Willas could easily admit that the people beyond his own immediate family tended not to matter to him. When the choice was his to make, he chose to have his nose buried in illuminated manuscripts rather than expend effort in cultivating relationships with anyone beyond his parents, his siblings or his grandmother.
Which wasn't to say that he wasn't pleasant to the endless parade of faces and names who came through Highgarden trying to cultivate favor with the Wardens of the South or that he couldn't extend a hand of kindness. It was just that he didn't care nearly as much about making connections or allies as an heir apparent should've, even as a child. Perfectly demonstrated by the fact that it had been a vastly greater priority as a younger man that he ensure others remembered his heavyset little brother Garlan with the moniker of 'the Gallant' so as not to have him be shackled with an unflattering nickname like 'the Gross' the way their great-uncle Garth was. Ensuring that he prevent such unnecessary difficulty for his younger sibling was an infinitely more important use of his social energy rather than make friends with his father's ward Erren Florent, no matter how much his parents and grandmother had tried to coax him into thinking otherwise.
Thus far there had only been two exceptions to that lifelong philosophy. The first was Renly Baratheon, though not for the reasons many might've assumed. Renly may have been King Robert's younger brother and a well-liked person by most everyone who met him, but Willas couldn't honestly say he'd have paid him any more mind than he did his own mother's or sister's ladies-in-waiting if it weren't for the fact that Loras's squirehood and eventual loving relationship with the King's brother made him so happy and that his friendly japes brought more than one genuine smile to Margery's face. Simple-minded as it may have sounded, the ever-humorous Baratheon made his siblings happy. Thus, he was worth Willas making an effort to reach out to.
Amusingly enough, the only other exception at this point in his life had been Oberyn Martell: the man who'd accidentally crippled him in his first and last tournament joust. And mad as it would probably sound to his grandmother and father, Willas privately counted the strong-willed and happily debauched Dornishman as his best friend outside of his younger brothers and sister.
This lifelong predisposition, isolating as it may have seemed to his more social family members, was also the only thing that he could think to explain why he was now following behind Loras as they made their way to the derelict and abandoned dragon pits to meet with the northern bastard Jon Snow in the dead of night. The long-faced baseborn's intervention on Loras's behalf had earned both his own and his brother's gratefulness, it was true. But the fact of the matter was that there was another reason they were doing this. Well, really there was another reason Loras had made the agreement to do this; Willas hadn't learned of it until the streets were near deserted and the sun had long set.
Jon Snow had apparently asked Loras for a loan of his tourney winnings with an additional ten thousand gold dragons on top of that to buy the crumbling structure from the crown. How he could've possibly expected fifty thousand gold dragons to buy such a thing from even the notoriously spend happy King Robert, Willas could not fathom. But Loras had still agreed on the condition that Jon prove that he really intended to use the Dragon Pits for what he said he did: to serve as a place of healing and refuge.
An idealistic sentiment that sounded like something their father might say in his more fanciful moods before grandmother knocked his head out of the clouds and hammered home the difficulty of bringing it from the realm of fantasy into the realm of reality.
The revelry from the whorehouses nearby was muted, the brothers' cloaks blocking any sight of their bodies in the darkened gloom of the streets despite the slightly plodding pace Willas' limping gait set. As they came close to the hulking building of the Dragon Pits, Willas couldn't help the feeling that in the dark the building loomed like a giant creature: waiting to be roused from a long slumber. As they drew closer to the gaping maw that marked the entrance, he saw a hint of light beyond the rotting remains of the once huge doors.
The figure strode forward unerringly, a torch held aloft in its hand. The light cast half of its face in shadow, making it look oddly sinister even as it drew closer and revealed itself to be the northern bastard himself. His eyes ran over them, inclining his head in greeting to the younger Tyrell.
"Ser Loras." He acknowledged, grey eyes only briefly glancing behind them before refocusing in on something that Willas could only assume was some distance behind them.
Willas was curious as to what he saw, but Loras quickly put his hand on his arm to move him forward. Behind them, he was surprised to hear whispered Valyrian in an unfamiliar dialect.
"Undegon kos syndror laehossa."
