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

Chapter Ninety Five: Return of the Gallant

Gods, he wasn't made for running.

Even so, Willas did, or at least, he ambled as quickly as he could from his study out to the castle gates. As he went he passed many staff who double-taked their new lord moving faster than he had done in a while, still whispering about their dowager lady who had sprinted past only moments before. It was impossible to keep up with his mother so he didn't even try, which meant that by the time he got to the gates she was already there, screaming at the guards to open them up and let the visitors in. It wasn't like her, to yell demands, always polite and demure the way a southern lady should be, but Willas understood completely. If his mother felt the way he did, if her heart was pounding like a galloping stallion, if her head was buzzing as if it was filled with an anxious beehive, if she too felt like she wanted to throw up all over the cobblestones until there was nothing left inside... then he was sure he could forgive her lack of manners.

"Do as she says, open the gates," he breathed out, his voice no stronger than a shaken whisper.

By the time he had spoken the gates were already ajar, and Willas took the opportunity to step closer to his mother. It made him feel like a child, but he couldn't help reaching his hand out and finding hers, and she was clearly glad of it as she clasped their hands together tightly, intertwining their fingers without a second thought, squeezing his hand three times. She'd always done that to him as a boy, just as she had done to his siblings, a silent gesture of love, and he wondered which of them needed it the most in that moment as he did the same back to her.

When he tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, he realised just how much he was shaking. He took another deep breath, desperate to still his mind before he faced the inevitable, but then the gates were open and he was practically choking on the air as he caught sight of his brother. Suddenly he felt his mother wrapping her other arm around and it was only when he felt her grab him that he realised the mere sight of his brother had robbed him of all strength and balance, finding it just as flooring as the news of his death had been. He hadn't been able to breathe then either, or see straight, or...

"Hello, mother, Willas," Garlan called, his voice gravelly from nerves as he nodded, an awkward half-smile flashing across his face that disappeared as quick as it came. "Apologies for my late homecoming."

No apologies were needed. Willas was sure Garlan could have been missing for another fifty years and the sight of him would be just as sweet. It didn't matter how long he had been gone, it didn't matter just how much he had wept over him, he was back, and he was home, and that was all that mattered. Willas knew he would have spent the rest of his life waiting for him, and merely glimpsing him and seeing him alive and well made it worth it.

Alive and well might've been pushing it. The Garlan he had said goodbye to in Riverrun was broad and brash, grinning and jesting. That was the Garlan he knew, the Garlan he loved with every fibre of his being. He had been fit, with colour in his cheeks and sparks of life in his eyes that matched Willas' own in colour. Willas had always adored and envied how his brother just constantly seemed at ease in his own skin, constantly sure of his place in the world. Whatever had happened, whatever the Freys had done to him... his brother was much changed. The way he stood was nervous and unsure, as if he didn't know where he was or what to do, and while his left hand was in his cloak pocket, his right fist was clenched around the hilt of the sword on his belt, as if he was primed and ready to unsheath it at any moment. He seemed smaller, as if he had lost weight, paler too like he hadn't seen the sun in years, and his once beautiful shining curls hung limply around his face, shaggy and overgrown, desperate for attention.

Then there was the matter of his face, or, his eyes. Eye. His right was gone, or damaged badly enough to warrant a patch. It was a sleek dark leather, almost the same colour of his hair so it blended in. The stitches were neat, and it was a real feat of craftsmanship, but... but what did it hide? Whatever was beneath was probably why his brother was frowning, grimacing through the aches of an old wound. Willas knew that sensation well enough. Willas wondered what other scars his brother hid, wondered if there were other wounds that were not as visible to the world as his eye was.