(( I know some people are going to come at me for how parts of this chapter play out, but look—I can't please everyone. I'm trying, and I'll continue to try. I am not trying to be a dick.
Someone commented elsewhere, asking why Bran didn't just slaughter Willas and Garlan, then burn down Oldtown and the Redwynes. Let me think… Westeros is in ruin, most of the armies are decimated, the Hightowers have one of the strongest remaining forces, and the Redwynes still have a powerful fleet.
If you kill their family, what do you think is going to happen? You stupid idiot.
Exile makes far more sense—it's a way to unruffle feathers and avoid open rebellion. And if you want to make sure the Tyrells never reach their destination? Well, you can always arrange for a quiet, unfortunate accident along the way... hence the mysterious shadow saving them.
And while yes you can of course march on Kings Landing ( Whats left of it). Bran can also just go ahead and kill them. So I can see why Oldtown and the Redwynes may abide by it. Perhaps none of it truly makes sense but I am legit trying here.
Yes some things will not completely make sense but if he can make diplomatic overtures to the Hightowers and Redwynes, which the Redwynes are most likely to accept which will force the Hightowers to accept, he can start to consolidate his reign. If he straight up kills Willas and Garlan then he is looking at more war.
I know I'll never be able to please everyone, but I feel like this is just common sense.
Now, about Willas' breakdown in this chapter. I know people are going to ask, why now? Well, here's the thing: he's spent the last year throwing himself into his work.
Garlan and Leonette have had each other. They've cried together, supported each other, and begun processing their grief. Willas, on the other hand, has done nothing but work. He hasn't given himself a moment to breathe, let alone grieve. Now that they're on the ship, the rush of survival is over. There's nothing left to distract him. That's when everything crashes down.
It's not why now?—it's of course now. For the rest of you guys and gals that are enjoying this story, Thank you very much. You people are the reason I will continue to write this. If I wanted every choice I made I would have stayed married. I have opened up another story that is on Lord of the Rings called So Others May Live and I am going to start writing a companion piece for The Last Dragon that will cover the adventures of the Tyrells in Essos. I never intended for Chapter Five to turn into what it has but really looking at it…I mean lets really really look at it…It has the grounds for being a military adventure unlike any I have ever seen. So I am going to write one more part for Chapter Five…Then proceed with a Spinoff piece Called The Legion of Thorns. Chapter Six will finally pick back up with the main story. Sorry this one has been a helluva rabbit hole...YES IM RAMBLING! ))
The Narrow Sea
Silently, Garlan Tyrell pulled on the rigging alongside his men, his fingers raw from the rough rope. The salt air stung his skin, and the rhythmic creak of the ship filled his ears, a stark reminder of how far they had fallen. Ser Bryce and Ser Isaac, the only knights who had made the journey to King's Landing, now stood as the de facto commanders of their remaining forces. They were no longer lords of a vast and fertile kingdom but fugitives adrift in the unknown, clinging to the remnants of their shattered legacy.
All the men aboard had lost family in Highgarden's fall, and in their shared grief, they had remained loyal to the Tyrell brothers. Garlan was grateful for that loyalty, though it felt like a fragile thing—an ember clinging to life amidst the wind and tide.
The rigging strained under his grip as he pulled, and with a grunt of effort, he managed to secure the sail. He was no sailor; neither he nor Willas had been, though they had sailed the Mander in their youth, enjoying the river's steady flow. But the open sea was a different beast entirely.
Few of their number had real sailing experience, save for a handful who had worked the docks in Oldtown or on the small ships that ferried supplies from Highgarden's riverside ports. Now, they relied on faith and desperation as much as skill. The ship lurched, catching the wind at full tilt, and Garlan wiped the sweat from his brow, his muscles aching with unfamiliar labor.
His thoughts drifted to Leonette.
He found her at the bow, her fingers gripping the wooden railing tightly as the wind tugged at her golden hair. The moonlight cast a soft glow upon her features, and despite the sadness in her eyes, she remained as breathtaking as the first time he had seen her. Political unions were rarely built on affection, but theirs had flourished beyond mere duty. She was his strength, and he hers.
Moving to stand behind her, he laid his large, calloused hands gently on her shoulders. She leaned into his touch, the tension in her frame easing slightly.
"What now, Garlan?" she whispered, her voice carrying over the waves. "My home is gone, Highgarden is gone... and we have a babe on the way."
He tightened his hold on her, his voice firm but laced with an unspoken promise.
"We survive, my love. We are not finished yet." His gaze drifted out to the endless horizon, dark and uncertain. "We've long prepared for hard days, putting coin away in the Iron Bank. I never thought we'd need it like this... but it will see us through. We will survive, and our child will be born in safety. One day, we will walk the fields of the Reach again—come fire and brimstone, I swear it."
Leonette turned her head slightly, offering him a soft smile despite the shadows in her eyes.
"Ever the gallant knight, my lord husband. I believe you. With your strength and Willas' mind, we will find a way." She placed a gentle hand over her stomach. "Our child will know their homeland, not as a memory, but as it should be."
