The Reach
Willas Tyrell leaned on his ornate cane, its green and gold lacquer dulled by years of use. The sunlight, filtered through the canopy of the ancient oak above, did not reach his brown hair, hidden beneath the green hood of his cloak. He had taken to wearing the cloak often; it suited him now, a symbol of the man exile had forged. He watched silently as the Mander snaked its way through the Reach, the fading sun catching the river's surface like ripples of molten rock. Around him, the breeze stirred the dying leaves of the trees, a few falling to rest near his boots. Their descent was a stark contrast to the hard truths that weighed on his mind.
It had been ten years since Highgarden had fallen, but Willas no longer mourned. He had buried his grief alongside the bodies of his mother, grandmother, and countless others who had perished in the sack. Mourning was a luxury, and luxuries were for those who could afford them. He could not.
Instead, he had sharpened his mind. Under the tutelage of Olenna Tyrell, he had wielded wit and cunning as sharp as the thorns on their banner. In exile, he had honed those lessons further. Where others saw ruin, he saw opportunity. The golden rose had withered, they said—but a rose's thorns could still draw blood. Behind him, soft footsteps disturbed the grass. He recognized the measured rhythm before the voice came.
"Has he arrived?" Willas asked without turning, his gaze fixed on the Mander below.
"Nay," Garlan replied, stepping beside Willas, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "But he will."
Willas gave a short nod, his grip tightening on the cane. The wood creaked faintly under his fingers. "Good."
The brothers stood in silence, the wind brushing past them like a gentle caress, fluttering the edges of Willas's cloak. Garlan's presence was steady, solid—much like the man himself. Willas glanced at his brother, noting the familiar determination etched into his face. In their years of exile, Garlan had become their strength, their sword. Willas, in turn, had become the shadow, the guiding hand behind the blade. He lacked his brother's physical prowess but made up for it with a mind as sharp as steel. Sitting at the knees of the Queen of Thorns had its advantages, and in exile, he had sharpened that mind further. He had grown willing to plot, to spill blood—and to sleep soundly after.
"Do you think the rest will listen?" Garlan asked softly, his eyes lingering a moment longer on the river below.
"If they do not, then they are fools," Willas said, his tone plain, as if discussing the weather. "And we shall suffer no more fools."
"I fear you've become colder in our exile, brother," Garlan said, tilting his head to study him.
"No, simply realistic. We have suffered fools far too much already. May the Seven rest their souls, but Father was a fool. Even our grandmother, in her infinite schemes, was foolish. Had they thrown the full might of the Reach behind Rhaegar at the Trident, Highgarden would still be ours."
There was no accusation in Garlan's tone, but Willas could see a flicker of unease in his eyes. The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Garlan knew them to be true—both of them did—but that did not mean they settled easily. What Garlan feared most wasn't the truth about their family but what exile had made of his brother. Willas had always been the patient one, the kind one, the son who thought before he acted. But patience had limits, and kindness could become a weakness if wielded poorly.
"Don't look at me like that," Willas said, his voice carrying a soft reprimand edged with steel. "I am who I must be, so our family can survive."
"And who is that?" Garlan asked, a faint challenge in his tone.
"A man who understands what it takes to survive. To win. To know what we lose if we do not." Willas turned his back to the Mander, his expression darkening. "We have spent ten long years learning that lesson, have we not?"
"And what will winning cost us, Willas?" Garlan laid a hand gently on his brother's shoulder. "How much of yourself are you willing to give?"
"All of it," Willas said simply. He had no heir of his own; his brother and his brother's children would carry their name forward. If the cost of victory was his life, then so be it. Straightening, he leaned heavily on the cane and met Garlan's gaze. "Do not mistake pragmatism for cruelty. I will not lead as Tarly did. Nor as the Lannisters did. Highgarden fell because we fought for power, never imagining that we—we, the great and mighty Tyrells—could lose. I will never make that mistake again."
