he walked. "You're right, of course. Father is still sending a goodly amount of grain and barley over to Casterly Rock, and then there's the fruit and vegetable harvest as well. If we cut off the supply route, they'll all starve to death in the Westerlands."
"And Cersei might jump from a tower if we stop sending her Arbor gold." Margaery stopped to pick a red rose from one of the hedgerows, then turned, held Willas still and pinned the flower to the front of his doublet. "There," she said. "Now you look a proper gentleman."
Willas looked at her strangely. "You don't seem too... bothered by all this?"
She smiled at him and then burst out into inexplicable laughter once again. "That's because I'm not bothered, dear brother. I haven't felt like a queen since Renly died." She sounded somewhere between sad and happy, and lost too, as though she were entirely unsure how to feel. "Let them take away my crown. I'll still be a lady of Highgarden... just like your future wife."
"Ah," said Willas, "that's what the flower is for." He felt a grin come to his face but disguised it as a grimace. "Sansa?"
"I believe that is her name, dear brother," Margaery said, sweeping ahead of him and moving over to share courtesies with Lady Graceford in the shadow of some cherry trees. Willas watched her all the while. It was certainly curious what his sister had said about being a queen. Most curious indeed, especially when one considered that Margaery had all but forced him into supporting the idea in the first place. She had come to his chambers begging that he convince their father of the benefits her marriage to Renly would bring, knowing that Willas was capable of making even the stupidest nonsense sound like it had some semblance of wisdom in it.
Most curious indeed.
Lady Olenna's pavilion was an odd little thing, surrounded on three sides by sheer white curtains and decorated with cherubs and roses. They climbed the steps together, the guardsmen Left and Right parting in their path.
His grandmother sat in front of a breakfast spread that was far too much for her to eat alone - liver sausage, baked ham, a tall yellowish cheese, a loaf fresh-baked bread with blackberry jam and other fruit preserves on the side, some smelly smoked fish pickled in brine, and no less than three flagons of Arbor wine.
"Ah, my two favourite grandchildren," she began. "And don't go giving me that look, Willas; everyone has favourites and you both know it."
"Do you remember when I used to lean down to give you both those horrible sloppy kisses?" his grandmother asked. "I would do the same now, but my hips won't allow for it, so..." She made a vague gesture in the direction of the table, "come and sit down, you grandchildren of mine. And Margaery, close the drapes behind you to shut out the awful muttering of the idiots. I want a nice, intellectual conversation."
Willas had not intended to start drinking wine so early in the morning, but his grandmother was already pouring it and it seemed rude to refuse it now.
"Father's letter," Margaery began. "He-
Lady Olenna snorted. "I ask for intellectual conversation and you start by talking about your father?" She picked up her wine-goblet and shrugged. "He's not stupid - he's just an idiot. Have you heard about his ridiculous plans for war? Well, of course, you haven't, he only told them to me this morning."
"War?" Willas sat up in his seat.
"Mace means to ride to war..." his grandmother began, "against the Dornishmen, for some reason. Doran Martell has declared for Aegon, it would seem, and I suspect that his daughter Arianne - you remember her, don't you? - is to be Aegon's queen."
Willas certainly did remember Arianne Martell. She had come to Highgarden when they were both fourteen, to talk of betrothals, accompanied by her uncle Prince Oberyn. Obviously, no plans had ever been made, and if any had been formulated in secret, Willas's crippling had put an end to those talks forever.
He sipped his wine and spoke carefully. "There's no need to fight them. We're playing no part in this war, as I recall."
"That's exactly what I was about to say before you interrupted me, Willas." His grandmother cut a thumb-sized piece from the cheese and ate it in one bite. "I'm old - I need time to get my thoughts in the proper order before they all come spilling out of my mouth like a lemon in a sea of... in a sea of... limes. Yes, a lemon in a sea of limes. And don't tell me that lemons and limes are similar, Willas Tyrell. A wolf and a lion both have claws, but they're definitely not the same thing. Which brings me nicely on to my next point-"
"Rickon Stark," Willas said quietly. That had been yesterday's raven.
"Rickon Stark." Lady Olenna echoed his words. "And his new betrothal to Stannis Baratheon's daughter, for that matter. Of course, you know why we planned your marriage to Lady Sansa, don't you?"
Pragmatism, ruthlessness and a complete lack of empathy. There were times when he wished that he'd stayed in Oldtown. "She was the heir to the North, or so we thought."
"Yes." Lady Olenna rubbed her wrists. "Women get shunted to the sidelines only too often. Sansa Stark is far better qualified to rule the North than her brother, but the men who rule the North don't care about that. The fact of the matter is that we needed the heir to Winterfell, and we've been cheated of our prize." She picked up her fork and took two large slices of ham, then heaped them onto Willas's plate along with three sausages and half a loaf of bread. He stared down at them blankly, then up at his grandmother, and sighing, he started to eat.
"So what are we going to do?" Margaery inquired.
"I'm getting to that, dear girl." She rubbed her wrists again. "I do hope that Lomys has some sort of poultice for these. Ah… anyway… we could just kill the boy... but unlike my dear departed friend Tywin Lannister, I've never advocated the murder of children." She twiddled her thumbs a little and took a sip of wine. "As it turns out, we don't need an heir to House Stark, so to speak. We just need a Stark whom we can control. Margaery, how would you feel about marrying the boy?"
Willas raised an eyebrow. That was nothing compared to his sister, who nearly choked on her own words. "I will not-
Lady Olenna smiled through her wrinkled lips. "Relax, dear. I was joking. I do not mean for you to stay married to that Lannister boy either, but we'll get to that in a moment. For now, I intend to do nothing. Your father can have his silly little campaign in the Dornish Marches to convince everyone of his greatness, but for the most part, House Tyrell will maintain its neutrality until all the other houses exhaust their armies in this pointless war for the Iron Throne.