A gust of wind tore through the ship, and Garlan glanced toward the stern where Ser Bryce barked orders to the men struggling to secure the remaining cargo. The journey had been fraught with tension; whispers of their narrow escape still lingered. Garlan could not shake the suspicion that their exile had not been meant to be peaceful. The shadows that had aided their flight from King's Landing had ensured they lived, but for how long? Had they stayed, he had no doubt they would have met an unfortunate fate—a convenient accident, an ambush, or a quiet execution passed off as justice.
He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to the top of Leonette's head.
"We will be stronger than before. Let them think us gone. We will rise again."
Leonette nodded, whispering, "We must. For us, for our child... and for those we left behind."
But Willas...
The cabin door remained closed most hours of the day, a silent testament to the grief that consumed his older brother. Willas had locked himself away with his wine and his thoughts, speaking little, eating even less.
Garlan could count on one hand the number of times Willas had emerged since they had left the smoking ruins of King's Landing behind. Each time, his gait had been unsteady, his skin pale, and his eyes hollow, as though he was trapped in some distant memory far beyond the reach of those around him. The man who once outwitted lords and whispered strategies that had secured their family's fortunes now barely spoke at all.
The worst of it was watching him drink.
It started subtly—a cup of Arbor Red sipped quietly in the evening, the rich scent lingering in the stale air of his cabin. But it grew. By the third day, Willas rarely set the goblet down, and the flicker of candlelight revealed more empty bottles than full ones.
Leonette had left plates of food outside the cabin door only to find them untouched hours later. She would glance at Garlan with silent, pleading eyes, and he would offer a reassuring smile he didn't quite feel.
But the truth was undeniable—Willas was fading.
On the fifth day at sea, Garlan stood at the ship's rail, staring out at the endless expanse of water, his thoughts drifting to the past. He thought of Highgarden, of sun-dappled courtyards where his mother once sat beneath the shade of an old oak, watching with gentle eyes as he and his siblings played among the roses.
He thought of Loras, always brash, always laughing, riding like the wind through the golden fields.
He thought of Margaery, clever and kind, her soft voice weaving through the halls like music.
And then he thought of Willas—his quiet, thoughtful older brother, always burdened with duty, always seeing paths no one else could. Even as a boy, Willas had been cautious, thinking five steps ahead while others rushed into the fray. He had been their anchor, their guiding hand.
And now... now he was drowning in a sea of regret.
Garlan tightened his grip on the railing, his knuckles whitening. He recalled the nights after their escape from King's Landing, standing outside Willas' cabin door and hearing the faint clink of bottles and the low murmur of his brother speaking to ghosts that could not answer.
One evening, Garlan had knocked softly, waiting, hoping for an invitation that never came. Instead, Willas' voice, thick with drink and sorrow, had drifted through the wood.
"I should have seen it coming," Willas had murmured, half to himself. "I should have... Gods, Garlan, I was blind... All of it... All for nothing..."
Garlan had rested his forehead against the door, closing his eyes, wishing he could say something that would make it better. But there were no words for this grief, no strategy that could undo the past.
Later that night, the ship rocked gently on the restless sea, the timbers creaking as if whispering of their uncertain fate. Moonlight filtered through the warped wooden shutters of the captain's quarters, illuminating the figure slumped at the small table. The air was thick with the pungent scent of spilled Arbor Red, and the half-empty bottle rolled lazily against the table's edge with each lurch of the ship.
Willas Tyrell sat hunched over, his once-proud posture bent beneath the weight of loss and shame. His fine tunic, now wrinkled and stained, clung to his frame like a shroud.
From the doorway, Garlan stood in silence.
"You'll drown yourself in that bottle before the waves ever get a chance," he said, his voice low but firm.
Garlan stepped forward, prepared to save his brother from the ghosts that threatened to consume him.
Willas didn't look up. He merely stared into his cup as if it held the answers he so desperately sought.
"Perhaps that's for the best," he muttered bitterly. "We're dead men walking anyway."
Garlan's jaw tightened. He moved to the table, grabbing the bottle and tossing it aside. It clattered against the floor, spilling its ruby contents across the wood like spilled blood. Willas flinched but made no move to stop him.
"Enough," Garlan said, his voice hard. "This is not you, Willas."
Willas let out a mirthless laugh, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. "And what am I, brother? A crippled fool? A failed lord? A puppet who thought himself a player?"
He slammed his fist against the table with sudden force, rattling the empty cup. "I was blind, Garlan. Blind and arrogant!"
His voice rose, ragged and thick with self-loathing.
"I sat in Highgarden, smiling, planning, plotting—thinking myself so damn clever. Playing the game, as Grandmother called it. But it was never our game to win, was it? It was a fool's dream." His face contorted with rage. "I should've seen it! Olenna—Seven hells, Grandmother was too clever for her own good! We schemed, we plotted, and in the end, we lost everything. And Father? Gods, he was too busy feasting and grinning to see the wolves circling our garden."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it—only bitterness and regret. "I followed their lead, Garlan. I smiled and nodded as we bent the knee to Renly, then to Joffrey, then to Tommen, and then to that fucking Dragon Queen! We changed loyalties like the wind in a storm, and now look at us—cast out like weeds, our home stolen by cutthroats and sell-swords!"