"So, we rebuild?" Garlan asked, a flicker of hope in his voice.
"We rebuild," Willas agreed. "And we do it the right way. No longer will our loyalties shift with the winds. We were too hasty during the War of the Five Kings. Every step will be calculated. Every risk weighed. When the Reach sees us again, they will see strength, not desperation. Resolve, not pride. And your children will swim in the Mander as we once did, as boys."
"Still the strategist," Garlan said with a soft smile, relieved to see a glimpse of the brother he had known before.
"And you, still the blade," Willas replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "We need both."
The sound of hooves broke the quiet, faint at first but growing louder as they approached. Garlan turned, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. Willas remained still, watching the horizon.
"So, he is here," Willas said without turning. Garlan simply nodded.
"Good. Let him come. Dark business requires the dark of night to discuss. It's time for the gardener to tend his garden once more. The weeds must be plucked—root and stem." Willas turned, the light thump of his cane sounding like the distant beat of a war drum as he descended the hill.
Ten Years Earlier — Highgarden
Willas Tyrell sat in silence in his chambers, grief clinging to him like a heavy cloak. The air felt stifling, the room too quiet despite the faint rustle of the wind through the open windows. It had taken nearly a month for the news to reach them—a month for word of the Sept of Baelor's destruction to crawl across the Reach. His father, his brother, his sister—all dead.
No raven had come.
Instead, it was one of their agents in King's Landing who had carried the news, riding day and night to deliver the horror in person. The man had stumbled into Highgarden's halls, dusty and gaunt, his face etched with the haunted look of someone who had seen far too much. He had knelt before Lady Olenna, his voice breaking as he recounted the explosion, the wildfire, the screams.
It had been four days since then. Four days since the life they had known was shattered. Lady Olenna had almost become catatonic, her sharp tongue silenced, her presence reduced to a fragile shell of itself. Garlan, ever the blade of the family, had vented his grief in the training yard, destroying half a dozen dummies in a storm of rage. And Willas—Willas had done nothing. He had sat in silence, shock washing over him like a tidal wave, drowning his thoughts, his words, his strength.
Now, the fourth day had dawned, and a servant found him seated by the window, staring out over the golden fields of the Reach.
"My lord," the servant said hesitantly, her voice soft. "The Lady Olenna requests your presence."
Willas nodded slowly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane. He forced himself to his feet, his leg aching as he steadied himself. The familiar pain grounded him, though it did little to ease the hollow weight in his chest.
With the light tap of his cane echoing through the hall, Willas made his way toward his grandmother's chambers. He had just reached the long corridor leading to her study when Garlan appeared, his strides brisk and purposeful.
"Ready, brother?" Garlan's voice was steady, but his eyes burned with fury. There was a storm behind them, a tempest barely contained. Willas could see the tension in his movements, the way his hands flexed at his sides as though longing for a blade. Word had spread quickly through Highgarden; Garlan had already begun calling up the levies, preparing for war.
"As ready as I can be," Willas said quietly. He could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him. Garlan, Lady Olenna—the Reach itself—would look to him now. The strategist. The eldest son. The one who was meant to lead.
The two brothers entered the room together. It was darker than usual; the curtains were half-drawn, leaving the space dim and somber. The familiar scent of parchment and fresh-cut flowers hung in the air, but even that seemed muted. Their grandmother sat at her desk, her frame stiff but diminished. For the first time, Willas saw her not as the unyielding matriarch of their house, but as an old woman carrying the weight of unimaginable loss.
Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, looked disheveled. Her hair was loosely pinned, strands falling around her face, and her gown was slightly wrinkled, as though she hadn't changed in days. Her eyes were rimmed red, though no tears fell now. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze distant.
When she finally looked up at them, her voice was softer than Willas had ever heard. "Come," she said, gesturing for them to approach. "We must plan now."
