Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/430761.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Major_Character_Death
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sansa_Stark/Willas_Tyrell, Garlan_Tyrell/Leonette_Fossoway, Alerie
      Hightower/Mace_Tyrell
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Willas_Tyrell, Garlan_Tyrell, Margaery_Tyrell, Olenna
      Tyrell, Alerie_Tyrell, Baelor_Hightower, Leyton_Hightower, Garth_Tyrell,
      Mace_Tyrell, Leonette_Fossoway, Cersei_Lannister, Robert_Strong, Meryn
      Trant, Aegon_Targaryen, Nymeria_Sand, Jon_Connington, Tyene_Sand, Arya
      Stark, Gendry_Waters, Brienne_of_Tarth
  Additional Tags:
      Arranged_Marriage, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Graphic_Depictions_of_Illness, Underage_Sex, Past_Abuse
  Series:
      Part 1 of Even_to_the_edge_of_doom
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-11 Completed: 2013-12-25 Chapters: 30/30 Words: 107962
****** Rough Winds Do Shake ******
by SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary
     In which Willas wraps a cloak of green and gold around Sansa’s
     shoulders, Garlan is truly Gallant, and the Tyrells live up to their
     words.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Margaery writes of long limbs, fiery hair, eyes as blue as the noonday sky.
Loras writes of shy smiles, gentle courtesies, a sweet voice.
Grandmother writes of guarded warmth, bruised kindness, hidden intelligence.
What Willas gets when Sansa Stark slides down from her horse is a girl, a
broken girl with shadowed eyes and so much grief in the line of her shoulders
that he can hardly find any words to say to her beyond a falsely cheerful
greeting, because he is utterly horrified at just how small and hurt she is
behind the careful mask of manners and the almost-real smile.
He catches Margaery's gaze, a gaze just as calculating and scheming as
Grandmother's, if a little better guarded, and his sister seems to understand
just how furiously angry he is with the deception. He still forces himself to
be polite to Lady Sansa, offering her his arm and leading her into the castle
with as light a smile as he can produce.
Loras, at least, told him the truth – Sansa's answering smile is shy, her
courtesies are gentle and her voice is sweet, but Margaery and Grandmother lied
outright when they told him that she was a woman. Sansa is a girl, regardless
of having flowered, and he already feels guilty at the knowledge that within a
week he will be taking her to wife, that he will be made to bed her even though
he knows full well she is not prepared in any way for such a thing.
Because Willas has as little choice in the matter as Sansa – his father has
made great efforts to remove his crippled son as heir to Highgarden, and a
condition of his marrying Sansa is that Father will no longer consider pushing
Garlan ahead in the line of succession.
Willas' marriage prospects have not been so hopeful as they should have been
with his status as heir to Highgarden and the Reach, and to marry a Stark of
Winterfell, even if she is little more than a girl, is better than to not marry
at all.
===============================================================================
He barely sees his betrothed in the week leading up to their wedding save at
dinner each night, which is always shared with Margaery, Mother and Grandmother
– it would be made more bearable by Garlan's presence, he thinks, but of course
his brother is allowed to romance his lovely lady wife away from the rest of
the family.
Sansa is reserved, keeping her eyes lowered unless addressed directly and even
then answers barely enough to be polite. Willas watches carefully as Margaery
tries to coax Sansa into conversation about this knight and that lady, the way
she might speak with Megga or Alla, but the more Margaery speaks of the Red
Keep the further into herself Sansa seems to retreat.
"Mayhaps tomorrow, we might take a turn about some of the smaller gardens?" he
suggests quietly three nights before their wedding, while Grandmother and
Mother are arguing loudly over some small detail of the wedding feast and
Margaery is attempting to forge peace between them. "Highgarden is famed for
its beauty, after all, and you have seen so little of it, my lady."
Her eyes are flat and shielded when she smiles, empty of any true warmth, but
she nods graciously. He wonders what she is truly thinking, whether or not she
actually likes the idea of walking at his regretfully slow pace about the
endless gardens, if she'd rather just spend her days with Margaery and their
fool cousins.
"I would like that, my lord," she replies, her voice even lower than his and
incalculably different from normal, somehow. "Some peace and quiet would be
most welcome."
===============================================================================
Willas had hoped to draw Sansa out of her shell of manners without Margaery
dancing attendance – he knows that Sansa does not truly trust anyone who would
be willing to ally themselves with the Lannisters, and he cannot blame her
because of what the Lannisters did to her father, and because he thinks his
family is signing their own death warrant by supporting the Bastard King – but
she remains remote.
She is every bit as clever as Grandmother said, even though he can tell that
she limited herself to the studies of "women's" things while growing up, ever
striving to become what her septa doubtless told her was the perfect lady – her
knowledge of horticulture and geography prove slim, but she understands so much
more about beauty and expression and colour than he thinks she even realises.
She allows herself to ask questions about the roses, and her eyes light up with
something other than fear and that devastating sadness he's glimpsed once or
twice when he leads her to the stables.
"Your mounts are talked about even at Winterfell," she tells him, wandering
along the line of stalls which are home to his favourite horses – his own
horse, Gardener, and Margaery and Garlan's horses, Sweetling and Florian, are
here, as well as Comet, who he had intended bringing with him when he visited
Sunspear. Plans for his trip to visit Dorne had been curtailed by the outbreak
of the war, of course, but he makes sure that Comet is kept in good order for
when next he has an opportunity to present the horse to Oberyn Martell in
return for the delicate sandsteed Oberyn gifted him when last he visited
Highgarden.
"I can ride only with a special saddle now, and even then I will never be able
to ride in a joust, but I find it very peaceful here at the stables," he hears
himself say. "Grandmother detests horses, so it is one of the few true refuges
to be had."
Sansa laughs, so quietly and for so short a moment that he almost thinks he
imagined it, but he wishes that she would do it again. It would almost reassure
him that she does not hate every single person and every single thing south of
the Neck if she were to laugh even just once more.
===============================================================================
Garlan wakes him the morning of the wedding with a sympathetic smile.
"Do try not to look as though you are marching to your own funeral, brother,"
he japes, aiming for lightness and missing by a breath. "There are few men
lucky enough to marry a woman as lovely as Lady Sansa."
Willas grunts and rolls off his back, taking his brace from the nightstand and
motioning for Garlan to give him more room.
"She is a child," he says, fitting the leather and steel around his ruined knee
and buckling it in place. "Grandmother has reminded me no less than seven times
that Sansa is flowered and therefore a woman, but look at her, Garlan – she is
a child, and a frightened one at that."
"Margaery seems to think she's more than ready to be wed," Garlan comments,
throwing himself across the foot of the bed and leaning up on his elbows.
Willas envies him the ease of movement, the chance to do something so simple as
jump onto a bed without fear of causing harm. "Mayhaps she's a better judge of
what a woman is than you, Willas."
"Margaery has thought herself a woman since she could walk," Willas says drily,
rolling his eyes as he heaves himself to his feet with the help of his cane.
"Mother is the only judge I trust in this, and she agrees with me."
"And yet she has made no move to put a stop to the wedding."
"She also agrees that the only way to truly keep Sansa safe from the Lannisters
is to keep her here, and how else might we keep her here than as my wife? You
are already married, and Loras would be as capable of bedding her properly as
Margaery even had he not been appointed to the Kingsguard."
"Why should we concern ourselves with the safety of a traitor's daughter?"
Garlan challenges, rising to his feet and bearing Willas' weight against his
chest so his brother might pull on his breeches without sitting back down. "I
know that Grandmother's schemes have often been too subtle for my
comprehension, but this makes no sense whatsoever."
"She thinks to bind us to both the Lannisters and the Starks through mine and
Margaery's marriages," Willas explains, wincing sharply as his weight rolls
onto his bad leg for a heartbeat. "If the Lannisters win, we might say that
Sansa visited as Margaery's friend and she and I were fools for love. If the
Starks win, we might say that Joffrey was a monster and left Father no choice
but to agree to a match between him and Marg."
"The cunning old witch."
"That's one word for her, I suppose."
===============================================================================
He cannot deny that she is exceptionally beautiful on Garlan's arm when he
walks her to the altar in the sept. Her hair is loose down her back for the
first time since her arrival, and it is truly magnificent – fire and amber and
sunshine and rose gold (appropriate, he thinks, for a Tyrell) all at once.
The Stark cloak that she and Margaery spent the past week sewing under
Grandmother's watchful gaze is a work of art, a confection of ermine, seed
pearls and cloth-of-silver, with a direwolf that seems to dance as he removes
it from her narrow shoulders.
It may be his imagination (he does not think so), but she flinches slightly
when he drapes his colours around her and clasps the golden rose at the base of
her throat, and she is like an exquisite marble carving when he cradles her
face in his hands and brushes his lips over hers.
Theirs, he senses, will not be a passionate marriage.
She sits dutifully by his side all through the feast, her smile brilliant to
those who do not look past the veneer that is so thin and brittle that even
just hearing Margaery shout for Mother seems to send another crack
spiderwebbing across it, until that despair that he finds so perversely
compelling is almost exposed in Sansa's eyes – not that he takes pleasure in
her pain, never that, but he wants to tease it out, to provide what aid he can
to help her overcome it.
He thinks that perhaps, once she is settled here at Highgarden, he might
promise her a visit to Winterfell as soon as the war is over, but quickly
dismisses the idea – there is every chance that her family will be dead at the
end of the war, whether it be in battle or on the edge of Ilyn Payne's sword,
and he cannot afford to make promises that he cannot keep, not when she is
already so delicate, so fragile.
He wishes that there was something, anything he could do to make her smile more
genuinely, or perhaps even to make her laugh – and so he turns to Garlan,
murmurs a question in his brother's ear, and soon Sansa is spinning about the
floor in Garlan's arms, her head tilted back as she laughs.
Willas doubts that he will ever be the one to make her laugh so, and he is
surprised by the level of disappointment he feels at that thought.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Margaery and the cousins (there are too many for Willas to remember all of the
names) make short work of Willas' upper garments, and he's somewhere between
relieved and embarrassed to find himself pushed down into his wheelchair so the
women can pull off his boots and breeches and, despite his best efforts, his
small clothes.
He's kept rooms on the ground floor of the castle since his accident, forced as
he is to bend his pride enough to admit that there will be days when his leg
will be too painful to walk on, even with his cane, and he will need to use his
wheelchair. He will not suffer the indignity of being practically carried up
the stairs on those days (although Garlan, Seven bless him, never utters a word
of protest when there is a need for Willas to venture higher up into Highgarden
on those days), and so he is relegated to the apartments that were once used
for the least welcome of guests.
He realises only as Margaery and the cousins shield their eyes and blindly hold
out his cane that perhaps Sansa would rather somewhere different, brighter and
airier and more fitting for the future Lady of Highgarden, but he levers
himself out of his chair and slams the door of the room behind him, making sure
to lower the bar to prevent any drunken interruptions.
Any drunken bravado masquerading as arousal that he may feel dissipates
immediately upon the sight of Sansa with the covers pulled right up to her
chin, gut-churning fear the only thing visible in her luminous eyes.
 
===============================================================================
 
She's trembling, he can see that even from the door, and she can't even look at
him.
He sighs heavily – he knew that this would be difficult, knows that she
probably wishes that he was Loras (if only she knew) or even Garlan, but he did
not think that she was actually afraid of him – and limps over to where his
robe hangs on the wall.
There's a new robe for him there as well, one that matches Sansa's. They're
green silk heavily embroidered in golden thread, ostentatious and ridiculous, a
gift from Father. Willas shrugs on his old, worn woollen robe, the same one
he'd had for years, and frowns at Sansa's robe.
"This will never do," he says thoughtfully, tossing it and the matching one cut
to fit him unceremoniously onto the ground and revealing his spare robe, also
woollen and also years old. "Silk might look well, but nothing can best wool
for sheer warmth and there is a chill in the air tonight."
She watches him uncertainly when he holds it out to her, and it takes a long,
heavy moment before she reaches out a shaking hand and takes it.
"You cannot sleep with your hair unbrushed, my lady," he reassures her,
stepping away and moving towards the dressing table Grandmother had reminded
him he needed now that there was to be a lady sharing his rooms. "Come, I spent
long enough brushing Margaery's hair when she evaded Mother and her septa –
mayhaps I will be of some use to you."
He's amazed by the way she manages to emerge from beneath the covers and hide
under the robe without exposing so much as an inch of unnecessary skin to him,
but suddenly she's standing at his side, looking up at him with those damned
eyes, biting her lip and waiting.
"Please, Sansa – may I call you Sansa?"
"If it please you, my lord," she replies, ducking her head to hide her blush.
He gestures for her to take a seat in front of him, wonders if she'll ever be
willing to share anything with him, even something so minute as the delicate
pinkness in her cheeks that she works so hard to conceal from everyone, and
sets down his cane in favour of the silver-backed hairbrush someone (probably
Margaery, although it's equally likely to have been Garlan) left for this
precise purpose.
"It would," he tells her, keeping his voice soft, gentle, because Willas is no
blushing maiden, bad leg or not, and he's never met a girl or woman so
unbelievably skittish as Sansa – he's fast coming to the conclusion that he's
never come across a horse as skittish as her, and he's been left with some
near-ruined horses once Loras was done with them.
He pushes aside the thought of Sansa as near-ruined, because he refuses to
believe that she is, that he cannot guide her to some measure of happiness, and
parts her hair to begin brushing it.
"I've never seen hair like yours before," he murmurs, marvelling at the shimmer
of colours in her curls. Her hair feelslovely in his hands, not silky like
Margaery's hair, it's too heavy and thick and lustrous for that, but it's
impossibly soft and gods, it even smells lovely, something that might be
rosemary clean and sharp in the air that always smells faintly of roses here.
"It's like… Like fire, but more."
He catches her eye in the mirror by accident, and he reluctantly admits that
yes, she is beautiful – she will become even more so as she grows into herself,
he can see that quite clearly – and wonders if he did the wrong thing in
marrying her after all.
"Thank you, my lord," she whispers, looking away quickly and focusing on her
hands. She wears a ring shaped like a butterfly, big on her delicate hand, and
she toys with it rather than looking at him. He bites back another sigh and
continues brushing her hair in silence, trying to work out how precisely he is
supposed to bed his wife without feeling like a rapist.
"Sansa, look at me," he says when he sets down the brush. "Please, this is
important."
She turns her face up to his so slowly, looking back over her shoulder. She's
biting her lip again, her teeth startlingly white against the deep pink skin,
and he's ashamed by how much he'd like to kiss her.
"Sansa," he breathes, touching the sharp curve of her cheekbone with the very
tips of his fingers, carefully hiding his relief when she does not flinch.
"Sansa, I know that you do not- That you would rather we did not have to go
through with this."
"I am your wife, my lord," she tells him, parroting off phrases that clearly
came from a septa. "How could I not wish to go through with this?"
Now that's interesting – that had far too much steel, too much bite to have
come from a septa. Perhaps he does not need to be quite so gentle with her as
he thought.
"Be honest," he says flatly. "I am not the man you would have chosen to marry,
am I? I imagine either of my younger brothers would have been a more appealing
option. I am far older than you and half-crippled, too."
"My lord-"
"Sansa, I have a name. I would ask that you use it, if you truly intend sharing
a bed with me tonight."
She flushes bright, brilliant scarlet that clashes magnificently with her hair,
and he immediately hates himself for being so abrupt.
"I apologise, my lady," he says, offering her his hand and taking his cane from
where it leans against the table. "But truly, Sansa – I understand if you are…
If you are reluctant. I know that you cannot ever have imagined that your
wedding night would be like this."
She is shaking again by the time they reach the bed, and she seems confused
when he makes no move to strip her of her robe.
"If I could spare you the pain of this, I would," he promises her. "But if our
marriage is unconsummated, the Lannisters could easily seek that the High
Septon annuls it, and he is their creature, after all – the only way to
guarantee that you will be safe from them is for… Well, for us to lie together,
I'm afraid."
"Why are you being so kind to me?" she asks, and there is so much pain and
suspicion and doubt and terrible, disbelieving hope in her voice that he drops
his cane and cups her face in his hands.
"You are my wife now, Sansa," he says. "I wrapped you in my cloak and took you
into my protection – you will suffer no hurt that is within my power to
prevent, I promise you."
 
===============================================================================
 
She seems to expect him to kiss her then, but he doesn't – instead, he releases
her and sits down on the edge of the bed to remove his brace, opening the six
buckles one at a time and setting the whole thing down on the nightstand (he
ignores the small corked bottle of poppy's milk that the maesters insist he
keeps near at night) and then shedding his robe.
He slides right across the bed, leaving plenty of space for her should she
choose to join him. She hesitates – she has done little else tonight, he thinks
– and toys with the tie of her robe, showing her reluctance to bare herself to
him.
"There are nightgowns in the drawers for you," he offers, gesturing across the
room and settling himself back against the pillows. His leg would have been
aching already without standing to brush her hair, and he wonders how she'll
react to the realisation that his infirmity means she will have to do rather
more than simply lay back and think of something pleasant.
The relief in her eyes would be insulting if it weren't preferable to the fear
that had been there earlier, and she all but runs across the room-
"But these are your drawers, my lord," she says, confused.
"Ah, well, I'm afraid your clothes are in the lower drawers," he admits. "My
leg, Sansa – I cannot bend to reach the lower drawers."
She nods silently, and he once more regrets ever taking part in that
godsforsaken tilt – would she be more amenable to their match if he was not a
cripple? If not for his leg, he would have danced her around the floor until
she collapsed into his arms, laughing and flushed as she was when Garlan
returned her to her seat-
His breath catches when she drops her robe to pull on a shift, exposing the
long, slender curves of her back and bottom to him – it is not her body that
gives him pause, although she is truly lovely, but rather the pink wealds and
ridges marring the pale skin of her shoulder blades and spine, the bruises that
have not yet faded entirely on her shoulders and ribs.
Margaery pulled him aside three days before and told him that Joffrey and his
Kingsguard had abused Sansa, but Willas never expected this. He never thought
that any knight worth the oils used to anoint him would have laid hands on any
lady, much less one as sweet and gentle as Sansa.
He is surprised by the swell of protective anger that rises up his throat, but
he forces it down when she turns and manages to smile for her. She watches him
warily as she comes back around to the bed, sitting primly on the very edge of
the mattress with her back to him, her hair still pulled forward over her
shoulders. He can see the scars through the sheer material of her nightgown,
and he isn't sure whether to curse Margaery for that or to sing her praises to
the heavens.
"I still do not understand," Sansa whispers, her shoulders hunching. "Why? Why
would you tell me to dress?"
"I thought you might be more comfortable," he says honestly, sitting up and
setting a tentative hand on her shoulder. He bites his lip when she flinches,
not sure how to proceed. "I know that you are afraid, Sansa, but you do not
need to be – I will never hurt you if I can avoid it. You have my word on that.
Please – you will be warmer under the covers. Come to bed."
She turns her head to him, her eyes staying on his hand, dark and freckled
against her white, white skin. She takes a deep breath and swings her legs up
onto the bed, slipping under the covers and pulling them up to her waist.
