WILLAS

Even in the final gasps of autumn, on the very verge of swooning into winter, there was no place on the gods' green earth more beautiful than Highgarden. The castle was a sprawling manor house, airy and rambling, built of pale white stone and mewed about with marble colonnades, beds of flowers, groves and coppices, fruit trees, sculptures and fountains, murals, tapestries, private corners, cobbled walks. From its roost at the crown of the hill it gazed down on the sullen silver pane of the River Mander, almost devoid of the pleasure boats that plied their trade in summer, and the ocean road and the roseroad branched out in opposite directions to the horizon. The village was likewise immaculately groomed: red tiled roofs and whitewashed cottages, neat stone streets, lord and smallholder alike protected by the stout ringwall that hedged the rolling green hills of the Reach. It grew thick with roses of every color, a veritable tapestry of sight and scent and lush seduction.

When he was younger, before he had ridden into that joust against the Red Viper and left the yard a cripple, Willas Tyrell had played with his siblings among those roses, running and shouting, pretending to be any number of famed heroes. But now Garlan was gone to take the Shield Islands back from the ironborn, Loras dying or dead, Margaery under arrest for fornication and adultery, and Willas here by himself, watching as his family battled through waters that rose higher by the day. He tried to resist the urge to gainsay his lord father, reasoning that he could not reckon exactly what he would have done instead, but somehow they had gone, almost overnight, from having a secure grip on the rule of the Seven Kingdoms and Margaery's exoneration all but assured, to desperately pleading with the furious Faith that they'd had nothing to do with the monstrous deception, the sacrilegious murders. Worse, the riverlords and the westermen did not believe it either, had decided that Tyrell and Lannister alike had conspired to bereave them.

There had been no raven from Lord Mace in over a fortnight, and Willas was bracing himself for the worst. Without his father's account, he had no choice but to try to disbelieve the horrid tales trickling out of the capital. He had thought that Ned Stark's fate would have schooled any prospective ruler in the utter folly of ordering public executions on flimsy pretenses, especially on sacred premises, but once was never enough for these sorts of things. We can only call it the War of Two Kings now, since two are all that are left: Tommen and Stannis. Soon there will be less.

The thought saddened Willas greatly. Tommen Baratheon was no Baratheon, born of fraud, lies, incest, and murder, but he was not responsible for that; he was by every account a sweet boy, guileless and kind, without a drop of his family's poison. We should have foreseen this, as soon as Joffrey wheezed his last breath. It made Willas wonder as well about the wisdom of sending his grandmother from King's Landing. While he was very fond of the conniving old harridan, she was House Tyrell's most shrewd and formidable political operator, might have been able to forestall or at least mitigate the whole tricked-up trial laid to ensnare Margaery. Then again, with the city all but in flames, it is for the best that we removed her from harm's way. As she would say, she is over eighty years old, so she keeps far off from anything that looks likely to kill her.

Willas was under no illusions about the game his grandmother and sister – and to a lesser extent, his father – were playing. From the moment the Tyrells had offered Margaery's hand to Renly Baratheon and named him King, the whole family had known that they were starting down a road to which only victory or death would bring an end. Willas himself had had severe misgivings; if it were left to him, he would be content with his horses and hounds and hawks and books, live a long life and die well in his bed with his wife and children beside him. But he was clearly in the minority, and his father had been suitably agog at the thought of seating a grandson on the Iron Throne. Why? It's a damned uncomfortable chair, and it takes its price in more than merely blood. Yet the lure of power sunk its hook once more, and his sister wed his brother's lover and swept them all out to sea.

The one good thing that had come of it, Willas supposed, was that they had rid the grateful world of King Joffrey Baratheon, the First of his Name. Neither his father, Garlan, nor Loras had known of the plot; Lord Mace because he was an oaf, Garlan because he was honorable enough to see it as shameful and unchivalrous, and Loras because he would have begged them to dispense with such trivialities as poison, would have ridden a white horse into the throne room and flung a gauntlet in Joffrey's face. But of the three Tyrell sons, Willas had always been his grandmother's favorite, and Joffrey's unlamented demise had involved him in its implications as well. Lady Olenna had promised him that before she dropped that black amethyst from Asshai in the wedding chalice, she would find a way to spirit Sansa Stark down here, ostensibly for a social visit, and have them wed in secret. Once that was done, Joffrey dead, and Margaery reattached to his younger and far more cooperative brother, they were supposed to have a queen, a Hand, a claim to the north, and the Lannisters safely distracted and subdued.