Her words held none of their usual bite, none of the acerbic wit that had made her legendary. But there was still a spark in her eyes, faint but resolute. Grief had dulled her, but it had not extinguished her.
Willas nodded, stepping forward with the faint, rhythmic tap of his cane. His brother, Garlan, stood beside him, the tension in his frame visible. He hadn't yet sheathed the rage that burned within him—Willas could see it in the tightness of his jaw and the way his fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword.
"Our levies are being called as we speak," Garlan said, his voice steady but edged with controlled fury. "Banners will rise across the Reach."
"Not quickly enough," Olenna snapped, though her tone lacked its usual bite. She looked between her grandsons, her gaze sharp despite the tears that had stained her face. "The lords will need more than a raven to rouse them. If we send word to the Fossoways, the Redwynes, and the Hightowers, they'll answer, but words alone won't remind the Reach who we are. You two must go. Personally."
Willas glanced at Garlan, who gave the faintest of nods. "Oldtown, then," Willas said.
"Oldtown first," Olenna agreed. "Leyton Hightower must be the first to strike his banners."
Garlan's brow furrowed. "Grandfather won't refuse. The Hightowers have always stood with Highgarden."
"Leyton won't refuse," Olenna said, her voice softening. "But the rest of the Reach must see it. The sight of Hightower banners riding to war under the Tyrell name will do more than words could ever achieve. Leyton's loyalty will be our first step, but it cannot be the last."
"And the Redwynes?" Willas asked. "Surely they'll answer the call. grandmother is their blood."
"Blood ties are not what they once were," Olenna replied, though there was no malice in her tone. "Paxter Redwyne will follow, but he'll weigh the cost first. You know how his mind works. He'll want reassurances."
"Then we give them to him," Willas said firmly. "The Arbor is a cornerstone of our strength. If the Redwynes strike their banners and Oldtown follows, the rest of the Reach will have no choice but to fall in line."
Olenna's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Reach will follow, yes. But only if they believe we've learned our lesson." She paused, her voice thick with emotion. "Do not make me bury more children, Willas."
Willas felt the weight of her words settle deep into his chest. He reached out, taking her hand gently. "I swear it, Grandmother. We will return."
As they prepared to leave, their mother, Alerie, appeared at the doorway. She was dressed in mourning black, her face pale and drawn. She reached for Garlan first, cradling his face between her hands. "You have always been my strength," she whispered. "Return to me, my son."
"I will, Mother," Garlan said, his voice thick with emotion. "We will reclaim what is ours."
When Alerie turned to Willas, tears brimmed in her eyes. "You've always carried too much, my sweet boy," she said softly, cupping his cheek. "Come back to me, no matter what shape our house takes."
Willas swallowed hard, pressing a kiss to her hand. "I will, Mother. On my honor."
She smiled faintly, though sorrow clung to her features. "Go, my loves. May the Seven watch over you."
As Willas and Garlan mounted their horses, Alerie watched them with quiet resignation, as if she knew in her heart that she might never see them again. And in that moment, the weight of their duty felt heavier than ever.
Garlan and Willas rode out from Highgarden with a contingent of twenty men-at-arms and five knights. Among them was Ser Isaac Willards, a man as solid as the destrier he rode—a massive white horse that looked more like a draft beast than a warhorse. Ser Isaac's graying hair and broad shoulders marked him as a man who had seen battle, and his calm, watchful demeanor steadied the men around him.
Above the gates, Lady Olenna and Lady Alerie stood silently, watching the column prepare to depart. Their mother, still draped in black mourning clothes, appeared distant, her grief plain on her face. Olenna, in stark contrast, wore the colors of House Tyrell boldly, the golden rose displayed prominently on her chest. No words were spoken, but the brothers pulled their horses aside and lifted a hand in farewell.
"Worry not, brother," Garlan said, his voice firm. "We will return, and with the might of the Reach behind us."
Willas, sitting tall despite the pain already creeping into his leg, gave a faint nod. "Yes, we will. And our enemies will remember that roses have thorns."