Truly, he thinks, she is very beautiful – and then he stops, wondering if he
truly needs to convince himself to lie with her by reminding himself of how
lovely she is.
That rich, sharp rosemary-but-not scent of her hair is heavy in the air now
that they are partially enclosed by the half-open drapes of his bed, and he
finds himself winding a curl around his finger, amazed once more by how soft it
is.
"Have you ever been kissed, Sansa?" he asks, voice low. "Truly kissed, I mean.
Until your lips are swollen and you can't breathe, until you're so warm you
feel as if you'll never be cold again?"
She meets his gaze now, her eyes wide and her lips just slightly parted.
"No, my lord."
He smiles, surprised and mildly ashamed for the thousandth time since she
walked into the sept by just how much he wants this, and twists his body until
he's leaning over her, one hand on the bed at her hip and the other cradling
her jaw.
"Well, we must remedy that," he murmurs, leaning in to taste, to tease – her
lips are soft and warm under his, her breath hot against his face when she
sighs.
It's all the encouragement he needs, and he leans back in to kiss her in
earnest, chaste and gentle and building, slowly building, coaxing her lips open
and how is it that she tastes so sweet, the summerwine and strawberries and
lemon cakes she'd eaten at the feast lingering-
She lifts a trembling hand and twists it into his hair, pulling him closer, and
a jolt of triumph runs up his spine – the horrible guilt lingering in the pit
of his stomach abates somewhat at the first shy touch of her tongue against
his, replaced by the deep, heady warmth of arousal, but when he curves a hand
around her hip and tugs gently, urging her with him, she freezes, and he feels
like some sort of depraved monster, like a rapist.
"Sansa," he breathes, not opening his eyes, not moving back, not daring to do
anything that might frighten her, "Sansa, do you trust that I will not hurt
you?"
He feels her nod, her hair shifting where it fell over his shoulder, and spares
a prayer to the Warrior for giving her some measure of bravery.
"Let me guide you," he tells her. "Trust me, Sansa – I know I have done little
enough to earn your trust, but in this I can only assure you that I only want
to make you feel good, Sansa. Only good, sweetling, I promise."
She hesitates for a long, lingering moment, and he's almost convinced that
she'll pull away by the time she touches her lips to his again.
This time, she follows his hands when he pulls her towards him, lets him press
her to his chest – and gods, she feels lovely against him, the soft weight of
her breasts and the warmth of her through the diaphanous shift – and then,
slowly, so slowly, he guides her on top of him.
She pulls away when he settles her knees on either side of his hips, lips dark
pink, almost red, and eyes wide and uncertain. He ruthlessly pushes aside the
urge to bury his hands in her glorious hair and pull her mouth back to his, to
kiss her until she moans and then to pull her body down onto his, to push his
body up into hers, and instead frames her face in his hands.
He's breathing heavily, both from the want seeping into his bones and the dull
throb of his leg from leaning over her as he did, but nothing matters except
Sansa now, nothing except the tiny spark of apprehension in the depths of her
eyes.
"My leg," he explains with an apologetic shrug. "I imagine you were taught the
basics of what goes on in the marriage bed once you flowered…?"
She seems suddenly aware of the hand she has twisted into his hair and the
other resting on his bare chest, just below his collarbone, and pulls back,
folding her fingers together just under her breasts as she shakes her head.
"No, but Margaery…"
Willas cannot help but smile.
"Of course," he says. "Margaery is a font of knowledge when she so chooses. She
did not explain my infirmity, Sansa?"
"I- No, my lord. She did not."
"I cannot bend my knee at all, you see," he explains.
Some small part of him laughing at the sheer strangeness of discussing his bad
leg with his new wife while she sits in his lap, him painfully hard under her
and her so chaste as to almost be the Maiden come to earth.
"The base of my thighbone and my kneecap were crushed in the fall, and both the
bones in my lower leg were badly broken, along with my ankle – the maesters did
their best, but healing is an imperfect art and I am similarly imperfect. I
could perhaps lie with you as Margaery explained, but it would be painful and
uncomfortable for both of us, and I would rather not put you off the idea of
ever sharing a bed with me again."
Gods, she's lovely when she blushes like that,pearly pink along her high
cheekbones and a shy attempt to hide a smile that he thinks is probably fuelled
more by nervousness than mirth.
"Sansa," he says gently, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone and turning
her face until she has no choice but to look him in the eye. He wishes more
than anything that there was no fear in her face, but he supposes that that may
come in time – he does not think it the normal maiden's fear, borne of horror
stories of the pain and blood and terror of a torn maidenhead. "It may be
easier for you this way, as well – you will better be able to control how we
move, and if something is hurting you or you dislike something I do, you will
be able to stop me easier, to tell me what not to do."
Her hands shake so badly that even pressing them firmly against his shoulders
does not quell the tremors, but something about the set of her jaw firms and a
fire that almost matches her hair blazes bright, brilliant blue in her eyes.
Willas would never admit it, not even to Garlan, not even to himself, but he
doesn't think he's ever wanted a woman as badly as he wants Sansa in this
moment. The fire in her eyes matches the pride straightening her spine, pushing
her shoulders back, and she's so fierce – so fragile, so innocent, so clearly
broken, but still so fierce – that for a moment, all he can think of is how
glorious she will be as Lady of Highgarden when Father's day comes.
He is popular enough with his people, as popular as the pitied crippled heir
will ever be, but Willas knows the Reach, and he knows that the people of the
Reach will come to love Sansa, high and lowborn alike. He can already see her
sitting high in the saddle, green velvet heavy around her shoulders and roses
in her stunning hair (he's already in love with her hair, Garlan commented on
it during the feast and Margaery teased him for it, but looking at it was
nothing compared to the feel of it in his hands, against his skin, and he
thinks he might die if he has to forsake touching it) as she rides through his
lands, their lands, and she will be adored.
Her kiss is more determined now, and the bite of her fingernails into his
shoulders lends a tension to the air that he finds more exciting than perhaps
he should. She's learning astonishingly quickly, that he takes no shame in
delighting in, and seems more comfortable in his arms now than she did when he
touched her first – but she still flinches when he rests his hand in the dip of
her waist, his fingers fitting to the alarmingly pronounced groves of her ribs
through her nightgown, and he pulls away with a sigh.
"Sansa," he says, wondering why he can't seem to stop saying her name. "Sansa,
please – tell me what you want of me, please. Only good, Sansa, remember? Only
good."
She breathes deeply through her nose, eyes closed, and he realises that she is
gathering up every scrap of courage she can muster so she might speak openly to
him.
"I don't know," she admits, her hair tumbling around her face and obscuring her
flushed cheeks. "I don't- it's all just so much. I don't understand it."
The relief that floods him at this indirect confirmation that she was not
despoiled by Joffrey or his men takes his breath away for an instant, and he
waits for her to continue without speaking.
"I know- I assume, my lord, Willas, I mean, that you have- that you have lain
with women before, but I am a maid, my lor- Willas, and I don't know."
"Kiss me again, Sansa," he says, channelling the flare of possessive want in
his stomach into something more productive. He wonders if her breasts will feel
as good in his hands as they had against his chest. "Kiss me – I'll take care
of the rest, sweetling. Only good."
She does kiss him again, pressing closer this time, and he can tell by the way
she fidgets that there's heat and wet and aching building between her legs, and
there's nothing he wants more than to bury himself there – fingers, tongue,
cock, he doesn't really care so long as he's inside her cunt soon, and gods but
he's ashamed of himself for that – he holds himself back, nipping at her lower
lip and making her gasp while carefully, so carefully, shifting his hand from
her waist to skim the lower curve of her breast with his knuckles.
She gasps against his mouth a second time, her fingers tight and hard on his
shoulders, and he presses his advantage, smoothing his fingers around the
roundness of her breast and barely holding back a moan at finding her nipple
hard, hardening further under the caress of his hand.
His other hand is still twisted into her hair, and it is only with the greatest
of reluctance that he unwinds it to lower it to her hip and pull her closer. He
counts it a great victory that she neither flinches nor pulls back, only a
brief stillness of her mouth on his an indication of her uncertainty.
He pulls his mouth from hers then, startling her, and leans in to kiss her
neck, just behind the corner of her jaw, below her ear, keeping his lips
feather-light against her skin until she sighs and leans into him just
slightly, another mite of the tension easing from her shoulders.
I could have her boneless just by kissing her, I could, he thinks giddily,
opening his mouth to taste her pulse, but gods, I want more, so much more.
It's true, he does, the way his hands are moving across her body without
conscious thought or direction is proof enough of that, stroking and
discovering and mapping the shape of her, the long lines of her lovely, elegant
body that he knows will fit so well against his, he just knows it.
She makes the loveliest noises, soft little chirps of surprise and, he hopes,
pleasure as his mouth and hands learn her body. He wants so badly to pull her
even closer, to crush her against him and lose himself inside her, but he
gentles his touch (like a highly-strung filly, that's what she is, needing to
be coaxed with gentle touches lest she shatter to ruination) and slowly works
the laces holding the front of her nightgown together open, slowly inches the
hem higher up her milk-pale thigh-
She sucks in a noisy breath when his fingers find her bare nipple, the skin
warm and soft under his touch, but it's nothing compared to the sharp little
cry of surprise when his other hand runs lightly through the coarse hair
covering her mound, nothing compared to the whimper of shock and pleasure – it
has to be pleasure, it has to be, because her fingers twist into his hair and
her hips rock just slightly, so slightly that he would have missed it were he
not hyperaware of every move she makes – when he finds the nub right at the top
of her slit.
"Willas," she breathes, and just hearing her say his name without stumbling
over it is enough to drive him to pull the neck of her nightgown down roughly
and take her nipple between his lips, is almost enough to send his hips surging
up towards hers. "Oh, Willas-"
He moans helplessly around her nipple when her voice breaks off into another of
those sharp little cries, and before he even realises it he has a finger
crooked inside her to the second knuckle, and gods-
"So wet," he gasps, licking right up along her breastbone to the hollow at the
base of her throat. "So wet, Sansa, and so hot – is that for me, sweet girl? Is
it?"
"Yes," she gasps back, cheeks red and eyes dark, and he can see that even
though she still does not understand she likes it, and gods but he does too.
"Yes, for you, yes."
"I promised, Sansa, didn't I?" he whispers into her throat. "Only good, lovely
girl, only good, I promised."
He can feel his control slipping and forces it back, forces himself to gentle
his hands again, and she sighs into his touch now, darting shy touches of her
own over his shoulders, the top of his back, his upper arms, as if she wants to
know him as much as he wants to know her.
"Sansa," he gasps, slipping another finger into the heat of her cunt and
drawing a whimper from her throat, "Sansa-"
"Yes," she says breathlessly, nodding frantically, "now, now, it feels so good,
quickly-"
He's the one trembling now, desperate want sending a shake through his limbs
until he can hardly focus enough to take himself in hand, guide himself to her
cunt-
"Oh, gods," he groans, his head falling forward so his brow is against her
breastbone, between her breasts. She's so hot, so hot and wet and tight, but
she's tense, too, and he tries to force aside the pleasure to consider her
pain.
"Is that it?" she asks, her voice uncertain, and he can only shake his head.
"Lower," he manages to choke out. "Lower, Sansa, it will hurt, beautiful girl,
I'm so sorry, it will hurt-"
He can't hold back a garbled shout as she sinks further onto him, but her
lovely sharp cry isn't lovely this time, it's pained and there are tears in her
eyes when his head snaps up to look at her.
"We can stop now," he tells her, biting the insides of his cheeks to shreds
with the effort of keeping his hips still. "I've- Sansa, I've broken your
maidenhead, that's all we had to do-"
"No," she grits out, bowing her head and bracing herself on his shoulders. "No,
we must do it properly."
He lifts a hand and touches her face, the shake worse now that he's inside
her, buried in the heat of her, the heat that surpasses even the fire of her
hair.
"But it is hurting you so much," he says even as his hips roll up and his eyes
roll back. "Oh, gods, I'm so sorry, Sansa, I promised only good-"
"I knew it would hurt," she gasps, screwing her eyes shut and digging her
fingers harder into his shoulders. "Please, be quick," she adds, tears sliding
down around her cheeks and no, this is all wrong, he never meant to make her
cry, not ever, but he's powerless to hold his body back when she feels as good
around his cock as she does but at least, mercifully, he is quick, and then
it's over.
"I'm sorry," he says again, helping her off him and settling her down onto the
pillows beside him, turning as best he can to look at her. "I'm so sorry,
Sansa-"
She smiles bravely, rubbing her cheeks roughly with the back of her hand.
"It is done now, my lord," she says. "Thank you."
With that, she rolls over to face away from him.
Willas does not sleep that night.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Quick note: Some of the symptoms Willas is suffering from here are
     similar to those suffered by people with certain types of arthritis
     (mild personal experience and seeing Gran like this in her hand), but
     sort of GRRM'd up, if that makes sense. It's not particularly
     pleasant by any means, but it feels like a Westerosi sort of
     treatment for his problems. I won't say enjoy, because it's not
     really enjoyable, tbh.
     Also: Sansa may seem a little OOC here, but I'm taking my lead from
     the whole "maybe he will come to love me" thing she has going on in
     the books. She feels that she'll need to earn Willas' love by being
     this amazing wife, so… Yeah. Allons-y!
Dawn slants through the windows earlier than Willas expects, and he rolls over
to put on his brace.
Sansa is asleep on the pillows between him and his brace, her hair fanned out
across the bed and her shoulders, and there is none of the pain or fear from
last night in her face. She is utterly serene, her breathing slow and deep and
even, and he finds himself relieved that he has not stirred her from her sleep.
He isn't sure that he could face her quite yet after seeing the pain in her
eyes last night.
He almost curses when he realises that he's stranded on his side of the bed,
his brace and cane and even his robe all far on the other side of Sansa, and
he's utterly helpless – he can only manage without his wheelchair when he has
both his brace and his cane, and even then it's a wonder he hasn't ground his
teeth to dust with the pain of it yet.
He cannot wake her, though. Not yet. She deserves this, this repose after her
bravery last night, and he would very much like to see the dark shadows under
her eyes fade.
"How am I to get out of bed?" he murmurs, rubbing his face tiredly before
giving in with a sigh, acknowledging the deep ache in his leg and reaching
under the covers to test his knee. He can feel the swelling, hard and smooth,
and he knows that half his leg will be red and shiny when he looks. Even with
his brace, he'll need his wheelchair today – there is no chance of his leg
bearing his weight when it is as swollen as this. Steeling himself, he tosses
back the covers and groans. It is worse than he suspected, almost bruised-
looking, and seven hells but it hurts.
"My lord?"
Sansa is awake, of course she is awake, and he feels his cheeks flush with
embarrassment before he can pull the covers back to hide his leg from her view.
Luckily, she seems preoccupied by her own discomfort, wincing as she pushes
herself up until she's sitting facing him, her hair wild around her face and
her eyes bleary.
"What time…?"
"Just after dawn, Sansa," he sighs. "Might I trouble you to give me some little
aid, and then you may return to bed, my lady? I… Ah, my leg, Sansa. I'm afraid
I'll need my wheelchair today, you see, and I cannot manage to get to it – it's
out in the solar, I'm afraid."
She's alert in an instant, and he wonders if this is what Grandmother meant by
bruised kindness – there is a gentleness to her always, but mayhaps she needs
to see suffering for her to be actively kind, because she's been scorned or
shamed for kindness before? – before smiling as best he can against the pain
that's intensifying with every move he makes, every shift of the mattress under
his leg, and she slips out of bed and pulls on her robe before he can say
another word.
"How might I help?" she asks, eyes darting from his brace to his cane to the
line of dark hair visible above the top of the covers where they rest just
below his hips and back up to his face. "Should I send for someone? A maester?"
"No, Sansa, no – if you could fetch me some clothes, smallclothes and breeches
and a shirt, and give me my brace, that would be an excellent start."
If he was dressed, he would be able to go out and send for servants himself –
he wants to give her as much peace as he can, hopes that she will sleep some
more, though he doubts it – and he could send for baths and food for them both.
He has a sense that she will be discomfited by the familiar manner of the
servants until she has a chance to get used to them, and so he hopes to ease
her into it. Highgarden is different from Winterfell, he would guess, is
different from King's Landing he knows, more similar to Sunspear than any
Reacher or Dornishman would ever admit, but Sansa will not be used to it and he
does not want to shock her.
She hands him his brace before scurrying across the room to the drawers, firing
a glance back over her shoulder when he throws back the covers once more. He
can see the flush spreading right down the back of her neck, and he knows that
her face must be truly scarlet, not the pale pink he found himself so taken
with last night – he hopes that she will someday be able to look upon him
without blushing.
He tastes blood when he lifts his leg because his teeth tear a lump out of the
inside of his cheek, and there are tears on his face by the time he has even
the first buckle closed – he dreads fastening the rest of them, because he
knows that even out to the last, they will be too tight. He can hardly remember
the last time his leg was this bad, but he loathes that it chose today of all
days to flare up like this.
"Milord Willas? You be wanting your chair?"
His head snaps up at the call through the door, and he almost cries with sheer
relief.
"Aye, Aldwin – bring it in, will you?"
"Right away, milord," comes the cheerful reply, and Sansa is left staring when
a tall man of middle years with a shock of steely grey hair pushes Willas'
wheelchair into the bedchamber with a smile. "I assume you'll be wanting baths
as well, milord? I'll send for hot water and your tub, then."
"I'd rather you sent for the maester," Willas admits, gritting his teeth with
the effort of strapping the second buckle in place. "My leg, Aldwin-"
Aldwin has been Willas' manservant for longer than Willas can remember, a
teacher and guard (and parent) when he surpassed what old Maester Lomys thought
necessary for a future Lord of the Reach and taken to the sword so well that
Igon Vyrwel had japed that he had no need of a guard (and when Mother and
Father were too busy with their more outgoing, charismatic and beautiful
children to worry about their studious eldest son who was packed off to Oldtown
almost as soon as he could walk).
"Ah, I'd say it needs draining, milord," Aldwin says, his face twisted with
regret. "You shouldn't've been standing as long as you were yesterday, milord
Willas – I did warn you, didn't I?"
"Yes, Aldwin, you did," Willas sighs, gladly surrendering the work of setting
his brace in place to Aldwin's steady hands, tipping his head back and trying
not to weep openly from the pain of it.
Then he remembers that Sansa was still in the room.
"Gods, where are my manners," he gasps, "Aldwin, I'd like to introduce my wife,
Lady Sansa – Sansa, this is Aldwin, my- Well, what title would you give
yourself, Aldwin?"
"Your nursemaid, I suppose," Aldwin says mildly, pulling the longest strap, the
one that binds directly around the ruined remains of Willas' kneecap, firmly
closed, ignoring Willas' yelp of agony. "Been looking after your lord husband
almost since before he were born, milady – would've been his wet-nurse if his
lady mother weren't so hale and hearty, I'd wager."
Willas is surprised to hear Sansa giggle.