Having drawn up the plan in its broad swathes, the family had then enlisted the master of courtly intrigue himself, Petyr Baelish, to attend the fine details, but in Willas' estimation that was another perilous maneuver. For a start, the gods only knew what the man actually wanted, and since not a whisper had been heard from him since he had conveniently departed to the Vale, he must have had, as always, another scheme boiling under the surface. Whether that was the one which had appeared to frame the Tyrells for Lord Tywin Lannister's murder, Willas was unsure. It was a wonder Baelish could keep them straight.

Margaery, of course, had known of the regicide plot from the start, from the instant Lady Olenna had pried out the truth of Joffrey's nature. She would never have been his meek lady, and Loras would never have stood by and watched her beaten. Margaery was her grandmother's pet and protégé, and from what Willas had heard of the latest lordly wedding to go catastrophically amiss, had played the part to perfection. Not that it has saved her now. And mayhaps I should be glad that I did not marry Sansa, considering that my odds of surviving until the bedding were poor and poorer.

Yet he was sad, Willas had come to realize. He had never met the Stark daughter, but as the heiress to Winterfell and the north, she was one of the few eligible young ladies with the pedigree required for such a match. Combined with his position as heir to Highgarden and Margaery's marriage to Tommen, it would have reunited the kingdom again at a stroke – but more than that, his sister had sent him letters describing Sansa Stark, her beauty and courtesy, the quiet bravery that even unending months of Lannister nightmares had not succeeded in beating out of her. That these letters had been purposely sweetened to win his approval Willas did not doubt, but his sister was an excellent judge of character, and she had no reason to privately play him false.

Willas was likewise aware that his own charms as a bridegroom were not as extensive as his younger brothers, though Garlan was already wed and Loras had no interest. While he had his share of the Tyrell comeliness in his curly chestnut hair and golden eyes, he was twice Sansa's age and crippled to boot, and his reputation as a gentle, pious, boring fool had somehow scared off all the men who otherwise should have been slavering to marry their daughters to the scion of the richest, wealthiest, most powerful house in the South. Indeed, Willas' remaining unwed at the age of nearly thirty had given rise to pernicious rumors, but part of that had to do with his grandmother, who had told him that she'd never see him saddled with some poxy hedge knight's get, would find the finest bride that the Tyrell name could conjure. Sansa was not only beautiful, she told him, but truly had the making of a queen, though she was still as silly and shy and foolish as could be expected at her age. And coming from Lady Olenna Redwyne herself, that was an endorsement of significant weight.

And so, Willas had allowed himself to dream of what she would bring to him, and what he would give to her. No one would call him less gallant than Garlan, or less valorous than Loras, the dimmest star in the glittering Tyrell constellation. When he was wed to Sansa, they could recapture some of the magic of the stories that had been lost for them both. He would show her the songs and silks and pageantry of Highgarden; she would have adored it, he felt quite sure. I would have loved her, I know, and she would have borne me sons and daughters both. If that was too romantic an appraisal in this ugly world, Willas did not intend to apologize. He knew that being born wealthy and well meant that he was one of the few who had any leisure for romance, but considering that there had next been talk of wedding him to bloody Cersei Lannister herself, Sansa looked an even more desirable fate by comparison.

Yet she was only one of the losses of these ruinous latter days. The higher the climb, the harder the fall. House Tyrell's words were, "Growing Strong," but every day Willas wondered how much longer they could survive being ripped up by the roots.

At the moment, he was wandering aimlessly through the cloisters, making even slower time than usual on his crutch and staring out over the fog-shrouded grounds. His father had had a rolling chair built for him, after Willas had once suggested it (never seeing the need to tell Lord Mace that the idea had come from Oberyn Martell, with whom he was still in correspondence, as the Red Viper had mentioned that his brother Doran used such a contraption). But he had grown to mislike the way everyone looked at him when they saw him in it, and it was important to exhibit as much strength as possible. Even if it was only a cripple and an old woman.

