THE THIRD TALE OF SEPTA POPPINE

A Moonlit Godswood Afternoon: Before the Story 

It was a moonlit autumn afternoon, and four days from the twins' seventh name day.
The daytime moon appeared in the bright blue sky as a thin crescent that looked like a smile. The flowers in the godswood of Casterly Rock had begun to wither since long ago, yet a couple of bushes that yielded golden Reach roses were still in full bloom, filling a cool, shady clearing of the godswood with their sweet scent, distinct from that of any other flower.
It was by these fragrant flowers that Cersei could be found. She carefully picked a Reach rose and tucked it into her golden hair. She had also picked three more, to give to her brothers and to the septa.
And then, right as she was thinking of them, her twin brother Jaime sauntered across the underbrush towards her, his scarlet doublet full of prickly seeds, waving a wooden sword. The girl gave her twin brother the most beautiful of the soft roses she had picked, and Jaime took the golden flower while bowing down to kiss her right hand, like the heroes of his favourite songs used to do.
Shortly afterwards, Septa Poppine, led by Tyrion by the hand, walked into the clearing. The odd-eyed Lannister boy lifted her trailing skirt for it not to get soiled, like a little page would have done. In her hands, she carried a wicker basket full of ripe red and green apples.
"Reach roses? For me?", the septa said as she picked up hers.
"That's not the first time in forever that Cersei is good or generous", Tyrion replied with a hint of irony.
Meanwhile, Jaime pinned his rose to his doublet with a thorn, and Septa Poppine tucked hers behind her veil. The wisp of auburn hair fell out again, and she softly blew it off her brows.
"Well, since we visited Dorne yesterday and now we're here among this lush greenery and these lovely roses, guess which land we're going to visit today in our story?"
"Oh, I've always loved the Reach!", Cersei smiled. "There are so many flowers and fruits there!"
"Of course, Cersei, we'll have a Reach story! But not any one of them you've heard so many times before. Not at all! This is a true story, a love story, but in which there will also be some fighting!"
"Then I would love to hear it!", the twin siblings said at unison, with sparkles in their mint-green eyes.
"And you shall. Feel free to take as many apples as you please, for I have brought them for you three."
And all three thanked her with their sincere smiles. Then, Cersei and Jaime picked each a red apple, while Tyrion put a green one to his lips. The septa also took a green apple from the basket.
Then, all four formed a circle, or rather a square, with Tyrion opposite Septa Poppine, Jaime and Cersei on either side, showing off their brightest roses. The basket of apples was placed in the middle of the story circle, for the children to serve themselves.
The young septa cleared her throat, and, by the soft light of the afternoon sun and the daytime moon, she began to tell the children a tale...


The Suitors of the Rose Bride: A Tale of the Reach

There's a part of the Reach where apple orchards line the land as long as the eyes can see. In springtime, the whole extent of these lands looks like a sky full of pink fluffy clouds, except that these clouds are made from the petals of countless rosy apple blossoms. In summer, little apples bright and green like peridots cluster among the leaves, and in autumn, the ripe fruits become crisp and ruby red. These are, or so most of the Reachers think they are, the perfect apples for making cider, apple cream, and cakes.
The Mander, that wide blue artery of the Reach, waters the lovely orchards, as another quicker, surging stream, the Cockleswent, pours its waters into the Mander's calm and tranquil course. At the confluence, in the middle of the orchards, one can see, rising above the treetops, a stately castle with slender scarlet towers, more modest than Highgarden but nevertheless elegant, known as Cider Hall, its owners the household known as the Red-Apple Fossoways. While across the surging tributary, also surrounded by groves of apple trees, rises a keep of equal design, a twin to the one across the waters, but whose equally slender spires are bluish-green like weather-beaten copper: New Barrel, the seat of the Green-Apple Fossoways.
Both houses share a surname from being bound by blood-ties since long ago. In fact, they were but one single household at the start. The original crest of House Fossoway was the lone red apple on a golden field, but, during the great Ashford Tourney, two knights of the same kin fought on opposing sides, so one of them painted the apple on his arms mint green for both combatants to be told from each other. And ever since, there have been two of House Fossoway, each with its seat and its arms, living in parallel on each side of the Cockleswent where it flows into the Mander. In common they have their surname, their love of the apples they carefully harvest for cider and cream, and the pride they feel of being true and faithful Reachers.
And one bright springtime afternoon, when a daytime crescent moon appeared like a smile in the sky and the soft apple-blossoms fluttered in the spring breeze, the bells of both septs across the tributary pealed joyfully for the birth of two children, one healthy boy to each Lady Fossoway.
Each of the two lovely infants, both born as second sons to their respective households, was wrapped in fine white linen embroidered with apple blossoms and carried by a loving mother into a brightly-lit castle sept, bright as a rainbow with stained glass and fragrant as a garden with incense. And there, one of them was named Loras Fossoway among the acclaim of his red-apple kin in the sept of Cider Hall, while in New Barrel, on the other side, the green-apple lordling was given the lovely name of Willas Fossoway.