His voice cracked, raw and filled with fury. He stood abruptly, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands. "Margaery, Loras... they're dead because of us! Because we couldn't hold our damned ground! We betrayed ourselves for crowns made of air and alliances built on sand!"
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving. "We schemed and we fucking lost, Garlan! What do we have left?! Tell me!"
The cabin fell into heavy silence, the weight of his words hanging between them like a storm cloud ready to burst.
Garlan stood still, his blue eyes locked onto Willas, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a sudden motion, his hand lashed out—an open palm striking Willas across the face with a resounding crack.
Willas staggered, his head snapping to the side, his breathing ragged as he touched his stinging cheek. His wide eyes blinked in shock, as if the strike had jolted him from the pit of his despair.
"Get a hold of yourself!" Garlan's voice was sharp, filled with the fire that had always burned within him. "Yes, we lost. Yes, we failed. But do you think sitting here wallowing in self-pity will bring them back?!"
He grabbed Willas by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.
"We are not the first to fall, and we won't be the last. But we're still breathing, damn you! Our family still lives, and that means we have a chance to rise again."
Willas's eyes welled with unshed tears, his jaw trembling as the weight of it all pressed down upon him.
Garlan softened his grip, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. "You're not alone in this, Willas. I need you. Leonette needs you. Our people need you. We may not have Highgarden, but we still have each other. And by the Seven, I will not watch you waste yourself like this."
Willas swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion. He looked away, his voice hoarse. "I don't know if I can, Garlan... I don't know if I have the strength."
Garlan's expression softened, and he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Then lean on me, brother. You are the mind of House Tyrell. You always have been. We need that mind now more than ever."
He squeezed Willas's shoulder. "We will find a way. We will reclaim what is ours, inch by inch, petal by petal."
For a long moment, Willas said nothing, only staring at the table, his fingers tracing the outline of the carved rose sigil. Finally, he let out a shuddering breath and gave a slow nod.
"No more drink," he muttered, pushing the cup away.
Garlan smiled faintly, the hint of relief showing on his face. "Good." He reached down and picked up the discarded bottle, tossing it into the waste bucket. "Get some rest. We've a long road ahead."
As Garlan turned to leave, Willas's voice stopped him.
"Garlan."
He turned back, raising a brow.
Willas's lips curled into a small, weary smile. "Thank you."
Garlan nodded, his own smile touched with sadness. "We'll get through this."
He left his brother alone in the dim cabin, the weight of their past and future pressing down on them both.
As he made his way back to Leonette's side, where she waited with silent strength, Garlan allowed himself one thought—
One day, they would return.
And the Reach would bloom again.
The next morning, the sound of retching woke Garlan from a fretful slumber. Blinking against the dim light filtering through the cabin, he turned to see Leonette hunched over her chamber pot, her delicate frame trembling with each heave. Without hesitation, he swept out of bed and knelt beside her, gathering her golden hair in his hands to keep it from falling into the mess. He held her gently, whispering soft reassurances as her sickness slowly subsided.
When she finally leaned back into him, her breath ragged and body weak, she murmured, "Sorry... our young one seems to play as we rest. It often makes me ill." She managed a faint smile, though her face was pale and drawn. After a moment, her eyes flicked up to his. "Did you speak to Willas? I heard raised voices."
Garlan exhaled, running a hand down his face. His thoughts were still heavy with the weight of last night's confrontation. The crack of his palm against his brother's face still echoed in his ears, and shame gnawed at him. "Aye," he said quietly. "We spoke... I lost my temper. I struck him."
Leonette's brows furrowed in concern, but she said nothing, letting him continue.
"I've never laid a hand on my family outside the training yard," he admitted, his voice thick with regret. "But to see him brought so low, drowning himself in wine and grief... it was too much to bear." He sighed heavily, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "Willas was always the strongest of us, in his own way. Even with his leg, he raised hounds, hawks, and horses better than anyone. He outwitted lords twice his age. I once saw him match wits with Randyll Tarly and win—gods curse his name." He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. "He should have been one of the greatest lords of Westeros. And now..."
Leonette laced her fingers through his, squeezing gently. "Emotions run higher with family than with anyone else, my love. But tell me, do you think you reached him? Or will he slip further away?"
Garlan hesitated before answering. "I don't know," he admitted. "I think... I think he's spent so long burying his grief under duty that he never truly faced it. While we mourned, he worked. He was so focused on holding the Reach together that he never allowed himself time to grieve for what we lost—Margaery, Loras, Grandmother... all of it."
Leonette nodded thoughtfully, her gaze distant. "We had each other to lean on, but Willas... he stood alone. He always carried more than his fair share."
Garlan sighed and gently lifted her into his arms, laying her back down on the bed. "Rest now, my love. Once your stomach settles, I'll see your fast broken." He kissed her forehead and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "I will go check on Willas."
Garlan Tyrell moved like a storm through the ship, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind raced with every grim possibility—his brother had been broken these past days, drowning himself in grief and wine. What if the ghosts had finally claimed him? What if Willas, so tormented, had done the unthinkable?
The thought sent a cold chill through his veins.
His boots pounded against the wooden floor as he shoved open cabin doors, his voice sharp with urgency. "Where is he?"
