Willas Tyrell's expression remained composed as the Kingsguard's gauntleted hand came to rest upon his shoulder, though beneath that calm mask, his heart hammered like a war drum against his ribs.
Then the change began.
His entire frame trembled as warmth flooded through him like summer wine, and joy mixed with disbelief bloomed across his gentle features like roses after rain. Without seeking the King's leave, he rose from his seat with hope burning bright in his eyes. Hesitant at first, he shifted his weight—then took one step, then another.
Normal steps. Whole steps. Steps without pain or the shameful drag of a twisted limb.
"Willas! Your leg—it's healed!" Ser Garlan and Margaery cried out in unison, their voices thick with joy for their beloved brother's deliverance.
Even the Queen of Thorns could not entirely mask the satisfaction that softened her sharp features. Here was a gift beyond price. If all Highgarden's gold and grain could purchase nothing more than this miracle—the healing of her grandson's twisted leg—then every dragon spent would be well worth the cost. Castles could be rebuilt, coffers refilled, but to see Willas whole again...
Joffrey's smile was gentle as morning light. "Tell me, Willas, are you pleased with this gift?"
The heir to Highgarden composed himself with visible effort, the euphoria of his healing giving way to the gravity of the moment. He sank to one knee before the Iron Throne's surrogate, his voice steady despite the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.
"Willas shall never forget Your Grace's mercy. From this day until my last, I pledge my life to your service and offer all that I am to your cause."
Joffrey raised a hand in dismissal. "I have no need of your death, Willas. But I do have need of your service."
The words fell like stones into still water, and the warmth that had filled the chamber drained away like wine from a broken cup.
The Tyrells straightened in their seats, every jest and smile vanishing as the weight of serious discourse settled upon them once more. The Queen of Thorns appeared suddenly frail, her eyes closing as though the very air had grown too heavy to bear. Willas schooled his features back to careful neutrality and returned to his seat, awaiting whatever task his king would set before him.
Joffrey's gaze lingered on Lady Olenna before settling upon the newly healed heir.
"The rebels who have gathered beneath Lord Rowan's banners at Old Oak command considerable strength. House Oakheart stands with them, and nearly every lord of the northern Reach has thrown in his lot with their cause. They field a formidable host."
The Queen of Thorns remained silent as stone, and with Lord Mace absent from this crucial gathering, the burden of response fell to Willas. The weight of Highgarden's future rested upon his shoulders now, and he could feel every eye in the chamber measuring his words before he spoke them.
What game was the King playing? Was this some subtle accusation regarding Highgarden's own recent rebellion? Surely there was no need for such indirection.
In the space of a heartbeat, years of education flooded through his mind—lessons in history, politics, and the deadly dance of lords and kings. Several possibilities presented themselves, each more dangerous than the last.
"Indeed, Your Grace, such a gathering demands our full attention," Willas replied with careful diplomacy. "Might I inquire as to your intentions regarding these rebels?"
Joffrey raised his hand and tapped the polished table once. Light bloomed above the wooden surface, resolving into a perfect three-dimensional map of the Reach, complete in every detail down to the smallest hamlet and hunting lodge.
Willas fought to keep the shock from his features. By the Seven, such detail! The projection was more accurate than Highgarden's own charts, drawn with a precision that spoke of recent and thorough surveying. When had such work been undertaken? How had it escaped their notice?
The King's finger descended upon Old Oak like a falling sword. "Lord Tywin even now leads thirty thousand men south along the coastal road. He will reach Old Oak within days, and when he does, victory shall be swift and certain."
Willas held his silence, though his mind raced. Highgarden had learned of Tywin's march two days past and had been preparing reinforcements. Now, it seemed, such aid would prove unnecessary—or unwelcome.
"Willas." The King's finger moved to hover above Highgarden itself. "You shall lead twenty thousand men north along the Mander, taking Goldengrove and cutting off the rebels' line of retreat."
The heir to Highgarden felt his heart sink like a stone into dark water. To order Highgarden's forces against their own sworn bannermen? The implications were clear as crystal, and terrible as wildfire.
Joffrey offered no further commands, seeming content to await Willas's response, though something in his green eyes suggested that the wrong answer might prove... unfortunate.
"How does Your Grace intend to deal with these traitors once they are brought to heel?" Willas asked carefully, though he feared he already knew the answer.
Joffrey's smile was sharp as a blade. "Why ask me such a thing? These lords have broken faith with both their king and their liege lord, grasping for honors that were never theirs to claim. What lord worthy of his salt could turn a blind eye to such treachery?"
Willas's worst fears crystallized into certainty. The King meant to make Highgarden the instrument of their own vassals' destruction.
"Were I in your position," Joffrey continued with deadly calm, "I would strip these rebels of every acre they hold. Those houses without clear heirs should be extinguished entirely, their names scrubbed from the annals of history. Those with sons to inherit might be permitted to keep a single holdfast, that they might remember both their folly and their liege's mercy."