The childhood of both of them was full of stories and of warmth, delicious sweets and soft godswood flowers in every colour bright and happy. And thus, as they passed from nannies to maesters and from playing to learning under the watchful eyes of loving parents and older brothers, auburn Willas on one side and golden-haired Loras on the other soon attained each his seventh year without experiencing any sorrows or disappointments. They didn't know of each other's existence more than the fact that the keep that they could see rising over the treetops from the window belonged to the other branch of the same household, the Fossoways with the apple of the other colour. But soon their ways would converge and change their lives for ever and ever.
For both Ser Fossoway of Cider Hall and Ser Fossoway of New Barrel decided to have their second sons sent to foster with another Reach household, for the young boys to see more of the world that what they already knew of apple orchards, and keeps, and godswoods. And both knights had in mind to send their lads to be fostered under the same roof, which would lead to them meeting each other and making hopefully good friends. Thus had the fathers agreed by carrier raven. And they had also received a reply from the foster household, which had a lovely daughter one or two years younger than both lordlings.
And thus, two wheelhouses with apples carved onto their panels, carrying each an elegantly dressed boy-child accompanied by his maester and nanny, set off along the Roseroad westward, towards the Stormlands. From the windows of each wheelhouse, the lads could see orchards of peaches and plums in full bloom giving way to fields of golden Reach roses, until the carriages stopped in the market square of a beautiful and quaint village surrounded by meadows full of colourful wildflowers and by soft green hills, with a swift blue river coursing in between. Higher than the tower of the local sept rose the slender towers of another Reach castle, these ones each in a different bright colour, while the cottages, sept, and inn of the village below clustered below the keep, like sheltered chicks under a mother hen's wings.
Each maester led his young disciple towards the castle gate, and then, as both of them were led towards the same goal, Loras caught sight of a boy his own age, with hair the colour of mahogany and green apples embroidered on his doublet. The other lad looked at Loras with surprised hazel eyes, from his golden hair to the embroidery on his doublet of ruby-red apples.
"We're not in the Stormlands, we are still in the Reach, on its eastern border. This village is called Grassy Vale, my lordling, the river is called the Blueburn, and the castle above is Grassfield Keep. From on now, you will live for a while with Lord and Lady Meadows, and play and learn with their children", Maester Leo told Loras, while Maester Willem was giving Willas the same things the lordling needed to know.
And soon, both children were kissed goodbye by their maesters at the open gates of the Keep. And there, passing by the pikemen in green doublets embroidered with silk flowers that stood guard at the gates, a girl one or two years younger than them, with long golden hair like Willas's and eyes green as freshly-picked mint, sauntered towards both lordlings, who were now left alone to encounter their foster family. The girl-child was dressed in a gown of many different colours, like butterfly wings or a rainbow, and she wore a wreath of cornflowers and daisies on her golden locks.
"You must be my new foster brothers!", she said with sparkles in her eyes, obviously excited.
"I'm Willas Fossoway, of the Green Apple Fossoways", the dark-haired boy coolly said.
"And I'm Loras Fossoway, of the Red Apple Fossoways", the fair-haired one said with twinkles in his honey eyes.
"I'm Mallorie Meadows", the girl replied with a cheerful smile, reaching out her right hand towards Willas and her left hand towards Loras. "Nice to meet you, and hope you have a good time here at Grassfield Keep!"
And with these words of encouragement, she led them both into the great hall, where her parents and siblings had been waiting for her and were introduced to the new members of the Meadows family. Lord Meadows was a cheerful and heavy-set nobleman, who laughed and smiled as easily as his daughter, while Lady Meadows was a raven-haired and gray-eyed, slender Stormlander with a face that seemed never to express any feelings. The rest of the household was composed of two older brothers, Alester and Quentin, the former taking after his mother in appearance but like his father in spirit, the latter golden-haired and green-eyed but stern and reserved. All four of them welcomed the foster children heartily, having already arranged a guest bedchamber for both the Fossoways to share.
And thus, the three children grew up together under the same roof, and all three frolicked in the same green, fresh meadows. The daughter of the household was always cheerful and skipping, and she would rather get out to the godswood or the meadow and come home with her hands full of wildflowers, which she would then use as model for her needlework, quickly turning her colourful threads into soft petals, as she gained more patience little by little, and her skill at embroidering flowers and even fruits increased for each year of her life.
The two foster sons, on the other hand, were as different as night and day. Loras was blond and Willas was auburn. Loras was right-handed and Willas was left-handed. Loras preferred training to fight and Willas preferred reading books. Loras expressed what he felt, wearing his heart upon his sleeve, while Willas was quiet and silent. Loras would sometimes put a frog into Mallorie's thread-box, while Willas would sometimes put a frog on the table and slice it open with a knife, taking out everything that he had found in there. And, lastly, Loras always attended the services in the sept of Grassfield Keep with his new family, while Willas was rarely found in their company, for he'd rather spend those hours all alone in the library, reading history or looking at maps.
However, in spite of their differences, both the Fossoways and Mallorie Meadows were closer to each other than friends, in fact, they began to love each other as if they were siblings, and soon the girl felt even closer to these two lads than to her own older brothers, while both Willas and Loras, though the former played pranks and the latter would rather be on his own, would often go picking flowers with the blond girl, running about the hills all three together, or listening to songs and stories by her side.
And so cheerfully the years passed by, and all three children finally turned into young people, no longer caring for pranks or for lessons. Now the time had come for them to venture out into the wide world and try their luck, and make the choice that would shape their future and the rest of their adult lives.
