Only A Northern Song ~ Game of Thrones / Willas Tyrell ~

Chapter Eighty: Dragon Rebellion

"If you ever find yourself with the option of taking me into town for a night of fun, and I ever find myself stupid enough to agree, I want you to break my other leg," Willas told Oberyn only a few hours after their dragon incident. "Or, in fact, just kill me. Either way, better than this."

Willas looked haggard and drawn out, like he had spent a night trawling around Dornish taverns drinking his troubles away. It was his own fault he looked so terrible and felt so rough, and he could hear his grandmother's cruel remarks in the back of his head, as well as imagine the look of disappointed concern his mother would give him if she could see his state of appearance. It truly was the worst hangover of his life, made worse by the worries of what his family would think should they see him, made worse by the fact that Oberyn looked as glorious as ever, completely untouched by their evening activities and completely amused by his state of exhaustion and panic.

"It is a headache, my dear, you are so very dramatic," Oberyn replied casually, and despite very little sleep was looking as fresh as the daisies that grew in Willas' home gardens.  "You should have gone to sleep the minute we got back here, rather than pace about for hours panicking."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you not see the fucking dragon that was staring at us?" Willas exclaimed in baffled frustration.

"They lose their charm once you get used to them," Oberyn shrugged, as if housing three growing dragons in his keep was the most casual thing in the world. He caught Willas glaring at him, and broke into laughter. "I'm joking, they don't. They're a terrifying wonder. You see those beasts and meet their mother, and somehow our ancestors rolling over and surrendering to the conquerors makes a great deal of sense."

Were he not still pacing while Oberyn was on the other side of the room, reclined on the chaise longe by the wide-open window, Willas would have punched him. He wanted to, mostly just to knock off the smug look from his face and make his handsome friend look as rough as he felt, but he was a guest in Oberyn's home, and his parents had raised him to have better guest manners than resorting to spontaneous scrapping. Instead he settled for glaring at him, and he carried on pacing as his mind raced with the prospect of meeting the visitors from the east, whose identity was less of a mystery since meeting who Oberyn had called Viserion.

He'd had about an hours sleep, an hour that had been filled with not only the faces of his lost loved ones as usual, but of his new friend Viserion, and her brother dragons who he was yet to meet and more than happy to not come face-to-face with quite so soon. He wished he'd had the chance for more rest, but what sane man met an extinct beast and didn't have an existential crisis that caused insomnia? It was frustrating, because had he known the guests of the East were so important, he may have restrained his drinking the night before, but instead Oberyn expected him to meet the last Targaryen and her party of dedicated followers as an aching, exhausted mess. He'd strutted into his bedchamber looking as fresh as morning dew, announced that he was going to take him to meet with them, and expected Willas to go along with it all merrily. The reality was quite different, as Willas battled both a hangover and panic at the seemingly never-ending revelations, which was why he was delaying the meeting for as long as possible. The longer he paced, the longer he spent in his night clothes unready for the day, the longer he had to think about everything.

Perhaps spontenaity would have helped, if he had just gone bounding straight to meet the Easterners and the Mother of Dragons straight away, but Willas had never been a fan of spontaneous decisions. He liked to plan, to think things through. His wife had been like that too, never speaking unless she knew exactly what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. She had paused her hesitancy with him when they grew closer, a thing he classed as a great privilege, and he knew with stinging despair that she was the one he wanted to talk to the most about what and who awaited him. The grief that washed over him was almost refreshing, since his hangover and repetitive pacing meant his head ached and his knee twinged, and she was a welcome distraction from his changing world. Everything about the world was suddenly so different, but missing her was familiar.