Their pace was relentless. Each day began at dawn and stretched until the last light of evening. The horses were pushed hard, but not beyond their limits; it would do no good to arrive with dead mounts. For Willas, the journey was torture. The old injury in his leg flared with every jolt of the saddle, the throbbing pain growing worse as the days wore on. Sleep offered little respite, as the ache often woke him in the early hours.
He did not complain. He could not. The fate of the Reach hung on their success, and Willas would not let his body's weakness betray his mind's strength.
On the fifth day, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, the gleaming spire of the Hightower came into view. Its beacon burned faintly in the fading light, a constant reminder of Oldtown's power and permanence. The brothers rode through the city gates, noting the emptiness of the cobbled streets. The usual bustle of merchants and townsfolk was absent, replaced by an eerie stillness.
"Strange," Garlan murmured, his hand resting near the pommel of his sword. "Oldtown is rarely so quiet."
"It's unsettling," Willas admitted, his voice tight with exhaustion.
When they entered the courtyard of the Hightower, Willas dismounted slowly, his leg protesting with a sharp jolt of pain. Garlan moved to help him, but Willas waved him off, his pride forcing him to stand tall, even as his face betrayed the strain.
Baelor Hightower met them at the gates. Known for his handsome face and bright smile, Baelor was uncharacteristically grim as he approached. He wasted no time on pleasantries. "Come quickly," he urged. "We must hurry. Word has reached my father, and it is for your ears first before your men."
Alarm flared between the brothers, but they followed Baelor as fast as Willas's leg would allow. The corridors of the Hightower were dimly lit, the flickering light of torches casting long shadows. When they entered Leyton Hightower's private study, their grandfather rose from behind a wide desk of polished wood. He was a tall man, his posture still regal despite the weight of his years.
The study at the top of the Hightower was a vast chamber, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and maps. The warm glow of the hearth did little to banish the weight of the news that hung in the air. Leyton Hightower stood behind a wide desk of polished oak, his posture tall but heavy with grief. His lined face bore the marks of age and sorrow, his eyes tired but resolute.
"Sit," Leyton said softly as Willas and Garlan entered, his voice a calm contrast to the storm of emotions roiling within the room. He gestured to the two chairs before his desk, and the brothers obeyed, though Garlan perched on the edge of his seat, his body taut with barely contained rage.
A sealed letter sat on the desk between them, the wax broken and the parchment slightly crumpled. Leyton's hand lingered on it for a moment before sliding it across to Willas.
"This arrived a day before you," he said quietly. "I wanted you to hear it from me first."
Willas took the letter, his hands steady even as his heart raced. He unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words. Highgarden sacked. Defenders slaughtered. Olenna Tyrell, slain. Alerie Tyrell, slain.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Garlan leaned over his brother's shoulder, his jaw tightening as he read the same words. A guttural sound of anguish escaped his throat as he shot to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He turned and drove his fist into the wall with a roar.
"Garlan!" Willas called sharply, but his brother didn't stop. His fists slammed into the stone again and again, the skin splitting and blood streaking the pale surface. The sound of flesh on stone echoed through the room like thunder.
"Garlan, enough!" Willas pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg as he hobbled toward his brother. When he grabbed Garlan's arm, his brother's elbow caught him in the nose, sending a jolt of pain through his face. But Willas didn't let go.
"Garlan! Stop!" Willas barked, his voice cracking. He latched onto his brother's shoulders, his weight dragging Garlan back from the wall. "Listen to me!"
Garlan slumped against the wall, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His rage burned out in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming wave of grief. He slid down to the floor, his head in his hands. Willas followed, the sudden shift sending a jolt through his bad leg. He bit back a groan, lowering himself to his knees as tears streamed down his face.
"They're gone," Garlan said hoarsely, his voice breaking. "Mother… Grandmother… Highgarden…"
"I know," Willas said softly, his own voice trembling. He reached for his brother, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I know, Garlan. But we're still here. Do you hear me? We're still here."
