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Willas Tyrell His hand did not leave the pommel of his sword when the sound of fighting stopped. Willas couldn't tell who had won the battle, and the deafening silence only made it worse. With Lorne and Ben fighting at the door, every clang of steel had rang like thunder inside the house. It made his bones rattle, but at least then he had known for certain they were not yet doomed.

Margaery had not stopped sobbing in Loras' arms the whole time, and though he tried to put on a brave face, Willas could see the tears in the boy's eyes too. Only Garlan had remained steadfast, comforting his siblings with sweet words as best as he could. Yet every once in a while he would glance toward the end of the house where the fighting would be, flinty resolve darkening his usually warm eyes. Gods forbid the Ironborn were to make it through, Willas knew he would not fight alone, even if he protested.

Garlan the Gallant indeed. He should have named him Garlan the Brave instead. Braver than he, to be sure. Even though he stood still as the Wall in front of his siblings, his heart did not stop hammering inside his chest until Ben hobbled into the room. The guard was clearly in pain, and he was using his sheathed sword as a crutch to help him move.

"It's done, m'lord," he said with a thin smile. Willas almost fell to his knees. Only his grandmother's training allowed him to swallow down the storm of feelings churning inside him and nod to the guard. He needed to be seen as being in command in front of their house's men, always. Turning to his siblings, Willas gave them the best smile he could muster.

"We're safe now," he told them.

"We're safe." With a cry, Margaery and Loras launched themselves toward him, hugging his waist and burying their faces on his shirt as if he'd been the one to save them instead of the guards. Behind them, Garlan let out a trembling sigh. Brave or not, his brother was still a boy.

"Now, stay with Garlan for a moment," Willas said gently. Margaery looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes ready to protest, but he placed a hand on her head.

"Fret not, I'll be back in a second, yes?" Margaery acquiesced and pulled Loras along. Gathering the children up in a hug, Garlan nodded at him over their heads. He understood Willas had a duty. Taking a final breath to center himself, Willas strode out of the living room. Ben had limped back toward the front door while he was seeing to his siblings, and he understood why as soon as he turned the corner. Ben was slumped down against the wall, his clean-shaven face paler than usual.

It was hard to tell against all the blood splattered on his front, but Willas thought he could see a large gash on the man's left thigh. He swallowed. The guard had taken the wound defending them. Lorne hovered over Ben. The older guard seemed hale, if slightly out of breath.

"It's bad," Lorne grunted, inspecting the wound.

"Truly? I hadn't noticed." Ben chuckled darkly.

"Seems this is it for me, eh. Good way to die, though. Taking some Ironborn scum down." He let out a weak laugh again which soon turned into a hacking cough. Willas opened his mouth to speak, to comfort the man, or thank him for giving his life for theirs. The sound of footsteps outside stopped him. The dying Ben had taken all his attention, and for the first time, Willas turned to look out the door. He wished he hadn't as soon as he did.

Bodies littered the grass in front of the house, almost ten of them, though it was hard-counting. Some were without arms or legs. Others without heads. A few limbs seemed to have fallen far from their previous owners. The smell of it all hit him then. It wasn't the rotting stench he'd been expecting either. That would come later. It was blood and piss and shit, all mixed together, wafting up his nose like thick sludge. Bile rose in his throat.

And in the middle of the carnage, Galad walked unbothered past the bodies and up the steps of the front door. A craftsman going about his craft. His sword was still out, hanging by his side as clean as if it'd just left its sheath. Lorne stiffened as Galad came inside. The old guard took a protective step in front of Willas, which only served to confuse him more. What in the seven hells had happened outside? Why was Galad's sword unbesmirched? Had he not helped them?

The woodsman himself didn't seem to even notice the guard. Putting the sword back into its scabbard at his side, he walked past the two of them toward the small kitchen area inside the house. Plants and herbs in clay pots hung from the ceiling there, and Galad picked a few leaves from one of the pots, then a flowerhead from another, and put them all inside a hard wood mortar.

"A good way to die, yes," Galad said, shifting now to rummage through a drawer. He picked out what looked to be a clean bolt of cloth and a sewing kit.

"But you're not dead yet."

"A fuckin' maester too now, are you?" Lorne growled. Galad shrugged, already mixing the ingredients.

"Accidents happen when you wield an axe every day, and out here a man must make do without maesters." Lorne's eyes narrowed.

"Never met no woodsman' could cut men down like that. Who are you?" His hand came to hover over his sword.

"The truth now." Willas felt lost in the middle of the exchange. Lorne was a veteran amongst his father's swords. He'd grown up watching the large man training in the yard, patrolling the halls of Highgarden. Always serious. Always silent. He'd never seen the man string more than two words together. What could Galad have done to disturb him so?

"I'm the man who can save your friend's life, ser." When Galad turned, he had his hands full with the mortar, the cloth, and the sewing kit.

