Willas Tyrell Heir to Highgarden Oldest of the Tyrell Children Minors do not interact #GameOfThronesRP

https://t.co/HHuDDGIa3r

Preparing for the day ahead.

as he took the offered seat. "Tell me, Lady Jemma… what is it you see when you stand before the Maidens’ Tears?"

Highgarden has beauty in abundance, but nothing touched by the divine." A quiet breath escaped him, half a laugh. "Though I must confess if the sight truly steals breath, I may require yours to give it back." The faintest hint of Tyrell charm glimmered beneath the courtesy —

sincerity softening his voice. "And perhaps, my lady, I wished to see the falcons where they truly belong." At the mention of the Maidens’ Tears, something almost boyish lit his eyes. "A place where the gods can be felt… then I would be honored if you would show me. —

He paused, letting his gaze trace the sweeping stone archways, the sky framed like a painting behind her. "Some places cannot be understood from afar. The Eyrie is one of them. And I would not insult your home by keeping it at a polite distance." He inclined his head, —

There is a poetry to that, Lady Jemma one the singers of Highgarden would envy." Her smile had intrigued him more than her words dared admit. Determined? Yes. Curious? Even more so. "As for why I wished to meet here, in the very heart of the mountains.." —

yet her presence lent it something gentler, more welcoming. "Your people speak of the gods with such reverence." He mused thoughtfully. "In the Reach we honor the Seven, yes… but you speak of them as if they are old friends who merely changed their cloaks. —

"Though I suspect the mountains simply wished to gauge whether a crippled rose still knows how to grow toward the sun." He stepped forward at her gesture, careful but unhurried, leaning only subtly on the carved cane at his side. The air inside the Eyrie was no warmer, —

Willas was not a man easily shaken, yet her words spoken with that lilting Vale certainty made him glance once toward the thin mountain paths winding far below. "Then I suppose I ought to be grateful the Vale saw no ill intent in me." He answered, a wry smile forming. —

brick for your feet. The Reach remembers its courtesies even on a kingsroad in autumn.” He smiled, crooked and genuine, and waited, while the wind tugged at his green cloak and the first star pricked the sky behind him. @JustAStreetrat

them kind. I am Willas Tyrell; my men and I are bound for the Crossroads and then south. If you’ve no objection to roses, ride a little way with us. There’s room in the litter for two, or beside it if you prefer your own saddle. At the least take a wineskin and a hot —

across the twenty yards of dusty road. “You there, on the dun mare.” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as though he hated to startle her. “The light is failing and the road grows colder. A woman alone draws more eyes than a column of knights, and not all of —

only a longsword at her hip and a small pack tied behind the saddle. Willas lifted one hand. His captain started to protest, but a look silenced him. The heir to Highgarden eased himself forward on his seat, crutch balanced across his knees, and called out —

A single horse, a plain dun gelding with Northern tack. A single rider: slight, cloaked in patched black wool, hood thrown back now, dark hair whipping across a pale, sharp-featured face. Grey eyes, Stark eyes, fixed straight ahead. No escort, no banners, —

/Should probably give my thumbs a break. 🤣🤣

And there, away from listening ears, I can tell you plainly where the Tyrell banners will ride when steel is drawn.”

He gestured toward the open archway where sunlight spilled across scarlet and gold petals. “Walk with me through the gardens, if your legs are not too proud for a cripple’s pace. I find truths grow more honest beneath open sky than beneath painted ceilings. —

“Highgarden has never forgotten that the blood of the dragon once sat the Iron Throne, nor that my own grandmother served your royal mother as lady-in-waiting in happier days. Yet roses do not bloom in winter without careful tending.” —

Willas’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the carved rosewood head of his cane, but his smile remained courteous, almost amused. "Loyalty, Prince Aegon, is a word men fling about like tourney lances.” He tilted his head, green eyes bright with dry humor. —