"We'll reap the last harvest before winter comes and hold one of Mace's stupid winter fairs to satisfy the smallfolk. The only forces we deploy will be those who hold our borders. And then, when the war is over and done, we'll move on Casterly Rock so quickly that the Lannisters never see us coming. The Lannisters are reviled by everyone; no one will rush to their defence. We'll take their castles and their gold mines, and by the time winter is done-"
Willas felt a smile breaking onto his face. This was worth a cup of wine, at the very least. "We'll own most of the gold and half of the grain in Westeros. House Tyrell will be more powerful than the Iron Throne, and more powerful than all of the other Great Houses combined. We'll be kingmakers in our own right, and the king will be whomever we choose."
Lady Olenna smirked. "Growing strong, indeed."
"You still haven't said what we're going to do about my marriage." Margaery was looking strangely irritated.
"The Lannisters have sorted that out for us, dear. If we don't send you to Casterly Rock, they'll have no choice but to marry their boring boy-king off to some westerlord's daughter. If the Lannisters want something from us, they'll have to come here and get it for themselves. Either way, the situation is very inconvenient for them and very convenient for us."
She set her cup down on her plate with a loud clatter. "Your father and I don't agree on many things. But we do agree on some small matters. Such as the fact that your marriage to Lady Sansa should stand. Your mother is rather keen on that as well, as it gives her an opportunity to show off her impressive event-organising abilities. An unusual skill, that, but I will say that Alerie does know how to hold a feast. She's sent for some players from Volantis, those minstrels that Lord Costayne brought for Garlan's wedding, and that dreadful Alaric of Eysen fellow, for some reason. Oh, and there's to be a tourney. Loras will win it. He's always been good at that sort of thing."
Margaery interjected, "Should we not talk about Lady Sansa herself here, rather than the wedding preparations?"
"Quite right," said Lady Olenna. "So… how have you found the girl?"
"Um…" Willas swallowed his anxiety. "We haven't really… uh…"
"Talked? Gods help you, Willas Tyrell. It is a rather big step from talking to someone to climbing in bed with them."
"I'm sure that I'll manage," Willas said quietly, blushing.
Olenna raised an eyebrow. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure you will. But just one piece of advice… go and talk to Lady Sansa. You are to marry her in two weeks, after all."
He moved for the basket of bread, but Lady Olenna caught his hand. "Bread is bread," the old woman said, shrugging. "I'm sure you can get it somewhere else. Good morrow to you." She pointed to the gap in the curtains.
Willas had no choice but to leave, though in truth he was not really too bothered by that. "Well," his grandmother was saying, "now that we're alone - yes, Margaery; that was quite rude, I agree. I tried being polite once, though, and I daresay that it was rather boring…"
Their voices faded away as he crossed the courtyard and went among the rose bushes. Ser Garrett followed him like a grey shadow. Go and talk to Lady Sansa, his grandmother had said. Her words were not wrong, of course, and if Willas had an ounce of sense in him he'd be only too quick to obey. But the truth of the matter was that nerves seemed like as not to consume him; his hands were shaking with just the thought of talking to his future wife. Is this what marriage feels like?
"Willas." His brother Loras's voice came from the thicket somewhere behind him. His brother stood by the path, surrounded by golden-yellow blooms. "You were with Margaery?"
"I was."
"Garlan was asking after you."
Willas's cheeks coloured with a tinge of shame. "I'm sorry," he said.
"You've done nothing wrong." Loras's words did not match his expression, though. "Shall we go up to see him together?"
"I… I suppose so." A wave of nervousness came over him again as he walked across to Loras's side, and he felt oddly sick.
They walked in silence up the stairs. The walk to the infirmary had never felt so long before, and each step was torture. Loras's anger was usually rather brazen, but today he seemed content to simmer, and that was even worse. Willas at least had the wisdom to not give his brother a cause to rage against him, so he stayed quiet until they pushed open the door.
Garlan sat propped up on his pillows in a bright room, surrounded by bits and pieces of equipment, his leg swathed in a white bandage. There were two jugs on the side table, one of strongwine and another of milk of the poppy. Loras went and stood by their brother's bed, but Garlan waved him away. "No, I'm fine, Loras," he said, a little stiffly. "Go on. I need to talk with Willas."
Loras nodded, turned and went downstairs angrily.
"You'll be kicking yourself about this, I know that," Garlan said once he was gone. He winked out of his bruised eye. "Have you said your prayers for me, dear brother?"
"Aye. I have… and Garlan… I'm sorry…"
"This was no fault of yours, Willas. We're brothers, and we're supposed to look after one another." He cracked a smile. "I suppose you could say that I've done my job rather well."
That made Willas laugh as well. "I suppose you have."
"You carry a weight on your shoulders much bigger than any I have ever borne, Willas. But I know that you can live up to it." He nodded towards the window. "Highgarden, I mean. One day all of this will be yours."
Willas let out a heavy sigh. "Aye… but let us hope that it is not for a good long while yet."
"You have other concerns, though. I can see that…" He smirked, "and you needn't bother lying about it. Even up here in this stupid stuffy room, I hear things from around the castle. My little friends bring me whispers."
"I wouldn't have taken you for a spymaster."
Garlan grinned. "If I was a good spy, I wouldn't have told you about my informers, now would I?"
"Tell me then, Garlan," said Willas, a smile playing across his lips. "What is the root of all my problems, then?" The gods know I need some sort of guidance.
"I think you know her name."