Mallorie was now tall and slender like the trunk of a linden tree, her eyes as green as linden leaves in springtime, her locks as golden as primroses, her soft cheeks as rosy as an autumn sunset, and her breasts the size and colour of soft ripe peaches. Her heart was as pure, and her hands were as skilled with the needle and with the harp-strings, as her face was beautiful. It came as no surprise that word of her beauty, as well as of her kindness and honesty, spread throughout the land like wildfire. Lords and knights thought that the Maiden herself, the goddess of love, had descended from her heaven to live among mortals in the Reach, the region she loved above any other. Flocks of carrier ravens alighted at Grassfield Keep, some of them from as far as Highgarden, asking for the heart and hand of the lovely maiden, the Maiden incarnate, and the number of suitors increased for every day. In due time, even the borderlands of the Stormlands and of Dorne sent their tribute as raven-borne letters, asking for the one they rightfully called the Maiden Incarnate, the Reach Rose, and the Rose Bride.
And both her foster brothers had become dashing youths as well, their shoulders already broad and their cheeks covered in downy peach-fuzz. Willas even sported a dark strip of shadow on his upper lip, which in Loras was so fair that it couldn't be seen. It was obvious that both of them, like Mallorie, were no longer children. And that, for some strange reason, their hearts were beginning to change as much as their bodies.
For a reason that he couldn't comprehend, Loras flared up and blushed whenever his foster sister touched him, his cheeks turning red as ripe apples, as his heart throbbed restlessly against his breastbone, and his lungs tried in vain to hold more air that the scarce quantity he breathed in. He also became lightheaded and didn't know what to say when she was near.
Willas, on the other hand, did not become as feverish as his foster brother, but he also felt, when Mallorie looked at him, that he appeared to have been shot in the heart by a ray fired from those brightly shining peridot orbs, or by the smile on those soft rose-quartz lips.
The fair youth sought an answer in prayer, and the dark one in books, but neither of them could find out why they felt so strange. And then, through both their minds flashed the same question:
"Can this be nothing else than true love?"
Thus, both the Fossoways would steel themselves and drive those thoughts astray, Red-Apple Loras with his longsword and Green-Apple Willas with his studies. Yet, no matter how hard they tried, it was always in vain: their young hearts and heads were filled with nothing more than memories of their foster sister smiling to them, crowning them with wildflowers, showing them her progress in embroidery, or dancing with them, alternating partners, during her sixteenth name-day celebrations.
And still both lads tried even harder, the golden-haired one saying his prayers to the Seven Gods and training with his sword at dawn and dusk, the auburn one poring over great chronicles and collections of lore in his bed by candle-light, his head buried in his hands. Yet neither could think of nothing else but the fair features and good deeds of Mallorie Meadows. Though they weren't sure of whether what they felt was love, or whether she would love any of them with all her heart. The lads distanced themselves even more from each other, each one sunken in his own dream world where only Mallorie existed. She had got many suitors, and what if she loved another? What if she turned the strong friendship that all three had forged as children into bitter rivalry, that could end with bloodshed and the death of one of them?
And thus, both of them decided to leave their childhood home and seek their fortune somewhere else, to return when they were older and more experienced, and able to face the facts and confess their feelings for the one both of them loved.
That springtime evening, the Fossoway youths packed their belongings and made their thoughts known to each other:
"I'm leaving this place, to spend abroad a few years and become wiser than I am", Willas said, with his hand on his heart.
"I'm leaving this place as well", his foster brother replied. "I'm off to King's Landing, to become a gallant knight at the Red Keep. Then, within a few years, I'll return to these hills, clothed in steel and marked with scars. And then, I will ask Lord and Lady Meadows for their daughter's hand if what I still feel towards her is as strong as it is now."
"Well, I'm leaving to study in Oldtown, and dedicate myself to reading and researching. Then, when I have forged my chain, I'll return as well and become the maester of Grassfield Keep", Willas calmly replied.
"Knowing you, it comes as no surprise that you will be a great maester. But... you know that these learned men are sworn to the Realm, and thus, they shall never take a wife?"
"Everyone knows maesters can't marry. And everyone knows that, if some lady grows weary of her spouse, she will look for a lover, usually within her own household."
"Are you serious, Willas?", his foster brother protested, shaking his golden locks.
"Well, Loras... I believe such a kindly and good maiden looks beyond first impressions, and that a sharp mind is to her more important than sharp steel."
"I don't think so!", the blond youth shut the book of lore that he had been reading with his foster brother in a fit of rage. His honey eyes sparkled with a little anger.
"Calm down", Willas soothed Loras. "What if the two of us take a bet, and then, within the years we spend apart, confess our feelings towards Mallorie? The winner will get to spend the first night with her!"
"And the loser?", Loras curiously inquired.
"The loser will have to serve her". With twinkles in his hazel eyes, Willas stroked his foster brother's golden hair.
"All right! So it shall be!", both youths shook hands before wishing each other good night and going to bed, their thoughts, and even their dreams, being of the future that they had described to each other.
The next day, they packed their canteens and a half dozen apples each into a knapsack. And, as they broke their fast on assorted fruit-cakes and rosewater, the Fossoways told their foster family of what they had decided, much to their surprise.