Speaking of which, Willas could always go back to the warm solar and get out of the freezing rain, but even he had had enough of his grandmother's company for the nonce. Forced to watch from afar as her family and her plans spiraled into oblivion, the Queen of Thorns was thornier than ever, and of late, since there was no one else conveniently to hand, she had taken to sticking Willas with them. Lady Alerie and Lady Leonette were off at Brightwater Keep; their men-at-arms still had to defend against periodic Florent attempts to recapture it, but Willas nonetheless was presently rather jealous of them.

Standing at the end of the cloister walk, the sleet slashing the courtyard, he could see the glow of the mullioned library windows. As always, he was tempted. House Tyrell's collection of books, rare manuscripts, treatises and codices, romances and histories, songs and stories and sagas numbered into the tens of thousands, and Willas was still nowhere near reading them all. A smile spread across his face at the idea of once more fleeing from the inhospitable world into some dusty page. Mayhaps he'd read the Young Dragon's account of the conquest of Dorne, that had always been a favorite, and he certainly did not want to spend any more time turfing through the mind-bogglingly boring legal opinions of long-dead maesters. None of that was going to help his family, none of it was going to fool him into thinking that he could undo what had already been –

"My lord?"

Willas turned with a start, almost losing his balance on the slippery flagstones, and had to grab at the column to steady himself. Standing at the other end of the cloister, clearly ready to proceed down it at speed if he showed any further symptoms of falling on his arse, was one of his grandmother's guardsmen – Left or Right, he couldn't tell which was which any more than the old lady. Whichever one it was, he blinked apologetically and said, "M'lord, I'm sorry to disturb you. But you're wanted at once in Lady Olenna's apartments. There's been a raven, and a visitor."

Willas groaned to himself, repressing the urge to say something uncharitable; he'd only gotten away from her a few hours ago, and now he had to go back? The fact that word had finally come, however, was more than enough to outweigh such petty considerations. "Is it from my lord father?"

There was an odd expression on Left's normally magnificently inscrutable face. "It is not, my lord. As I said, it is a matter of utmost urgency. Shall I send for your chair?"

"No need," Willas said. "That would take longer. If you would be so kind?"

Right blinked again, but obligingly hoisted Willas up, like a father giving a pig-a-back ride to a child – though Willas was tall like the rest of his siblings, he was slender and thinly built, without the bulk of Lord Mace or the brawn of Garlan. And as he held on as Left went galumphing off down the hallway, he felt a pit opening like a crater in his stomach. Margaery. It must be Margaery. The Faith are done with their deliberations and declared her life forfeit. Willas knew that his father and his family had had nothing to do with the executions of the Westerlings and Lady Roslin Tully, or the murders of Grand Maester Pycelle, Ser Kevan, and Lord Tywin. But it was far too late to plead ignorance or innocence. Lord Mace was Hand to a gullible boy king, and the Tyrell influence at court, with Queen Cersei imprisoned and disgraced, was known to reign supreme. Hoisted by our own petard.

Entangled in these dark thoughts as he was, Willas was almost relieved when Right ducked under the gilded lintel and into his grandmother's firelit solar, where she was sitting regally in her high-backed chair. She looked up, eyed him perched on Right's back – it was Right, as Left was still stationed in immobile square-jawed splendor – and said, "Well, it took you quite long enough."

Since this was exactly the greeting Willas had expected, he did not waste his breath in telling her that he had come as fast as he could. Instead he directed Right to deposit him in the chair facing his grandmother's; the guardsman did so, before resuming his industrious looming alongside his twin at the door. Their safety thus assured, Willas looked urgently at her and said, "What? What? It's not the – ?"

"Not the Faith, no." Lady Olenna's wrinkled hands clasped a curl of parchment, which she now unrolled for her grandson's benefit. "It's worse. A Targaryen."

For a split second, Willas was not sure he had heard correctly. "What?"

"Don't you 'what' me, Willas Tyrell. You sound like a talking crow. And as crows are disagreeable enough birds without teaching them to talk, there is nothing I can presently think of that would vex me more. Except for this." The Queen of Thorns brandished the parchment in his face. "A missive from Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, sent to every major house in Westeros. Officially declaring his return to claim his crown and inviting all of said houses to join their banners to his for his march on King's Landing. Nothing good ever comes of all these letters to every major house in Westeros. First we had Stannis and all his miserable taradiddle about incest, and now we have another purple-eyed muttonhead faffing here and faffing there and lording it over the lot of us. Did you know that a flock of crows is called a murder? Of course you did, you're much cleverer than you look sitting there with your mouth hanging open like that. I knew there was a reason I disliked crows, apart from the talking."