"Will you let me?" Lorne seemed taken aback by the answer. Uncertainty flickered over his weathered face. Veteran or not, he wasn't a man used to making decisions. His eyes shot toward Willas. This time, Willas didn't hesitate.

"Go ahead, Master Galad," he said.

"Ben fought valiantly for the safety of myself and my siblings. If you can slow the bleeding, we'll take him back to the barge. My grandmother doesn't go anywhere without a maester on hand." xx"The man that raised me was a knight," Galad explained as they trudged through the forest. Behind them, Garlan held the leads of a stocky mule and a piebald destrier, the animals pulling the cart carrying an injured Ben and their two younger siblings.

Margaery had insisted she hold Ben's hand as they traveled back toward their family's barge. Willas was proud of her for that.

"He fought in the Rebellions," Galad continued.

"Both Robert's and Maelys'. He taught me what he knew until he passed the year before last."

"I see," Willas said.

"Know that you'll be well rewarded for your service to House Tyrell today." The woodsman nodded, seeming neither enthused nor dissatisfied at the thought of future compensation. That was another oddity to add to the mystery that was Galad. Most smallfolk would be elated at the mere possibility of being rewarded by their lords. Though his knightly upbringing did explain his skills with the sword, Willas still felt like that could not be the full story. Perhaps it was the way Galad held himself.

His choice of words and mannerisms. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. He was not blind to his guardsman's suspicions on Galad either. He'd ordered Lorne to scout ahead in the forest, and the man had balked at leaving them alone with the woodsman. A well meaning thought, but clearly unnecessary in Willas' mind. Had Galad wanted to hurt them, he could have done so at many opportunities.

In the end, Willas did tell Lorne to stay within shouting distance, both to assuage the guardsman and because it was tactically sound in their current situation. They were taking a longer, less traveled path toward the village where the barge had anchored. After Willas gave voice to his fears of an outright Ironborn rebellion, Galad had advised a more cautious approach in their return, and he agreed. Surviving the last Ironborn attack would do no good if they faced another on the way.

"Master Galad," Garlan raised his voice behind them.

"Have the Ironborn raided this area before?"

"Not in generations, I don't think," Galad said.

"I've heard of raids further down the Mouth of the Mander near the sea, but one would be hard pressed to tell between tale and truth." Willas raised his voice.

"Father has not had word of raids anywhere south of the Shield Islands in years," he said.

"There have been attacks by Old Oak and on fishing villages up the Ocean Road, but when they happen, there are not many survivors to tell the tales, and the reavers avoid flying the flags of their lords. Everyone knows it's the Ironborn, but the Reach cannot take empty concerns to the Iron Throne."

"Was this… was this the first time you killed, then?" Garlan asked, his voice shaky.

"The master-at-arms at Highgarden has told me about it before. About how it would feel. About how it could affect a man." Galad did not answer at once. Willas watched as the man's face remained placid beside a slight tightening of the brow. After a long moment, Galad let out a small exhale.

"Yes," he said solemnly.

"In its own way, this was the first time I killed." Despite his calm demeanor, Willas could see that what Galad had done, and that in defense of himself and his siblings, was eating at him inside. His mouth suddenly felt dry. As a hunter, Galad was undoubtedly quite used to killing game for a living. Willas himself had gone on many a hunt with his lord father, and he remembered vividly the first time he was made to finish off a rabbit one of their men had caught.

At only eight years old, he had nightmares of the animal's thin shriek for weeks afterward. But he had never killed a man. Never looked one in the eye and saw the light leave his eyes. Never had to think about tearing a man away from his family. How long would those nightmares last? It would be the height of impropriety for Willas to comfort the woodsman, nor did he think Galad was the kind of man who would wish to be indulged in this manner, so he simply gave him a nod. The time for rewards would come yet.

Once they were back with Willas' family, all would be resolved. Garlan had no answer to that either, his face twisted into a conflicted look. Their party fell silent then. Beyond the sounds of the forest, of insects chattering underfoot, birds singing on the canopies, only the groan of the cart could be heard, the rickety wheels struggling through the uneven terrain, more a hunter's path than a road. Until Galad pointed into the distance. Willas' eyes followed his finger.

Two columns of dark smoke rose up above the trees, marring the clear blue sky like black scars. A third curled up beside them as they watched.

"The village," Galad said, voice grim.

"We were not the only ones attacked." Garlan's eyes widened in realization, and a strangled sob escaped Margaery on the cart. While she held Ben's hand with one of her own, Loras had his fingers interlaced with her other hand. Tears shone in the corner of the boy's eyes, but he did not cry. Their entire family had stopped at the village inn, bringing their cooks and servants to prepare a meal worthy of the Lords of the Reach. Now, he didn't even know if they were still alive.

Swallowing down the knot caught in his throat, he turned to his siblings.

"Our family has more than twenty guards with them," he said soothingly. Somehow, his voice didn't crack as he spoke.

