Willas Tyrell took after his grandfather Luthor in many respects.
A more squared jaw that his father Mace had once possessed when he had been a handsome youth before the fruitful bounty of the Reach had begun going to his waistline. Green eyes that marked him as different from the brown the rest of his siblings had inherited from their mother Alerie Hightower. An affinity for animals both wild and tamed that only his sister Margery could come close to understanding.
But the thing that made him the most like his grandfather, or so grandmother Olenna claimed, was his propensity for "casting your young fool gaze to the sky instead seeing what's on the ground right in front of you."
His grandfather, as the story grandmother told of his death went, had been falconing on horseback one day. He'd been so consumed by watching the sight of the bird in flight that he hadn't watched where his horse was taking him. And as a result, he had supposedly ridden straight off a nearby cliff without seeing any danger at all.
In the past Willas hadn't let his grandmother's (likely exaggerated) story of his grandfather's death bother him too much. He'd been far too full of the arrogance of youth: knowing with that certainty that only young men of noble blood possessed that the world would bow to their wishes, even if they wished only to fulfill their father's dreams of knighthood for them. He'd memorized the code of chivalry, taken to the lessons of the Maester Lomys and Master-at-Arms Ser Crane equally and even ridden in the riding circle near daily to be best prepared as he could for his very first tournament.
All of which had come to naught when he faced Oberyn Martell of Dorne in the joust.
In retrospect, it really should've been obvious that the Red Viper, a man known for being able to fight best with a spear, would've done equally well if not better than Willas at the joust. But somehow it wasn't. Yet that loss to a superior opponent wouldn't have been so harsh as what happened when he fell.
Instead of falling cleanly from his saddle, his right leg had instead gotten caught in the stirrup, pulling the great destrier down atop him when he fell.
He'd spent two days drifting in and out of consciousness from the milk of the poppy Maester Lomys administered while he worked to repair the damage done to his appendage. And when he awoke his leg was shattered and he was told that though he could still walk, albeit with a cane and a limp, he would never be able to ride a horse or reliably swing a weapon without agony again.
His father had hated Oberyn Martell from that day forth, believing that the Red Viper had somehow done it on purpose simply because Willas was the firstborn Tyrell and the Martells still held a grudge against them for being the occupational governors of Dorne under Daeron I Targaryen.
Willas however was not so willing to condemn the man. For one thing, Oberyn had left a letter expressing his sincere regret at Willas' injury. For a second, near the conclusion of the letter Oberyn had noted that he was surprised at Willas' choice of destrier. He wrote that he understood that it was traditional to attempt to put additional force behind the point of the lance where possible but that in practice, Oberyn had found that the horse had to be one that was used to the rider rather than was used purely for the joust.
'In some ways, the breeding of horseflesh is no different than the breeding of men.' The letter had said.
'Including the fact that though their conception and bloodline may be carefully planned, it remains only the beginning of something that must be built upon and reinforced all through their life. For not even the most beautiful of pleasure slaves in Lys is left untrained by the brothels and temples they are born to. In similar respect, the horse cannot be trusted to simply follow commands and remain unpanicked outside of a calm ordering in the riding circle.' It had mused, going on to conclude that perhaps a charger he had ridden from childhood would've been a better fit for the joust.
Willas had thought his point accurate and well-thought out. So much so that he had decided to write back to the Red Viper so that he might discuss the best methods of breeding and raising horses with someone who shared a fascination with animal husbandry similar to his own.
His father and grandmother had thought him a foolish boy to do such a thing. Their supposition reinforced when his correspondence with Oberyn became a regular feature of the ravens that flew to and from Highgarden.
And yet sometimes his feelings of contentment gave way to melancholy. It could be induced in manners one would expect: from watching couriers ride their horses into Highgarden without even needing to think upon it. The look of pity upon someone's face when they thought he couldn't see out of the corner of his eye.
Other times it could arise from something completely unexpected: from mistakenly putting too much weight upon the cane and feeling the smooth wooden handle press into the palm of his flesh a little too deeply. From feeling the sun upon his shattered leg through the window as he read within Highgarden's extensive library.
This time it came from sources both expected and not.
He had been reading a volume written by Archmaester Vaegon, a Targaryen prince dubbed the Dragonless for his never gaining ridership of a dragon back when the beasts had still been an integral part of the Targaryen family's power. It had discussed the very subject of the origin of dragons, the stories that had been put to quill about where they originated, how they functioned and whether their nature would be different had no one ever sought to train and contain them.
As he was reading a section about stories regarding fire-breathing lions that originated from Yi-Ti and how they might relate to dragons as they were understood to the west of Asshai, an unexpected twinge in his lame leg caused him to accidentally drop the book from his seat by the sunlit window.