Willas was in fact gaping undignifiedly, and he succeeded in remedying that, but not his astonishment. It seems I was wrong about the number of kings left to contend with. He almost blurted out, "What?" again, before remembering that this was not an acceptable response. Choosing to forego all the obvious questions about how on earth Aegon Targaryen could not only have survived but found himself in Westeros at this portentously opportune moment, Willas said instead, "Where does he send this letter from?"

"Storm's End. It seems those fables about it falling to the Golden Company weren't fables after all. He has Dorne firmly behind him, which upsets my digestion altogether, and there's a king in him, all right. Vengeance this and victory that and you're up to your eyeballs in it before you can blink. Kings are such a dreadfully predictable and self-righteous bunch, don't you agree? It's enough to make me suspect that the lot of them have very small cocks."

"Grandmother," Willas said weakly.

"Aye? I was wed to your late granddolt for a good few decades, I know plenty about cocks and what they're good for. Rather more than you, I imagine. In fact, I should hope so. We all love Loras dearly, but one of those is enough in a family."

Willas decided that no good could possibly come of this. Instead, he held out his hand. "May I see that letter?"

The Queen of Thorns snorted, but passed it over, and Willas perused it intently, a frown knitting tighter and tighter between his brows. Finally he looked up and said, "Whoever this boy is or claims to be, this is no dullard's work. There's a baited hook for every one of the Seven Kingdoms dangled before them. To the west he promises justice for the murdered Westerlings, which he spins off to the north as respecting the ancient legacy of House Stark and the King in the North's short-lived, abandoned queen. He already has the stormlands and Dorne, he vows to the riverlords to free Edmure Tully and make full recompense for all that he's suffered, and for us. . ." Willas had been careful to read that part twice or thrice over. "He says he remembers how valiantly House Tyrell fought for his father Rhaegar during Robert's Rebellion, and that he knows the accusations against Lady Margaery are vile and untrue. If we wed our strength to his, he promises to see her pardoned without the need even for a trial."

The Queen of Thorns snorted again. "Your oaf father's valiant fighting for Rhaegar consisted of getting pissed on at Ashford until Randyll Tarly arrived to save the day, then sitting and stuffing his face with Lord Paxter at Storm's End while that onion knight of Stannis's weaseled through the siege lines. Then, of course, he surrendered to Ned Stark the instant the man showed up. I daresay Stark hadn't even gotten his armor on yet, was still in his tent talking strategy, and up pelts your lord father, wheezing like a grampus, white flag waving. But it's a pretty sentiment to be sure, and there are a good deal of great lords who will hear it all as sweet music to their ears. You have a plan, I trust?"

Willas blinked. "Me?"

"No, you idiot, I was asking my cheese." Lady Olenna took a delicate nibble. "While the Lord Oaf of Highgarden bumbles and blathers us all to further calamity in King's Landing, it's you that the Tyrell levies look to for orders. What are we intending to do? Raise our banners and declare for a well-spoken stripling who may yet be an impostor, or stay the course and try to reason with the Faith? They tried to marry me off to a Targaryen once, I doubt I'd like being ruled by one again any more than I'd have liked bedding with one, but once again, it comes down to cocks and where men are sticking them. Aerys was mad, Rhaegar was a fool, the Beggar King a jape, and the daughter, Daenerys . . . she'd be something to be reckoned with, for certain, but she's not helped herself by remaining fast across the narrow sea. And if it should become one Targaryen claimant against another, we'd damned well make sure we pick the one with the dragons. Otherwise they'll happen along one day and roast us all, even poor half-daft old ladies like me, and those horrible Florents will help themselves to Brightwater Keep and Highgarden in one fell swoop. Do you think the Targaryens would roast the Florents for us first, if we asked nicely?"

"Laugh in our faces, more like," Willas said. "When they had their dragons before, they answered neither to gods nor men."