Men roused from their rest, the ship stirring to life around him. Isaac and Bryce fell in beside him, their expressions taut with concern.
"Seven above," Isaac muttered. "He wouldn't..."
Garlan didn't answer. He didn't have to.
By the time they reached the deck, the sun had barely begun its ascent, streaking the sky in molten gold and deep indigo. The sea stretched endless before them, shifting with the morning tide, but Garlan saw none of it.
His eyes found him.
Willas stood at the ship's wheel, hands steady on the worn wood, guiding the vessel eastward.
For a moment, Garlan could only stare.
Gone was the broken man of days past. His brother stood tall, his bearing unshaken, his clothes neat and pressed, his dark hair combed with precise care. He still leaned on his cane, but the weight of despair was gone.
His gaze was sharp. His hands did not tremble.
The fire that had once burned in Willas Tyrell's mind had returned.
Ser Bryce exhaled slowly, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Before the sun rose, he came up here," the old knight murmured, almost reverent. "Took the wheel. Said we'd drift off course if we kept our heading." A slow smile ghosted his lips. "He's been there ever since."
Garlan swallowed hard, relief crashing over him like a tide. He climbed the steps to the helm, his steps measured, his heart in his throat.
"Brother," he said quietly. "Are you well?"
Willas turned his head slightly, his mouth curling into something between a smirk and a smile. His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.
"Aye, Garlan," he said. "I'm done chasing ghosts."
The words settled deep in Garlan's chest.
Something had changed.
And then, without another word, Willas stepped away from the wheel.
The men had gathered. Some still rubbed sleep from their eyes, others stood rigid, expectant. Edric Fossoway lingered near the front, his green eyes burning with something between awe and determination. Leonette stood beside him, pale from illness but radiant with hope.
And then Willas spoke.
His voice did not shake.
"Men of the Reach."
Silence fell over the ship.
"For too long, I have been lost. Blinded by grief, weakened by despair. I have drowned myself in wine, wallowed in sorrow, while you—my blood—stood by me."
His cane struck the deck once.
"You have suffered. You have lost your homes, your families, your land. You have watched the Reach burn. You have seen Highgarden, our great and noble seat, stolen by traitors."
His voice sharpened, cutting through the morning air.
"And yet you are here. With me. With us."
His eyes burned as they swept across the gathered men.
"I have been a fool," he admitted, the words coming like steel dragged across stone. "I have failed you. I let grief take hold. I let them take everything from us. But no more."
His cane struck the deck again.
"No. More."
A murmur ran through the men, low and tense, like a bowstring drawn too tight.
Willas's voice rose, commanding, unyielding.
"You are my brothers. Not just Garlan's men. Not just my retainers. You are my blood."
He turned his gaze to Edric, the boy who had lost everything, yet stood before him with unshaken loyalty. "Edric Fossoway, I have known you since you were a child. You are my brother as much as Garlan, as much as Loras."
He looked to Leonette, his voice softening, but only slightly. "Leonette, you are my sister, as much as Margaery ever was."
His gaze swept back to the men, harder now, fiercer. "Each of you stands before me, not as outcasts, not as beggars, but as Tyrells. Our house was uprooted—but roses have thorns."
Silence.
And then—
"We will take back our home!"
The roar that followed was like a storm breaking over the deck.
Willas lifted his cane and pointed eastward. "Not as beggars! Not as exiles! We will forge our path! Essos is filled with suffering! The Free Cities are at war! The Golden Company is shattered!"
His voice did not break, did not falter.
"The world is ripe for men of purpose!"
A voice rang out—William, the sandy-haired youth from the Mander. "You... you'd raise an army, my lord?"
Willas turned, and in that moment, he did not look like a man crippled at birth. He looked like a lord of war.
"I will build one," he declared, his voice like a hammer striking steel. "Not just swords-for-hire. Not just mercenaries. A legion. A force that will shake the world."
His eyes swept over them.
"We will give purpose to the lost. Strength to the broken. We will earn our power, and when the time comes, we will return to the Reach—not as exiles. As conquerors."
The murmurs became a roar.
"You have my word, by the Seven and the Old Gods—those of you who stand with me now will be rewarded. The lords of the Reach denied us. Tarly betrayed us. But when Highgarden is ours again, you will rule beside us. You will rise with us."
Silence, thick and heavy.
And then—
"We follow you, my lord!" Edric's voice rang true.
The cry erupted.
"To Highgarden!"
"To the Tyrells!"
"To the Reach!"
Willas let the cheers wash over him, standing taller than he had in months. He turned to Garlan, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Garlan saw the man his brother had always been—strong, determined, unbreakable.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and embraced him tightly. "You've given us hope again, Willas," he murmured. "I always knew you had it in you."
Leonette approached as well, placing a gentle hand on Willas's arm. "And I have no doubt you will lead us home," she whispered.
Willas nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "Together," he said. "We will return. We will take back what was stolen."
Then, as the wind whipped around them, he turned back to the men. His voice, raw with passion, rose once more.
"We are the sons of the Reach, the blood of green and gold!"
The men, already roused, pounded their fists to their chests in unison.
"We are the thorns that cut deep, the roots that cannot be pulled!"