"Fine young man is our Lord Willas," Aldwin goes on, chatting over his shoulder
to Sansa as if Willas isn't lying naked and dizzy with pain in the bed before
them, as if he isn't there at all. "Oh, he'll say he's nothing compared to our
Lord Garlan, but that holds as much water as a pisspot with a hole in – fine
young man, our Lord Willas, aren't you milord?"
"Aldwin, I swear to the Seven-"
"Oh, hush," Aldwin laughs, holding out a hand to Sansa and giving the final
strap a sharp tug to make sure it's closed properly. Sansa hands over the
bundle of clothes she's gathered and retreats to the foot of the bed, biting
her lip and watching Willas with what he thinks might be concern in her huge
eyes. "You be quiet now, and I'll send for old Lomys and have him drain your
leg – you'll be right as rain in no time at all."
Willas submits to Aldwin's help in pulling on his smallclothes and breeches,
and is grateful for the help in getting to his wheelchair, but he still
breathes a sigh of relief when Aldwin leaves and he feels slightly more
independent under Sansa's gaze.
"I'm sorry, Sansa, truly I am – how do you feel this morning? I understand that
the- the pain can linger somewhat."
Her cheeks flush scarlet, but she holds his gaze.
"I am a little sore," she admits, catching her lower lip in her teeth again,
and then she shakes her head. "But it is of little consequence compared to your
leg. Do not worry for me, my lord."
He wishes that she'd call him by his name, and wonders if her parents always
called one another "my lord" and "my lady" – he never remembers Mother and
Father calling each other anything other than Alerie and Mace when it was just
them and Willas and his siblings, but perhaps Eddard and Catelyn Stark were
more formal. Willas never met his goodfather before his execution, he cannot
comment, but he hopes that Sansa's formality is a question of familiarity
rather than habit. He does not want to spend his entire marriage as "my
lord." She said my name last night, he remembers, pulling his shirt down over
his head. Before I hurt her, she said my name. That's a start.
"I do not like to think of you hurting, Sansa," he tells her, straightening the
hem of his shirt and wheeling himself over to her side. "When Maester Lomys
arrives, would you like me to ask him for something for you? A salve or
tincture, perhaps?"
"Oh, my lord, I would not like to trouble you-"
"It is nothing, Sansa," he says honestly, waving aside her concern. "I will
need to speak constantly while my leg is being drained anyways, else I'll
scream with the pain of it."
She blanches, causing him to regret his words instantly, and he shakes his
head.
"I am exaggerating," he soothes. "It is painful, yes, but not so bad as that –
fluid builds up around my knee and the only way to relieve the pressure and the
swelling is to drain it. Hopefully it will not take long this morning."
He's lying outright now, of course – he knows full well that it will be both
long-winded and excruciating, accompanied by a lecture from Maester Lomys on
standing for too long. He's just thankful that Father is far away in King's
Landing, too far away to shout at him for risking his leg like that.
"Mayhaps I should send someone to ask for Garlan," he murmurs, lost in thought,
and sighs. "Pardon me, Sansa – I fear that I will be poor company indeed today.
Margaery mentioned something about breaking your fast together this morning,
although I doubt she will be out of bed quite yet. I could send Aldwin-"
"Is there nothing I can do to help?" she breaks in, taking half a step towards
him as if she might touch him. He is embarrassed by how much he would like for
her to touch him, but still manages to meet her eyes. Lit up from the side as
she is, with dawning sunlight lining her hair in silver-gold and catching on
the intense blue of her eyes, she's fairly a goddess, and he is only a man,
after all. "There must be something."
"No, Sansa, I am afraid not – only Maester Lomys and his wicked little flensing
knife can help me now." Willas has never known if he trusts the truth of it or
not, but the maester insists that a flensing knife, used to remove skin and
skin alone from flesh, is the only thing with a suitable blade for draining the
fluid from his leg.
===============================================================================
He does scream, but Garlan stuffs a gag into his mouth after only a second or
two.
Garlan is the only thing keeping Willas in his seat – literally keeping him
there, his hands digging into Willas shoulders and pressing him down into the
chair as Maester Lomys makes several small, deep cuts into the inflamed flesh
of his leg and clear, malign liquid seeps out into the basin resting on the
floor.
He's ashamed of the tears spilling down his cheeks, but gods it hurts – it
hasn't hurt like this in months, months and months, and he's barely coherent
enough to be thankful that Sansa is behind the thick door of their bedchamber
in the bath.
His muffled screams soften to sobs and whimpers as the pressure on his leg
lessens, but it still aches so badly he can hardly see straight, so badly that
all he wants to do is curse Oberyn Martell, curse his horse, curse the drawing
of the tilt, his saddler, his lance, his own pride and stupidity for ever
entering the bloody lists and him only a week knighted-
The knife twists into the soft flesh right behind his knee, and he knows no
more.
===============================================================================
He wakes slowly as Garlan and Aldwin lower him into the bath, the steam rising
in lazy coils that carry a faint hint of rosemary, of Sansa, and it's all very
pleasant until Garlan eases his bad leg into the tub and the scented water
seeps through the thin layer of linen and into the open wounds.
It's neither Garlan nor Aldwin who comfort him when he cries out in pain,
though – no, it is Sansa's soft hands on his face as his head falls back and he
sobs in agony, Sansa's hair falling damp and heavy around him as she gathers a
cloth from somewhere and begins to clean him. He's limp, boneless, utterly
helpless with the searing hurt of his leg, and knowing that Sansa is seeing him
at his lowest ebb is worse even than her flinching away from his touch. He is
her husband, he should be strong enough to protect her, and yet she has clear
proof that he's barely fit to stand even on a good day, much less fight off any
threat there may be to her.
"I'm sorry," he gasps, catching her wrist and forcing his head up to look her
in the eye. "Sansa, you don't need to-"
"Ssh," she murmurs, stroking his brow and smiling slightly. There's a quiver in
her lips, a certain uncertainty in her eyes, but there's also determination in
the set of her jaw. "You cared for me last night, my lord – allow me to return
the favour."
"Cared for you?" He laughs, harsh and bitter. "Oh, Sansa – Sansa, I hurt you so
badly, though."
She scrubs the cloth over his chest, shaking her head.
"It is done," she says firmly. "I am your wife, and I will tend to you."
She accepts no arguments, and so he surrenders to her gentle touch, to her
slender hands against his skin, and when she is the one to offer him poppy's
milk rather than Garlan or Aldwin or Maester Lomys, when she presses it on him
so earnestly, so gently, he accepts it without putting up much of a challenge
and gladly falls into the slumber he deprived himself of last night.
===============================================================================
He wakes much later with late afternoon sunshine peeping through the light blue
voiles draping his windows. There's a breeze, warm and just strong enough to
stir the drapes, and he's vaguely aware of not being alone in his room,
although he can't quite remember why.
His leg feels far away, a sort of removed pain that's not quite linked to the
rest of his body, floating off somewhere that isn't here. He's been given more
milk of the poppy, or perhaps dreamwine – he looks at the angle of the sunlight
filtering down onto the floor and guesses that he has been asleep for seven
hours, maybe more, and can't ever remember sleeping for so long with just one
dose of poppy's milk.
Something that's not rosemary, even though it is, is sharp in the air, sharp
and oddly cold, but there are roses too, old roses and new, there behind the
rosemary and- is that lavender? No, not quite lavender and not quite rosemary,
something strange and altogether lovely.
He turns his head away from the window and startles at the sight of Sansa,
Margaery and Grandmother sitting just outside the door of the bedchamber in his
solar. Sansa and Margaery are sewing, he can see that, and Grandmother seems to
be holding court as she is wont to do when Father isn't here to restrain her.
He feels a sudden urge to sit up, but he realises that he's still naked as his
name day when he stirs under the covers and can't help but blush.
Sansa's the first to notice that he's awake, and she surprises him by rushing
to her feet and shutting the connecting door before Margaery or Grandmother can
even rise from their chairs.
"How do you feel now, my lord?"
Willas pushes himself up on shaky arms and frowns.
"Woolly-headed," he admits, "but my leg does not hurt so much now."
Sansa smiles shyly and moves to the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes for
him.
"If you feel better, would you like to sit out?" she asks, laying the clothes
on the bed beside him.
"Sansa-"
"Or I could send for something to eat, if you are hungry. Margaery says that
you are often hungry after the poppy's milk – I know- I know I was, my lord."
"Sansa, sit with me," he implores, taking her hand and pulling her to sit
beside him, right next to him. He need only lean forward to kiss her, but he
doesn't – while she's not flinching away from his hands, she's still shy of
him, still skittish. Bind a wild horse first with silken ribbons, the softest
of bridles. "Stay a while, Sansa. Please."
She smiles again, uncertain rather than shy, and squeezes his hand briefly.
"If it please you, my lord."
"When it is just us, Sansa, will you call me by my name, please? I do not mind
if you call me "my lord" when there are others about, but here, where it is
just you and I, use my name – if you do not mind, that is. Please?"
"I- Yes, Willas. I will use your name."
He is as relieved at this progress as he is reluctant to broach the next topic
of conversation, but he must. I am her husband, her welfare is my concern,
especially when I am the cause of her pain.
"This morning, Sansa, you said that you were hurting," he says, looking down at
their entwined fingers. Her hands are as lovely as the rest of her, slender and
long-fingered and pale and soft. They seem absurdly delicate twisted together
with his – he has large hands, strong and quick, weathered and freckled and
surprisingly dark against the startling whiteness of her skin. "Tell me truly –
are you still hurting? Did you speak with Maester Lomys?"
She flushes that pearly pink, and his hand is cradling her face before he's
even aware that he's moved. He wonders if it's the milk of the poppy still in
his veins that's making him so bold, so tactile – he isn't like this with
anyone except Margaery and Garlan, likes to keep himself to himself, but he's
touching Sansa as if it's nothing at all.
"It is still uncomfortable," she says softly, the flush ripening from pearl to
rose. "But it is not sore anymore, not truly – I suspect that I will be fully
better by tomorrow morning, my lor- Willas."
"Thank the gods," he breathes, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. "I was
afraid that I had hurt you badly. I would never have been able to forgive
myself if I had."
"You do not need to concern yourself so much with my welfare," she mumbles,
ducking her head. She cannot hide behind her hair now, bound back in a braid
that hangs past her hips as it is, but she makes a brave effort to, pulling it
down over her shoulder with a shrug.
"Why would you think that?" he asks, genuinely confused. Of course he needs to
concern himself with her welfare! "Sansa, you are my wife! I meant it most
earnestly when I placed you under my protection. I intend to honour my vows as
fully as I am able."
"But- I do not understand."
"Tell me, Sansa – were your parents happy?"
"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Until the day the King came to Winterfell,
they were happy. Or mayhaps until the day Bran fell."
"Bran?"
"My younger brother – he was climbing the walls and he fell. He broke his back,
and he cannot- could not walk any longer."
Could not. He could have kicked himself for forgetting about her younger
brothers, slaughtered by her father's ward, Theon Greyjoy.
"I'm sorry," he says gently, turning her face back up to his. "But think, Sansa
– your parents were happy, you say. My parents are happy also. Do you think
your father neglected to worry for your mother? My father worries over Mother
constantly, I know. It drives her to distraction – although that may be
partially Father's habit of worrying quite vocally, I suppose, rather than him
simply worrying."
She smiles, wider than he has seen except when she was dancing with Garlan at
their wedding feast, and he feels bolder still, daring to twist his fingers
into her hair (Heavenly, that's what it is, so soft and thick) to hold her
close.
"Sansa, I will always worry for you," he tells her, keeping his voice soft. Not
a wild horse, a horse that was broken in wrong, with a whip rather than a
guiding hand, and needs careful handling. I will heal you, Sansa, I will. "You
are my wife. Remember that – I do not know what was done to you in King's
Landing, but you are in Highgarden now. With my father in the capital, I am
Lord of Highgarden and head of House Tyrell in the Reach. I will not allow any
harm to befall you. I swear it on all the gods, old and new."
He can't quite puzzle together what came between speaking and pushing his
tongue past her lips, but she tastes divine and her slender hands are warm on
his bare chest when she sighs against his mouth so he doesn't much care.
He forces himself to stop, to not kiss her for long enough for his mind to melt
into mush and his body to push aside the influence of the poppy and spring
abruptly and embarrassingly to life, and her little murmur of protest when
their lips break apart makes him feel ten foot tall.
"Thank you," she whispers, tears in her eyes, tears of gratitude. "Thank you,
thank you, thank you-"
===============================================================================
"Our presence is requested in the capital for my sister's wedding," Willas
remarks mildly over breakfast one morning two weeks later, carefully watching
Sansa's reaction. She pales and her hand still halfway to her mouth, peach
juice dripping down her fingers.
"We should begin making preparations for our departure, then," she says
shakily, setting down her fruit and wiping her fingers on a napkin. "You will
need-"
"I will need nothing," he says with a wave of his hand. "Why, I think that the
King could not ask us to change our travel plans, not when we are due to depart
as soon as we have eaten, could he?"
Her brow crinkles in confusion, her lips pouting as they do when she's annoyed,
he's noticed.
"Travel plans?"
He smiles, glad that he can give her this much, at least.
"How would you like to visit Oldtown, Sansa?"
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     So the last paragraph happened. Um. Yeah. It's a thing. I fell into
     the trap. Oops.
     Also, Sansa's hairstyle at the start? Think the arrival of court at
     Winterfell. I fucking loved her hair in that scene.
His heart leaps into his mouth when Sansa emerges from the castle in a riding
gown the exact blue of her eyes with her hair bound back from her face with a
series of tight little braids that lie flat against her head and leave most of
her hair ( gods it's beautiful, so beautiful, it will be like a banner
streaming out behind her when we ride)  loose down her back. Her cloak is
silvery-grey, heavy and warm to ward against the sharpening chill in the air,
and when he teases her that the Stark words are coming true at last, she laughs
just slightly and does not object when he touches her face, trailing his thumb
over the swell of her lower lip.
She seems a little at a loss to be riding bestride, even on a horse so quiet as
Whisper, but once Aldwin helps him up onto Gardener and he has his leg strapped
firmly in place, she seems to ease somewhat.
"How have you all this planned?" she asks, nudging Whisper closer so their
knees are almost touching. "It must have taken days-"
"I've been planning since before we were wed," he admits. "I had an inkling
that it would be best if you did not return too soon to King's Landing, and
that inkling proved right. Besides, Grandfather will be furious if he does not
get to meet you – and I think you'll rather like him."
Willas has always been more than a little in awe of his grandfather, a hugely
tall man nearing his seventieth birthday, who lives up to his title of Voice of
Oldtown – he's like a foghorn all on his own, with a laugh that echoes even out
of doors. He hopes that Sansa will come to love Leyton Hightower as much as he
does, because after Garlan and Uncle Baelor, there is no one in the world that
Willas trusts or holds in such high esteem as he does his grandfather.
===============================================================================
The weather holds for the week their journey takes them, and the roseroad is an
easy ride besides – years of prosperity and a taste for beautiful things
encouraged the Reacher lords to pave their road in smooth cobbles of soft
shades of pearl grey and earthy brown and pale, gentle lavender.
Sansa seems enthralled by her new home, delighting in the information Willas is
only too happy to share – he has rarely met any as hungry for knowledge as
Sansa. She is so different to the girl Margaery described in her letters, but
he thinks that surely that is a good thing.
Or at least, she is a different person by day – at night, she is lost in
nightmares, more often than not, her body rigid and her face pained. Once,
Willas woke to find her sobbing with her eyes wide open, even though she was
still fast asleep, and that frightened him more than anything he's ever known
except the maester who'd come at him with a bone saw after that godsforsaken
tilt – he had only Oberyn Martell and his uncle to thank for still having his
leg at all.
He has made no effort to lie with her again, contenting himself with a brief
kiss each morning and each night and the regrettably familiar embrace of his
own hand in the bath, and he thinks that perhaps she is warming to him,
settling into a rhythm that allows her to dictate the pace at which their
relationship progresses. He knows full well that their marriage was brokered
for political reasons rather than romantic, but he is a romantic at heart and
sees no reason why he should not attempt to foster some measure of love between
himself and his wife.
Sansa has blossomed under the fresh, clean air of the Reach, though, and he
wonders if perhaps it's because it's closer to what he imagines the air of the
North is like than anywhere she's been since she left Winterfell – King's
Landing is foul, rank and fetid and smelling always of deceit and rot, and
Highgarden…
Well, with all the time he spends enclosed within the castle walls, Willas
knows better than anyone how choking the scent of roses can be.
Oldtown is different again, but he hopes that Sansa will love it – it smells of
the sea and far-off places, but mostly it smells of knowledge and learning.
To Willas, it smells more of home than Highgarden ever has.
They crest the final rise of the roseroad before the city, and Willas draws
Gardener to a halt. Sansa, mouth open in surprise, pulls Whisper up beside him.
"Welcome, Sansa," he says, smiling as wide as ever he has before, "to Oldtown."
===============================================================================
He is disappointed when the Old Man himself is on business in the Citadel when
they arrive at the High Tower, Sansa still agape at the wonders of Oldtown, but
when he sees that Baelor Brightsmile is running down the steps to greet them,
it's all he can do to swing his leg over Gardener's neck before stumbling into
his uncle's embrace.
"Ah, my favourite nephew! How is it that you forgot to invite me to your
wedding, hmm? Where's your cane, lad? Aldwin, give Willas his cane and see to
my newest niece."
Sansa seems completely at a loss as to how to deal with Baelor, and Willas
laughs at her wide eyes.
"Come, Sansa," he says, taking his cane from Aldwin and holding out a hand to
her. "I apologise for my uncle – he has the most wretched manners when it is
only family, I'm afraid."
Sansa's smile doesn't waver as she drops into a neat curtsy, but it's shocked
clean off her face when Baelor sweeps her into his arms and kisses both of her
cheeks.
"You're family now, Lady Sansa of House Tyrell – if Willas saw fit to marry
you, that's all the recommendation I need. He's got a good head on his
shoulders, this nephew of mine. I'm sure my lord father will be of the same
mind. Come, come, we have rooms prepared – mind the steps, lad – don't worry,
they're on the ground floor, and your grandfather's had another bloody
wheelchair made for you, and he's got the archmaester coming to look at that
leg of yours-"
Baelor half runs up the steps like a boy of seventeen rather than a man nearing
forty-seven years of age, and Willas shakes his head.
"He is something of an experience, Uncle Baelor," he says wryly, leaning close
to her ear and trying not to breathe too deeply, to inhale the not-rosemary-
and-lavender scent of her hair. "But I think that perhaps he's just very
excitable this afternoon – I have not visited Oldtown in almost two years, and
he has not left Oldtown in four."
"You are very close," she hazards, reaching up absentmindedly to adjust her
hair.
"Aye, I squired with him – I was fostered by my grandfather until I was ten,
and then I served as my uncle's squire until I was sixteen."
"He was knighted young enough, milord Willas was," Aldwin says idly, skipping
past them with a chest in his arms. "Never uses his title acause of his leg,
but he earned them seven oils, he did – the Old Man knighted him hisself,
milady Sansa, you ask him over dinner and see if he denies it."
