The moment the convoy set off, Ser Osmund dispatched even more scouts. With Ambrose and others already out ahead, reports trickled in one after another. Riders came and went constantly—it had the feel of a small army on the move.
William poked his head out the window of the wheelhouse carriage, trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Inside, Margaery sat stone-faced and silent. The other three Tyrell girls could only exchange awkward glances, unsure what was going on between the two of them—and far too cautious to ask.
Finding the silence boring, William turned to Garlan beside him. "That smoke column earlier—what was it? Ironborn? Everyone looked on edge."
"Not scared of the Ironborn, are you?" Garlan replied with a faint smile.
That's when it hit William—how deeply the Ironborn's reputation ran through the Seven Kingdoms. Outsiders like him were the only ones who didn't care. "Ha, well, our family castle was built by the Ironborn," he chuckled, before shifting the topic. "But come on—we've got at least a hundred mounted knights. Add me and you, two heavy hitters. Sneaking past Greybeard's patrols on the Shield Islands isn't exactly easy. Even if a few longships slip through, they can't have more than two hundred raiders. We'd smash them in one charge."
Garlan smiled. "Ser Osmund's job is to protect the convoy, not hunt down every bandit."
"Sure, fair enough," William said with a shrug. "But that fort wasn't far from Riverrun. For the Ironborn to strike this deep inland? Even if they pull off the raid, news would reach the Shield Islands before they reach the sea. Doesn't that mean they're walking into a trap?"
"Any Ironborn mad enough to come this far up the Mander with Greybeard in charge—well, nothing they do would surprise me," Garlan said, lowering his voice. "Besides, the reason we left Riverrun in such a hurry this morning… was because we already spotted signs of Ironborn nearby."
"Riverrun? Oh—right. I heard there's a town up ahead? We're stopping there for lunch?" William asked, watching Garlan nod. "You think the Ironborn might hit that town?"
Garlan chuckled. "It's called Tenmile Town. Because it's exactly ten miles from Highgarden. A cavalry unit can ride there in under two hours. No Ironborn would be mad enough to touch it."
"Even if a warning goes out the moment they attack, and Highgarden sends reinforcements right away, that's still half a day before help arrives. If they're not greedy, they could hit and run long before that," William said thoughtfully. "And cavalry riding flat out for two hours wouldn't be in fighting shape when they arrive. Might even look like a retreat."
Then he gave Garlan a teasing grin. "And if even you didn't think of that… it might be worth a try."
Garlan's brow furrowed slightly—clearly, the thought had now taken root. William laughed. "Relax, Garlan. It's too late to do anything now anyway. Say, what do you think of Ser Osmund? Watching those scouts coming and going like clockwork—guy seems like he knows what he's doing."
Just before noon, another rider arrived from the north. At first, no one paid attention—scouts had been riding in and out all morning. But when Ser Osmund issued a sudden order for the convoy to divert off the main road, tension sparked. Garlan and William exchanged glances and spurred their horses forward to the front, where Osmund was directing the formation.
They found him barking orders to squad leaders, already organizing a defensive position on a small hill beside the road. The northern slope was steep and easily defended—Osmund planned to set up the convoy in a semicircle with the wheelhouse at the center, facing the gentler slope. It was, in all honesty, the best defensive spot in sight.
"Ser Garlan, Ser William," Osmund said grimly after issuing his orders. "We've just received word—Tenmile Town is under attack by the Ironborn. We're setting up a fortified position here to avoid being ambushed on the move. We'll wait for more news."
It was a reasonable decision, and neither Garlan nor William could fault it. But Garlan raised a concern. "We're close to Tenmile. Our scouts should've seen signs long before now. Why are we only hearing about this now, Ser?"
"Something's wrong," Osmund admitted, voice low. "Ser Ambrose's men failed to report on time. Later scouts couldn't find any trace of them. I fear… we may have lost him."
Garlan went silent. He'd known Ambrose for years—never imagined the man might vanish like that.
William, too, felt a pang. Ambrose had sung with him that very morning, laughing like a man with all the time in the world. "Let's let Ser Osmund get back to work," William said softly. "Come on, Garlan—let's check on Margaery and the others. They're probably feeling anxious."
The northern side of the hill was too steep to position wagons. The convoy had arranged itself quickly into a tight, defensible formation, the wheelhouse at its heart. Ser Osmund's makeshift command post—little more than a long table—was right in front of it. Knights clustered around, discussing tactics. Garlan and William were invited to join, but both wisely chose to listen quietly for now.
No shame in talking strategy, but right now… better to observe and learn, William thought.
Osmund truly was a veteran. His defense plan was meticulous. Just as the layout was finalized, William noticed Margaery emerging from the wheelhouse, flanked by her three ladies. She walked straight toward the command table.