The door opened, and Baelor entered the room quietly, his normally bright face shadowed with worry. He knelt beside them, one hand resting on Garlan's shoulder. Leyton had risen from his chair, crossing the room to stand behind his grandsons. His large, weathered hands came to rest on their shoulders, grounding them.
"They will pay," Leyton said, his voice soft but firm. "But not in blind fury. Vengeance alone will not rebuild what we've lost."
Willas raised his head, meeting his grandfather's gaze. "What do we do?" he asked, his voice raw.
Leyton's grip tightened slightly. "We rebuild," he said. "We gather our strength, call our banners, and remind the Reach who we are. Oldtown stands with you. My banners will rise before the sun sets."
"And the Arbor?" Willas asked. "The Redwynes?"
"Paxter will follow," Leyton replied. "He's a cautious man, but not a coward. He knows his strength lies in unity. You'll go to him after this, and the sight of Hightower banners riding alongside Tyrell ones will make your case stronger."
Garlan finally raised his head, his bloodied hands shaking as he clenched them into fists. "They slaughtered our family," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "How can I sit here and plan when they've stolen everything from us?"
"Because you must," Leyton said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Do you think I don't want to ride out and burn them all to the ground? To see the fields of the Tarlys and their ilk salted and lifeless? I do. I've lost my daughter to their treachery. But vengeance without purpose is a fool's errand. If we act out of fury alone, we'll lose everything."
Garlan clenched his jaw, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees. Willas placed a hand on his arm, his voice quiet but firm. "Grandfather's right. The Reach doesn't need us to rage. It needs us to lead."
Leyton nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at his grandsons. "You carry the hopes of your house now. The Tyrell name still carries weight. You must use it wisely."
Garlan exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his body. "We'll make them pay," he said, his voice calmer now. "But we'll do it on our terms."
Leyton smiled faintly, a glimmer of approval in his tired eyes. "Good. Remember, my boys: a rose's beauty is its deception. Its strength lies in its thorns. The world has forgotten your thorns. It's time to remind them."
Willas glanced at Garlan, who met his gaze with a determined nod. Together, they rose to their feet, their grief momentarily tempered by resolve. Leyton stepped back, his hands clasped behind him as he watched them.
"We leave for the Arbor tomorrow," Willas said. He turned to his grandfather, his voice steady. "Thank you, Grandfather. Oldtown's strength will not be forgotten."
Leyton inclined his head. "Nor will the strength of my grandsons. Go now. Rest. The road ahead will not be easy."
As they left the solar, the weight of their mission pressed down on them. But for the first time since Highgarden's fall, they carried more than grief. They carried purpose.
The ill news continued to pour in for House Tyrell, each new blow striking like a hammer against their already fragile resolve. As if orchestrated by fate itself, Cider Hall had been sacked. The message had arrived at dawn, carried by a weary and dust-covered courier whose eyes bore the weight of tragedy. The once-proud seat of House Fossoway, known for its golden orchards and strong walls, was now nothing more than ash and ruin.
"I will not continue to sit here! My wife is there!"
Garlan Tyrell's roar echoed through Lord Leyton's solar, his voice thick with fury and desperation. His fists slammed against the heavy oak table, rattling the goblets and knocking over a flickering candle. His brother Willas had reached for him, but Garlan was already moving.
None could restrain him. Not Willas, not their gathered bannermen, not even the wisdom of their grandfather. He stormed out of the chamber, his eyes ablaze with determination, and within the hour, he was riding out with the men who had accompanied them from Oldtown.
The journey was relentless—Garlan drove his men hard, his thoughts consumed by fear and the aching need to see Leonette safe. Each hoofbeat against the road felt like a countdown, every hour a torment. Days passed in a blur of sweat, dust, and mounting dread. Then, as if by divine providence, they came across the survivors.