Sansa looks up at him in surprise, and Willas wishes he'd never mentioned
squiring for Baelor at all. He's never mentioned his knighthood since his leg
was ruined, not to Loras who was always so eager to outdo his brothers (Willas
was knighted younger than Loras, but nobody ever mentions that), not to
Margaery who was always so eager for heroes (and Willas did not earn his
knighthood during a tourney), not even to Garlan, who he trusts with everything
that he is.
"You never told me you were a knight!" she whispers, her voice accusatory.
"Nobody addresses you as ser-"
"Because I'm a poor wreck of a knight with a leg like mine, aren't I?" he
grouses, scowling as they pass through the elaborately carved entryway of the
High Tower, five times as tall as a man and wide enough for four horses to ride
abreast. "Can't wield a sword, can't ride in a tourney, can't bloody well do
anything much aside from read and breed horses and hounds and hawks. There's no
call for me to be addressed as a ser, Sansa – I am a knight no longer."
"There's more to being a knight than- than hitting other men with a sword and
knocking each other off horses," she says hotly, spots of colour rising in her
cheeks. He's never seen her angry before, but now that he has, the urge to
press her back against the wall and kiss away her anger is almost overwhelming
– the fire in her eyes finally matches her hair, surpasses it even, and he
doesn't think he's ever seen anything so beautiful in all his born days.
"What is there, then?" he challenges. "Come, Sansa, tell me what it is to be a
knight if it is not to be fit to fight your lord's battles for him."
"Goodness!" she explodes. "Kindness, too, and modesty and all the other things
knights are supposed to show, not like the Mountain and the godsforsaken
Kingsguard-"
She seems to remember herself then, clapping a hand over her mouth and flushing
red as she realises the eyes of everyone in the great foyer are on her.
"Forgive me," she says, ducking her head and almost, almost pressing her face
into his shoulder to hide. "I speak out of turn."
It's the first time she's mentioned the Kingsguard to him, the first time she's
mentioned anything at all of King's Landing without Margaery's urging (and
Margaery's been gone for weeks now), and the fear in her eyes takes his breath
away.
"My deepest apologies, Sansa," he says, guiding her along a corridor that will
bring them to the southern wing of the Tower, where the family's apartments
are. "I did not mean to upset you, my lady."
"You- No, Willas, I should apologise, I did not mean-"
"We will speak on it later," he says firmly, looking her straight in the eye as
if to make a promise of it. "We will speak of all of it – my knights and yours,
yes?"
She hesitates, but nods eventually, her eyes shining with what he hopes are not
tears. He does not think he could bear it if he made her cry again – he had not
seen her tears since their wedding night, and he hopes never to see them again.
===============================================================================
Leyton Hightower, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port, Lord of the High Tower,
Defender of the Citadel and Beacon of the South bursts into the great hall at
dinner that night, taller than Willas and half as broad again in the shoulder –
Garlan is built just like him – with snowy-white hair and warm golden-green
eyes.
"Ah, Grandson!" he bellows – or says, rather, because even the Old Man's
whisper is most men's shout – before lifting Willas half out of his seat into a
hug. "It has been too long since you darkened the door of the High Tower. Come,
make introductions between myself and your lady wife."
Willas rolls his eyes and heaves himself fully to his feet, leaning heavily on
his cane, before holding his hand out to Sansa. She takes it and rises
elegantly from her seat before dropping into a curtsy at Grandfather's feet.
"Lord Hightower," she says softly. "It is an honour and a pleasure, my lord."
"Grandfather, might I present to you my wife, Lady Sansa of House Stark?"
Willas isn't sure what to do when Grandfather's ruddy face turns suddenly
white, but he urges Sansa to straighten up and rests a careful hand on her arm.
"Stark, is it?" Grandfather demands, looming over Sansa until she quails. "Of
Winterfell?"
"Grandfather?" he says cautiously, gently pulling Sansa closer to him. "Is
there something the matter?"
"Come with me," Grandfather says tightly. "We have much to discuss."
===============================================================================
The servants attempted to place them in separate rooms, but none so much as
glance at them as Willas herds Sansa into his room and settles her onto the
edge of the bed.
She's not even weeping, which is unnerving – she trembles, though, her hands
shaking so badly that he thinks she might simply shake herself apart.
"Sansa…"
He does not know what to say to her. What can be said? Her mother and her last
remaining brother slain at her uncle's wedding, guest right broken because of
the Lannisters, Winterfell taken from her and given to a man who made her
scream in disgust when Grandfather said his name – what is there to be said?
"I am the last Stark in Westeros," she says faintly, looking blankly at the far
wall as he sits beside her. "And I never wanted Winterfell. Never wanted the
North."
The agony in her eyes when she turns to look at him breaks his heart clean in
two, and so he pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair until she gives in
and begins to cry.
===============================================================================
The Starry Sept has long been one of Willas' favourite places even in Oldtown,
but the peace it seems to give Sansa makes it worth more to him than anywhere
else in Westeros.
He watches from the mezzanine inside the door, above the sept proper, as she
kneels before the Stranger, as she does every day, and sighs. Baelor's hand is
heavy on his shoulder, but his uncle's presence is a great reassurance.
"She will come through this," Baelor says quietly. "There is such untapped
strength in your little wife, lad – she will be scarred by it, but not broken,
I don't think."
"She has been through so much," Willas murmurs. "Joffrey… She did not tell me
herself, Uncle, but Margaery says that the Kingsguard beat her and stripped her
half-naked before the entire court. She's shy even with me, so I can't even
begin to imagine how deeply that must have affected her."
Even from here, he can see Sansa's shoulders shake as she forces back sobs. His
heart aches for her, but he is at a loss as to how he might help her beyond
holding her at night and soothing her during the day.
"She has been through so much, yes, but she has come through it all, has she
not? I know more of women than you, nephew, and I tell you this – your wife is
one of the strongest women I've ever seen. She does not realise it quite yet,
and nor do you, I think, but it is true. Guard her with your life, Willas – she
may well be the single best thing to ever happen to you."
"A gift from the gods to make up for my leg?" Willas mocks, leaning heavily on
the railing.
"No, lad – but mayhaps your leg was part of the gods' plan to match you and
your Stark. You would have been married years ago if not for your leg, would
you not?"
He hasn't considered it, but mayhaps there's some truth in Baelor's words – in
all likelihood, he would have been married years ago had any prospective
bride's fathers not questioned his virility on account of his leg.
"I have news from the Old Man," Baelor says quietly. "Your sister is a widow
again, it would seem – the kitten is the king."
===============================================================================
There's a vicious triumph in Sansa's eyes when he tells her of Joffrey's death,
and if there is a flicker of sorrow when he tells her that the Imp has been
accused of the King's murder, well, Margaery told him that the Imp is reputed
to have tried to help Sansa while they were together at court, and the flare of
jealousy in his gut is completely unreasonable.
Her nightmares abate that night, but she still sleeps in his arms and he finds
himself lying awake simply looking at her, wondering how he'll ever cope when
she inevitably takes rooms of her own when they return to Highgarden – fool
though he knows he must be, he fears that he might have done the wrong thing
and fallen quite in love with his little wife.
It's just so difficult not to love her – she's so sweet and gentle, but there's
a surprising core of pure steel behind her lovely eyes, a fire that outshines
her hair.
Her hair, of course, is at least part of what started his descent into madness
– he can't seem to get enough of it, the feel and look and scent of it. It's
almost as addictive as the taste of her lips, a taste he's been getting in
greater volume since she started prolonging their morning and evening kisses,
knotting her fingers into his hair and pressing closer to him, making those
excruciatingly pleasant little sounds, seeking something he doesn't think she
truly understands, not yet – but he intends on being the only one to teach her.
The possessive delight in knowing that he is the only man to have ever touched
her, to have ever truly kissed her, burns brighter and hotter with her every
shocked little gasp when he touches some new expanse of skin or curls his
tongue around hers a different way. She's eager to learn, but he's reluctant to
press her too far for fear of hurting her again – he worries that if he hurts
her again, she'll never want to share his bed, and that is enough to banish
even his persistent daydreams of her body.
However, Sansa seems to have other plans.
===============================================================================
"Have I mispleased you, Willas?"
He looks up from his books just in time to see her slide closed the latch on
the door, startled by her sudden appearance in his study – Grandfather is
always sure to appoint a room with at least a study, if not a small library for
him when he visits.
"I- What on earth do you mean, Sansa?"
She hesitates at the door, folding her fingers together, but then that Stark
steel flashes hard in her eyes and she lifts her head.
"I thought that you would want to- to lie with me again, once your leg was
better, but you have not. Have I mispleased you?"
He cannot finds words to answer her, not when she's so far from the truth for
it to be laughable. Hysterics rather than fine speeches spring to mind, and he
forces them aside in favour of holding out a hand to her.
His breath hitches when she straddles his lap as easily as if she's done it a
hundred times (and she might have, or near as makes no difference, because do
they not sit like this every morning and every evening and kiss each other
senseless, in just their smallclothes and her shift, until he's so hard he
can't see straight and she's soaking through her smallclothes but neither of
them can quite bring themselves to touch the other enough?).
"Have I mispleased you, my lord?" she asks again, the steel gone and replaced
with the most terrible mix of hurt and fear he's ever seen. "I will leave you-"
His hand is in her hair before he can think, and his mouth is on hers before
she can finish speaking. The thought of her leaving him is unbearable (fool,
romantic fool, she's been your wife for just more than a month and you're
already mad for her) and he will not allow it, cannot allow it, and so he
kisses her and kisses her and presses her tight against him, crushes her body
against his desperately, pushing his tongue into every nook and cranny of her
mouth until he can't be sure whether it's her or himself that he's tasting,
because her tongue is in his mouth and just as eager as his own.
"You could not misplease me, Sansa," he gasps, gulping for air when they pull
apart just far enough to breathe. "Never, do you understand?"
"Then why will you not touch me?" she demands breathlessly, still clinging to
him, still leaning her forehead against his, still staring deep into his eyes.
"You kiss me every day, but you will not touch me. I do not understand!"
The thought comes to him from nowhere, glorious and radiant and so utterly
perfect that he cannot believe it did not occur to him before.
"Sit on the desk, Sansa," he urges, lifting her up by the backs of her thighs
so suddenly that she squeaks in surprise. "Right on the edge, sweet girl, right
there, now pull up your skirts, Sansa, pull them up for me-"
"Willas, what are you doing?" she asks, her cheeks deep cerise pink and her
eyes dark.
He grins up at her, already tugging down her smallclothes, and winks.
"Kissing you, my lady – what else?"
He barely has the patience to get her smallclothes down and off, tucking them
into his chair at his hip so he will not forget where they are, before he leans
in to taste the soft skin on the inside of her knee. How has he not done this
for her already? Gods, he's dreamed of it for weeks, but it never occurred to
him to actually do it, not until now, not until he was sure she wanted it as
much as him-
She spreads her legs with a sigh, urging him higher up her thigh with a hand
resting lightly on the back of his head, tugging impatiently at his hair, and
although she may not understand it consciously, her body knows what it wants
and reacts without asking her permission.
She's making those noises again, chirps and peeps of what he now knows for
certain to be pleasure, and when he glances up and sees her head tilted back
slightly, eyes hooded and mouth slightly open, his body nearly reacts without
asking his permission.
She squirms when he shifts his hands under her thighs, curling around them to
spread her wider, slipping his thumbs between her lips to open her up to him,
and when he does…
"Gods, Sansa," he groans, leaning closer and breathing deep. She smells musky,
deep and heady, but there's still that ever-present hint of not-rosemary that
clings to her skin and hair. It might be more his cock than his head thinking,
but he's sure he's never smelled anything so good in all his life. "Gods. So
beautiful."
"Am I?" she breathes, sounding almost drunk, her grip on his hair tightening.
"Am I beautiful?"
"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he assures her, his voice rough with
barely-leashed want, licking along the crease of her thigh and drawing a
startled moan from somewhere high in her throat. "Truly, Sansa, my lovely girl,
I've never seen anything so beautiful before, not ever."
She tastes even more beautiful than she looks when he licks right up along her,
but her moan – deeper and headier than her scent – is the most beautiful thing
of all, paired as it is with a long, sinuous arching of her back and an
instinctive roll of her hips.
She wants it as badly as I do he realises giddily, just as badly as I do, gods,
she tastes so good, why didn't I do this before? "Your cunt, Sansa, gods, it's
perfect," he gasps, "so perfect, Sansa, my beautiful girl," he sighs, pressing
harder against her, tracing the tip of his tongue around her-
"Oh, Willas, please," she whimpers, pulling on his hair and he slips his tongue
into her, as deep as he can, and curls, and she lets out a keening cry that
almost has him spilling in his smallclothes it's so wonderful.
"Sweet girl," he moans, turning his head and nuzzling into her thigh for a
moment, desperately seeking some measure of control. "Oh, Sansa, my girl, my
sweet girl, I could kiss your cunt forever and be happy with nothing else, I
could-"
She pushes him back in and he goes willingly, his lips closing around her nub
and gods, why does she have to even sound so good (fool, you're so smitten you
don't even realise it, what will you do if she doesn't feel the same, if she
doesn't want you the same way) and she falls apart with a cry that undoes him
completely and a flood of warmth and wet when he slips two fingers inside her
and crooks them just so, just enough to push her over the edge.
It takes a long while for them to collect themselves enough even to look at one
another, and Willas can't help but smile at the flush spreading right down
Sansa's neck, across her cleavage (and lower, I'll get her shift off tonight, I
know I will). She almost slithers off the table, back into his arms, and rests
her head against his shoulder.
"That was wonderful," she whispers, pressing a shy kiss just under his ear. "I
didn't know… Is it usually like that?"
If he tells her yes, then he'll have to live up to his promise and make her
come like that every time they lie together. If he says no, she'll be
disappointed and might not be quite so enthusiastic as she was just now. Either
way, she might become a selfish lover – but he doesn't think he'd mind that
particularly, so long as she's his lover, and his alone.
"I'll try my best to make it like that for you, Sansa," he promises instead,
his hands still on her thighs under her skirts. "Only good, remember?"
***** Chapter 5 *****
Baelor lives up to his nickname when he and Rhonda host Willas and Sansa for
dinner two weeks into their stay in the High Tower, smiling brightly at
everything and anything – but Willas knows his uncle well enough to know that
there is something amiss.
"Tell me, nephew," Baelor murmurs later that night, when he guides Willas out
onto the balcony overlooking the city while Sansa and Rhonda chat inside by the
fire. "What do you know of House Greyjoy?"
"More than most, uncle, but you are aware of that. I know that they bleed red,
the same as the rest of us, although listening to them you would think they had
saltwater rather than blood flowing through their veins."
Baelor grins then, shaking his head.
"My father was furious when he realised I'd brought you with me to fight the
reavers that day," he says. "So furious he almost took my head as soon as he
had you knighted."
Willas cannot help but laugh – he remembers that day with as much clarity as
his wedding day and the tilt against Oberyn Martell, remembers kneeling in
bloodied armour before his grandfather and swearing his oaths, remembers the
Old Man attacking Baelor with the same blade he had just used to knight Willas
while roaring his fury (and the Old Man's roar would deafen most men, can ring
louder than a mob when he wants it to) before Willas had even managed to stand
up straight as Ser Willas, not quite sixteen years old and the pride of Houses
Tyrell and Hightower for a full week before he was crippled (he could probably
still claim to be the pride of House Hightower, if Grandfather had anything to
say about it, but Loras and Margaery are quite clearly the pride of House
Tyrell).
"What of House Greyjoy, uncle?" he asks, leaning back against the balustrade
and watching Sansa's shy smile grow under Rhonda's careful encouragement. "I
thought they were busy desecrating my wife's homeland?"
"Hmmph," Baelor grumps, shaking his head. "You haven't heard of Balon Greyjoy's
untimely demise, then, or the Crow's Eye's return?"
His breath catches in his throat at the thought of Euron Greyjoy. Willas never
met the Crow's Eye, thank the gods, but he's heard the stories, lived in
Oldtown for long enough to know that no man on the seas is as feared as the
captain of the Silence.
"He's been named King of the Isles," Baelor tells him softly. "And he plans on
taking the whole of Westeros, as far as we can tell, and then venturing beyond
– they say he's sent Victarion off to Essos to seek the Dragon Queen."
"Have there been attacks? The Shield Islands- Gods, Baelor! Garlan and Leonette
are in Brightwater Keep, they're close enough to the coast to be in danger!"
"It is good to see that I have one nephew at least who has the common sense to
not wish to face Euron bloody Greyjoy in single combat. You and your lady
should return to Highgarden, Willas, and send word to your father in the
capital, idiot that he is – he's Warden of the South, the fat fool, but if he
and that buffoon Redwyne don't do something about the Greyjoys reaving along
the coast, the Old Man and I will."
The Hightowers never made a secret of their contempt for Willas' father, for
most of the other Reacher Lords, and he wonders if being raised by Baelor and
the Old Man influenced his own relationship with his father. He spent fourteen
of his twenty-four years in Oldtown, in the High Tower, and he's always felt
more a Hightower than a Tyrell – something he thinks might stand the Reach in
good stead in the uncertain times ahead. The Tyrell words may be Growing
Strong, and they may have lived up to them with Margaery queen to two kings –
three, if Grandmother has his way, he has no doubt of that – and Loras a White
Sword and all the rest of it, but he fears that there will be a dire need for
someone to light the way in the very near future.
"You think they'll attack Oldtown?" he asks, incredulous. "Baelor, nobody has
ever attacked Oldtown – Aegon the bloody Conqueror had better sense than to
destroy the centuries worth of knowledge accumulated in the Citadel. He was
crowned in the Starry Sept, for gods' sakes!"
"Perhaps the Crow's Eye thinks himself worthy of a coronation to equal the
Conqueror's – I cannot say, Willas, but the Old Man agrees with me. It would be
better for you and Lady Sansa to return to Highgarden. I've half a mind to send
Rhonda and the children with you."
Baelor married late in life and his oldest son, Daeron, is only thirteen – he
was Garlan's squire, last Willas heard. The same age as my wife, Willas thinks
queasily. Sansa's age still jars whenever he accidentally thinks of it, but he
has become very good at avoiding any thought of it. She is his wife now, and
that is the main thing.
But Baelor's other children, Merill and Olwyn, would be more than welcome at
Highgarden.
"I think Sansa has been lonely for some time," Willas says thoughtfully. "We
will leave for Highgarden as soon as preparations can be made – Rhonda and the
children would be most welcome, if they would like to join us."
Baelor visibly relaxes, his smile easing into the grin that earned him his
nickname, the grin that makes him as much the Beacon of the South as the Old
Man is the Voice of Oldtown.
"I did hope you'd say that," he sighs, chiming his cup against Willas'. "You
know, there are days when I'm half-tempted to have your fool father killed off
so you might take his place – there's a reason the Hightowers are feared as we
are, and you're more Hightower than most of my beloved brothers and sisters.
You'll make an excellent Lord of the Reach, lad."