Lady Meadows wept for the first time in a decade, embracing the lads as she dried up her tears with a lace-lined silk handkerchief. Her spouse and elder sons couldn't but dry up a tear each as well. But it was the youngest child, the Reach Rose herself, who kissed both of them goodbye, first her rosy lips warming Loras's left cheek, which made him reel and his heart skip a beat as she ran her fine fingers through his golden hair and he run his through hers. Then, she kissed Willas on the right cheek and stroked the dark shadow on his upper lip, as his hand nearly sprung up to her side.
Handing over a purse with a dozen silver stags to each of the youths, she gave the blond one a sharp sword which had been forged in the fires of Grassfield Keep that evening, the hilt of it being shaped like a seven-petal daisy in honour of the Seven Gods and the wildflowers of the Reach. His foster brother received an empty notebook to fill with the interesting things that he would discover.
"I will be so alone again, like before you two came! Promise me you'll send some ravens!"
And the promise was soon made.
That morning, at the garden gate, among loving servants and foster relatives drying up their tears, the words that sounded the most heartfelt were heard as the sept bells pealed:
"Farewell! Good luck! May the Seven be with you!"
The villagers of Grassy Vale had lined their main street and their square with wildflowers arranged in colourful patterns, and all of them, grown-ups and children, were out of doors waving at the two lordlings that rode past the quaint cottages and up to the Roseroad, cheering at them. Many a child and maiden held a posy of daisies, cornflowers, or primroses that were thrown at the riders in their golden doublets, one of them with his doublet embroidered with green apples and on a black mare, the other one with his doublet embroidered with red apples and riding a white stallion.
When they had reached the Roseroad, the two lordlings embraced each other and wished each other the best.
"May the Seven be with you, Willas", the golden-haired one said, drying up a tear.
"And may you always win, Loras", the auburn-haired one replied with a wistful smile.
"Don't forget... our bet!", both of them whispered at unison.
And then, Loras Fossoway on his white stallion galloped off eastward, towards the rising sun, while Willas on his black mare set off at a steady trot westward in the opposite direction.
And thus, within the lapse of seven good years, Willas renounced to his surname and forged his chain link by link, as his prowess and his knowledge grew, after being locked and staying awake for a whole night in the dark with the dragonglass candle that, surprisingly, he almost managed to light up with a little spark of changing bright colours.
While Loras, across Westeros, was anointed with the seven oils in the Great Sept (whose splendour almost made him flinch), and King Aegon V himself touched his shoulders with the tip of the sword, bestowing unto him the virtues of the Gods. During these times of peace, he fought in many a tourney, breaking bones, waiting impatiently as his wounds turned to scars, and becoming stronger and faster for each time he trained.
Neither of them, no matter how hard the fights or how deep the research, did forget to send word by raven to Grassfield Keep of their attainments. And the daughter of the lord kept these letters in a lacquered rosewood casket like a treasure chest... but for whom did her heart beat?
Seven years after they had parted ways, two young riders met on the Roseroad on a sunny afternoon, during which a thin daytime crescent moon kept the sun company, in a charming region of hill and dale, streams and meadows. It was now autumn and only a few forget-me-nots bloomed on the banks of springs and streams, as the apple and fire-plum orchards were laden with blood-red fruit, sweet and ripe for the harvest, and golden leaves fell one by one from the lindens and the birches.
Both the riders were young adults in their twenties, one coming from the direction of the sinking sun, having doubtlessly left the seat of learning, while the other had arrived from the opposite direction, ostensibly from the grand halls of the royal court. Their procedence could be told from their attire, and thus, it should be convenient to describe both of them.
The maester on the black mare kept his auburn hair short, and a thin moustache and whiskers contrasted with the fairness of his face, lilywhite from having spent ages indoors. He wore the modest gray and wide-sleeved tunic of learned men, around his neck he kept a little chain, each link of the choker made of a different material (copper, silver, steel...), and his face displayed an imperceptible smile, wistful twinkles in his hazel eyes.
The other rider, the one on the white stallion, was clean shaven, his golden locks hung at his back tied into a ponytail with a scarlet ribbon, and his glittering armour was inlaid with gilt flowers. A red and yellow plume fluttered on his helmet, and a sword with a daisy on its hilt hung from an ornate scabbard by his side. His sparkling eyes were the colour of amber or honey, his soft cheeks were rosy with sunshine, and he was certainly dashing, his face more expressive than that of the maester.
As soon as they recognized each other, both young riders embraced and looked at each other, the knight with a broad smile and twinkles in his eyes, the maester with an emotionless fixed expression:
"Maester Willas! Long time no see!"
"The same, Ser Loras... That armour fits you like a glove... you are more than just clothed in steel."
"That tunic fits you as well! And your chain...! Let me mess with your hair after all these years! So, is the bet still up?"
"Ah, that bet! It still goes on, and now comes the moment of truth. No doubt Mallorie will love what I have done."
"And what have you done during all these years that is so special?", Ser Loras Fossoway inquired.
"I have discovered a new star", was Maester Willas's reply, as he smiled confidently and gave his former friend a disapproving glare. The golden-haired knight did not move or utter a word for a while, so surprised was he, until, finally steeling himself, he replied the three last words that the learned one had said:
"A new star?"