Their voices rose, a rolling thunder of defiance.
"When the storm rises, we do not break!"
"When the fire comes, we do not burn!"
"We stand together, bound by oath, stronger than steel, sharper than blades!"
The deck shook beneath their feet as they shouted, their cries carrying over the sea like a battle horn.
Willas lifted his cane high, as if it were a banner in the wind. His next words were not a plea, not a promise—but a vow.
"We take back what is ours, inch by inch, step by step!"
And the men roared the final words in unison, voices like wildfire on the wind:
"For home! For vengeance! For Highgarden!"
"We rise! We fight! We endure!"
Garlan felt his heart hammer in his chest. The fire in his brother's voice, the unbreakable resolve in their men's faces—this was no longer a desperate band of exiles. This was something greater.
This was the beginning of a reckoning.
Willas turned to his brother, gripping his arm tight, his breathing ragged but his spirit unshaken. His next words came like the toll of a war bell.
"Now," he said, voice dark with purpose. "We begin."
As the ship sailed steadily eastward, the horizon stretched before them—vast, uncertain, waiting.
The Reach had been lost.
But the Tyrells would rise again. The Legion of Thorns would Grow.
The wind carried the scent of salt and brine as their ship crested the last rolling wave, the hull groaning as if in relief after its long journey. The Titan of Braavos loomed before them, a vast, weathered giant hewn from stone, standing sentinel over the entrance to the lagoon. Its legs straddled the narrow mouth of the harbor, its arms resting on the hilts of unseen weapons, as if ever ready to cut down those who approached unbidden. The wind howled through its hollows, and Garlan swore he heard the echo of a deep, guttural moan—a warning, or a welcome, it was hard to tell.
Through the Titan's gaping legs, Braavos unfolded beyond the veil of morning mist, a city like no other in the known world.
Rising from the sea on a hundred scattered isles, the city shimmered in the dawn light. Slender towers crowned with domes of polished copper and beaten gold glinted in the early sun, their spires reaching skyward like the fingers of old gods grasping for the heavens. Bridges arched over dark, glimmering canals, winding like veins through the heart of the city. The waters bustled with life—flat-bottomed barges, narrow skiffs, and proud Braavosi trading galleys with billowing crimson sails.
Leonette, pressed against Garlan's side, let out a hushed breath. Her fingers, resting on her swelling belly, curled slightly as she took in the sight before her.
"It looks unlike any place I have ever seen," she whispered, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the stillness of it.
Garlan tightened his hold around her waist, his eyes tracing the skyline—the domed roof of the Sealord's Palace rising from its own fortified island, its great halls housing the rulers of Braavos for centuries; the House of Black and White, half in shadow, half in light, its doors closed and watching; the massive Iron Bank, its austere facade standing like a temple to gold and power.
But it was the Arsenal of Braavos that captured his attention.
A city within a city, a bastion of naval supremacy, it stretched along the waterfront like the spine of some ancient leviathan. Dry docks yawned open, revealing the ribs of half-built warships, while teams of craftsmen moved with seamless coordination, hammering planks, weaving ropes, fitting oars into place. Forges belched smoke into the sky, the scent of molten iron thick upon the air.
Even from this distance, Garlan could see it—a navy being built in a matter of days, not months. Westerosi shipwrights would agonize over a single warship for years, but here, in Braavos, an entire fleet could be conjured forth in a season.
He glanced over his shoulder. Willas was watching, too.
His brother stood at the helm, steady despite the uneven sea, his hands firm upon the wheel. His gaze had fixed on the Arsenal, calculating, absorbing, planning. Even now, after all they had lost, he was thinking ahead.
The gangplank struck the dock with a hollow thud. The time for silence had passed.
Willas was the first to step off the ship.
The broken oar that served as his cane thumped upon the wooden planks, yet he did not falter. His head was high, his shoulders straight. He did not look like an exile, nor a man stripped of his lands and titles. He looked like a lord.
Garlan followed, keeping close to Leonette as she descended, his hand ever steady at her back. The men of the Reach disembarked behind them, their armor dulled by salt air, their boots heavy upon the dock, but their movements disciplined. Even displaced and scattered, they still carried the bearing of soldiers.
Willas turned back to them, his voice calm and measured. "Tonight, we find an inn. In the morning, I meet with the Iron Bank and begin preparations for our stay in Braavos. We cannot live our lives in an inn."
A faint sea breeze rustled the green cloaks some still wore, though the sigil of their house was absent. Their banner no longer flew—but the rose still had its thorns.
Braavos had opened its gates to them. Now, they would decide what to do with it.
The fog lay thick upon the streets of Braavos, rolling in from the sea like a creeping tide. The city's canals sat still and black, mirroring the flickering lanterns of its endless alleys and bridges. No sound carried in the mist, save for the distant groan of shifting ships and the occasional call of a nightbird.
Ahead, the Iron Bank stood like a fortress carved from the bones of the earth.
Its great black pillars, ancient and unyielding, stretched toward the sky, disappearing into the gloom. The entrance was a pair of massive iron doors, smooth and unmarked by sigil or script—power here needed no heraldry. It existed, silent and absolute.