"Beloved," Willas snorts, blushing at the compliment and desperately trying to
steer the conversation away from it. "Baelor, it's an open secret within the
family that all of you detest one another."
"Untrue!" Baelor protests, his grin never faltering. "I'm passing fond of your
mother and Lynesse!"
"Only in passing – when last did you speak to Mother in person? And when last
did Lynesse's whatever he is in Lys allow her to send a raven to you?"
"Oh, I spoke to Alerie when last I visited Highgarden – that was what, four
years ago? Quite often enough, I say. The Old Man agrees, you know."
Willas sniggers, shaking his head and ducking Baelor's mocking swipe.
"And you're so fond of your younger brothers and sister?" his uncles teases,
diverting his hand and ruffling Willas' hair. "Well, of Garlan, of course, but
Margaery and Loras? Don't make me laugh, lad – you're loyal to them, yes, but I
don't think there's a man, woman or child who's ever met my prettiest nephew
who hasn't wanted to slap him silly, and as for Margaery… Well, the fat fool
let's her be called "the rose of Highgarden," doesn't he? I wonder what they'll
all do when they realise that your wife is lovelier than Margaery could ever
hope to be."
"Weep, I imagine," Willas laughs. "Weep that she's married to me, and that
Father never could manage to convince Loras to at least pretend to have some
serious interest in women."
"Renly Baratheon would have died sooner if he had, and of jealousy rather than
politics."
"Hush now, uncle," Willas chastises lightly, unable to hold back a grin. Loras
and Renly were never quite so discreet as they might have hoped around the
Stormlands and the Reach, although certain questions were raised by how little
was thought of their excessive closeness while they were in King's Landing.
"Someone might hear you. They say the Spider's web has no end, after all."
"Pox on the bloody Spider," Baelor huffs. "Pox on the whole of King's Landing.
Better we ruled ourselves, again – fine King and Queen of the Reach you and
your Sansa would make, I tell you."
"She'd rather be Queen in the North, I think," Willas sighs, the lightness of
the earlier moment vanquished by memories of despair in Sansa's eyes. "When
Grandfather said that this Roose Bolton had been given Winterfell – I swear on
all of the Seven, Baelor, I've never seen or heard anything so terrible as her
reaction. I felt sick, never mind her."
"The Boltons' sigil is a flayed man, which I say speaks volumes, and by all
reports they're not a House to trust. It's no wonder Ned Stark bred dislike of
them into his daughter."
"And yet his son took Roose Bolton as one of his generals. Bah, I don't
understand Northerners – I barely understand Sansa half of the time, and I've
yet to introduce her to someone without their commenting on how very Tully she
is, so she can't be that much a Northerner."
"She's a Northerner, alright, no matter how like her mother she might look. You
only have to look at what she's come through to see that. Her mother's sister
went mad after a tiny fraction of the pain your wife's seen, and by all
reports… Well, your goodmother did release the Kingslayer without your
goodbrother's say, for no clear reason at all. There's a madness in the Tullys,
and if it were to strike anyone, your little lady is a prime candidate, is she
not?"
"There's a madness in the Starks, too, though," Willas says darkly, turning
away from the bright warmth of the room to look out over the city, a mass of
twinkling lights topped with inky, starry skies, spreading out as far as the
harbour. It's beautiful during the day, but he's always loved the view from
high up in the Tower at night. "Her aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen, her uncle
defying Mad Aerys as he did – I may have been a child then, Baelor, but I
remember. More than anyone would guess. I was always very good at listening
when I shouldn't have."
"Aye, you were at that – it earned you a caning more than once, if I remember
correctly."
"It got you out of an earful from the Old Man more than once, if I remember
correctly."
Baelor waves that aside with a good-natured grimace, but he's serious as soon
as he turns back to Willas.
"Take Sansa and get to Highgarden. It's the safest place in the Seven Kingdoms,
for my money – that it can't be attacked by sea and isn't besieged by
Lannisters or infested with Boltons makes it the best chance you have of
keeping your little wife safe. Go home, Willas – go home and fix whatever it is
was broken in her by the Lannisters, and then fill Highgarden with boys as
clever as you are and girls as sweet as she is. The gods know that you both
could do with a spot of happiness."
===============================================================================
She smells even sweeter when she's soaked and naked and sitting in his lap in
the bath, he's just discovered.
It takes him a long while to get himself into the bath even on a good day,
because there's an irritating amount of careful manoeuvring of his leg to worry
about, but Sansa had appeared around the screen in just a short linen robe and
helped him in without a word, and then she shed the robe and climbed in after
him.
It's as if the steam unleashes something in her hair as it dampens it, and the
not-rosemary scent of her is everywhere – not that he wants to escape it, no,
but he can't quite understand how it could be so lovely.
She pulls her lips away from his with a sigh, sitting back on her heels and
just looking at him, so intently that he feels as if no one's ever looked at
him before, not a single person before Sansa, his Sansa, his beautiful little
wife, his lady, his sweet girl, the woman who is fast becoming his everything,
so fast that it terrifies him.
"I want to try again," she whispers, a flush creeping up her cheeks and down
her neck. The water is deep enough to cover much of her breasts – or at least,
it would be if one was not cradled in his hand, soft and full and a perfect fit
to his palm, nipple pink and swollen and peeking through his fingers – and warm
enough to rise a flush in both of their skins, but the pinkness that spreads
across Sansa's face and neck is different, something more secret and intimate,
to be shared only with him.
After a long moment of trailing his fingers idly across her blushing skin, her
words penetrate the haze of lazy arousal fogging his mind.
"Do you mean it?" he asks, astonished. "Truly?"
"Everything else has felt so good," she says, ducking her head so her hair
falls in a damp tumble of copper and heaven around her face. "I think that it
might be good this time, now that we don't have to worry about my maidenhead."
Everything else. He's made her come at least twice a day since she came to him 
(for him) in his study a fortnight, fingers and tongue working her so
thoroughly she's barely been able to walk straight or sit still, but he never…
"Gods, Sansa," he groans, pressing his face into the swell of her breasts above
the water. "Are you certain? Truly, honestly certain?"
"I want to try," she says honestly, her eyes wide and blue and dark, dark like
a dawning sky, completely empty of any guile or deceit, full up with just
plain, honest want and that now-familiar spark of apprehension. "I do not know…
I want to try, Willas. Please? You said that it will be good. I want you to
feel good, too."
Oh, gods, why does she have to say things like that? So innocently does she
tear him apart without even trying.
"Kiss me again, Sansa," he says, already pressing his mouth to hers. "Don't
stop until you can't help it."
She does as he says, twisting her arms around his neck, her fingers into his
hair, and gods, gods, the sounds she makes as his hands slide across her soft,
wet skin are like heaven and hell and sunshine and agony all rolled into one.
He slides one finger into her, just barely into her, just to test her (no need
to be so gentle, he reminds himself, she was screaming for more when you had
three fingers inside her only last night) and seven hells but she feels
perfect, so perfect that he can hardly breathe.
She whimpers against his mouth when he strokes his thumb over her nub,
trembling around his fingers (when did I add another?) and digging her nails
into his shoulders, tugging hard at his hair.
His hands are trembling when he settles them on her hips, trembling almost as
hard as she is, but she's so hot and so damned tight around his cock that he
forgets to be nervous, forgets to worry about her, forgets everything by the
feel of her sliding slowly, so slowly, up and down his cock-
"Willas," she gasps, her head falling back. "Oh, it's good-"
"That's it, sweet girl," he hears himself crooning, his words gusting across
her neck as he leans in to taste her skin. "That's it, my Sansa," he sighs,
keeping one hand on her hip and the other hand cupped around her mound, fingers
stroking over her nub in time with the gentle rolling of her hips.
"My Sansa," he whispers again, loving the way it sounds, "my sweet girl, my
lady, gods, Sansa, gods, I love you, I love you Sansa," he says, horrified and
elated at the words tumbling from his mouth and unable to stop them either way,
especially when they seem to spur her on, when her hips move faster and harder
every time he tells her he loves her – and he does, that's the truly
frightening part of it all, he honestly does love her, more than he ever
thought he would, and them only six weeks man and wife! "So much, I love you so
much, I'll never stop, not ever, my Sansa-"
She keens, high and desperate, and pulls his mouth back to hers, kissing him
furiously as she clicks into a rhythm that has them both in a frenzy, biting
and clutching and crying out as they surge towards their peak, and when she
comes before him she makes the most exquisite sound, tightens in the most
agonizingly perfect way, that Willas sees stars as his teeth sink into the
juncture of her neck and shoulder and he empties into her.
"Did you mean it?" she demands hoarsely, pulling his head up by his hair and
forcing him to look muzzily into her eyes. She's like one of those goddesses
from the Summer Isles he thinks dozily, taking in her flushed cheeks, her
swollen lips, the heave of her breasts as she tries to steady her
breathing. The ones you're supposed to worship with sex. I'll gladly pay her my
dues. "Did you mean it?"
"What? Sansa, what-"
"Did you mean it when you said you love me?" she demands again, her eyes blue,
so blue, and utterly terrified. Gods, did he hurt her again? He can't have, can
he?
"I- Yes, of course I did, I wouldn't have said it otherwise," he says,
confused. "Sansa-"
She kisses him again, and there's so much happiness and love – love! – in her
lips, in her eyes when she pulls back and smiles at him, a smile brighter than
Baelor's ever was, that he thinks he could die happy in that moment.
===============================================================================
Her nightmares are worse than ever that night, and she screams so loudly that
Aldwin rushes into their room with his dirk bare in his hand, sure that there
is some attacker or assassin or other after climbing through the window.
Willas is completely at a loss – he had hoped, perhaps naively, that she would
have an untroubled night after the sheer happiness she had exuded all day, and
now he doesn't know how to deal with the grief and despair and terror that pour
from her when he manages to wake her and pull her into his arms. He tries,
though, strokes her hair and rubs her back and croons nonsense comforts into
her ear as she sobs mindlessly, clinging to him so tight that his shoulders and
arms are a mass of tiny bruises and nicks from her fingernails.
It takes several hours for her to fall back into an uneasy sleep, sprawled on
top of him and still clutching him tight, and Willas lies awake and watches the
sky lighten through the near-transparent white silk drapes over the windows,
perversely glad that they return to Highgarden this morning – he can never
before remember being glad to forsake Oldtown for his ancestral home, but he
thinks that Sansa might be better served by the privacy he can provide for her
at Highgarden.
Telling her he loves her seems to have broken a dam inside her, and much as he
loves Baelor and the Old Man and the rest of them, Sansa is his priority now –
she has to be.
She needs him more than anyone else ever has, after all, and he intends doing
right by her. Only right. Only good.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     In which I stan House Hightower some more and express more of my
     secretly-at-war-with-themselves-Tyrells headcanon.
     Enjoy.
The Old Man himself comes to see them off, hefting Willas up into his saddle
carelessly (or so it appeared, but everyone knows that Leyton Hightower would
rather cut off his own leg than see any more harm come to Willas'), leaving him
too his buckles and straps, and lifting Sansa into hers as if she were made of
spun crystal.
"Safe journey," he says solemnly, reaching up to clasp Willas' wrist with a
grin that belies his tone.
"Safe watch," Willas replies, as is custom, and then smiles. "Visit us at
Highgarden, Grandfather – if nothing else, it would annoy Mother no end to see
you coming, and she's hilarious when she's vexed."
"Might be that I will," the Old Man agrees, giving Willas' wrist a last squeeze
before turning his attention to Sansa. "And you, my lady – if ever this
grandson of mine turns out to be more a Tyrell than we supposed, the High Tower
is always open to you."
She flushes pearly pink, rose when the Old Man kisses her hand, and then she
giggles across at Willas as soon as the Old Man's back is turned.
"I think I understand why people are so wary of the Hightowers now," she
whispers, still giggling behind her hand. "It's as if each of them is two
different people."
"The urbane scholars and saints, and the loud-mouthed jesters and fools?" he
teases, throwing his head back and laughing when she shushes him, giggling
harder than ever. "No, no, it's true, Sansa – and it's served them in good
stead all these years. The only thing the Hightowers lost when the Gardener
Kings rose was their crown – they still have all the influence and wealth of
kings, without the bother of having to actually rule."
"Watch your tongue, lad," Baelor calls, half-skipping down the steps to say his
farewells. "We rule enough to do, and we do more than your fat fool of a father
or his idiot cousin in the Arbor – all they do is complain about the Dornish
and grasp at power in the Crownlands."
"You really must stop calling Father a fat fool," Willas says, but there is no
real bite in his words – Baelor knows better than anyone save Garlan Willas'
true opinion of the Lord of Highgarden, and his answering grin speaks volumes.
"Well, is there a lie in it?" the Old Man asks, suddenly returned from shouting
at the servants arranging Sansa and Willas' baggage. "Your father has a belly
like a eunuch and the brains of a goat – he is a fat fool! Thank the gods you
took your mind from your mother's side."
"Grandmother Olenna is a clever woman," Willas says, knowing precisely how much
the very thought of Olenna Redwyne bothers the Old Man. "Wouldn't you agree,
Grandfather?"
The Old Man turns such an alarming shade of purple that Sansa's eyes widen in
concern, but Willas and Baelor roar with laughter when he begins spewing a
diatribe of such venom and volume that the entire city must be blushing as deep
as Sansa.
"Don't be so long about returning to Oldtown, grandson," he bellows as he waves
them off, catching the attention of every man, woman and child within half a
mile of the High Tower. "And be sure to bring Lady Sansa!"
They stop at an inn every night, and as soon as the innkeepers put Willas' cane
together with Sansa's hair and the roses on their clothes, they can't do enough
– Willas is sure that the Queen Regent and the rest of the Lannisters will be
furious when they realise just how quickly tales of the woman they now call the
winter rose are spreading, gathering embellishment and tears as they travel.
Sansa blushes and ducks her head if she so much as hears winter roses
mentioned, Willas has noticed, and so he requests that their meals be brought
up to them in the privacy of their room once they've bathed.
He can see the looks of surprise when he and Sansa need only one room, when no
request is made for a second bathtub, but he ignores them – let the whispers of
the lovestruck heir and his little wife spread far and wide, the better to
preserve Sansa's safety and cement the stories he knows Margaery and
Grandmother will be telling in King's Landing.
Sansa sleeps better when he's close, she says, and that's another reason for
keeping one room only – he sleeps better himself when he's close to her, the
better to tend to her when she rips herself free of her night terrors. They
repeat the pattern every night on the way back to Highgarden, riding all day
and sleeping curled around one another after a long, hot soak at night.
"Has there been any word from King's Landing?" she asks in a small voice the
night before they reach Highgarden as they bathe, sitting in his lap with her
back to him in the chest-deep water and her face turned into his neck. "Of your
sister, your father…?"
"Sansa, you don't need to speak of it," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her
hair. "I know how it distresses you – I will not hide things from you, not
important things, but there has been nothing to cause you any concern."
"The… The Queen Regent. Has she asked of me?"
He sighs and nuzzles into her hair again, until he can taste the soft skin
behind her ear.
"She can ask all she wants," he whispers, sucking softly on her earlobe until
the tension eases from her shoulders and she sinks back fully against him.
"You're mine now, Sansa Stark, and she can't have you back. She can go hang for
all I care, and the rest of House Lannister with her – no one will ever hurt
you again, my love, not if I have anything to say about it."
"You can't stop her if she truly wants me back," Sansa whispers, her body
tensing again. "Your family – I don't understand why they helped me get away,
but they'll send me back if that's what it takes, won't they? I'm not truly a
Tyrell, not until I give you an heir."
A piece of the puzzle finally clicks into place, and Sansa's behaviour since
they ventured to Oldtown suddenly makes sense.
"Sansa, is that why you were so eager for us to lie together again?" he asks,
straightening up and turning her as best he can to face him. "Oh, sweet girl,
no! No, we don't need to have a child straight away! What made you think that?"
"I- But I thought that that was why you married me," she says, frowning oh-so-
prettily in confusion and leaning back against the side of the bath. "Margaery
said-"
"I imagine Margaery said many things, most of which were half-truths at best.
She can be quite inventive when she feels the need, my sister." He sighs and
touches her face, tracing the shape of her nose, her cheekbone, her eye, her
lips with the tip of his finger. "I imagine Margaery told you that I have been
reluctant to marry – that much is true, I admit, but not for the reasons my
siblings and Father assume. It has – or rather, had – nothing to do with my
infirmity. I imagine she told you that Father was desperate for me to have an
heir, because he worries desperately for my health because of my leg. This,
which I see she did tell you – no, don't deny it, you're a terrible liar when
it's just us, my love – is a blatant lie. Father would rejoice privately were I
to suffer an unfortunate accident so he could name Garlan his heir."
"I'm sure he wouldn't-"
"Oh, he would, believe me on that," Willas assures her. "Sansa, sweetling –
there are few people I trust entirely, and my father is not one of them, not
any more than Margaery or Grandmother. I love my family, but they are…
Ambitious, I suppose, and ambition makes many of them view even each other as
pawns in the game."
"But who do you trust if not your family?"
"I trust some family. Garlan, obviously, and Leonette as well – I've known her
since we were children, she was my second stepgrandmother's ward for a time.
Grandfather, of course. Uncle Baelor and Rhonda, Aldwin, his wife Marian, and
you. Nobody else."
"Me?"
"Of course you, my silly little wife," he laughs, tweaking her nose and rising
a blush in her cheeks. "Why would I not trust you?"
"Why would you trust me?"
"Well, you are my wife, for a start, and the daughter of a Stark and a Tully –
good reason for me to believe you trustworthy, even if you were not my wife.
You never bent to what the Lannisters demanded of you during your captivity, no
matter what they did to you- no, Sansa, do not deny it. I know they abused you,
my love – I've seen the scars."
She fidgets, turning further as if to hide her back from him, and he sighs,
takes her face in his hands, makes her look at him.
"If you can bear to look at my scars, Sansa, repressing my anger at seeing
yours is a small price to pay – but all this is beside the point. You do not
need to give me a child immediately, sweet girl, and you would do well to
ignore a great lot of whatever advice Margaery gave you. Would you rather have
your own rooms? I can send word ahead in the morning so that there will be
chambers prepared for you, if you'd like. And you do not need to bathe with me,
sweet girl. You'll have a lady's maid when we reach Highgarden, so you will not
have need of me to help with your hair. Would you rather that?"
"No!" she insists, pressing closer to him. "I cannot sleep- When you get up
during the night, I- I know you are gone. The nightmares are better when you're
near."
That stuns him – he does sometimes leave their bed during the night,
particularly if she falls asleep against his left side and manages to lock her
foot around his knee; he disentangles himself from her and rubs feeling back
into his leg so he is able to ride and walk the next day – but he did not know
that she was aware of it.
"So you do not wish to keep separate chambers?"
She flushes deep pink, filling her whole cheeks with colour, and smiles shyly.
"Even if we do not- if we do not lie together, I like being close to you," she
admits, ducking her head. "I like it when you-"
She says no more, but Willas has learned a great deal about what Sansa likes.