Leonette.
She stood among the tattered remnants of her people, her clothing torn and stained with the filth of their flight, her long golden hair disheveled and wind-tossed. Yet even in the ruin around her, she remained bright and defiant, her eyes blazing with the stubborn strength that had made him love her beyond all reason. Garlan leapt from his horse, crossing the distance between them in strides. He held her close, inhaling the familiar scent of her despite the smoke and blood that clung to her clothes.
"My love," she whispered, her voice trembling against his chest. "Cider Hall is gone."
Garlan closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "You are here. That is enough."
But not everyone had made it.
Beside Leonette stood Edric Fossoway, the boy who had always been called the spare—now the Lord of a hall that no longer stood. His face, usually full of youthful mischief, was pale and drawn. His armor, dented and dulled by battle, hung loosely on his frame. Yet despite it all, Edric stood tall, his grief hardening into a quiet, dangerous resolve, a man at ten and two.
"I will rebuild," he said simply, his green eyes locking onto Garlan's. "We both will."
Garlan nodded, his hand gripping Edric's shoulder. "Aye, lad. We will."
By the time they returned to Oldtown, the once-quiet harbor had transformed into a staging ground for war. The banners of House Hightower billowed proudly in the sea breeze, their beacon gleaming above the city like a silent guardian. The great fleet of the Redwynes, its sails a sea of crimson and gold, lay anchored in the harbor, their warships intermingled with the Hightower vessels. Willas had exchanged ravens at an alarming rate with the Arbor, concessions were made and now the Arbor stood with them.
More banners had arrived in their absence—fewer than Garlan had hoped, but more than he had feared. Survivors from the Reach, men who had escaped the fires of Highgarden, gathered in small bands, their numbers pitiful, their eyes haunted. Some had brought their families, ragged and starving, clinging to hope that their liege lords would provide refuge.
But no one from Highgarden itself had been seen. The great seat of House Tyrell, the heart of their strength, had vanished like a dream turned to ash.
In the war tent, Garlan Tyrell sat in silence, his once-vibrant eyes dull with exhaustion, his gaze locked onto the maps spread before him. Lines of ink traced the lands they had once held, now occupied by enemies. His fingers, once so deft with a sword, traced the river routes they would take, the castles they would reclaim, the vengeance they would carve into the earth itself.
Willas, ever the strategist, stood at his side, his brow furrowed with thought. "We must be patient," he said, his voice measured. "We strike only when the time is right."
But Garlan shook his head, his voice thick with the weight of loss and longing. "No," he said, his hand tightening around the pommel of his sword. "We strike back now."
A silence settled over the tent, heavy with unspoken resolve. The gathered lords, the knights and captains who had come seeking leadership, exchanged uneasy glances. They had lost much—too much—but the Tyrells still stood. And where roses once flourished, their thorns remained sharp.
Edric Fossoway, standing among them with fresh bruises and a steel will, raised his chin. "For my father," he said, his voice firm. "For Cider Hall."
Garlan's gaze moved to Leonette, standing quietly by the edge of the tent. She met his eyes, and in her steady gaze, he found his answer.
"For Highgarden," Garlan said, his voice unwavering.
A chorus of agreement rose around him, banners lifted higher, swords unsheathed. Their strength had gathered, their purpose set.
And vengeance would follow.
Seven days later, they stood before the ruined gates of Highgarden. The white walls were stained black, carrion birds circling overhead. Willas and Garlan rode ahead, moving through deserted streets choked with debris and dried blood. The gates had been battered down, but no bodies remained. Only silence and the heavy scent of death.
The surviving smallfolk had gathered the bodies of their fallen lords, knights, and kin, burying them in mass graves beneath the orchards and near the garden beds that once flourished under Tyrell rule. The scent of fresh earth mingled with the acrid stench of charred wood and blood. Those who survived had done what they could, their hands raw and blistered from digging shallow graves for their loved ones. No songs were sung; the dead were given to the earth in silence, the only eulogy the quiet sobs of grieving widows and orphaned children.