"One that cannot be seen by the naked eye, a star that has recently been born. And, to crown my achievements, I have given it the loveliest name I have ever heard."
"Let me guess... Mallorie Meadows?"
Maester Willas nodded, looking rather smug and contented. "And a few moons as well. And how to obtain a drink stronger than wine or beer by heating them up and then cooling them quickly. I call it firewater, for it lights up pretty easily, and kindles flames instead of quenching them."
"What would that be useful?", Loras curiously asked.
"Why, it would ease pain quicker than milk of the poppy does. And also prove a formidable weapon. Just spray the enemy with firewater, and then..."
"That's playing dirty, that's fighting without honour! Warfare shall not be this way! What is right is to look at the foe in the eye, and thrust cold steel into his vitals!", the young knight flared up, and his right hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"No. Wars are thought of before they are fought.", the maester coldly replied, sure of what he said.
"The Warrior curse you!", Ser Loras almost drew steel.
"Fine", Maester Willas said. "I do no longer believe in any gods."
The blond knight was now even more surprised than when he was told about the new star. In fact, he nearly fell unconscious off his steed.
"Gods are but children's tales", Willas replied as coolly as always. "Don't take it personally, for I tolerate the fact that others believe each in a faith. Only that I happen to have stopped believing, for, if there were any gods, they would have set right everything that is wrong. And they do not have all answers that there are."
"And honour?", Ser Loras inquired, now pale as his armour.
"Honour is for knights and for lords, and there are other matters more relevant to maesters", Willas gave his rival a cold glare.
"Let me guess... research?"
They spent most of their cross-country trek arguing about gods and honour, both of them unwilling to flinch and to make peace. Every now and then, Maester Willas would make a remark that made Ser Loras feel as uncomfortable as if he had been tickled to death.
On the third day, dark leaden clouds covered the skies above the plum orchards.
"The Gods want a storm to come", the young knight said to himself.
"The air is full of particles... No gods are involved", his maester friend coldly replied as they gained an inn at the edge of the Roseroad.
That evening, they spent the night in the tavern, and the next day, after having broken their fast on apple cakes, they resumed their journey towards Grassfield Keep. And, as they crossed the linden wood, they found the stream of the Blueburn swollen into surging rapids by last night's rains, and the wooden bridge broken, swept before the surge during the night.
Yet still beyond the rapids they could see, surrounded by hills, a handful of cottages nestling around a familiar keep with slender, colourful towers, which they easily recognized.
"There should be a ford by the broken bridge", Ser Loras said, as he stroked his golden hair.
"Oh yes. Is it sunny in Dorne?" There was a tinge of irony in the maester's voice. "Guess you should keep both the horses and carry them after I have crossed on foot."
"What is it? Not so sure if you will make it on horseback? If you think of such outcomes constantly, they may happen to you."
"I'm just being careful", Maester Willas said, as he took off a lot of papers and notebooks from the wide sleeves of his tunic to put them inside Ser Loras's knapsack. Then, the learned one was soon seen wading across the surging rapids, with a linden branch in his hands and not having undressed.
"Willas!", the blond knight was frozen with fear. "Are you sure that you..."
Suddenly, the dark-haired maester was swept away by the stream, his heavy drenched tunic pulling him into the white waters, his hazel eyes firmly shut. And he, clutching his staff, was pulled further downstream and deeper for each instant.
Ser Loras Fossoway could have left his rival to die, but, as soon as he saw his companion and former friend fall unconscious and begin to drown, he saw, for an instant, just another person in need, struggling between life and death. It was just a flash, but enough he needed to say a quick prayer to the Warrior as he thrust his spurs into the flanks of his white stallion, the maester's black mare tied to his waist with a rope, and quickly gallop across the surging rapids, to dismount once he had reached the other side and rush until he finally placed himself ahead of Willas, before the stream carried his unconscious form to the shade of the linden in whose shade, as its leaves fell one after the other, the young knight had placed himself.
Then, as quickly as before, he took off his whole armour save for the gauntlets and reached out, dressed in a scarlet doublet, to the drowning learned man, holding out his sword by the pointy end, and stretching his arm as long as he could, and Willas, though he saw as if through a mist, rapidly clutched the steel hilt, as his former friend pulled him out as hard as he could. There, the young maester fell unconscious, closing his hazel eyes, in the arms of his dashing saviour. And Loras ran his fingers through Willas's drenched dark hair on the yellow carpet of linden leaves, where the maester was lain down to rest and undressed, as the knight put his armour on once more.
A moment later, Ser Loras was now fully dressed, as his foster brother was coming to and discovering how his tunic hung from the branch above him. Maester Willas coughed a little as the golden-haired knight came towards him, sincerely smiling and taking out the spare tunic from Willas's own knapsack.
"I can't thank you enough for saving me", the dark-haired maester sighed as he dressed himself. "And I thank the Gods as well".
"So you believe once more?", Ser Loras inquired, tilting his head. "After all, the Seven saved your life", he showed Maester Willas the hilt of his sword, now sheathed anew, as he counted the daisy's petals.
"Maybe the Gods, or maybe you... or maybe both", the maester replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "I should never have been so cold to you. It may have been our separation...", he dried up a few tears with the sleeves of his tunic. "You could have left me to die... and yet, you decided to..."