He has not lain with her since the night in the bath in the High Tower, but he
can't quite stop himself from kissing her constantly, uncaring of watching eyes
and whispering tongues, can't keep his hands off her when she climbs so
willingly into his lap as soon as they're alone, finds himself aching to hear
those lovely, sharp little cries she gives as she falls apart under his mouth,
on his fingers.
"I like that too," he teases, pulling her close again to lean into him, her
shoulder tucked under his arm and her ear resting over his heart. "You turn the
loveliest shade of pink when you-"
"Willas!" she shrieks, giggling even as she slaps his chest. "You mustn't!"
"Why not?" he demands mockingly, grinning down at her. "It's true, isn't it?
You do blush so prettily when you come-"
She kisses him to keep him quiet, and it works embarrassingly well.
"You know," he says the following afternoon as they ride through the gates of
Highgarden. "There are days when I can see the appeal of a wheelhouse."
He trained Gardener from he was a foal, and the horse – the biggest in Willas'
personal stable, bigger even than Garlan's Florian – knows him better than it
knows its mother, and his saddle is more comfortable than anyone else's,
especially with the special adjustments made for his leg, but riding still
exhausts him because he instinctively moves as if he has two fully functional
legs, not one, and causes himself constant pain.
"You would hate a wheelhouse," Sansa says absently, looking about herself with
curious eyes. They rode out through the main gates, but Willas has always
preferred the Wayward Gate on the southern wall which leads into the open
gardens between wall and stables, and so it is through it which they return.
Father always detested the ride from the Wayward Gate to the castle proper,
which of course meant Willas loved it all the more – he has always found
himself at odds with his father over even the smallest of things, and that is
almost as tiring as riding.
"Hate it, would I?" he challenges with a smile, leaning over to tug on the end
of her heavy braid where it hangs over her cloak, vibrantly red against wool so
dark a green that it's almost black. "What makes you say that?"
"You could not show off how intelligent you are if we were hidden away in a
wheelhouse," she says, refusing to meet his eyes. "And that would be harder on
you than having your leg drained, I think."
"Are you suggesting that I am vain of my intellect, my lady?"
"I am not suggesting anything. I am merely pointing out that you take pleasure
in sharing the vast reserves of knowledge you have collected over the years."
"I could probably forge a chain in less than a year," he agrees, mock-
earnestly, rolling his eyes when she finally gives in and giggles. "Be serious,
though – it might be slower, but it would be a damn sight more comfortable for
both of us, I imagine."
Sansa's back and thighs and backside had been a wreck of aches and pains from
riding astride for the first time by the time they reached Oldtown, but she
seems less troubled now – still, he would spare her further discomfort if he
could.
"But less enjoyable," she points out, reaching up to tug a spray of late
blossom from one of the apple trees lining the boulevard. She twists it into a
garland and sets it on her hair like a crown, and he's certain that there's
never been a woman more beautiful in all of time. "And I've come to quite like
riding, I think."
He laughs at that.
"If you were riding any horse but Whisper, I think you'd hate it," he teases,
nudging Gardener closer and catching her chin between gloved fingers. "If ever
you tire of her, I'm sure there's room for you on Gardener's back with me."
She takes his kiss willingly, gladly, and even if she's still shy of returning
his affection outside the privacy of their rooms – be they in Highgarden,
Oldtown or any one of the inns they stopped in along the road home – he
relishes the taste of her tongue dipping into his mouth for a brief moment
before pulling away, feeling flushed and triumphant.
"Have you considered using crutches?" she asks as Aldwin patiently helps Willas
down from his saddle with his eternal expression of unruffled contentment
firmly in place.
"No use," Willas grits out, cursing as his knee almost buckles – it seems to
exist in two states only, completely rigid or completely buckled – and catches
his weight all on one arm draped over Gardener's back. "Leg's frozen most of
the time, and it'd catch rather than be eased by crutches – I tried them when I
was recovering."
He's surprised to find Sansa coming to his side, taking some of his weight, and
supposes that he shouldn't be – she can't seem to bear to see anyone else
suffering even a smidgen, for all that she keeps her own suffering tightly
under lock and key.
"Just a thought," she says, smiling as best she can with him leaning so heavily
on her and so obviously in pain. "Aldwin is gone for your chair?"
"Aye, he is- oh, seven bloody hells, not now."
"What is it?"
"The Gross has returned from visiting Aunt Mina at the Arbor," he groans,
tilting his head to rest his brow against her temple. "Of all the bloody days
for him to return, why today? Why now?"
The Lord Seneschal of Highgarden is fat enough to make Father look slight, and
sweats even in the mild autumnal warmth of the fading afternoon. Willas has
never liked his great-uncle, less because of the man's attitude towards him
personally and more because of his attitude towards women. Malora Hightower,
Willas' eldest aunt, called the Mad Maid out of her hearing - and the Old Man's
- made sure that he had a healthy regard for the wellbeing of any woman he
could claim to so much as know the name of, and he has always felt that Garth
Tyrell could do with spending some time in Malora's company.
He was beyond relieved when Malora took to Sansa. His aunt's approval meant
almost as much to him as the Old Man's and Baelor's.
"Nephew!" Garth shouts, shouldering past the men carrying Willas and Sansa's
things into the keep. "You have been gone for a long while!"
"Only a month, uncle, a little more," Willas manages, forcing a smile and
trying not to show how much pain he's in. "Allow me to introduce my wife, the
Lady Sansa. My lady, my uncle, Lord Garth."
"My lord," Sansa says, dipping her head demurely but not moving from Willas'
side. "It is a pleasure – I have heard much."
"Such a cold greeting!" Garth chides, smiling widely. Willas remembers Garlan
introducing Leonette to the Gross, remembers how he had held her tight and
kissed both her cheeks – Baelor greeted Sansa similarly when they arrived at
the High Tower, but there is some intent that Garth wears like a cloak that
Baelor lacked. "Well, I suppose we shall have a chance to better get to know
one another over dinner-"
"Lady Sansa and I will be dining alone tonight," Willas says sharply. "And
early, too, I think – there is much to be done if we are to successfully ward
against the Ironmen's attacks on the western coast, and we have had a long
journey from Oldtown. My grandfather is already marshalling his forces there to
send them against the Greyjoys – Lord Paxter is doing the same, I hope?"
"Well, I-"
"You must have been at the Arbor still when my orders arrived," Willas says,
his temper rising. "While Father is in King's Landing, uncle, I am Lord of the
Reach. I expect word from Lord Paxter by the end of the week."
"Now see here, boy-"
"That is no way to address your lord, uncle. I see Aldwin is coming with my
chair – we will discuss this further in the morning, along with these taxes I
hear whispers of. Go, recuperate from your own long journey – we will speak in
the morning."
He all but collapses into his wheelchair, and is surprised and slightly amused
by the firm hand Sansa keeps on his shoulder as he wheels himself inside.
"You were very short with your uncle," she says, biting her lip and watching
him lift himself up onto the bed when they reach the sanctuary of their
chambers. "Is there some reason that I should be aware of?"
"Garth has been known to be… Indiscreet, I suppose, with regards women.
Inappropriate, too. He has little tact and is a poor judge of when his
attentions are wanted. I was uncomfortable with you being so close to him," he
admits, settling himself on the mattress and leaning over to take off his
boots. Sansa casts off her cloak, tossing it carelessly across the back of the
chair at the dressing table, and climbs up beside him to help.
"Brave Ser Willas, defending his helpless wife from his lecherous uncle," she
quips, a teasing light in her eyes. Since she has grown more comfortable with
him, since she has come to feel safe in his presence, he has uncovered a
surprising vein of wry wit in his little wife, one which he enjoys greatly.
His leg is inflamed when they finally work his breeches down and off, but it is
a simple matter of loosening the straps of his brace and sending for ice to
ease the pain. Sansa bathes and washes her hair while he cools the reddened
flesh, and she sends word for dinner while he takes his turn in the tub.
He startles when she appears behind him and scrubs his hair for him, but she
soon has him leaning back into her hands, little rumbles of pleasure rising up
from the depths of his chest in mortifying volume – not that he can stop them,
not with her long, slim fingers rubbing slow circles across his scalp as she
hums under her breath and doesn't smell of rosemary, not quite.
Attractive though he undoubtedly finds her – and he does – it's almost a relief
to not have to make love to her. He still cannot quite get past the knowledge
that she is so close to being a child, no matter how mature she seems, no
matter how achingly perfectly she fits into his arms, against his body, and he
is glad to have convinced her that they do not have to lie together to share a
bed (cannot get past it until she has those lovely fingers or that lovely cunt
around your cock a voice whispers, a voice that sounds disquietingly like
Grandmother). He enjoys the company of having a wife though, of having someone
to share simple pleasures like dinner or music or even just the sunset over the
Mander of an evening.
The little intimacies – washing his hair, brushing hers, the warm weight of her
on his chest at night – are a welcome bonus, of course, one he relishes, and he
hopes that Sansa will come to feel yet more comfortable in his company, so that
she might bring her worries to him rather than turning to Margaery for her
dubious brand of advice.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Bit shorter than usual, chaps, but chin up – big one next. (Also
     sorry for the delay but ew my brother fucked up the internet again
     because he's an idiot, so my sincerest apologies for that).
     Also, I've only just noticed how much time they seem to spend in the
     bath. Did it strike anyone else as odd, or was that just me? Idek.
     And I'd just like to point out that, having leant my copies of both
     volumes of ASOS to a friend, I'm working the timeline on memory – I'm
     not entirely sure if this is the correct timespan (read as: I know
     that this isn't right) from when the Tyrells would have gotten Sansa
     out of King's Landing before Joffrey and Margaery's wedding to Cersei
     and Margaery's imprisonments, but here's hoping it's approximating
     correctness. I don't honestly know, and would love corrections :D
They have a week before Garth prevails in forcing his company on them for
dinner, and Sansa seems nervous.
"You were not so apprehensive of dining with Baelor or Grandfather," Willas
notes, settling into his wheelchair and reaching for his boots. "Have I truly
scared you away from the Gross so thoroughly?"
She hesitates and then shakes her head, letting a single curl spring loose from
the braid she's been pinning in place on the back of her head for the past
twenty minutes.
"Oh, bother," she grumps, and he catches her hand before she can pin the errant
lock of hair back in place.
"Leave it down," he tells her softly, pressing a kiss to the thin skin and
fluttering pulse on the inside of her wrist. "Be content with the knowledge
that it will drive me half mad all through dinner, and let that amuse you when
Garth turns into a boring drunk."
She rolls her eyes and turns to face him fully on the dressing table chair,
twisting her fingers through his.
"Marian told me that he… That she…"
"That she's Garse's mother? Yes, she is. Did she tell you the whole story?"
Aldwin's wife Marian bore the elder of Garth's bastards when she was barely
older than Sansa, and he had cast her aside without so much as a second glance
when he discovered she was with child. He claimed Garse, of course – not that
he had much choice, when even as a babe it would have been impossible to deny
his son – but Marian had never forgiven him, and had grown to despise him all
the more when he fathered Garett, the younger of his sons, on her younger
sister. Garth has a taste for younger women – women Sansa's age or a little
more, but only a little – and Willas is wary of how his great-uncle has behaved
towards Sansa so far. He has not been overtly presumptuous, but his gaze
lingers too long on the swell of her hips, her bosom, her mouth, and more than
once Willas has had to fight back an impulse to hit the Gross.
Having Marian serve as Sansa's lady's maid is peace of mind for Willas if
nothing else – he trusts the woman, who served as his wet nurse when his
mother's milk dried up, as much as he trusts her husband, and she is motherly
and sensible enough to tend Sansa without trying to turn her into yet another
pretty Highgarden airhead. She's also sensible enough not to be jealous of
Sansa's beauty (and Willas is perfectly aware that he is, perhaps, biased in
Sansa's favour, but he cannot wait for her to grow into her loveliness, because
then she will be stunning).
"She did – is he truly such a wretch as all that?"
"And more, I don't doubt – but if he so much as attempts to lay a finger on
you, I'll cut his heart out with a butter knife."
She laughs at the absurdity of the threat, but he knows that his being willing
to defend her honour – even if only in jest – is a talisman to her, one more
foundation block to their relationship.
"Come here," he says with a smile, tugging on her wrist until she climbs into
his lap. Her skirts gather at her knees when she kneels over him, cumbersome
and awkward had he any lewd intentions, but he merely takes her face in his
hands and looks at her for a long moment.
"My lord?"
"Do you know, Sansa, I think I might actually cut Garth's heart out with a
butter knife is he lays a finger on you," he sighs, brushing his thumb across
her lower lip. "A kiss for good luck from the fair lady?"
She blushes, but she still leans in and kisses him with her hands twisted into
his hair and her body as close to his as she can get it with her skirts in the
way.
"Mmm," he sighs happily when at last she pulls away. "I suppose we had better
face the Gross now, hadn't we?"
===============================================================================
His happiness fades with every passing minute during dinner, and Sansa's
shoulders straighten harder and tighter with every word coming from Garth's
greasy mouth.
Willas keeps as close to Sansa as he can in his wheelchair, and Garth is on the
opposite side of the table from her, but still it seems as if he's too close,
as if Sansa is within reach of his grasping fingers, and Willas temper is
uncharacteristically short as a result.
Garth is in the middle of a longwinded explanation of why Dornishwomen are so
attractive when Sansa's hand lands on Willas' thigh, her fingers digging hard
into his skin through his breeches, and he decides that enough is enough.
"Pardon me, uncle, but I find myself fatigued – between my leg and the long
hours spent organising the defences these past days… Well, I am sure you
understand. You must excuse us-"
"Oh, Lady Sansa could stay for another few cups, I'm sure," the Gross laughs,
waving a decanter of Arbor gold about in what Willas assumes is supposed to be
a tantalising manner. "What do you say, niece? Care to listen to more of your
old uncle's tales?"
Sansa's cheeks are flaming red, crimson almost, and Willas can feel the
sickening urge to find a sword just so he can bury it in Garth's fat belly
rising.
Rather than do anything so stupid and rash as that, he pushes himself back from
the table and looks to Sansa with what he hopes are convincingly pleading eyes.
"I am afraid I must beg my lady's company," he sighs. "My leg, uncle – it has
pained me most terribly since I returned from Oldtown, and my lady's gentle
hands are a balm to old hurts."
Garth's eyebrow rises musingly and Willas curses his choice of words.
"I'm sure they are," he says, his words laced with so much innuendo and meaning
that Willas' stomach turns. He can see his disgust mirrored in Sansa's face,
although there's a sheen of fear in her wide eyes, too, and Willas wishes he
could guard her from anyone who might dare to hurt her or take her or even
touch her, almost, but he knows that all he can do is hold her and hope the
nightmares aren't too bad.
"Goodnight, uncle," he says firmly, motioning for Sansa to follow him as he
wheels himself towards the door of the dining room. "Pleasant dreams."
===============================================================================
Sansa thumps down onto her chair at the dressing table with a huff, and Willas
laughs bitterly.
"I am sorry, my love," he says, bringing himself as close to her as he can and
touching her still-flushed cheek. "But he is difficult even while sober."
She smiles wanly and covers his hand with her own.
"I have heard worse," she says, something flashing deep in her eyes, and the
urge to kill every Lannister that ever walked the Seven Kingdoms to avenge
Sansa's pain rises stronger even than the urge to kill the Gross. She has
shared some of her travails with him, Joffrey's cruel words and crueller
orders, and even just her sparse retelling was enough to set his blood boiling.
Even now, the hatred that burns in his gut is enough to make him want to take
her in his arms and never let go, as if that might protect her.
"Would you like me to comb out your hair?" he asks, changing the subject as
thoroughly as he can and slipping his hand back into the soft hair behind her
ear. He is grateful that his wheelchair is so high, higher than the plans
Oberyn sent so long ago, modelled on his brother's wheelchair. Willas' needs
are not and hopefully never will be the same as Doran Martell's. "It will be
wild tomorrow if we don't."
She smiles gratefully and turns, pulling pins from high up on her head as he
pulls the ribbon at the bottom of her braid and begins to untwist the long rope
of her hair.
"I don't understand how you're so kind," she says softly, pulling her hair
loose on top of her head and shaking it out around her shoulders. Even now,
when they're in the middle of such serious conversations, his breath catches at
how beautiful her hair is, fire brought down from the North just to warm him,
just for him. The thought of anyone else (any man) touching Sansa's hair makes
him absurdly angry. He's embarrassed at the notion of her ever discovering just
how enamoured with her hair he is, has been since the moment he first saw it
loose. "You must be so unhappy here at Highgarden, but you don't let yourself
become bitter or sad. How do you manage it?"
"I did not realise that I was managing anything," he says honestly, startled by
her question. Or perhaps startled out of his musings on her and her hair and
how violently protective he apparently is of his lovely little wife. "I may
have been happier in Oldtown, but do not think that I am actually unhappy here
at Highgarden. It is a singularly beautiful place, and I have Mother, had
Garlan – I have you, don't I? And besides," he adds, "Highgarden is mine in a
way Oldtown will never be, and I intend to make sure my father does not destroy
it before you and I return it to what it was before the Conquest."
"What do you mean?"
"A haven of learning surpassing everywhere but the Citadel," he breathes,
separating her hair and starting to comb it out. "A city to rival King's
Landing or Lannisport in size and grandeur. The most beautiful place in the
Seven Kingdoms – it's lovely now, true, but it can be more. It will be more. We
will make it so, you and I." He presses a kiss to the back of her neck, just
above her gown. "You and I, Sansa."
===============================================================================
He is back on his feet the next day, the ache in his leg eased to a manageable
(bearable) level, and it is with his mobility restored that he encourages Sansa
to break her fast in the gardens with him.
She curls her arm through his and insists on carrying the basket out behind
Aldwin, folding chairs balanced on his shoulder and matching table under his
other arm. She still watches everything as they pass with those wide,
astonished eyes, and he loves her innocence.
"I still don't understand how we can make it more beautiful," she confides once
they're settled in the arboretum, sunshine splintering through the thick veil
of leaves above their heads. "Everything here is just so… I can't see how we
could improve it."
Boys with your eyes and girls with your hair, he thinks idly before catching
himself. He can only hope that he didn't say that aloud. It strikes him though,
after that, how very beautiful their children will be.
"I think we could start with the keep," he suggests, spreading thick strawberry
preserve on a slice of bread and passing it over to her. "I would love to see
it alive, Sansa – for all how big the family is, so few of them stay here with
us, and we rarely have visitors. When I was growing up, the High Tower was
always so busy – I want that here, too. I want to always have something to do,
someone to talk with. The only people who ever seem to visit us are either
Margaery's little friends or on their way further south, to Dorne or Oldtown. I
want people to travel the roseroad for Highgarden."
She smiles, lips red from the preserve and the raspberries she's been picking
at all morning, because Cook packed them on the very top of the basket, and it
seems the most natural thing in the world for him to lean over and kiss her,
chasing the taste of the sweet, sweet fruit deep into her sweet, sweet mouth.
He often kisses her in public, unable to stop himself from kissing her deeper
than perhaps is appropriate for any company save their own, but he's never gone
this far, never kissed her with the same ardour and intent as he expresses
during their morning and nightly explorations.