"They took everything," the frail old man whispered, emerging from the shadows of a crumbling building. "The Lannisters and Tarlys stripped the keep bare—gold, silver, tapestries, even the food from our stores. They left nothing but ashes and ruin."
Willas swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. "And my family?"
"We buried your mother in the old Tyrell way, under a sapling in your family plot. But your grandmother... they took her head. The monsters." His voice broke, and his daughter, soot-stained and weary, stepped forward.
"I saw it," she whispered. "Your mother made her stand in the great hall. She cut down a Lannister knight and a Tarly footman before they killed her. She saved us, bought us time to escape."
Garlan clenched his fists, his eyes burning. "They will pay. For every drop of blood."
Willas, though visibly shaken, straightened his back and turned to his brother. "We will rebuild, Garlan," he said, his voice firm despite the grief. "Highgarden will rise again, and those who did this will answer for their crimes."
They would only stay two days in Highgarden. The once mighty and beautiful castle and town now felt like it was inhabited by ghosts. Spectres of fear and anguish remained within its walls. The brothers had poured over their maps, Edric in tow. Baelor stood in on the conversations as well. They would march after planning. Their goal was to catch up to the Lannisters and the Tarlys. They would ride from the gate, leaving a garrison of four thousand behind to act as a shield against Horn Hill.
After a while, Willas dismissed the old man who had served the Tyrells for generations. "We have many enemies to contend with, my dear sir. I have not much to give, but I bid you to gather all of the survivors and make way to Oldtown. I will provide escort. For the services you have rendered me, you and yours will always have a hearth and home amongst my own." He then took out a small pouch of coins—what little remained. The Tyrells had long since opened an account in the Iron Bank and put away a nest egg. "Gather yourselves and go," he said with quiet authority. He looked to Garlan, who nodded and moved off to gather mounted soldiers to provide escort for the survivors of Highgarden.
Later, Willas found himself alone in their private family plot. All the Tyrells who had ruled Highgarden were put to rest here. He stared down at the fresh earth where his mother had been laid to rest, tears brimming in his eyes. He knelt painfully, resting his hand on the dirt, his fingers curling into a fist, gathering the earth in his palm.
"You should not be here... You should be at our side... foolish woman... don't you know that we need you still..." he whispered hoarsely.
Slowly, painfully, he stood and moved to another fresh plot—his grandmother's. "Grandmother... I still need your guidance. I learned from you... like Margaery, I was always your shadow. I learned much, but I feel I still have much to learn. I will avenge us... I will avenge you. We will take back what was stolen from us... We will grow strong."
His gaze hardened, his resolve strengthening as he wiped away the tears. The weight of legacy and vengeance pressed down upon his shoulders, and with a final nod to the graves, he turned and limped away, his cane tapping against the stones like the ticking of fate itself.
The column moved swiftly and with determination. It was three days out of Highgarden when a scout rode towards them as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. "My Lords!" he yelled loudly as he came upon Willas and Garlan. "My lords, the Dragon Queen has attacked the combined army of Lannisters and the traitor Tarly. Thousands have been drowned in dragon fire. The survivors are fleeing this way!" The man spoke hurriedly, his face pale with fear.
Garlan and Willas exchanged a look. "Then we make haste. I will not suffer any Lannister or Tarly to scatter to the winds," Willas stated matter-of-factly. They would form up with two thousand heavy mounted cavalry and move ahead of the main column. The main lines would form to block the road.
The party soon came across bands of men in Tarly livery running for the hills. A couple of hundred maybe... not many all things told. It didn't matter as the cavalry formed a wedge. They stood atop a hillock, looking down on the fleeing men. Smoke curled in the distance where the battle had raged, the acrid scent of burnt flesh and charred earth carried on the wind.