Willas Tyrell paused at the threshold, running his fingers over the rough wood of his broken paddle oar, now splintered and worn from their long exile at sea.
At his side, Ser Isaac shifted, his gaze flicking from the doors to Willas.
"Your cane, my lord," he murmured, watching as Willas gripped it absently.
Willas studied the worn relic for a moment before holding it out.
"Take it," he said. "Find a craftsman—one who works in lacquer and gold leaf. Have it remade. Green and gold, for House Tyrell."
Ser Isaac accepted it with a solemn nod. "And in the meantime?"
Willas lifted his chin, ignoring the dull ache in his bad leg.
"I will manage."
Isaac hesitated but did not argue. He turned, disappearing into the mist, leaving Willas alone before the doors of the most feared institution in the known world.
He took a slow breath.
And stepped inside.
the interior was as silent as a tomb.
The ceiling, impossibly high, was vaulted like the ribs of some long-dead beast, its black marble walls slick with polished perfection. Rows of iron-gated vaults stretched into the darkness, each one holding fortunes greater than the wealth of kingdoms.
The air was dry—too dry. No scent of food, no warmth of fire. This was a place of gold, ink, and cold inevitability.
Dozens of scribes and clerks moved in eerie silence, their whispers no louder than the scratch of quills on parchment. No words were wasted here.
Wealth did not require speech. It merely watched.
Willas was led through narrow halls lined with iron doors, each guarded by blue-cloaked sentries whose eyes never left him. At last, a pair of massive ebony doors swung open.
The chamber beyond was as vast as a king's hall, yet utterly without excess.
There were no chandeliers, no tapestries, no golden thrones.
Only a long, polished table of black wood, cold and unyielding as stone.
Seated before him were four Keyholders, their robes the deep blue of the Iron Bank, lined with silver thread. These were not lords, not kings—but something far worse.
They did not rise.
They did not greet him.
They only watched.
At the head of the table, the eldest Keyholder—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and silver-streaked hair—steepled his fingers.
His voice was smooth, precise, and sharper than a razor's edge.
A broad-shouldered Keyholder, built like a former sellsword, let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"Westeros is a graveyard of bad investments," he said. "We backed Stannis Baratheon—dead. We backed Cersei Lannister—dead. Even the Golden Company, once our most reliable investment, proved worthless."
His voice was heavy with disdain, as if merely speaking of Westeros was an insult.
He leaned forward. His cold gaze swept over Willas, taking in the absence of sigils, finery, or power.
"And now, we are to believe that you, a crippled exile with no army, will succeed where kings and conquerors failed?"
He scoffed.
"Tell me, Lord Tyrell—what makes you different from the last Westerosi beggar who darkened our halls? We, the Iron Bank, are listening."
The insult hung in the air like a blade.
Willas did not blink.
"I am not here to beg," he said evenly. "I am here to offer you profit."
The shrewd-eyed Keyholder, a woman with streaks of silver in her dark hair, arched a brow. "A profit requires an investment, Lord Tyrell. And investments require collateral."
Her voice turned colder.
"Tell me. What collateral do you have, beyond your name?"
Willas let the room sit in silence for a long moment.
It was a dangerous game—showing too much patience before men like these—but it was necessary. The Iron Bank held wealth beyond counting, but they also held something far more valuable: control. They were not kings, not warlords, not conquerors.
They were calculators of risk.
And right now, he was the risk.
Finally, he spoke, his voice measured and steady.
"I have access to the Tyrell Vaults," he said, letting the words carry through the chamber. "Stored here, in Braavos. Funds that remain untouched."
The gaunt Keyholder's fingers stilled.
"You do," he murmured. "And yet you are here, requesting more."
Willas inclined his head, allowing the admission.
"The vaults are enough to begin, but not enough to sustain what I intend to build. I do not ask the Bank to shoulder the burden alone—but to stand as a partner in a venture that will be profitable to us both."
The elderly Keyholder with ink-stained fingers gave a small, mirthless chuckle.
"You assume," he said, "that we wish to continue investing in Westeros."
His voice turned flat, emotionless.
"The Iron Bank has been bled dry by your people's wars. We backed the Crown for centuries, lending to Aegon the Fourth, to Maekar, to Aerys the Mad. Every war, every rebellion, every so-called 'rightful heir' to sit the Iron Throne has come to Braavos with a hand outstretched and a promise of repayment. And how often have those debts been honored, Lord Tyrell?"
Willas remained silent.
The broad-shouldered Keyholder, the one built like a former sellsword, sneered.
"You wish for a partnership, yet you offer only the ruins of a house that no longer exists. Your ancestral seat was stolen, your bannermen scattered, your banners torn down and burned. What remains of House Tyrell, beyond one crippled exile and a handful of knights?"
He let the words hang, his smirk deepening.
"You have a purse," he said, nodding toward Willas. "That much, we acknowledge. But a purse is not power. A purse does not command armies, nor reclaim kingdoms."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Tell me, Lord Tyrell. What are you? A banker? A merchant? Or a beggar with a noble name?"
Willas exhaled slowly.
"You could turn me away," he admitted. "You could refuse this investment and wash your hands of Westeros forever."