"Once a friend, always a friend!", Ser Loras replied, embracing Willas. "I would never have dared to leave you to die. And if I had not done what I have done, I would never have forgiven myself for having put an end to your life".
"I was so cold to you... yet you would never wish for my death...!", the young maester laid his head to rest on the knight's breastplate, as his saviour dried up their last tears. "Now shall we proceed towards Grassy Vale? There is a bet to win!"
"A bet that I will win!", Ser Loras replied as he got on his white steed.
"You have never fought in any war, while I have discovered a star!"
"Anyway, I wish that war would break out within as long time as possible. I'm fine just with tourneys, and only from the lists I know what the battlefield looks like. Far more chaotic and full of blood. And you have to kill people for your liege lord's sake. Thus, I prefer tourneys."
"Any opponents you remember?"
"A Dornishman who fought with a nice spear. A Northern knight who wore direwolf furs... in the heat of King's Landing! A crazy red priest who was always chanting... Don't worry, I haven't killed any of them. But what you have done... Your star, and your firewater... What you have done is admirable too, and even more interesting than fighting!", Ser Loras sincerely replied.
"Yet I am married to the Realm, and if someone is supposed to wed her, it should be you", Willas replied with a smile.
The few moments left of the journey were passed with so pleasant conversations, no longer cold or full of contempt, but rather sharing their experiences with each other. And both of them could hear sept bells cheerfully pealing from rather near. As they entered the village of Grassy Vale, they found the streets decked with flowers and the people all outside, children with posies like when they had left, everyone talking of a wedding procession and a lovely bride, as some men rushed to the river bank to repair the bridge across the Blueburn.
The closer both riders were to Grassfield Keep, the louder and the merrier the sept bells rang. Until Ser Loras and Maester Willas finally reached the castle gates and saw them open, as a wheelhouse decked with greenhouse roses of every warm colour was standing by the gates. Out of the keep and into the wheelhouse sauntered the most beautiful golden-haired maiden they had ever seen, in a white bridal gown and a wreath of blue winter roses, with a strange nobleman in his thirties by her side, as the parents and brothers of the bride said farewell to her, drying up their tears.
Both the maester and the knight recognized the young lady in white as their foster sister, Lady Mallorie... but who was the bridegroom beside her? He had a neatly-trimmed nutbrown goatee coupled with shoulder-long hair, and his waist was as broad as a wine barrel, dressed in a doublet of costly emerald velvet, thickly embroidered with roses in gold thread. And he was old enough to be the father of his new lady wife!
As they saw the bridal couple, both Maester Willas and Ser Loras were aghast, and their hearts stopped for a while. Their surprise grew even more when the bridegroom laughed at the top of his lungs, took his lady by the hands, and then proclaimed in a manly baritone:
"I, Lord Paxter Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, hitherto announce my engagement to my second lady wife, Lady Mallorie, born Meadows! There will be a feast at Highgarden this evening, and whoever desires is free to come to our halls and take part in the revels with which we have decided to celebrate our new life together!"
Then, kissing his bride, Lord Tyrell entered the wheelhouse with her, as the people of Grassy Vale gave their heartiest cheer to the newlyweds and the sept bells pealed even more joyfully than before. Following the carriage from behind as part of the wedding procession, both the disappointed suitors rode through the flower-decked street, across the nearest stone bridge there was across the Blueburn, and then followed the Roseroad, eastward and along the Mander, through orchards where fruit harvesters cheered at the bridal wheelhouse, in and out of inns where the great lord quaffed a tankard of wine to the health of his lady wife, as he asked the maester and knight about their lives and all three enjoyed some pleasant conversation. Then across fields of Reach roses that look like oceans of rubies from the countless rose hips, and past the terraced hills on both sides of the Mander, where the vintage was taking place and grape harvesters waved and cheered at the entourage.
A week later, the slender cream-white towers of Highgarden came to view among the hills, and that same day, the stateliest castle in the Reach, the seat of the Tyrells, was seen completely on a hilltop by the riverside, the slopes of the hills lined with a maze of sweet briar.
Lord Paxter Tyrell led his lady into Highgarden while looking at her and stroking her golden hair, as the maester and the knight followed them, now completely recovered from their disappointment. That evening, Ser Loras Fossoway fought gallantly in the lists of the wedding tourney, throwing the bridegroom and many other of the most dashing knights in the land off their saddles, and crowning the most lovely lady at Highgarden, a maiden Mallorie's age dressed in a costly silk gown of gold and green, Queen of Love and Beauty with a wreath of greenhouse-grown golden Reach roses, that looked quite the part on her dark brown hair.
That evening, under a trellis in a godswood warm with sunset and all the colours that autumn has to offer, Ser Loras felt his heart light and throbbing, because of the ruby wine he had drunk and the golden-eyed maiden, the one he had crowned, who was cheerful and lively, even more than Mallorie. Both of them had looked into each other's eyes and told each other their lives, and he was as pleased with her as she was with him.