"Yes," his grandmother answered crisply, "and they've not become known for doing it since, either. This being the Targaryens, I do suppose they could always marry each other. Perhaps they should, in fact, but sensible and well-reasoned actions is another thing the family has never been known for. Why should anybody use their brains or listen to their mothers when they can whisk out their swords and inventively kill each other? Though it does make me think that the reason everyone's smallclothes were in a knot over Joffrey was because he was a horrid little beast, not necessarily because he was born of incest. If he hadn't been so rotten, he might still be sitting the Iron Throne today. Seven save us all."

"Stannis Baratheon would have begged to differ."

"Stannis Baratheon would beg to differ on the color of the sky. And merely getting out of bed in the morning ties his smallclothes in a knot. It's a miracle the man has any balls left – or mayhaps he doesn't, that would explain a great deal. If he's still in the North, he certainly doesn't. But we are getting rather appallingly off track. There's that decision."

Willas did not feel remotely up to making a decision of such magnitude just at the moment. "Right said something about a visitor, as well as a raven."

"Ah," said Lady Olenna, a brief strange smile paying a visit to her lips. "Well, yes. About that. I suppose that this would be the time. Left, Right, show him in."

Willas had a few moments in which to be even more stupefied than he was currently, which was difficult. Then the twin guardsmen bowed, pulled aside the door, and ushered in a hooded figure, the hem of his cloak dripping rain and his boots clapping sharply on the parquet floor. He came to a halt just inside the threshold and offered a short bow.

"Now, now, my dear," said the Queen of Thorns. "There's no need for such formality. Your brother hasn't seen you in months, after all."

Willas blanched. He stared at the figure – could recognize the familiar way of standing, a hint of the old arrogance, the tilt of the head and the hilt of a longsword emerging from beneath the fall of the cloak, the pommel set with a golden rose and the grip wrapped about with fawn leather. He knew that sword. He knew that man. And then he struggled to his feet, and for the first time in years, Willas Tyrell ran.

"Loras!" He flew across the solar and flung himself into his youngest brother's arms, laughing and crying. "Gods be good, Loras! What are you doing here? Where have you been? Why did no one tell us you were still alive? Was it all just a ruse, then, but – but – why? Is Dragonstone still taken? Were you truly – "

"All right, all right, don't strangle me," Loras's voice answered. "I regret the necessity of lying to you and Margaery and Father and Mother, but secret plots tend to work better when fewer people know about them. Grandmother and Garlan knew, but not anyone else."

"So – so you weren't burned? At all?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Loras said bitterly, "No. I was."

"May I – ?" Willas' hands hovered awkwardly at the hood.

The Knight of Flowers gave an irritable, one-shouldered shrug. "If you must."

It had been so long since Willas had gazed on his brother's face, thinking him horribly maimed or dead, that it would have taken a Targaryen and a dragon crashing through the ceiling to stop him. Carefully, he took hold of the rain-soaked hood and put it down.

He sucked in an involuntary breath, trying to keep his shock from showing. Loras had always been the handsomest member of a handsome family, but now his right cheek and down his neck and shoulder had been burned and blistered away. He was missing a chunk of his glossy brown curls, and his ear was melted and disfigured. It was not serious enough to incapacitate him, as had been widely reported, but he would never regain his old looks again. To someone whose fame and appeal was so carefully cultured by his youth and beauty and talent, this would have been a crushing blow.

"I. . . you look much better than I expected," Willas said encouragingly. "But do you think we should start calling you the Hound?"

Loras' golden eyes blazed, but he answered in a neutral tone. "I should hope not. You can understand, however, that there was significant advantage in the Lannisters thinking that I was too destroyed to be of further use. Now that the Bastard of Driftmark has invested me with the fleet that Cersei Lannister paid for out of her own pocket, we are finally prepared to strike. It should have been sooner."

Willas blinked. "The Bastard of Driftmark? Aurane Waters?"

"Aye." Loras turned on his heel. "The arrangement was that as soon as the dromonds were funded and built, he would join me at Dragonstone and we would either guard the coast against the ironborn, or be prepared to counter any further attacks the Lannisters made against us. My being burned was not part of the plan, but it turned out to be useful. I suppose." The anger in his voice made it clear how much he resented having to own to it. "For a while I wanted to kill him for having fought for Stannis at the Blackwater, but he's just a sellsail, his loyalty up for the highest bidder, and the Tyrells had the deepest pockets after Cersei stupidly spurned the Iron Bank. It was Cersei's own idea to make him Master of Ships after he was pardoned."