"Willas!" she gasps when he urges her off her chair and into his with him,
urges her into his lap. Her skirts are split for riding – the thought alone is
enough to drive him half mad – and she settles easily into place atop him.
"Willas, someone might see!"
She's blushing, somewhere between the pearlescent pink he's pinpointed as the
hallmark of her arousal and the cerise which announces her embarrassment, and
he wonders if she herself knows which she is feeling more strongly.
"Let them," he says firmly, burying his hands in her hair and pulling her mouth
to his again. "Let them see, Sansa, let the whole world see that I love you,
little wolf."
She nips at his lower lip then, surprising them both if the fresh blush that
spreads down her neck is anything to go on, and he's dizzy with the feel of her
and the taste of her by the time she finally begins to pull away from him
properly.
"You're a wicked man, Willas Tyrell," she laughs, cerise in the cheeks now but
smiling wide enough to light up the whole of the Reach. "A terrible, wicked
man."
===============================================================================
It is another month of avoiding Garth, organising the defences of the western
coast and wandering the gardens while plotting the changes they will make when
Highgarden becomes theirs before the raven arrives from King's Landing.
Sansa's nightmares terrify Willas that night, never mind her, because she
screams and screams and thrashes wildly in their bed, but another week and
they're riding north along the roseroad. She huddles deep into the hood of her
cloak, riding as close to him as she can force Whisper, and he spends more time
with his hand in hers than with both hands on the reins.
He may not like Margaery, but he does love her, and she has never needed him
more than she does now.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Mentions of rape in this chapter, just to warn you.
     Wrote this chapter while listening to Garth Brooks, Willie Nelson,
     Tom T. Hall and Johnny Cash. Country music = angsty Niamh. Then there
     was some My Chemical Romance, Good Charlotte and Fall Out Boy. Emo
     music = manic, slightly angry Niamh. My apologies if it spilled over.
King's Landing stinks worse even than Willas remembers, and he blinks at the
realisation that it's been almost nine years since last he visited the capital
– he hasn't been back since before he was knighted, before he was crippled, and
he hasn't missed it at all.
Sansa cowers deeper into her cloak, her eyes luminous in the shadow of her
hood, bright with a sort of sickened panic that cuts him right to the quick.
She's become more reticent as they came nearer to the city, and nothing has
been able to break her from her reverie.
"You are not alone anymore," he reminds her softly, reaching over to take her
hand as they ride through the gate. "Remember that, my love – the Lannisters
cannot hurt you anymore. Joffrey is dead, and Cersei broken by the Faith. You
are safe."
"I'll never be safe here," she says faintly, gaze fixed on the towering hulk of
the Red Keep high above them. "Nobody with Stark blood will, not while the
Lannisters are in power."
He strokes his thumb over her knuckles until her breathing evens out, and by
that stage they are at the castle.
Father is waiting to greet them, Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan with him.
Willas firmly ignores the three men until he and Sansa are both standing away
from Gardener and Whisper, until he has his cane and Sansa has steeled herself
sufficiently to pull back the hood of her cloak.
"Father," he says, nodding his head while Sansa dips a half-hearted curtsy,
eyes flickering about nervously as she presses closer to his side. "As you sent
for me, so I came."
"So you did," Father agrees gruffly, gesturing for them to follow. "Come, we
have much to speak of."
Willas didn't miss the pin gleaming on his father's breast, a silver hand above
the golden roses embroidered there, and he sighs heavily, pressing a kiss to
Sansa's temple.
"Come, little wolf," he murmurs, guiding her with him. "The sooner we sort out
Father's mess, the sooner we may return home."
===============================================================================
"You actually thought Margaery, our Margaery, was a maid? Are you quite certain
we're speaking of the same woman, Father?"
Sansa is stiff with shock in the seat beside him, and he's more worried about
the ache building in the back of his knee than the disgust on his father's
face, but Willas forces himself to look up without flinching as he digs his
fingers into his own flesh and chases away the stiffness.
"She's been fucking Tomlin Oakheart, Arwyn's youngest son, this past year or
more. You should have known that, Father – gods, how did you not? You're
supposed to be Lord of Highgarden, and your daughter was carrying on an affair
under your roof and you knew nothing of it!"
"Margaery's maidenhead was broken years ago because she spends so much time in
the saddle-"
"Oh, bugger that," Willas snaps. "The Faith are about as likely to believe that
as they are to believe anything you say, Father. Between this mess with
Margaery and the rumours about Loras and Renly Baratheon, the Faith all but
despises House Tyrell. I'll speak with the High Septon on the morrow."
"If the Faith despises House Tyrell, why will the old fart listen to you?"
Father demands, standing up so rapidly that his belly jiggles.
"Because I, unlike most of our damned family, am publicly and actively devout,"
Willas bites back. "Because I was raised by the foremost patron of the Faith in
the Seven Kingdoms rather than by you. Because my wife and I spent a huge
amount of our stay in Oldtown in the Starry Sept, and word travels quicker
among the Faith than it does among the ladies of court. Whatever hope I have,
you have none, Father. I will speak to the High Septon on the morrow. I've
already sent Aldwin to make my apologies for not being able to meet him today,
but…" He sighs and looks down. "I'll have to send for a maester and have my leg
drained if I'm to spend much time on my feet for the next few days."
===============================================================================
Grand Maester Qyburn has an air that leaves Willas so uncomfortable that the
treatment does nothing to ease his leg, and considering the small degree to
which his leg is swollen, the draining is more painful and much longer than he
had hoped.
He also has a letter that must now be sent to Oldtown, because there's
something about the name Qyburn that niggles at the back of his mind and he
hopes Baelor and the Old Man will be able to disprove his suspicions.
Sansa sits on a stool beside the bathtub when he eventually manages to
manoeuvre himself into the water and strokes his cheek as he tries not to weep
at the pain of the hot, scented water against his broken skin.
"I was thinking," he says tightly, "that you should spend tomorrow morning with
Grandmother. I will be with the High Septon for some time, I imagine, and there
is no point in you sitting about the sept on your own – unless you would like
to come with me to pray, of course."
Always pale, her face is almost grey at the thought of visiting the Great Sept
of Baelor, and he cannot say that he blames her, not after what she witnessed
there.
"I will visit with Lady Olenna, if it please you," she says, her voice
strained. "I- You are right, there would be no point in my accompanying you to
the sept."
He lifts a hand and cups her jaw, his fingers splayed across her throat. He can
feel the rapid thrum of her pulse, and he wishes more than anything that he
hadn't been forced to bring her back to this place – but he couldn't leave her
alone in Highgarden, and he couldn't not come to Margaery's aid, especially not
knowing as he does what had happened to Loras.
"Garlan sent word, apparently," he says encouragingly. "He and Leonette should
be here within the week – you and Leonette seemed to get along well enough when
they stayed with us after the wedding."
She smiles slightly, no light reaching her eyes, and nods.
"I suppose," she admits, ducking her head. Her hair is still damp from her own
bath, heavy and dark around her face, and he runs his fingers through it idly
while he waits for her to continue. "I- I don't want to be alone here, but the
sept- I cannot."
He tips her face up, her chin cradled in his fingers, and smiles in
understanding.
"You do not have to do either, sweet girl," he promises. "Grandmother will keep
you company until I return, and I swear that I won't let you be lonely."
She manages a stronger smile, some of the ice melting from her eyes, and he
gives silent thanks to whichever god it was that gave Sansa some measure of
comfort.
===============================================================================
The High Septon greets him coolly, but as soon as he detects the faintest hint
of Willas' discomfort he orders chairs to be brought and they settle on either
side of the fireplace that is the closest thing to an indulgence in his solar.
"I would have come sooner, but my wife and I were planning on making another
visit to Oldtown – my grandfather sends his regards, my lord."
"Lord Hightower, yes?"
"Yes, my lord – he is as horrified by the accusations being levelled at my
sister as I am myself. When Father told me… I apologise, my lord, but I found
myself rendered speechless with shock."
The man opposite him has an eyebrow arched, his scepticism obvious, and Willas
ducks his head, making a great show of ashamed penitence. The Hightowers are
not noted for their wiliness for nothing, after all.
"Margaery has always been wilful," he explains contritely, hating that once
more he is forced to lie for his little sister. "She often broke our father's
word and rode out without his permission. Is it not said that an eager
horsewoman loses her maidenhead in the saddle, my lord? I am afraid that I
simply cannot believe it of my sister that she would allow herself to be
dishonoured in such a way."
"She would not allow it, you say?" the holy man asks. "Explain then these
charges of adultery and fornication laid against her, Lord Willas."
Willas spreads his hands in supplication.
"Margaery is a clever girl, but perhaps- Have you considered that she has been
so vehement in her insistence that she has never lain with a man because… I
cannot bring myself to say it, my lord."
Oh, he hates himself for this, hates himself so much that he's sure he will
never be washed clean of the stain this will leave on his soul.
"Because what, Lord Willas? What precisely are you suggesting?"
Willas sighs, gut twisting at the words he is about to say.
"Could it be, my lord, that my sister is reluctant… She is my father's only
daughter, and there are few Houses in the Reach that have sons of anything
approaching a suitable age who have not put forward a request for Margaery's
hand. Mayhaps some suitor or other did not take Father's refusal well, and…"
He'll never forgive himself this, and hates his father for making him do this
more even than he hates himself for doing it. Sansa had seemed sick at the
thought of it, at the sheer depravity of the deception.
"You are saying that your sister was raped, Lord Willas?"
Willas shrugs helplessly, putting every ounce of acting skill that he has in
reserve into his performance even as bile rises in his gorge.
"I cannot say for certain, my lord – perhaps if I may speak with her?"
===============================================================================
Margaery flings herself into his arms as soon as the door of her cell is shut
behind him, and he lowers his mouth to her ear to speak unheard.
"They will ask who it was raped you. You will say that it was at a feast, it
was dark, you did not see his face, and you and Father will never ask anything
of me again."
She pulls away, stunned, her eyes – eyes almost precisely like his own, he
knows, but usually full of wicked intelligence that comes from the Redwynes,
something he thankfully did not inherit, taking his less pointed intellect from
the Hightowers as he did – wide and blank in her shock.
"Willas-"
He shakes his head and pulls her back into his arms.
"Pretend to be stricken," he orders lowly, mouth back at her ear. "Gods curse
you, Margaery, pretend to be breaking down and telling me of a horrific
experience. Act – you did it well enough for Joffrey bastard Baratheon, do it
for Father's sake."
"Willas-"
"Cersei Lannister was forced to walk naked through the streets as penance for
her sins," he snarls. "I will not see House Tyrell shamed like that. If there
was any other way to make the Faith believe that you're anything other than a
harlot, I would take it, but it seems Father's blustering has closed all other
avenues. They will ask, you will say you did not see his face, and you will
never, ever ask anything of me again, am I understood?"
===============================================================================
He gets sick as soon as he's back in the privacy of his and Sansa's rooms
again, utterly repulsed by the lies he perpetrated to no less a notary than the
High Septon of the Faith of the Seven. He despises himself for allowing himself
to be herded into such an arrangement, into such a… He can't even think what to
call it, other than to say that it's worthy only of a Lannister.
"Willas?"
He spits out a mouthful of water before turning to face Sansa, pale and worried
and so beautiful it hurts. Gods, how can he touch her now, after doing what
he's done? He can hardly bear to look at her, and so he turns away and sits
heavily in one of the chairs at the small table under the window.
"I lied to the High Septon this morning," he says, barely able to say the
words. "I told him that Margaery was not a maid because she was raped. What
have I done, Sansa?"
Her hand is soft and warm on the back of his neck when he lowers his head to
his hands.
"If lying to the High Septon would give me back my brothers and sister, I would
tell him that the sky was green and grass was blue," she says softly. "She is
your sister, Willas. It is natural that you would want to protect her."
"Should protecting her make me feel so… So…"
"Dirty? Mayhaps. Lies… Lies are never good, unless they're told for a good
cause. Someone must always bear the burden."
"You sound as if you have some experience in such matters, my love," he says,
lifting his head and turning to face her. Her eyes are warm with so much
compassion that he can hardly believe that she's barely thirteen years of age.
"Some," she says quietly, running her hands through his hair and smiling so
sadly it breaks his heart. "Some."
===============================================================================
They dine with his family that night – or rather, what little of his family is
free to dine in the keep, meaning Father and Grandmother.
Sansa, previously so nervous of everything about King's Landing and the Red
Keep, seems now to be the more grounded of the two of them, and Willas is more
than a little ashamed of that, but he can't quite seem to rid himself of the
sickness brought on by his earlier misdemeanours. She nudges him along into the
conversation – although there's little conversing necessary for the two of
them, arguing pettily as Father and Grandmother are. He wishes any of his
siblings or his mother were present, but alas, Sansa is in the middle of
something of a baptism of fire regarding the true faces of House Tyrell, and he
is alone in his desire to guard her.
Eventually, though, it becomes too much, and even Willas is surprised to find
himself pushing his chair away from the table and rising unsteadily to his feet
– whatever Pycelle did to his leg, it was more hindrance than help – and
motioning for Sansa to join him.
"After what I did today, I had hoped that perhaps you might control yourself
for my sake, Father, but I see that I hoped in vain, as always. Forgive us if
Sansa and I take our leave – now that my part in your filth is done, we will
return to Highgarden at our earliest convenience."
"You will do no such thing," Father says sharply, turning away from Grandmother
just as Sansa links her arm through Willas'. "You will remain here until I give
you leave-"
"No, Father, I won't. I'll tell you precisely what I told Margaery – you will
never, ever as anything of me again. Not after what you forced me to do this
morning. Nothing. Sansa and I will return home at our earliest convenience, and
you will make a great show of how sorry you are to see us leave."
"I need you on the small council!" Father insists, standing up and leaning over
the table. "We have no master of laws-"
"Randyll Tarly is infinitely better suited to such a post than I am."
"Master of coin-"
"Uncle Garth, Father. I'm sure he crossed your mind already. Why truly do you
want me here? So you can keep an eye on my health?"
Father scowls, his eyes narrowing.
"You will stay here," he orders flatly.
"Not unless you tell me why – if you don't give me a good reason, I'll be gone
as soon as I've seen Garlan."
Father glances at Grandmother, and she nods.
"I need you here until we hear from Storm's End," he says. "If it falls, you're
going to negotiate with the Targaryen boy."
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, once more I am an idiot – the timespan should have been several
     months longer than I've pegged it (thanks to Raksha_The_Demon for
     pointing out the flaws in my awful timelining), so let's all assume
     that I didn't make that mistake and that Sansa and Willas had a
     couple of months more at Highgarden than I've given them. Let's also
     assume that I've been a twit and fucked around with the
     aforementioned timelining and also, apparently, with Sansa's age just
     a little bit.
     It would explain Sansa's newfound comfort in his company and the
     maturity she shows here and in the previous chapter, I think. Idek.
     Enjoy.
"Once again, I'm Father's disposable son," Willas spits, hurling his cane aside
and throwing himself down onto the bed, ignoring the twinge in his knee. "Once
again, he places little importance on the life of his  heir . Once again, he
allows Grandmother to manipulate him into something that could and very
probably  will  blow up in our faces. Marvellous. Just bloody  marvellous."
"Be careful of your leg," Sansa frets, kneeling at his feet to tug off his
boots. "It's been so sore this past while-"
"I know, I know," he sighs, his head thumping back against the thick feather
mattress. "But I'm right, aren't I? Father's entire attitude towards his sons
is that Garlan is the one he wants as heir, Loras is the one he worships and
I'm the expendable one."
"I'm sure he does not think like that," Sansa offers, setting his boots against
the wall and stepping out of her shoes. She has the daintiest little feet, he
notes offhand, and then he sighs.
"The pity of it all is that it shouldn't bother me," he says, holding out his
arm and waiting until she curls against his side. "He sent me away when I was
little more than a babe-in-arms. I was four moons away from my fourth name day
when I arrived at the High Tower, Sansa – how can I crave the affection of a
man who gave me away before he gave me a chance to know him?"
She strokes his cheek, comforting him as he comforts her.
"He is your father," she says. "It does not have to make sense."
===============================================================================
Word of the fall of Storm's End rocks King's Landing to the point where the
smallfolk become hysterical, screeching about the end of the world and the
coming of a day of judgement, where the Seven will descend from on high and
mete out punishment to sinners.
Willas continues to ignore his family and spend his days with Sansa, trying not
to strain his leg, because the stormroad is a hellish ride under ideal
conditions and these, frankly, are far from ideal.
Five days into their stay in the capital, there comes a knock on the door of
their solar, and Willas gladly stays seated and allows Sansa to answer.
Margaery stands in the doorway, dressed in largely shapeless grey linen, her
hair hidden under a novice's veil and her head bowed penitently. There is a
knight of the Kingsguard – the white armour makes Willas worry for Loras. How
is he? Are his injuries as grievous as reported? – standing at her shoulder,
Meryn Trant, one of the men who struck Sansa.
Margaery looks up and smiles so wickedly that Willas turns away in disgust.
"Might I come in, sister?" she asks Sansa, and Sansa steps aside to allow
Margaery to pass. "My thanks – I have had little comfort during my
confinement."
"I told the High Septon yesterday that I could not accept you into my custody,"
Willas says flatly. "You will not be returning to Highgarden with Sansa and I,
Margaery."
"I came to express my gratitude, dearest brother," she says in return, coming
to kneel beside his chair and resting her chin on the arm by his hand. "You
told the High Septon what I was too ashamed to share with any, and your
bravery… Oh, Willas, how will I ever repay you?"
He looks up at Trant and scowls.
"Leave," he orders. "Now. My sister will not escape from these rooms, I give
you my word."
The door slams in Trant's wake, and Sansa's hands are trembling when she
retakes her seat at his side.
"You will leave Sansa and I alone is how you'll repay me," Willas says shortly.
"After what I was made to do-"
"Oh, stop that," Margaery admonishes, rising to her feet and pulling off the
veil. "You did what had to be done, that's all. Father tells me you've agreed
to go to Storm's End, and that you've made enquiries regarding Maester Qyburn,
as he asked."
"I have not agreed to go to Storm's End. I've agreed to leave the city once
I've seen Garlan, but I never agreed to go to Storm's End. As for Qyburn…
Baelor got back to me with great promptness, and my suspicions were lamentably
correct. He was expelled from the Citadel for dabbling in necromancy-"
"A madman then-"
"With a worrying degree of success. It's the kind of story that stays in
Oldtown for months after it happens – I think I remember him having his chain
melted down. Only his Valyrian steel wasn't thrown into the harbour, and that
because it's too rare to risk losing any of it. Whoever the Faith elects as
their champion for Cersei Lannister's trial by combat is doomed if this Robert
Strong of Qyburn's truly has been raised to a white cloak."
"Oh do stop," Margaery insists, rising to her feet and tugging at her dress,
pulling it this way and that in the vain hope of making it fit better. "If you
believe that, you will believe anything at all."
"The Old Man believes it well enough. I'll take his word over yours, if it
please you Your Grace."