"The Ironborn might have set a few buildings on fire, but the brave men of Highgarden will have fought them off by now.' Garlan gave a fierce nod.

"They are safe," he said.

"They must be." Despite wanting to believe his brother's and his own words, he could not help but feel dread at the prospect of what they would find in the village. They walked a few more minutes in tense silence before Lorne returned. His mustached face—lips in a thin line and brows twisted into a heavy frown—told its own story. Willas' stomach churned. Leaving Garlan with the children, they moved a few feet away to speak with the guardsman where they wouldn't be overheard.

"It's bad, milord," he said once Willas questioned him.

"The barge is afire with half the village. Many dead in the street. The fighting's thick by the inn and the building beside it but… there's more of them than us." Something clenched in his chest at those words, like a cold fist closing around his heart. He looked back at his siblings, at their innocent faces, their eyes glancing at him with mingling fear and hope. His family had not left Highgarden prepared for war today, but war had found them nonetheless. Willas let out an exhale to settle himself.

He had to be strong. For his siblings, for his parents and grandmother who needed him now. For the Reach as a whole. A future Lord Tyrell could not falter.

"We must relieve them," he said, looking between Lorne and Galad.

"Between the three of us, we can make a difference if we strike them from behind, surprise them swiftly and decisively."

"What of your siblings, my lord?" Galad asked. Willas gave him a short look.

"You expect children to fight?"

"No, but someone must stay with them," he clarified.

"There might be stray reavers roaming these woods. It would be unwise to leave them behind now." Willas acknowledged the point with a nod. Of course the man didn't mean for little Loras and Margaery to fight. He was getting frazzled. He found his hands were shaking with the knowledge of what he had to do now. To fight. To kill. And mayhaps, to die.

"You are right, of course," Willas said, trying to keep his restlessness in check.

"You have done much for my family already, Master Galad, but I will ask another favor of you still. Despite my best hopes, I do not know if we will win the day here. And I must secure my siblings before anything else. I beg that you take them under your protection and head toward Highgarden. The guards will open the gates for you when they recognize them. Once there, speak to Ser Vortimer Craner about what happened here and bid him send help. Perhaps… perhaps they will make it in time."

This time, he did not believe his own words at all. Even if they left the cart with Ben behind and mounted the horse and mule, it would be hours until they made it back to Highgarden, and hours more for reinforcements to arrive. But it was better that his siblings, especially Garlan, believed the lie. It would make them more willing to go. Instead of the answer he expected, Galad shook his head.

"That is folly, my lord. You have not the strength of arms to make a difference here. You must be the one to take your siblings with you. I will stay with your man here and relieve the village. Go now, and quickly. We can tarry no longer." Willas didn't know if it was Galad's brazenness which set him off, or his own nerves at the entire situation, but he felt a surge of burning anger rise within him.

"I need not suffer insults from you, woodsman. I am Lord Mace Tyrell's son, heir to Highgarden and all the Reach." His cheeks flushed with heat. How dare this lowborn no one speak to him in this manner.

"This is my duty, not yours. There will be honor and glory in facing my enemies in battle. I will not shame myself by running and hiding with the children while my family bleeds. I will not be thought of as a craven rat." His voice nearly broke as he finished, the fear beneath the fury becoming all the more obvious. Despite the chastisement, Galad's expression did not change. He only looked at him, head slightly tilted, and Willas deflated. He suddenly felt small under those haunting purple eyes. His gaze dropped.

Hot shame flooded him. It was not the way a lord should feel. Not the way his father would want his heir to feel. Willas shook his head, fists opening and closing at his side. He was breathing hard. His lungs felt like they were burning up. He needed to be stronger than this, needed to be in control of himself, needed to bury his fears deeply where none could see, needed to— A rough hand settled over his shoulder. He looked up again in surprise and found the woodsman was still staring at him.

Only the purple eyes had softened now.

"A warrior must know when to stay his blade, even more so than when to wield it," Galad told him.

"This is one such time, my lord. There's no shame in that. Those are grown men out there, veterans of a hundred raids by the looks of it. I imagine you're used to sparring in a cobbled courtyard, where the ground is even and steady, with armor and padding and the lot. What good will your death do but bereave your family of their heir? This is not your fight. Not yet. Leave now and protect your siblings. There's more honor in that than in a thousand glorious, pointless deaths."

Willas felt his eyes widen the more the man spoke. He didn't know what to answer. Lorne grunted beside him.

"Woodsman's right, milord," he said, then spat to the side.

"Hate to say it." He gave a shallow nod at that. Galad was right. Of course he was. Willas felt like a foolish child being confronted with the cruel reality of the world. How could he, a squire of no great skill dressed in silk and velvet, make any kind of difference against dozens of well armed and armored Ironborn reavers? It took another heartbeat for him to find his voice.

"I see," he said.

"Then… so be it. We will do as you say, Master Galad."