He paused, letting the suggestion linger in the air, heavy and final.
Then he leaned forward.
"But if you do," he said, his voice sharpening, "you will not just lose gold."
A flicker of movement—the shrewd-eyed woman's fingers stopped tapping against the table.
"You will lose fear."
The room stilled.
Willas pressed on, his voice low, but implacable.
"The Iron Bank's reputation is built on one unbreakable truth. That when you are owed, you are paid. That when debts are left unpaid, they are collected, in gold or in blood."
He let his gaze sweep over them.
"Tell me, if you abandon Westeros, what message does that send? That the Bank can be ignored? That a Crown can default, and there will be no reckoning? That the Bank is only as strong as the kings who honor it?"
A sharp silence.
Then, for the first time, the gaunt Keyholder shifted.
"You speak boldly," he murmured. "Perhaps too boldly."
Willas did not break his gaze.
"I speak the truth," he said.
The broad-shouldered Keyholder let out a slow, deliberate breath.
"You argue that we cannot afford to abandon Westeros," he said. "But it is not a question of fear. It is a question of profit. We do not collect debts for vengeance, Lord Tyrell. We collect them because gold that is not returned weakens the Bank itself."
He tapped the table.
"And so I ask again—why should we back you? What do you have that we cannot buy elsewhere? There are other men in Westeros, men with land and armies. Why not fund them?"
Willas did not hesitate.
"Because none of them control the greatest trade routes in the Seven Kingdoms."
That got their attention.
The shrewd-eyed woman studied him closely. "Explain."
Willas straightened.
"My House was the greatest trading power in Westeros. The Lannisters had gold, the Baratheons had kings, the Starks had swords—but we controlled the harvests, the ports, the flow of commerce."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"And that power still exists. Not in Highgarden. Not in Westeros. But in two places that remain untouched by war—Oldtown and the Arbor."
A pause.
Then, finally, the elderly Keyholder spoke, his ink-stained fingers clasped before him.
"You claim that these two ports remain loyal to you?"
Willas gave a faint, knowing smile.
"Loyalty is a fragile thing. But commerce is eternal."
He leaned forward.
"The Arbor's wines flow across the known world, sought after by *lords and kings alike. Oldtown is not only the wealthiest city in Westeros—it is the gateway to all Westerosi trade. Every ship from Dorne, from Lannisport, from the Stormlands—they all pass through Oldtown first."
He let the weight of those words sink in.
"And yet," he continued, his voice soft, "Braavosi merchants have never had full access to these trade routes. You are taxed more heavily than Westerosi merchants, outbid by the nobles who control the docks. The Iron Bank holds fortunes, yet it pays for goods it could control outright."
The shrewd-eyed woman raised a brow.
"And you would change that?"
Willas nodded.
"You back me, and Braavos will have preferred access to the Arbor and Oldtown. No tariffs. No inflated costs. The finest wines and western goods at Braavosi prices, before they even reach the Free Cities."
A slow, heavy silence filled the room.
The gaunt Keyholder finally nodded to the scribe.
"Write."
The quill scratched against parchment.
"The Iron Bank will provide an initial investment—a loan sufficient for weapons, training, and provisions. In return, the Legion of Thorns will operate under our discretion for the first five years. Targets will be chosen by us, not you. You will collect our debts. You will remove our obstacles."
A long pause.
The shrewd-eyed Keyholder studied him.
"And if you fail?"
Willas met her gaze without hesitation.
"I won't."
The elderly Keyholder's lips twitched in amusement.
"We shall see."
The scribe slid the contract forward.
Willas took the quill.
And signed.
The road wound its way through the mist-laden hills beyond Braavos, a narrow ribbon of pale stone slick with morning dew. From the window of the wheelhouse, Willas Tyrell gazed upon the lands the Iron Bank had allotted him, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.
Behind them, the city of Braavos faded into the haze, its domes and towers softened by distance. The Titan still loomed on the horizon—an unblinking sentinel, watching over the lagoon, guarding the Free City against those who came as beggars or conquerors.
The land they approached was no Highgarden. There were no golden-green fields stretching to the horizon, no great rivers winding through rolling meadows. Instead, the terrain was stark—stone and soil hardened by salt and wind, shaped by centuries of sea air. It was a place built for function, not beauty.
At Willas's side, Ser Isaac sat in quiet thought, his keen gaze studying the landscape with the scrutiny of a soldier assessing a battlefield. Across from them, seated with the practiced ease of a man who wielded influence as effortlessly as others wielded steel, was the Iron Bank's representative.
The man was lean and severe, his features sharp and angular, his eyes like chips of cold iron. His robes, midnight blue embroidered with silver, bore no house sigil, no personal mark—only a small, unassuming clasp of the Iron Bank.
Everything about him spoke of calculated indifference.
He had not given his name, nor had he offered a single unnecessary word during the journey. Willas had not seen fit to offer him any courtesy in return. The man was here to observe, to measure, to ensure that the Bank's investment did not turn into another failed gamble.
The silence was broken as Ser Isaac shifted, reaching beneath his cloak.
"My lord," he said, his voice steady but low, carrying the weight of something greater than the object he held.