As he bent to pick it down with a sigh, he managed to forget he could not properly bend his leg and sent bolts of agony shooting through him as he did so. The pain of it reduced him to silent tears as the feeling awoke his melancholy and helpless rage at his condition with a vengeance.
He remained silent, steadying his breathing as Maester Lomys had advised for when these things happened. He couldn't stand it when his body involuntarily reminded him of how even the minor things he would never have given a thought before were a trial now.
It was in a calmed state from this upheaval that his youngest brother Loras found him, coming to let him know that there was to be a tournament in King's Landing and that he intended to participate.
Perhaps it was the feeling of wanting to not let this episode get to him so badly. Perhaps it was a desire to recapture the feeling of a festive atmosphere of the tournaments he had been able to enjoy without his family attempting to both entice him to it and tiptoe around the subject with him. Or perhaps it was simple wounded vanity that pushed him to prove to himself that he was not so helpless after all.
But whatever the reason, this time he did not simply wish Loras the best of luck and see him on his way. This time he insisted on going with him.
Loras had wanted to know why, what he would do when he went, where he would lodge.
Willas had simply smiled and gently asked his brother if he truly had no room in his retinue for a standard-bearer or squire.
It was funny in a way, like the stories of old about knights who took the lame and the helpless beneath their armored wing and looked after them when others would have dismissed them. Except Willas happened to be a very well-off cripple and related to the chivalrous knight by blood.
Margery would not be able to talk him out of this as she was with their father, traveling through the Reach in order to show themselves to their people as had become custom after their father had ascended to lordship of House Tyrell. Grandmother was visiting her Redwyne relations, her well known objections to her son Mace's 'idealistic oaf's parade' as she called it well known. Having their image as charitable and caring rulers of the Reach was all well and good but didn't mean her son had to ride out himself every single time in order to do so was her explanation, though with considerably more insults thrown in alongside her advice.
But soon enough Willas was in King's Landing alongside his brother as a simple and unremarkable member of his entourage. Seeing his brother and Renly Baratheon greet each other with a hug after being parted for some time brought a smile to his face. Especially when Renly happened to see him by his brother's side dressed in the simple clothing of a stablehand as he coaxed Loras's mare along behind them, a roughhewn cane replacing the masterfully crafted one that had constantly been in his hand at Highgarden.
A mischievous glint came to Renly's eye as he recognized his lover's elder brother though Willas felt certain he would not reveal who he really was. The japing smile and hearty laugh as he turned to Loras to ask how his former squire had been was evidence enough of that. It seemed he had taken it as a grandly secret joke from one of the last people he would've thought capable of surprising him in such a way.
Not so unusual, since Willas was well aware that his brother's Baratheon lover had never known him to be mischievous or tricky even before his leg had been crippled.
The atmosphere of King's Landing was a curious mix to his senses when they entered. A great deal of festivity and happiness at the announcement of the Tournament of the Hand to celebrate Lord Stark's ascension to Hand of the King. But to Willas's eye there seemed to be more frequent movement of the Gold Cloaks through the streets. Perhaps not so unusual for a tournament, but what made it stand out to his eye was what appeared to be members of the Alchemists Guild moving unobtrusively alongside them as they did so.
Not many took notice of them, least of all the smallfolk that made up the majority of the population in King's Landing. But Willas knew that whatever was happening, House Tyrell needed to be aware of it.
"Lord Renly, why are so many gold cloaks moving about the city? Surely this is not all in the name of securing the city for the tournament." He said quietly as they moved toward the Baratheon house Renly occupied in the noble quarter.
Renly gave him a bit of a side eye before minutely shaking his head.
"Of course it can be my good stableboy! If the people wish to be merry, they must first know the most violence they'll see is on the tourney field!" He laughed aloud as they came closer to the Baratheon home.
But behind closed doors, with only his brother and himself for company, Renly's story changed.
Apparently, the new Hand of the King had somehow discovered old barrels of Wildfyre beneath the floor of the Dragon Pits. With the help of Barristan the Bold and the King's personal backing, Lord Stark had confronted the Alchemist's Guild and gotten them to admit that before his death Aerys Targaryen had planted caches of Wildfyre barrels in multiple locations around King's Landing.
A chill ran up Willas's spine when Renly revealed that. When he'd asked how many, Renly had only wryly asked him if it really mattered so long as the answer was more than the one.
Willas had been forced to admit that it did not.
A clapped hand and a dazzling smile came his way courtesy of Renly.
"Cheer up Willas, that's why the big announcement is the tournament instead of the cleanup. Makes for a good cover no?"