Willas raised his sword, his voice cutting through the stillness. "Charge. Bring me one survivor, no quarter to the rest. The Tarlys wish to break bonds of friendship? Then I will show them what that means. The Lannisters—I will never suffer a Lannister in the Reach again!"
Garlan did not refute his brother. Instead, he lowered the face mask of his helm in silent agreement. Willas, clad in lighter armor, ignored the risks and pain in his leg. "I will lead the van," he declared. Garlan, after a moment of hesitation, relented.
"Men of the Reach!" Willas bellowed, his voice carrying across the ranks. "We have been bloodied, we have been betrayed. Let retribution start here! Slaughter the beasts!"
The cavalry surged forward like a crashing wave, their lances lowered, hooves pounding against the earth in a deafening chorus. The first ranks of the fleeing men barely had time to turn before they were swallowed whole by the advancing horsemen. Screams filled the air as Tarly men were cut down where they stood, swords and spears finding flesh with brutal efficiency.
Willas's blade struck true, cleaving through the shoulder of a soldier who barely managed to raise his weapon. Blood sprayed across his armor and face, staining the green and gold of his cloak. His horse trampled over bodies, his sword swinging with relentless fury. The battlefield became a crimson-stained canvas of death, the acrid scent of blood filling his lungs.
Within minutes, it was over. The field was strewn with the dead, and the cavalry reined in, their breathing heavy. The road ahead was littered with bodies, some moaning, others silent forever.
His men dragged a struggling Lannister soldier forward. "My lord, we have a survivor."
Willas dismounted slowly, masking the agony in his leg as he hobbled forward. He was still bathed in blood cutting a fearsome figure. His men stood on either side of the Lannister, swords pressed to his throat.
"You were fleeing the Dragon Queen," Willas said, his voice like steel. "I can see the fire and smoke from here. Give me your report, and if it is to my satisfaction... I will not kill you."
"A-after Highgarden... we were going back to King's Landing... We heard the roar of hooves... at first, we didn't know what was happening, but we were lined up in formation... when she came... from the clouds on a great black beast... she cut through us with fire... those... those fucking savages followed behind ..our lines were split...We could not rally and everywhere that great beast came...destroying resistance. "
Willas nodded grimly, his lips thinning. "Dothraki," he muttered under his breath. "Just what we need." He may support the Dragon Queen, but he would not allow the Dothraki to run unchecked. "Go on," he said softly, his gaze cold and unwavering.
The prisoner swallowed hard. "Some of us managed to get away till you caught us here... The Dothraki rode down most of them... the rest they herded off away from the battlefield... I... I didn't see what happened next."
Willas stared at the man for a long moment before speaking. "You've served your purpose." He turned his back, hobbling towards his horse. "Kill him."
The Lannister soldier thrashed, his voice breaking in desperation. "B-But you said I could live!"
Willas paused, glancing back with icy disdain. "No... I simply said that I would not kill you."
A flash of steel, and the soldier's head rolled onto the ground, his body crumpling lifelessly.
Willas turned to his men. "Gather every head. If they are Westermen, send them to the nearest castle in the Westerlands. As for the Tarlys... send one head to Horn Hill, send heads to every house that has rebelled. The rest, line up on spikes along the road. Take the bodies, and burn them."
"Was that display necessary?" Garlan asked when they were left alone, aside from Edric and Baelor. Edric looked pale and shaken, his knuckles white against the hilt of his sword. Willas turned to his brother, his expression unwavering.
"Yes," he said firmly. "The Reach and the rest of Westeros must know that we are still strong. They must know we will not let insults slide... they must know we are not the Knights of Summer. We may be the Roses of Highgarden, but the petals hide our bloody thorns."
Baelor nodded, his face grim. "It will do good to remind them of it... fools."
Author Note
(( This will be part one of two of The Rose that Hides the Bloody Thorns. I am hoping to make it much better than I originally made, this is technically a rewrite of Chapter Five even though I never published the first chapter five here.))