From the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a length of polished wood and gold, setting it upon Willas's lap with quiet reverence.
Willas lifted it carefully, his fingers gliding over the lacquered surface—deep green and rich gold, woven with intricate rose motifs, punctuated with sharp, engraved thorns just beneath the petals.
The weight was perfect. The balance, precise. The gold fittings were not mere ornamentation but reinforcement.
His grip tightened around it. A weapon hidden in grace.
Ser Isaac's voice was quiet, deliberate. "I commissioned a master craftsman as you asked, my lord," he said softly. "It bears the colors of your house, a reminder of what was lost and what you mean to reclaim."
A pause.
Then—
"Our house."
Willas's correction was soft, but firm.
Isaac stilled.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, there was no lord and knight—only brothers in exile.
"Our house, Isaac. I mean to raise you up, yes—to your own station one day—but you will ever be my brother. Just as every man with us."
Isaac dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. He said nothing—for what could he say? What lord would ever lower himself to a knight's station? Even a lord who had lost everything, Willas Tyrell, was still noble in all that truly mattered. He carried himself as such. Isaac was not.
Willas turned his gaze back to the cane, running his fingers over the golden vines and thorns etched into the lacquer.
Then, his thumb found the near-invisible groove.
A flick of pressure, a soft click.
A seven-inch dagger slid free from the top of the cane.
Willas's lips curled into a feral grin.
The blade was serrated, honed to a razor's edge, its steel dark as the depths of the Narrow Sea.
Isaac watched, his voice unreadable. "There may come a time when words fail, my lord."
Willas turned the dagger slowly, watching the edge catch the gloomy morning light.
"When deals and diplomacy are not enough," he murmured, finishing the thought. "Every rose needs a thorn."
A pause. Then, with quiet gratitude, he added, "A thoughtful gift, Ser Isaac."
Isaac inclined his head. "A necessary one, my lord."
Willas's fingers tightened around the golden grip of his cane
The wheelhouse creaked to a stop.
For the first time, the Iron Bank's representative spoke. His voice was smooth, cold, and utterly indifferent, as if they were mere specks barely worth his notice.
"This is what has been allotted to you," he said, glancing out the window without a trace of personal investment. "Your training ground. You will have to arrange for the building of your own barracks and quarters. Materials will be allocated at a discounted rate."
Then, with the barest hint of amusement:
"Best of luck on your venture."
Willas did not grace the man with acknowledgment. Two could play this game.
He stepped down, cane tapping against the hard-packed earth.
The land stretched before them—windswept, barren, a vast field lying just beyond the reach of Braavos. It was secluded from the city itself but close enough for ease of access. To the south, small fishing villages dotted the coastline.
Now, it was nothing.
But Willas could already see it.
In his mind's eye, it was coming together—barracks, fortifications, a home for them all. Stables, armories, siege works, archery ranges. A harborage along the coast, fields that would one day sustain an army. A stronghold. A foothold in Essos that would endure long after the Reach was reclaimed.
A place where House Tyrell's vengeance would begin.
Ser Isaac frowned, glancing around.
"Do you see it, Ser Isaac?" Willas asked quietly, studying the land as if the walls were already rising before him.
Isaac hesitated. "See what, my lord?" he asked, confused. "It's an empty plain."
Willas's lips curled into a knowing smile.
"I can already see barracks, foundries, stables, walls, buildings. Our future is here, Ser Isaac. The reclamation of Highgarden, the Reach itself—it begins here. There is no fertile Reach soil, but there will be."
The banker, still seated in the wheelhouse, gave a disinterested scoff.
"The Iron Bank is not known for its generosity," he called from the window. "We do not invest in sentiment. We invest in profit."
His cold gaze flicked toward Willas.
"Do not fail us, Lord Tyrell."
Willas studied him for a long moment, as if weighing an insect beneath his boot. Then, at last, he spoke.
"You speak of failure as though it were a thing I might choose, as if the road before me forked into ruin or triumph. But there is no choice. There is no path but forward, no fate but the one I make with my own hands. Kings may fall, empires may crumble, debts may be left unpaid, but I was not born to fade into the fog. My house was cast down, my home stolen, my people scattered—but we are not broken. We are not lost. And we are not done."
"Let them call us fallen. Let them call us forgotten. They will learn, in time. For flowers may fade, but the roots remain. And the roots… endure."
.Ser Isaac listened to the Lord of a fallen house, stunned into silence.
The words had not been spoken in anger, nor in desperation. They had been delivered like a
verdict, like prophecy, with the certainty of a man who had already glimpsed the future and found it unshaken by doubt.
Willas turned away without another word, his cane tapping against the earth as he walked.
The sound was steady. Measured. Deliberate.
He was not merely surveying land—he was claiming it. Not with banners or swords, not with the roar of an army, but with something far more dangerous. With vision. With patience. With purpose.
Here, upon this barren stretch of land, they would build. A fortress, an army, a future. The foundation of something greater than the Reach had ever known. And when the time came, when the banners were raised and their ships set sail, they would not return as exiles or mercenaries.
They would return as conquerors.
And to Ser Isaac's ears, the steady fall of Willas's cane no longer sounded like the steps of a crippled man.
It was the drumbeat of war.