Before Loras could stop him, the Tyrell heir turned his head enough to see the Stark bastard kneeling before the open entrance to the Dragon Pits as a line of flame sprang to life in the black sand: spreading from side to side till it touched the rotted wood and still standing stone of the walls while simultaneously moving forward and backward till it was poised at the very edge of the stone that marked the formerly great doors: forming what was in essence a moat of fire. The flickering light now cast his hunched and shadowed form like a crouching predator for a few moments before he stood up again and turned to walk toward the Tyrell brothers as the flames continued crackling without interruption or so much as a flicker in strength.
Questions bubbled like a stew of curiosity within the eldest Tyrell. Not just at the small river of flames that weren't wildfyre or its purpose but as to the variation of the Valyrian language he'd just heard used. Willas had become far more proficient in the use of High Valyrian than his siblings: the language having appealed to his natural inquisitiveness and greater use in the dustier tomes that he could get his hands on in Highgarden's library. He'd been vastly disappointed to learn from Maester Lomys that despite how powerful the Valyrian empire had once been, virtually nothing remained of the original Valyrian language in Westeros or the continent of Essos. Aegon's family hadn't exactly been able to bring anything extraneous with them when they'd left and/or been exiled from Valyria and what remained of the language in Essos had mutated and shifted as it was adopted to each city-state and the regions they controlled to reflect their culture. The only city that might have some remaining examples of the language as it had originally been written and pronounced would most likely have been Volantis. But it was a very remote chance that any noble family from there would've been eager to give such information to the Citadel, let alone to a noble house in Westeros.
But this variation of Valyrian, it didn't sound like any other version he'd ever encountered before. But that couldn't be right. How would a northern bastard learn a version of Valyrian that was close to approximating the original language after all?
The Stark bastard was asking his brother a question now.
"Is this the one you wanted me to help?" He said.
Loras nodded, his expression guarded but his brown eyes hopeful in a way that Willas hadn't seen before.
"If you can prove what you claim, I've no doubt I could convince my family to support you." Loras said, bringing Willas forward with him.
Willas immediately picked up on the fact that Loras hadn't said that by healing him, Jon Snow would've personally done a favor to the heir of the Reach. Evidently Loras had wanted to test his conviction to see if he'd be willing to help what he thought was a smallfolk standard bearer to prove himself and his intentions.
Snow only inclined his head in acceptance, appearing to take Loras at his word.
"Follow me." He said, gesturing to Willas. Loras started to walk with him as they both moved after him.
Jon Snow turned around again.
"My apologies Ser Loras, but I must ask that your stablehand come with me alone." He said, the torch in his hand slightly lower so that the shadows it cast flickered across the left upper half of his features.
"Why can I not accompany him?" His brother asked, suspicion coloring his tone.
"Because if you were to see the process, I do not believe you would keep yourself from intervention." He answered without a hint of hesitation, his serious tone at odds with the ludicrous assertion.
Willas was somewhat alarmed, but his further increased curiosity managed to temper his trepidation. That was clearly not the case for Loras. Before his brother could express his plainly developing second thoughts about this whole clandestine meeting, Willas continued moving forward on his own.
"I'll be fine Ser Loras." He said, his silent look toward his brother asking him to back off.
Despite the concerned look on his face not decreasing in intensity, Loras did take a step back to show he was willing to honor his brother's request.
Jon Snow nodded briefly before gesturing toward the large doorway that appeared to lead downward but had been partly obscured by shadow and partly obscured by its sheer size seeming to swallow what light remained around it.
They walked into the dark, Willas noticing that the sand and general area of the door had been disturbed quite a lot recently and that many a footprint led down to the bowls of this place. The remains of the gold cloaks removing the wildfyre he supposed. As he and the northern bastard made their way down into the bowels of the derelict dragon pits, it suddenly occurred to Willas that the fact that the northern bastard had asked to meet them here and seeming familiarity with the place might've meant he had been the one to discover the lurking danger that had eluded the Master of Whispers and the Master of Coin.
Willas' gaze was drawn to the shadowed back of his guide, evaluating him with new eyes. The taciturn way of speaking likely inherited from his Stark sire along with his looks. But his finding the wildfyre: was that due to curiosity or suspicion? Who was that inherited from? Perhaps the Hand of the King, perhaps his lowborn mother. So lost in his own thoughts was Willas that he was startled to find they had descended into the actual holding pen of the pits where a queer sight met his eyes.
