Chapter 60

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The urge to dig his heels into his horse and take off warred with his need to ensure that his carefully cultivated image was not discarded in the face of his childish want to run from his worries.

Highgarden had come into view long before, yet the white walls of his ancestral home failed to provide the usual sense of peace Willas had come to associate with it, the sight filling him with an odd sensation.

Guilt, he thought laughingly. It was not an emotion Willas was accustomed to – would not dare think what his grandmother would say should he ever admit to feeling such – but it was there, buoyed by the low words from Lord Randyll.

"…should have reached Sunspear by now," he said. "No doubt they are aware and already moving to take the castle."

"How long until we receive word?" Willas asked, eyes darting to the side. His uncle Baelor had joined them from Oldtown, and he had felt a spark of unease at seeing his grandfather with him. Lord Leyton had locked himself in the Hightower a year ago; that he came out now boded ill for Willas' plans to restore the Reach's allegiances.

Word had reached them in Oldtown of the king calling for men to gather, the man eager to deal a blow to the Dornish, and the city had been teeming with activity from the port to the taverns to the lowliest whorehouses. Had he not expected something of the sort – had the Dornish not known they were courting chaos by gathering – he might have worried, but Willas knew another Dornish War would be avoided. It was the other whispers that left him unsettled.

Talk of a new King of the Stepstones had been rife along the harbour, sailors bringing word of the newest pirate king. Willas had known Dorne would cause talk in King's Landing, but he had underestimated the king's fear of the Dornish – fear enough that he would assume they had allied with a pirate king. He had sent his own guards into the city to learn what they could, his unease growing as they brought back whispers from drunken sailors of a shadowbinder in the Stepstone, of a bastard Blackfyre come to unleash horror on the Seven Kingdoms.

Dragons and magic, he thought, the rumours of his grandfather and aunt coming to mind.

"A fortnight at most," Lord Randyll replied. "A sennight, if the winds are fair."

Unspoken was Lord Potter-Black's contribution to their sails. Willas had seen his share of blood and war, but nothing so fantastic and terrifying as what Lord Potter-Black had been capable of. And the dragons…the Gods had answered their prayers in the oddest ways, with fire and blood coming to Westeros once more.

Willas led a procession of armoured knights forward, the line stretching far beyond what he could see. There were tents arrayed outside, the banners of all the Houses of the Reach present as their lords sent some representation. The rest remained to the north, ever vigilant of the unspoken threat to their lands, but the men-at-arms on the walls would witness the might of the Reach quickly mustered to answer their liege's call.

Beesbury, Blackbar, Bulwer, Costayne, Cuy, Florent, Hightower, Mullendore, Sherman, Peake, Redwyne. Vyrwel; they had all joined Willas as he made to return to Highgarden, catching up to Lord Tarly as he neared his home. The Shields had sent near two hundred men each with either their heirs or second and fourth sons in the case of Lord Hewett, their lord fathers remaining behind with the fleet to ward off any Ironborn reavings.

A dozen guards met them at the gates, the men leading the way through the briar labyrinth Willas and his brother had once raced to memorize. House Tyrell was lined outside the castle doors, the entirety of his family present to welcome Willas and their bannermen. His father had a cheery smile, despite the grim situation they had convened for, and Willas could almost hear Lord Randyll grinding his teeth.

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