Nobles exchanged curt bows and pleasantries. It took a while for all the formalities to end.
"Ser Osmund." Margaery's tone was polite, poised—but direct. "I've heard Tenmile Town is under attack. We must do something."
"We've fortified this position. It's secure," Osmund said, gesturing northward. "A rider has already gone to Highgarden. Reinforcements will be here soon. The Ironborn will pay dearly."
"I fear Tenmile won't survive long enough for that justice. I am no soldier—but those are our people. We are their lords. Can we really sit here and do nothing while they're slaughtered?"
A heavy silence fell. No knight dared meet her pleading gaze.
After a long pause, Osmund finally spoke. "I'm sorry, my lady. But your safety must come first."
Margaery's eyes widened—hurt, incredulous. She looked at Osmund, then at the others. Even Garlan couldn't meet her gaze. Only William held her eyes—and winked.
She held his look for a heartbeat, then turned away gracefully. "I understand. You all must be very busy. I won't disturb your war council." She curtsied, then walked to the other side of the wheelhouse.
Only after she vanished did the tension ease. The knights returned to their discussion.
William slipped away, unnoticed, heading around the back of the wheelhouse.
This side of the hill was steep and quiet. A few guards stood watch near the summit.
Margaery stood nearby, whispering with her companions. From the sound of it, they were playing some kind of guessing game.
William cleared his throat. The girls turned. Margaery looked at him without hostility—about the same cool courtesy she'd shown the knights.
He couldn't decide if he was pleased or disappointed. Still, he wasn't about to waste the chance.
"Margaery, I need a moment. In private."
"Say it here, Ser William. We're all busy, and the situation isn't exactly lighthearted." Her tone was calm, but firm.
William had anticipated that. He dropped the bait. "I have a way to help with what you mentioned."
Margaery blinked, then seemed to realize. "And what would you do, Ser?"
"Think about what they call me."
She hesitated, then nodded at her companions. Yalanna started to object, but Elora tugged her sleeve. The three girls stepped a few paces away, just out of earshot.
William moved close and whispered in her ear, "Magic. It creates miracles in times of despair."
"Miracles?" Her voice was soft. "I don't want miracles. I just want to protect my people."
"Maybe you don't like it, but magic can grant incredible power. One against a hundred kind of power."
She gave a slight shiver, like trying to hold back a laugh. "This isn't a duel, William. War isn't a game. If you want me to dabble in magic, as long as it's not evil, I don't mind humoring you. But please—don't joke."
"Joking?" William smiled. "Alright. Let me awaken your magic. Let you feel it for yourself. Then you'll know I mean it."
Margaery stepped back slightly, eyeing him. He held her gaze, calm and confident. Just as he opened his mouth again, she spoke.
"Fine. What do I do?"
YES! William nearly shouted, but kept it cool. Until now, he thought simply touching her hand would awaken her power. But it turned out—even if Valyrian steel didn't resist his spirit, people could. Without her cooperation, he couldn't do a thing.
He pointed to a patch of wildflowers at her feet. "See that bud there, Margaery?"
She nodded.
"Focus on that one. I'll lend you my magic. Then you recite a spell. Through you, it'll become true magic—and make that flower bloom."
She looked at him, like she had something to say, then turned back to the bud.
"Don't worry. It's simple. The spell suits your nature." William took her hand. "Open your mind. Don't resist my spirit. We have to link first—then I can lend you the power. That's it. Just like that…"
It was his first time forming a spirit link with someone. It felt dreamy—like lucid dreaming, but with full control. He began reciting the incantation. As the words flowed, her spiritual energy stirred, mixing with his, transforming into invisible power that surged toward the flower.
Margaery, too, felt dazed. A strange clarity washed over her—as though she could feel William's thoughts. How does he see me? she wondered. And in that moment, she felt warmth, admiration, care, perhaps… love? It was hard to name—but it felt gentle. Comforting. Before she could ponder further, the sensation swept her into a radiant inner world.
There was only sunlight and earth. Only freedom and peace. The past seemed forgotten. Nothing else mattered.
Then she saw it. The bud trembled. Its petals cracked open—white and delicate—one, two, three… the outer layer unfolded, revealing tighter petals within. One layer after another, the bloom unfurled like a miracle before her eyes.
Then the connection faded. The world returned. Yet the memory lingered, like a dream too real to forget. Had she… spoken to someone there?
William, if I hadn't agreed—would you still have helped my people?
Of course, Margaery. Maybe I'm not noble enough to crusade for justice across the world. But I'm not coward enough to ignore evil right in front of me. Now hold on—I'll be back.
"Where's William?" Garlan's voice snapped her back. He looked worried.
Margaery blinked, dazed. Then realization struck.
"William!" she gasped.
—