With each word, Willas felt the trap closing around them like iron jaws. To follow such a course would see Highgarden's reputation crumble to ash. What vassal would trust them again? What banner would they dare call upon when next the realm had need? Yet to refuse...
Willas raised his eyes to meet the King's gaze and saw something terrible lurking behind that gentle facade—not mere displeasure, but the promise of annihilation should he choose wrongly.
"Tell me, Willas," Joffrey's voice remained soft as silk, though it carried the weight of mountains, "are you reluctant to see justice done? Or perhaps there is truth to the whispers that reach my ears—that House Tyrell was not deceived by their vassals' rebellion, but willing participants in it? That Lord Mace was not coerced but complicit?"
The accusation hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Willas felt the world tilt beneath him, truth and falsehood blurring together until he could scarce tell one from the other.
Had Highgarden rebelled? Had they not? Did it matter, when the King could reshape reality with nothing more than words and will?
"Garth the Gross," Highgarden's steward, could contain himself no longer. "Who dares spread such calumnies against our house? Your Grace, House Tyrell has ever been loyal to the Iron Throne! We have never entertained thoughts of rebellion!"
The outburst seemed to break Willas from his momentary paralysis. "Just so!" he said quickly, seizing upon Garth's words like a drowning man grasps driftwood. "How could Highgarden show mercy to traitors? Your Grace's counsel is wisdom itself."
He bowed his head in submission. "It shall be as you command."
The Queen of Thorns chose that moment to succumb to a violent fit of coughing, her aged frame wracked with spasms that left her gasping like a landed fish. The sound was harsh and terrible in the sudden quiet of the chamber.
Margaery's face creased with worry as she watched her grandmother struggle for breath, and she turned pleading eyes upon Joffrey—a look that spoke of desperate hope and barely contained fear.
The King's response was swift and wordless. A single tap upon the table brought the red priest forward, and Thoros laid his hands upon Lady Olenna's shoulders. The power flowed like honey, and color returned to the old woman's cheeks as her breathing eased.
Joffrey's sigh carried the weight of genuine regret. "Forgive me, Willas. I know this task brings you no joy."
"Your Grace does me too much honor," Willas replied, though the words felt like ash on his tongue. "This is Highgarden's duty, and we shall not shrink from it."
"Good." Joffrey's finger moved across the map to rest upon Goldengrove like a conqueror claiming a prize. "Those who serve faithfully must be rewarded in kind."
He looked up at Willas with something that might have been kindness in a different man. "Would you accept the governance of Goldengrove, to rule jointly with Lady Bethany Redwyne? Or would you prefer to see House Rowan stripped entirely of their holdings, that you might establish a new seat of power? Or perhaps—" here his smile turned predatory "—you would see these lands folded into House Tyrell's direct control?"
Willas felt a chill run down his newly healed spine. In every option the King offered, Earl Mathis Rowan—who even now commanded thirty thousand swords—was already dead in all but fact.
"Ser Garlan." Joffrey's attention shifted to Highgarden's second son like the beam of a lighthouse sweeping across dark waters.
"Lord Beesbury shall accompany you westward with a thousand of the royal guard. You will take command of the Shield Islands' fleet and hold there until the Redwyne ships arrive to join you."
The Queen of Thorns' eyes snapped open at this revelation.
"Earl Paxter's twin sons have already joined their fleet to mine," Joffrey explained with casual authority. "Even now they sail north through the Sunset Sea, making their way past the Shield Islands and Old Oak toward the Iron Islands. They shall lend their strength where it is most needed."
Another thunderbolt of news crashed down upon the assembled lords. Willas felt the scales in his mind tip further toward submission. If House Redwyne had already chosen their side, what purpose would further resistance serve?
But Joffrey was not finished with Ser Garlan.
"House Oakheart faces extinction," he pronounced with the finality of a funeral bell. "I have secured the best terms possible from Lord Tywin: Old Oak shall become a crown holding, governed directly by royal appointees rather than hereditary lords."
The best terms? Willas could not entirely hide his shock at such casual destruction of an ancient house.
"However," Joffrey continued, his gaze fixed upon Garlan, "you may serve as Old Oak's first royal governor. Prove yourself capable, and the position might be yours for life—a legacy to pass to your own sons in time."
His smile was warm as summer sun. "What say you, Ser Garlan?"
Garlan looked first to his grandmother—who sat with eyes closed as though sleeping—then to his elder brother. Willas met his gaze and, after a moment's hesitation, gave the slightest nod of encouragement.
"I am deeply honored by Your Grace's trust," Garlan said, rising to offer a formal bow. "I shall strive to prove worthy of such confidence."
Joffrey nodded with evident satisfaction and waved his hand. The magical map dissolved like morning mist, leaving only polished wood behind.
The formal negotiations seemed to be drawing to their close, but Margaery, bold as her roses, dared to interject.
"What of Bitterbridge, Your Grace? Shall no force be sent there?"
Joffrey glanced toward the windows, where the dying sun painted the sky in shades of blood and gold.
"There is no need," he said with quiet certainty. "The battle there has already begun, and soon it shall be ended."