Cersei Lannister's ability to shoot herself vigorously in both feet had become a topic of some amazement for Willas, but that was currently secondary. "Garlan already went to defend the Shield Islands from Euron Crow's Eye. I sent messengers to Lord Leyton telling him to strengthen the defenses in Oldtown, and his son, our uncle Humfrey Hightower, went to Lys to recruit more help. Our aunt Lynesse is the concubine of some or other merchant prince there, and he thought she would help him get a good rate on sellswords."

"Our aunt Lynesse is by all repute a grasping bitch," Loras said. "I wouldn't wager on it. But yes, Garlan was forced to take over the lion's share, shall we say, of the campaign against the Greyjoys when I had my little encounter with boiling oil. That was when Aurane and I decided that the fleet could be saved for other uses. . . too late, as I said. By then, Margaery was already under arrest, and I was still laid low. I became well enough to travel only a fortnight or so ago. There's plenty more you can't see."

"I believe it." Willas could see the slow, stiff way Loras walked, quite unlike his usual catlike grace. "And now – "

"And now," his brother finished, "we've a mess of truly epic proportions on our hands. Whether or not Father had something to do with that folly at Baelor's – not that I think he did, not even he is that stupid – I do not intend to leave Margaery to her fate. I don't care a damn about Stannis or Aegon or the Lannisters or any of them, we're getting her out of there. Even if I have to face them all down myself."

At that the Queen of Thorns, who had been remarkably quiet until now, scoffed noisily. "It's a pity your pretty face has burned away, lad, because you're still not getting anywhere in life with your brains. King's Landing is soon going to be under attack from every mother's son in all of Westeros, and you think to go in there blazing, fish Margaery out single-handed and swoop her back here. It's not going to give you back who you were, you know that. It may only succeed in killing you properly this time."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Grandmother," Loras said in a chilly tone. "But I do not intend that, in fact. As it said in the letter, Aegon Targaryen or a very good simulacrum of him offers us the hand of friendship. We would be fools not to take it."

"So you think – " Willas began.

"I don't care whether he's real or not." Loras opened and closed a gloved fist, clumsily enough that Willas knew it had been burned too. His sword hand. That must have been the greatest insult of all. "I don't care about any of it, really. All I care about is the fact that Stannis Baratheon somehow still draws breath. That dishonorable hypocrite, that sanctimonious bloody bastard, who has less sense than he has humanity and would not be the worst king that ever sat on the Iron Throne only by virtue of the fact that a few of the Targaryens and Joffrey the Inbred got their arses there first. If Aegon will save our sister and permit me to kill Stannis, he can call himself the Conqueror reborn for all it matters to me. Sometimes I feel that I've already lived too long."

Willas winced at the raw agony in his brother's voice. Loras had loved Renly Baratheon from the time they were striplings, and while he'd hoped that Loras might someday find it in his heart to heal, to forgive the world for taking Renly away from him, he oftentimes feared that he never would. Moving closer, he tried to put an arm around Loras, but Loras twisted away. He crossed the room and stood in front of the hearth, gazing into the fire.

"So," the Queen of Thorns said. "Is that the decision? Mind you, the Lord Oaf might find it awkward if he's protesting that he's little Tommen's most loyal servant, and then we crop up in the background swearing fealty to a dead boy, so we'd do well to have all our dragons in a row. Loras, you'll sail with this Waters – if he can be trusted – to Storm's End and give our oath to Aegon. Willas, you'll call the banners. As for Garlan, it would be best to let him carry on with what he's doing, as I do so dislike Euron Greyjoy. The sooner he goes to visit his nasty little damp god, the better."

Willas turned to look at his grandmother. "And what of Margaery?"

Lady Olenna smiled. "Why, my dear. If we pull this off, she'll be safely back in Highgarden with us before she knows it. And if Daenerys never arrives from wherever she's squatting, this Aegon will need a bride or two."

"What did he ever do to you that you want to kill him?" Loras said cynically.

"A point fairly placed, lad, but you'll not want to scowl so much now that you're not so pretty as you used to be. Yet since when have the stakes ever been the slightest bit lower, since Lord Puff Fish puffed up and got us into this mess?" The Queen of Thorns leaned back in her chair. "If this should go wrong, weddings – even murderous weddings – will be the very least of our worries."