Willas Tyrell arrived in King’s Landing with the quiet elegance of a man who knew he was being watched. The carriage was modest for a son of the Reach — solid, clean, drawn by four blooded horses. He had chosen them himself: steady bodies, smooth gaits, trained for endurance. The journey had been taxing, but discomfort was an old companion. His cane rested at his side, its iron handle shaped to fit his grip. He used it out of necessity, yes, but with the dignity of someone who no longer apologized for it.

The castle breathed an old heat — stone and pride. King’s Landing was nothing like Highgarden: less green, more dense, built to protect kings, not flowers. And within those whispering halls, he knew they were already talking. The last-minute groom. The cripple. The consolation prize.

Cersei had once refused his hand with disdain. Now, with Robert dead and the throne in quiet transition, Tywin was stitching alliances with iron thread. Cersei’s daughter — young, beautiful, pliable — was the knot to bind the great houses. A loveless match, they whispered. But Willas wasn’t a fool. Sometimes, politics grew sturdier roots than passion ever could.

He didn’t emerge the first day. The journey had taxed his body, and he needed to watch. They said the princess was lovely, softer than her mother — but they said that about every useful girl. He didn’t trust descriptions. He trusted gestures.

On the third day, she walked through the castle garden, and he was at the balcony of the solar he’d been given. He saw her in passing — between columns and ivy — the late afternoon light touching her hair like honey. There was something in the way she moved — not vain, but aware. That mattered. She knew she was seen, but didn’t seem to like or hate it. She simply endured it, with a poise that intrigued him.

That was when he made a plan. To know her, yes. But not as duty. There had to be a way to become more than her husband. To be chosen. Perhaps even admired. Not from pity, but on merit. He knew what he evoked — the contrast between a wounded body and an unbroken mind. He had used it before. He knew how to be gentle without seeming weak, confident without arrogance. He didn’t want to conquer her — he wanted her to read him, weigh him, and still decide in his favor.

He sent for flowers from the Reach — valestar, rare and fragrant, a symbol of endurance. They bloomed in glass hothouses under a gardener’s devoted hand, and with a bit of silver and the right spells, a few arrived unspoiled. He chose the freshest. Had them delivered hours before the formal introduction.

The day arrived heavy with protocol. They dressed him in deep green and gold — restrained, nothing to demand attention. His leg was tender that morning, but he ignored it. He used the cane naturally, like a part of him. He’d learned to master how others looked at him — not by avoiding it, but by reshaping it. He didn’t hide his limitation. He knew there was something alluring in it: a young lord, whole in spirit, needing no perfect body to command a room.

He was led to the smaller hall where the princess waited to meet him.

When he saw her up close, he knew they hadn’t exaggerated. She was beautiful. But that wasn’t what held him. It was the way she looked at him — without surprise, without pity. As if he were just another man before her. And in that instant, Willas felt something rare: genuine curiosity.

He bowed with respect. The bouquet was in his hands. The flowers had survived the journey, releasing a faint scent — fresh, earthy, like a memory of home.

“Your Highness,” he said, offering them, eyes steady but not sharp. “A gift from the Reach. The first to bloom under glass. They were waiting for this meeting.”

And then he smiled — not as a groom, but as a man intrigued by what he might one day come to love.