The maiden in the Tyrell colours was the younger sister of the Warden of the South, and her name was Selyse. Which sounded even sweeter than Mallorie. As the golden-haired knight told the story of his short life, she listened attentively, not missing a single word of what he had to say. And thus, as soon as he had finished and come to the part where he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, in spite of the fact that they barely knew each other, due to having heard something inside him tell that she was worth the honour, Selyse Tyrell said, with a sincere smile and sparkles in her eyes of liquid gold:
"For years have I prayed to the Maiden for someone like you. And at last my prayers have been fulfilled. Never in my life have I met such an honest and kind young man, whose heart is far more true than the steel he wields", she dried up her tears into a silk handkerchief, as her voice rang sincerely and sweetly through the golden and coppery treetops.
Ser Loras Fossoway, upon hearing these words, blushed red as a strawberry once more, like when he looked at his foster sister years before, as his heart skipped a beat and leapt up to his throat, choking the words that he would have liked to say in response. The dashing young knight even tugged at his golden ponytail to ensure whether what he was feeling was but a dream. But it was not. There she sat, looking at him and admiring his honesty more than his prowess as a fighter, her golden eyes sparkling and her ruby lips, red as the Arbour wine they had drunk, slightly curled upwards.
At last, his blazing lips touched her soft lilywhite hand for a mere instant, lest a longer kiss would sear the lovely back of her hand and brand it for life. And then, he thanked for her feelings and confessed that he admired her for the same reasons:
"You have had many a suitor and turned away all of them until now: fair faces are not enough for one who looks beyond. And your heart is as pure and clear as the spring in this godswood", he told her, as he ran his fingers through her nutbrown hair.
"Thus... would you accept my heart and my hand, as true as I am, from this moment to the day one of us dies?", she asked, with her hands on her chest and a sincere look in her golden eyes.
There before her sat Ser Loras, entranced, not knowing what to say or stirring even the least, as many a different thought coursed through his heart and his mind. For a while, he felt his chest quickly fill with elation, yet his head was still deeply sunken in disappointment. It was now time to decide, and why let the one he loved get away for the second time... or was it the first time? Had he really loved Mallorie Meadows more than like a sister, and was that true love? It did no longer matter to him. The Maiden must have heard the dashing knight's prayer and offered him what he truly longed for, so why turn down the best party in the Reach? Why not give her all that he had to offer, and share everything there was to share, even the most sorrowful moments, from the day of this feast until the bitter end, which would hopefully be ages away?
And thus, as he steeled his resolve, he drained his second glass goblet of Arbour Red to the dregs, having drunk to her health, and, clearing his throat, he looked at a maiden whose spirit was as lovely as her face. And she said yes, making both Loras Fossoway and Selyse Tyrell feel more pleased than they had ever felt before in their short lives. Then, she sauntered off to have a short conversation with her eldest brother at the end of the table, as the golden-haired knight had his glass cup refilled with Arbour Red by a cupbearer and watched the one he truly loved from a short distance.
Seated at one end of the table, Lord Paxter looked as pleased as he could, laughing at the top of his lungs and already flushed with the wine he had quaffed, his lovely lady wife to the left of him and his darling little sister to the right. After having had a short conversation with the latter, he raised his goblet to the sky as he cheerfully announced to everyone else at the wedding feast:
"For seven long years, my sister Selyse, Selyse Tyrell, this rarity, this jewel, has turned down every suitor that we have addressed to tie the knot with her. This rose of Highgarden never has hesitated to show her thorns!", upon saying these words, the Warden of the South laughed as loudly as he could, nudging the dark-haired maiden. "But now she is pleased, and I am proud, upon her decision of having found the one she had always asked for: Ser Loras Fossoway of Cider Hall, a gallant and good knight of the Reach like the ones in the tales of yore! Come over here, Ser Loras!", and the young man came as quickly as he could, his heart throbbing with excitement, as his liege lord laid a large hand upon his shoulder and continued. "I have nothing against this engagement, and thus, my blessing will fall upon these two hopeful souls, who will soon be tied together as husband as wife! May the Maiden fill their hearts with love, the Mother fill their hearth with children, and the Crone fill their last years with wisdom..." Now the Lord of Highgarden raised his goblet to the sky once more and proclaimed: "And thus, let us drink to these young lovers and to their betrothal!"
Then, everyone raised their cups and put them to their lips, draining them as quickly as they could, from Lord Paxter Tyrell to the smallfolk at the other table, not forgetting the dashing Ser Loras and his dear Selyse either. And then, everyone cheered upon their liege lord's marriage and upon the betrothal of his younger sister.
The next day, the sept bells pealed as joyfully as they had played the day before in the seat of the Tyrells, as a lovely bride crowned in greenhouse-grown Reach roses kissed her breastplated bridegroom and she ran her fine fingers through his golden locks. That evening, a second wedding feast took place in the Highgarden godswood: Selyse was now Lady Fossoway of the Red-Apple branch, and neither she nor her dashing bridegroom could have ever felt happier.
The wedding feast was as grand as the one the day before, and even more Arbour Red flowed like rapids to the health of the bride and groom. Maester Willas had attended this feast for once, having intrenched himself in the library the day before out of disappointment. Now it pleased the learned one that his best friend had at least found someone to share with. Right before the wedding and after the feast, the Lord Paramount of the Reach gave him an offer worth the whole vintage of the year:
"Would you like to stay here at Highgarden as the Maester of House Tyrell? Our own healer and advisor is over seventy, and he is still bedridden, having given up all hope for his own life."
