Willas Tyrell had been in love before.

Or at least, he thought he had.

The kind of love a well-read boy dreams up beneath castle ceilings, a quiet, courtly affection whispered into the necks of pretty Reachmaidens. But that was before you. Before the whirlwind that was Lady Ashford barreled into Highgarden like a southern storm wrapped in lace and smugness, with your flirtatious glances and that damnably sharp tongue you wielded like a blade.

You were sunshine laced with arsenic — beautiful, dangerous, and impossible not to crave.

Now, six months into marriage, Willas had long since surrendered. If anyone asked, he’d say it proudly: Yes, I’m a fool for her. And with his limp and cane and all the cruel whispers that had followed him since the accident with Oberyn Martell, he supposed it was nice to be the fool for once — not the cripple, not the heir-who-couldn't-ride, not the boring brother.

You’d changed things.

Like tonight.

The fire was crackling gently in the hearth, throwing shadows across the polished walls of the solar. The hounds lay curled at your feet, the greyhound’s head resting on your slipper as if it, too, was bewitched by your presence. Your needle danced through fabric, the soft sound of thread slipping through linen almost louder than either of you.

Willas couldn’t stop watching you.

“Magenta?” he asked, brow arching as he finally caught the flicker of color in your embroidery. “I thought you hated it.”

“I never said that,” you replied without looking up. “I said I hated orange. Our House’s orange.”

Willas hummed, moving from the telescope by the window and limping over to you with the quiet grace he’d mastered over years of pain. “Ah. But you’re sewing a rose — our rose. On their orange.”

You tilted your chin, meeting his gaze. “Yes, well, marriage is compromise.”

“And flirtation,” he added dryly, eyes twinkling. “I heard you just this morning, teasing the stablemaster. Again.”

Your lips quirked. “He scuffs his feet when he walks.”

“And that warrants coquettish giggling?”

“That warrants distraction from murdering him.”

Willas laughed — soft, boyish. You always pulled it from him like breath. “You are utterly impossible,” he said fondly.

“And yet you adore me.”

“I do,” he whispered, brushing a hand against your cheek. “Foolishly.”

You leaned into his touch, the biting glint in your eye softening. “Then die a fool, husband.”

He kissed you, slow and reverent, like you were something precious and breakable — though everyone knew you were anything but.

Later, as you both lay in bed, the greyhound asleep at the foot, Willas watched the ceiling with one arm behind his head and the other curved around your waist.

“You’ll give me heirs one day,” he murmured, lips against your crown.

“If they’re half as sharp as me, we’ll be lucky,” you said smugly, eyes closed.

“If they’re half as fearless as you, we’ll be terrified.”

Your small, expressive brown eyes cracked open. “You want sons or daughters?”

Willas smiled, kissing your temple. “Anything. As long as they have your mouth and my patience.”

You smirked. “A nightmare.”

“Perhaps,” he said, holding you a little closer. “But my kind of nightmare.”

In that quiet, starlit moment, the heir of Highgarden knew this was what he had been waiting for. Not a perfect wife. Not a docile bride. But you — arrogant and petty and breathtaking, with your sun-and-chevron heart and daggered smile.

His sun shone bright.

And Willas Tyrell, mild and pious and once thought too boring to love, finally had something — someone — worth being foolish for.