Willas nodded in agreement, his mind still mulling over this new development in the capital. It wasn't as surprising as it should've been that the Mad King had planted such a dangerously explosive payload all around the densely populated capital with the intention of perhaps setting it off. But the questions dwelling within Willas's mind was nothing to do with the last Targaryen king's well-established madness, but on how the newest Hand of the King had been the one who discovered the fruits of Aerys' insanity. He would have expected such a revelation to come from the Master of Whispers, the eunuch who came from across the Narrow Sea known only as Varys. Or perhaps even from the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. It was well known that both men were well-connected within the city and beyond. One would have thought if anyone would have discovered this dangerous secret, it would've been them.
But no.
Instead, the Warden of the North who'd only arrived in the capital some days ago was the one who had unearthed this buried danger.
It was strange and didn't mesh with what little information he possessed about the political webs that had been woven around the city that housed the iron throne. But without anything concrete to further his understanding, he was forced to drop the matter and concentrate on planning how he would best be able to help his brother when he participated in the joust.
It was agreed that he would be the one to help Loras mount and dismount the horse as well as the lance bearer; letting them serve as both a support if he needed it and a way to not let anyone get too close a look at him.
But the tournament was a multiple day affair that was only opening on the first day when they awoke the following morning. It opened with an archery contest that would reward the winner with ten thousand gold dragons. A sum that was doubled for the winner of the melee that would follow in the days after the archery contest and the runner up of the joust respectively which left the winner of the joust with a mind-boggling forty thousand gold dragons as their prize. The joust itself would last for days, the various riders competing in order to thin the competition after each of the days of the other contests so that the people could have a view of everything and not be forced to choose what they wished to watch.
By the time the archery contest was almost ended, it had come to a showdown between a man known simply as Anguy and an exiled prince of the Summer Isles who called himself Jalabhar Xho. The contest was a close one, with the pair of men making it to the one hundred steps mark to prove once and for all who was the best in the tournament. And though Anguy had done well enough to only miss the bullseye by a hair, the exiled Summer Islander had evidently kept up the archer's training it was said all Summer Islanders went through to prove themselves worthy of their famed Goldenwood bows and hit the bullseye head on.
The dark-skinned but otherwise average looking man made for quite the sight, hands raised above his head to the sky in victory: his red and green plumed cape almost spreading behind him like the wings of a triumphant eagle with the coloring of a hummingbird. He laughed heartily with Anguy as they shook hands after the awarding of the gold dragons though Willas thought he heard Anguy jokingly claim the sun had glinted off Jalabhar's bald head and distracted him.
Then the jousts had begun, with his brother Loras and Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard making the best showing of the competitors that day. Though considering there was more than a few hedge knights and one or two Freys dotted through those ranks, that likely wasn't as great a reflection on either of the two as Willas thought it might otherwise have been.
And then the next day came: one that would change the way he looked at the world and, for good and for ill, the path of House Tyrell forever.
As he joined his brother and Renly in the audience close but not too close to the King's box, Willas immediately noticed a tension in the air like he'd never felt at any other tournament before. It wasn't purely excitement he thought, he remembered the cheer that rose and came forth whenever the knights theatrically shattered their lances against each other or unhorse their opponents in the joust yesterday, how the crowd had cheered and carried on but done so in a…proportionate way was the only word he could think of that somewhat fit it.
But now? It felt like the entire audience was a powder keg waiting for an errant ray of sun to set off its fuse and blow the whole field of the face of the world. As he looked to the competitors of the melee, he noticed that the horses seemed antsy and the men themselves were checking and rechecking their tourney weapons as though they were about to enter an actual battle. They were a churning sea of darting glances and reflexively tightened fists waiting to be whipped into a storm of violence. All but one spot of calm among them all.
Black hair and pale skin. Eyes closed in what looked to be silent contemplation or possible prayer. A short sword in his right hand and wooden buckler shield in the other. Despite the calm looking face, Willas noticed that the shield was already at the level of his chest and the arm holding the sword point down toward the ground was tensed as though ready to swing at a moment's notice. When the herald stepped forward the call the start of the melee, the blank faced fighter's eyes at last opened to reveal stormy grey the same color as the Hand of the King.
Willas was confused. Now that he could glance between the pair of them as the Herald gave the rules he could see the resemblance was almost uncanny. Was this dark-haired boy Lord Stark's heir come south to make a show of what the North was capable of? And if so, why was he competing in the melee instead of the joust?
Willas was startled out of his musings by the blowing the horn; its call seeming to be amplified by the charged atmosphere of the field. As the fighters charged toward each other, wild cries erupting from their lips as the melee began in earnest, some of them wild-eyed in a way that raised the hair on the back of Willas's neck.
And then the melee began in earnest and the course of history began to inexorably change.
A/N: Blah blah blah personal stuff. Blah blah blah deepest apologies. Tourney of the Hand is proving difficult, so to apologize, am releasing the first half of chapters pertaining to the event itself. Second two should be following soon, since all four have been worked on simultaneously for some time now. -Mx4