However, Willas lay his right hand on his chest and said, without doubting the least:
"I thank such a valuable offer, my Liege, but I would always fit out of place among all that greatness that surrounds you and your seat. And I would find it all tiresome without the ones from whose side I once parted. Give me rather a middling keep among apple orchards and the pleasure to offer my advice and knowledge to the ones I know and love. Especially to the one I owe my life to, for, if it weren't for Ser Loras Fossoway, I would not have been here by your side."
Though Lord Paxter Tyrell felt sorry for not having such a clever and learned maester by his side, he thought that parting his sister and brother-in-law from the one he wanted for himself would be rather unfair. And thus, he let Willas enter the service of the one who had saved his life and of the younger sister whom Lord Tyrell himself would soon find out that he missed.
The next day, a young couple of cheerful newlyweds and their maester entered the flower-decked Tyrell wheelhouse, and a fond farewell took place at the lower gates of Highgarden: the Warden of the South wished the best of fortunes to his younger sister and her golden-haired spouse, and so did his own lively lady, kissing both the Fossoways upon their warm leave-taking and drying up a few tears. And off went the wedding carriage with the newlyweds along the Mander and the Roseroad, past holdfasts, estates, and villages where the last grapes were being gathered on the terraced hills. The smallfolk of the Reach also waved and cheered before this wedding procession, until, seven days later, the entourage reached a region of bleak, fruitless apple treetops gilded by the warm evening twilight and veiled by a golden mist. And there, among the late autumn orchards, they could see the familiar red-capped towers of Cider Hall.
There, at the confluence of two rivers that ran like liquid gold, the newlyweds sauntered hand in hand out of the carriage, followed by their maester. At the gate, retainers came near to greet the lordling and his lovely bride, led by the new lord of Cider Hall, Ser Loras's older brother Alester, who was leaning on crutches due to a riding accident, now widowed with three little children as darling as they could be.
Everyone was excited to hear the story of the knight and the maester, and how one of them had managed to win a Tyrell bride, a younger sister to the late lady of Cider Hall. Of course everyone was pleased with the tale they had heard, as Ser Loras and his dear Selyse looked warmly at each other and she stroked his golden hair.
These hopeful young newlyweds had six lovely children, none of them outside wedlock three boys and three girls, which lived for a long time under the watchful eyes and guided into the right path by the wisest and most clever maester that there was in all the Reach. Needless to say that Willas enjoyed having so curious and passionate students, and he was always proud of them... In fact, two of the lads would soon forge maesters' chains of their own.
As for our dashing Ser Loras and his dear Selyse, they never parted from each other and were always pleased with each other. And, when he fell with a poisoned spear at the Dornish Marches and died in her arms, the flame of his life gradually fading, his widowed lady did never take a second spouse, but always honour the day when he went forth forever.

A Moonlit Godswood Afternoon: After the Story 

There were no more apples in the basket by the time Septa Poppine had finished the tale. And, as it had been told, Jaime had got a piece of a red one stuck in his throat when he heard that the Meadows girl had married a third suitor, the Lord Paramount of the Reach himself. In response, Cersei and Tyrion had stood there staring at his struggle, as their brother reeled and clutched his throat. Luckily, the septa had saved the Lannister heir's life with a quick thrust on the back.
When the story had come to an end, the septa reminded the three siblings of that unfortunate incident:
"You now know that we usually fret over disappointments that are actually slight when compared to other harder sorrows, like the loss of your own life or that of a loved one."
"I was scared to death!", Cersei replied, turning pale. "For a while, I was distracted from the story, only worrying about what would happen in real life!"
"And I had it far worse... for I couldn't breathe in or out, or even speak to call for help!", Jaime replied as the other three gathered around him.
"Guess that the lesson we learned from the story was mirrored in real life", the Imp intervened.
Septa Poppine chortled and looked at all three children. Now they were alive all three, Jaime waving a wooden sword and Tyrion reading, as Cersei was leaning against the courtyard wall.
"There we have you... Ser Loras and Maester Willas... or should I say Jaime and Tyrion Lannister?", the Lannister girl asked her brothers with a wistful smile.
"This was a lovely story", both of them replied. And she chortled as well and replied:
"So I think as well".
"Though neither of them got the girl?", the septa asked the little Lannisters.
No reply came for a while, but all three children smiled and gathered around her.
"I see you saw yourselves in the characters that this tale had to offer. Jaime, if you keep on practicing, you'll be a great knight... Tyrion, you will be a great maester, and maybe even discover a star or more..."
"I have a question..." the odd-eyed imp raised his hand.
"Which question?"
"How come firewater hasn't been used in battle since it was discovered?", Tyrion Lannister asked in a surprising tone. "It would be so exciting!"
"Well", Septa Poppine cast aside the auburn lock which escaped her veil every now and then. "There are things which never will catch on".
"I'm glad Ser Loras died like a true hero", Jaime said as he swished the broken branch he had for a sword.
"I'm glad Ser Loras also found someone to love", Cersei replied, with sparkles in her green eyes.
"Well, I'm glad at least one of you liked today's story, my children!", Septa Poppine said. "Hope that tomorrow's story, though it may be different, will be equally interesting!"