In the center of the large area, there appeared to be three shadowy figures surrounding something in a semi-circle shape. Willas wondered if there were to be others assisting Snow in some heretofore unknown medical procedure. But as they drew closer, he was surprised to discover that they were instead well crafted wooden statues depicting three of the seven gods. The leftmost figure was a young girl in a flowing dress, clutching what appeared to be blooming flowers in her dainty hands as her clasped hands were held in front of her chest almost beseechingly. The rightmost was a burly man who stood straight backed with tongs in his right hand resting at his side and a hammer in his left resting on his shoulder. And in the center as the obvious focal point: a hooded figure with arms crossed over its chest in a burial repose.
Maiden. Smith. Stranger.
"Your family blessed you in the name of the Seven did they not?" Came the question from Snow.
As Willas answered in the affirmative, confusion mounting further, the northern bastard had leaned down to place the torch upon a small firewood pile in front of the statues that immediately sprang to life. With the increased amount of light in the darkened space, Willas could now see that there was a small stone basin resting atop the fire and a large fur blanket beneath his feet.
"I need you to lie down." He instructed, gesturing to the animal pelt turned resting surface. Willas gingerly slid part of his body down, trying to keep his leg straight and unmoving for as long as he could. Snow's right arm behind his back helping to ease him down was a considerable help in that respect. Before he was entirely prone, Snow retrieved the stone basin from the fire with his bare hands, the dark red liquid steaming lightly even as the stone itself made small sizzling sounds as it touched his apparent healer's hand. As he brought the lip of the stone container just short of the Tyrell heir's lips, his expression clearly asked him to drink the steaming red liquid contained within. Willas didn't know what it was or what it would end up doing.
All he knew was that he had come too far to back down now.
He closed his eyes and allowed the drink to trickle across his mouth and down his throat. It smelled like roasted meat but tasted of copper and soil and something more he couldn't quite identify. He almost choked trying to get it down, but the tilt of the basin was just enough as to not slop out as he partook of the liquid it contained. As he finished off the last of it, he felt a foreign heat bloom in the pit of his stomach: entirely independent from the heat of the small nearby fire and the surprising amount of heat coming from the mystic arts wielding Snow treating him.
"Keep your eyes closed." Came the firm instruction as he was laid entirely prone on the fur, his lack of sight making the supple, yet rough, nature of the pelt interspersed with the uncountable tiny amounts of sand grains that had managed to come atop it a fascinating study in comfort and irritation: trapped as the sand was beneath his clothed body and the unfeeling pelt beneath.
A hand was laid above his eyes, another on his injured leg. The heat in his body and the heat above his eyes increased, causing sweat to bead on his forehead as though he was sitting before an open hearth. The ache was barely noticeable beneath the heat until it was suddenly flaring to life so powerfully that it felt like the horse was crushing his appendage a second time.
Willas was gritting his teeth against it even as a muffled cry rose in the back of his throat. He could feel the heat pooling in his leg even as it felt like the hand holding his injury was going to burn straight through his pants and flesh and muscle to set his broken bone alight. He tried to take deep breaths through the closed mouth howl that was emerging from his throat even as the pain intensified and his eyes opened to see nothing but flame. But before he could panic at the fire less than an inch or two from his eyes, he became entranced by the images that began whirling within the pyre atop his face.
A field of fire, burning away everything around him even as he himself felt as if his body had become a being of hot air or burning coals: containing yet greatly dependent on the strength of the flame. Lost and panicking, he ran blindly through this violent yet desolate plain until he collapsed to his belly in the conflagration, taking in the more than a little absurd sight of four yellow roses that stood in the middle of the turmoil: immersed and yet seemingly untouched by the ceaseless fire that was burning through everything around them. Only two of them were fully bloomed whereas one was partly wilted with brown creeping in at the edges of the petals atop its drooping head and another was still partly closed, having apparently not awoken as the others around it had.
But that wasn't right either. For even as he watched, something amazing happened. Where the tongues of flame licked at the plants, they changed. The partly closed rose bloomed, opening its petals fully as the other two whole ones had while releasing what felt like a strong gust of wind in the process. The wilted plant regained its color: strength and vibrancy flowing into its stem and petals as though time itself were bowing to the whims of the dying plant and returning it to the peak of health. The hale two roses changed as well to Willas' increasing astonishment. One of the already healthy roses grew thorns as sharp as razors along its stem as he watched.
