"Willas has a bad leg but a good heart," said Margaery. "He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars." (A Storm of Swords)
His stories grew darker and darker after his first and only tourney. He did not come to Margaery's room to read to her as he used to; she went to him instead, in his sickroom that was almost always dark, day and night.
"Read to me, Willas," she asked, pulling the curtain to let the sun in.
"No!" He shouted, angry at her as he had never been before.
"It's too dark," Margaery said. "How can you see the words in the book?"
"I don't need to see the words. I know the story by heart. The whole damn story, and how it will end," Willas replied bitterly.
She had never heard him curse or swear before. Margaery set the book aside and sat on her brother's bed.
"Do you want to hear the story of the gallant knight, or the crippled heir?" Willas asked.
"I want to hear about the crippled heir who becomes a gallant –"
"I will never be a knight, sweet sister. Not now."
"- who becomes a gallant and good lord."
He did not smile as she had hoped, but he looked slightly less bitter and miserable than he did when she first came into the room. He drew more stars for her, but these were not stars in the night sky, he told her. They were the stars he saw when the sun was shining brightly, and he thought he would never see her again.