But it was the final rose that changed the most drastically of them. It had already been the best looking of the four: the green of its stem and leaves and the golden pigment of its petals some of the most vivid colors he'd seen in his life, its upright posture and slightest hint of foliage the kind of careful pruning and craftsmanship equal to or perhaps surpassing the work of Highgarden's groundskeepers. But even as he watched, the rose grew until it was towering over the other three, its leaves shifting and unfurling outward until they fully matured into smaller vines that entwined its entire stem: adorning it like elegant bangles and bracelets he'd heard tell of being fashionable across the Narrow Sea. But most startling of all was the rose's coloration. It had changed from a bright gold the color of a glittering sunbeam into a deep, rich red with the barest hints of orange that reminded him of the setting sun creeping at the very tips of the petals: blooming fully until the head of the rose itself was big enough to fit in the palm of Willas's hand and seemed to pulse like the waves of a tide or the steady beat of a drum with each minor fluctuation of the fire.
But even as he reached out toward it, the fire was receding and with an abrupt jolt he was back in his own body beside the groaning bastard who was clutching his own right leg as though it had been broken while he was out. Willas scrambled to his feet away from the magic practitioner, his nerves, the pain not to mention strangeness of everything he'd experienced catching up to him as he instinctively sought to escape from the confusing mishmash of sensations he'd just experienced.
Then his brain finally registered what he'd just done even as Snow very slowly shifted so that he was in a crouched position on all fours, his right leg clutched tightly by his right hand.
He looked down at himself in the dying light of the firepit. His disbelieving eyes took in what looked to be a large hole burned into his right trouser leg. But where there'd been extensive scarring and puckering from the unevenly repaired musculature and reset bone, now there was only smooth unbroken flesh. Paralyzed by the impossible change in himself, Willas almost didn't hear the frantic calls of Loras or how close they were coming, so occupied was he in trying to feel the pain that had been such a part of his life that just wasn't there anymore.
He turned around just in time to see his younger sibling reach the bottom of the stairwell even as he heard Snow at last hiss through his closed teeth and move the sand in what sounded a labored attempt to stand.
"Se odre iksis addemmagon. Sir naejot dīnagon aōha udra naejot vokēdre." Came the harsh whisper behind him.
The brothers Tyrell both faced the now standing magic practitioner as his still burning hand burned a hole in his own trousers, a sick crackling sound echoing in the dark as Willas could've sworn he saw something happen to his leg before the bastard's posture straightened and his expression lost that pained edge to it.
He walked forward, a now identical hole burned in his own trousers even as Loras slowly crept closer with an expression that spoke to how much he couldn't yet wanted to believe what his eyes were telling him.
Grey eyes met brown and green in turn.
"I have shown you the strength of my word Ser Loras." Jon Snow said quietly.
"All I ask is that you in turn show me the strength of yours." He said.
Loras could only nod dumbly for a few moments before shaking himself a small amount and holding his right hand out, an intense expression of scrutiny and gratefulness mixed on his face.
"Of that you should hold no doubt." He said as Snow clasped his younger brother's hand. They shook only briefly before simultaneously letting go. The northern bastard nodded once before giving some parting words of warning that they'd been followed by what appeared to be a couple of smallfolk urchins. He told them that they were likely gone now but that he and Loras should probably avoid being seen if they wished to truly avoid scrutiny.
Willas returned to the manse in a daze alongside his brother, almost unable to comprehend how completely his life had changed over the course of one midnight rendezvous. When they were safely behind the walls of the manse, Loras abruptly said that he would be sending their retinue home on the morrow. The eldest Tyrell asked why in a startled tone, only for his young brother to tell him with shining eyes that it wouldn't do for his favored squire to deprive his family of the news that his ailment had been lifted.
Willas couldn't fault his brother's wish to share their recent good fortune even if it had only just begun to sink in for himself. As he slipped beneath the covers that night, he couldn't prevent the smile that lit his face when he looked upon the simple wooden cane that he'd carefully placed beneath the window when they'd come back from the Dragon Pits. A reminder of pain that had once seemed so daunting now overcome by the willful magic of a northern bastard he'd never even known about before this tourney.
As Willas closed his eyes to sleep for the night, he wondered whether their joy at his rejuvenated leg would prevent his sister and grandmother from explaining how foolhardy he'd been to come here on a whim.
A/N: Not dead. Just real life being...real life.