Margaery's scowl is pretty, even Willas knows that, but he knows her well
enough to see past the mask of simpering displeasure to the anger and annoyance
lurking low back in her eyes. He knows her well enough to know that she would
like nothing more than to slap him, but that she won't do that with Sansa
present.
"Why are you being difficult, Willas?" she asks instead, folding her arms and
pouting as she did when she was a child and he came home to visit without what
she deemed a sufficient present. "Father is asking as much of the rest of us-"
"Oh yes, because Loras being put in a position where he can have all the glory
he wants and never have to worry about taking a wife is asking much of him.
Making you queen, over and over until one of your kings survives, that's asking
much of you. Garlan being raised to Lord of Brightwater and sent there with
Leonette to raise a family is asking much of him."
"Pardon me, I forgot that you are of course the neglected sibling, that you
being heir and being given a beautiful young wife who you are clearly smitten
with is such a challenge. My pardons, Willas, I overstepped."
"Why did you come here, Margaery? Besides to bother me and to make a great show
for that bastard standing outside the door? Perhaps he can join your legion of
admirers. I suppose you need a thug, what with the state of things here – at
least until Father can engineer your marriage to Aegon Targaryen, should he and
the Golden Company prove to be victorious."
"How dare you-"
"Stop it, both of you."
Willas and Margaery both turn to Sansa, utterly stunned to find her standing
with her hands on her hips, her cheeks flaming, brilliant red, redder by far
than her hair, her mouth twisted into a scowl that makes no effort to be pretty
like Margaery's and which is all the more compelling because of its honesty.
"This is what the Lannisters do," she says, tears brimming in her eyes. "They
did this to my family, before I- before they killed my father. They divided us,
made us fight among ourselves – you cannot do the same. You cannot let them do
this again!"
The silence that follows her outburst is choking, and it takes Willas a long
moment to hold out a hand to her and coax her back into her seat.
"Sansa, my love, we will not fall apart. We fight like this even at the best of
times. You need not worry."
She clutches his hand tight, so tight, and there's something behind her words,
her anger, her fear, something that he fully intends uncovering as soon as
Margaery leaves.
"You must go to Storm's End, brother," Margaery says. "If nothing else, your
little wife will be far away from her ghosts there – no Stark has been in the
Stormlands in almost twenty years, after all."
===============================================================================
Garlan and Leonette arrive the following morning, and Willas is sure to be the
first one to the courtyard to greet them.
"Sansa would have come, but she's taken ill," he explains, embracing Garlan
fiercely before turning to Leonette and kissing her on either cheek. "She'll be
with us for lunch, gods willing, but until then I'm afraid you'll have to make
do with my miserable company."
"Ah, I'm sure we'll manage," Garlan laughs, clapping him on the shoulder after
retrieving Willas' cane from where he dropped it to greet them. "Provided you
don't hide the second-prettiest Lady Tyrell away in your rooms for the next few
days, I won't cause a fuss."
"I can't imagine why I'd hide Leonette away, can you, my lady?" Willas teases,
offering Leonette his arm with a grin. "Come, come – I'm sure Father will send
for us soon enough. Let us take advantage of the respite my having told him
that you are not due for another four hours."
===============================================================================
While Garlan and Leonette are settling into their rooms, Willas slips next door
to check on Sansa. She took to bed early the previous evening with a chill, and
when he sits beside her on the bed and touches his fingers to her forehead he's
dismayed to note that it's turned into a full-blown fever.
"How do you feel?" he asks softly, wondering how it is that a woman so tall as
Sansa can seem so tiny, bundled up under the blankets and curled in on herself
like that.
"Cold," she whimpers miserably, her face pale and flushed all at once. "So
cold."
"Oh, sweet girl," he sighs, stroking her hair. "I sent for a maester – not that
Qyburn, don't worry – and he should be here soon. Is there anything you need?"
She just looks at him with those huge, sad eyes, and he sighs in understanding
before reaching down to pull off his boots.
"Just for a few minutes, mind," he says, lifting the covers and slipping in
beside her. She wraps herself around him immediately, and she's like a brazier,
the heat rolling off her in waves. "Garlan will be wondering where I've
scurried off to."
"Stay," she whispers, pressing her face into his throat. "I hate being alone
here. Please stay."
He considers it, running his fingers through her tangled hair. He can't stay
for long, but perhaps a little while won't hurt.
"Will you tell me what you meant yesterday?" he says cautiously. "About the
Lannisters turning your family against one another. I did not understand."
It's a hallmark of just how ill she is that she does not even cringe at the
mention of the Lannisters, those who she hates more than any others in all the
world.
"When I came south," she says, her voice slightly hoarse and slightly slurred
all at once. "When I came south, I thought I loved Joffrey, and the Queen…
Father wanted to send Arya and I away before he named Joffrey the Kingslayer's
son in front of court, but I went to the Queen. I didn't want to leave, I
didn't understand…"
He's horrified to feel tears, hotter even than her skin as they trickle from
her cheeks onto his neck, and tilts her face up to his with gentle fingers.
"Sweet girl, you didn't understand," he says softly. "You cannot blame yourself
for being seduced by the Lannisters."
"It's my fault Father died," she says sleepily, her brow furrowed and her lips
pursed. "My fault…"
She snores against his neck as she drifts into a fitful slumber, and he
carefully disentangles himself without waking her – she barely slept last
night, after all, and the maesters always say that sleep is the great healer.
Or perhaps it's time. He can never quite remember.
He's unsurprised to find that Garlan and Leonette have let themselves into his
and Sansa's solar, Leonette perched on a chair by the fireplace and Garlan
sprawled carelessly on the sofa under the higher of their two windows.
"Your rooms are much nicer than ours," Garlan comments idly, eyes closed and
fingers trailing on the ground. "Bigger, too."
"I apologise for that," Willas says, easing himself down into the chair
opposite Leonette. "I suppose that fat head of yours does need quite some
room."
"Ha ha," Garlan says, sitting up and leaning forward, elbows on knees. "I
always forget what a wit you are, Willas. Thank you for reminding me, brother."
"It is my pleasure," Willas assures him mockingly, stretching out his leg and
grimacing as it twinges. He dares not return to Qyburn, and he has yet to find
a maester who understands what he needs with regards his knee. He just hopes
that this man coming this afternoon knows his arts well enough to improve
Sansa's condition. "Tell me, brother, has Father been made aware of your
presence just yet? You've been here perhaps half an hour by now, after all-"
"It was your father that told us to come here," Leonette says with a frown. "I
think he intends to have something of a family meeting."
Willas jerks upright, anger already starting to simmer in his gut.
"My wife is very ill, so ill she cannot leave our bed, and he thinks that here,
just on the other side of a door from her, is the ideal spot for us to hold a
meeting?"
Garlan shrugs and is just in the act of rising when the door leading into the
corridor is flung open to reveal not only Father and Grandmother, but also
Margaery, that Trant bastard on her heels, both Redwyne twins and Igon Vyrwel,
the captain of the guard at Highgarden, who had come to the capital as the head
of Father's personal guard.
"This is highly inappropriate," Willas says sharply. He glowers at Father for
just a moment before turning his anger on Meryn Trant. "I have forbidden you
from entering these rooms once already. I did not think I would need to do so a
second time."
"The High Septon says that the Queen-"
"Do you see anyone here with whom she is likely to fornicate?" Willas snaps,
heaving himself to his feet and ignoring the stab of pain in his knee. "Out, I
say – if my sister visits my wife and I again, you will remain at the door and
come no further. The corridor is quite close enough to guard her."
Trant scowls, but he bows low to Margaery and takes his leave, slamming the
door in his wake. Willas ignores the surprised looks his family throws him and
slumps back down into the chair, leaning his forehead on his fist and closing
his eyes.
"If this is to make some genius plan, then you are a fool to come here," he
says. "The Lannisters mistrust Sansa and I even more than they mistrust you,
because she has the best claim to Winterfell – the only legitimate claim to
Winterfell, even, in the realm. We're probably watched even more closely than
Margaery."
"You will leave for Storm's End tomorrow morning," Father says, ignoring
Willas' caution and sitting at the little dining table by the wall. Grandmother
looks hard at Leonette until she gives up her seat, and Margaery smiles and
tilts her head until Garlan moves over enough to allow her to sit down.
"Not unless Sansa makes a miraculous recovery," Willas bites back. "You do
realise that she's abed with a fever, Father? Unable to rise for the aches and
pains?"
Father waves a careless hand.
"It's of your little wife that we wish to speak of," Grandmother interjects,
and Willas tenses. For one, he hates when anyone else refers to Sansa as his
"little" wife. He might call her that, but he means it affectionately, and she
rolls her eyes when he does. For another, he hates when his grandmother talks
about Sansa at all, always speaking of her as if she's a brood mare who's not
worth the money paid for her. "We have considered an undesirable turn of
events, and she may be the solution to it."
Willas is on his feet in an instant, oblivious for once to the sharp jolt of
pain that shoots up his thigh and down his shin from his knee, and everyone
else but Grandmother rise with him. He takes a moment to relish the fact that
none but Garlan stand taller than him, and Garlan only by a hair, before
rounding on Grandmother.
"Whatever schemes and plots you've cooked up involving my wife, they end now,"
he says coldly. "I will not have Sansa used in your game, Grandmother. You
would have used her already had I not refused to allow you to bring her back to
the capital with you as soon as we were wed-"
"That is the issue," Grandmother interrupts. "Sit down, boy."
Rather than taking the wind from his sails, as she doubtless hoped it would,
her lazy dismissal only riles Willas further.
"You will tell me what plan you have created that involves my wife. Then you
will leave, all of you – you and Leonette are welcome to stay, of course,
Garlan, but the rest of you will leave."
There follows a startled silence, and Willas realises not for the first time
just how little any of his immediate family save his mother actually know him.
Even Garlan, his favourite brother, his best friend besides Baelor and Alric,
has never seen him lose his temper this way. In fact, he is quite sure that
none save the Old Man, Baelor and Aldwin have ever seen him lose his temper at
all, beyond a sharp word here and there and perhaps a curse if his temper is
running short because of his leg.
Margaery seems the most surprised of all, her mouth hanging open in a most
undignified manner, and he would laugh if he weren't so angry at their
presumption. How dare they think that they may use Sansa, his Sansa, in their
schemes?
"She has not yet borne you an heir," Grandmother says, refusing to be cowed
even though he can see the tension in her wrinkled hands, in the tight lines
around her mouth. "She is young, and she is already very beautiful. There is
every chance that Aegon Targaryen will not want Margaery as his Queen." Her
eyes are icy cold as she continues. "If the Dragon wants to make a queen of a
Tully-looking Stark, you will not stand in his way."
That does take the wind out of Willas' sails. The thought of setting Sansa
aside, of allowing any other man to touch her, to name her his, is enough to
turn his stomach. Sansa is his, only his, and he will kill any man who tries to
tell him otherwise.
"No."
They all turn, startled at the sight of Sansa bundled up in not only her own
robe but also Willas', flushed and shivering, her hair pulled into a hasty
braid over her shoulder. Even ill and frail as she so obviously is, her teeth
chattering even as sweat beads on her face, there is steel in her eyes that
makes Willas proud to call her his wife.
"I will not be used again," she says, her voice hoarse. "Especially not
by you, Lady Olenna. If Aegon Targaryen wants my alliance as Lady of House
Stark and rightful Lady of Winterfell and the North, it is his, but I have a
husband already, and I will not set him aside to take another."
"Listen here, girl," Father begins roughly, rounding on Sansa. "Your claims to
Winterfell and the North died when the King named Roose Bolton Warden of the
North and gave him Winterfell. As anything but a figurehead, you have as little
worth as any tavern wench-"
Willas sees red, and he completely forgets to worry about the strain on his leg
as he spins and slams his fist into his father's face with as much force as he
can muster, as often as he can before Garlan leaps for him. It takes Garlan,
Horace and Igon all together to hold him back as he struggles to hit Father
again, aching to break the fat fool's jaw, his nose, to hurt him as thoroughly
as he has hurt Sansa, because Willas will never see Sansa hurt again, never,
not if he can help it-
"Willas," Sansa says, ducking around his arms on unsteady feet and taking his
face in her hands. Her skin is clammy, her eyes glassy but determined. "Willas,
enough."
"What he said-"
"Enough," she says again, and Garlan barely lets go of him before he has to
catch Sansa. Her knees buckle as he catches her up against his chest, her whole
body trembling and shivering madly, but her eyes are still determined. His
heart swells with love for her in that moment, and he almost forgets that his
family are in the room with them. "I have been called worse."
He sags just slightly, winding his arms tighter around her and pressing a kiss
to her crown as she presses her face into his chest.
"Sansa will remain my wife," he says firmly, amazed by how level his voice is
considering just moments before he wanted nothing more than to break his father
as thoroughly as possible. "Aegon Targaryen might be powerful, and he may even
some day have my allegiance, but he will never have my wife. When Sansa is well
enough, we will journey to Storm's End. We will go as heir to House Tyrell and
Lady of House Stark, and bugger you all if you think you're setting terms to
suit your ends. I'll suggest Margaery as a potential queen, but I don't blame
him if he turns her down."
"How dare-"
"I dare because you have disrespected my wife at every turn," he cuts Father
off, nodding his thanks to Garlan as he takes his cane from his brother. "I
dare because you have never treated me as your heir until I recently became
useful to you. I dare because you are a fool, Father, a fool who is likely to
endanger everything House Tyrell and Highgarden are if left unfettered. Mayhaps
Baelor had the right of it when he said the Reach would be better off if you
suffered an unfortunate accident and Highgarden was mine."
The silence that greets this declaration is broken only by Sansa's unsteady
breathing and the audible grinding of Father's teeth.
"Now leave," he orders flatly. "Leave, and I will send for you before Sansa and
I depart."
Father is the last to leave, standing in the doorway for a long moment, staring
at Willas warily as if he has never seen him before, and then he slams the door
and is gone.
"I am sorry," Willas murmurs, stroking Sansa's hair and guiding her to sit in
the chair he abandoned when his temper flared. "You should not have had to hear
that."
Garlan shoves Willas squarely down into the other chair, which he dragged over
closer to Sansa's, and sits down at his feet.
"Fucking idiot," he swears. "Stupid, arrogant, valiant idiot. What did you
think you were doing, forgetting about your knee like that?"
Willas knocks aside Garlan's hands as his brother moves to pull off his boot.
"I am not an invalid, Garlan," he says firmly. "Now move, else I'll kick you –
I still have one good leg, after all."
Leonette emerges from the bedchamber with a bundle of blankets in her arms and
drapes them around Sansa, wrapping her up so that only her face is visible, her
face and a flash of her glorious hair.
"You should not have struck your father," Sansa says, smiling wanly at Leonette
before turning her attention back to Willas. "It was unnecessary, and foolish."
"I'm afraid I lost control of my temper," he admits, ducking his head and
pressing his fingers into the back of his knee to try and root out the precise
source of the ache. "It shan't happen again, I promise you."
Sansa curls up and is sleeping fitfully within moments, but Garlan and Leonette
are standing over him, faces torn between fury and worry.
"You cannot expect him to stand for this, brother," Garlan frets – there really
is no other word for it, not with him all but wringing his hands – and Leonette
nods in agreement. "You and he have never been close-"
"Do you know what he said the day after I was crippled, Garlan? Do you? He said
"Better for all of us if you caught some infection." How am I to treat him as
you do when I know he would rather I had died?"
"He said that to you?"
"He stood in my room when he thought I was sleeping and said it," Willas says
bitterly. "He was too much a craven to even say it to my face. He has never
forgiven me for taking after Mother's side of the family, which is not
something I can help."
He may have the same colouring as his brothers and sister, the chestnut-brown
hair and the honey-brown eyes, but Willas' features are all Hightower, the
strong jaw and the high, sharp cheekbones, handsome in a different way to
Garlan, not beautiful like Loras and Margaery. He is more austere in some ways,
warmer in others – there is nothing Redwyne in him at all, he is proud to say.
Grandmother actively and vocally disapproves of his more subtle approach to
politics, to his understanding that sometimes power is not everything, and
perhaps because of her opinion he has never been good enough for his damnable
father, and he knows it.
"Baelor was right," Sansa murmurs drowsily, cracking open one eye to smile
blearily from her cocoon of wool. "Your father is a fat fool."
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     Bleargh but I've been sick – I couldn't look at a computer screen for
     a week and a half without wanting to claw my eyes out, and that was
     followed by a dose of writer's block so severe I wanted to put my
     head through a wall in the hopes that it would be alleviated through
     sheer brute force.
     Also, there is nothing more annoying than being sick in bed but
     unable to wear headphones because of a double ear infection. Well,
     there's probably something, but that ranks pretty highly.
     Anyways, I did manage to get some writing done – my trusty notebook
     saw a lot more action in recent weeks than it has in quite a while –
     and so here we go with the next chapter. Hope you enjoy, and my
     apologies for the complete radio silence on my part.
Sansa retires early in the evening after spending most of the day wrapped up in
blankets beside a roaring fire despite the heat, but the maester, a fidgety
little man with eyes that seem too big for his face, is confident that the
tincture he left for her will break her fever within two days.
"Do you know," Garlan says lightly as Willas closes the door to the bedchamber
as quietly as he can. "I don't think I've ever seen you this concerned about
someone else's health since I had redspots."
"Oh, be quiet," Willas laughs, shaking his head. "I suppose I'd better go find
Father, hadn't I?"
"He will expect an apology," Garlan agrees. "Although he was rather out of
line, him and Grandmother both."
Willas scowls and tightens his grip on his cane.
"Grandmother and I will be having serious words," he promises. "She- I cannot
even begin to understand how she thought Sansa and I might set aside our
marriage."
"She knows full well that Aegon Targaryen will likely refuse Margaery as his
queen," Garlan points out. "But she still wants to be able to influence him
through his wife – doubtless she was sure that Sansa would be so grateful to
her and Marg for getting her away from the Lannisters that she would do
whatever was asked of her." He grins suddenly. "You're a bad influence on your
lady wife, brother – I'll bet she was putty in Grandmother's hands before she
was left alone with you."
"My bitterness towards House Tyrell does have a nasty habit of rubbing off on
people," Willas agrees mildly, pausing in the corridor to exchange a word with
the guard on his and Sansa's rooms before limping alongside Garlan as quickly
as he can. His leg is aching something terrible, worse since his exertions
earlier in the day, but he knows better than to let Garlan see his discomfort –
Willas loves his brother, but the moment Garlan senses that Willas is in any
sort of pain, he turns into a fussing nursemaid that would shame any matron.
Willas sometimes thinks that Mother is the only person at Highgarden who
understands how important his independence is to him, how much his pride
suffers when someone tries to do something for him on account of his leg.
He is thankful that Father's rooms aren't far from his and Sansa's, even though
in a strange way he wishes they were further away so he might put off doing
this for a little while longer.
Grandmother is, of course, sitting in Father's solar – he has yet to move to
the Tower of the Hand for whatever reason – with her feet propped up on a
little stool, Margaery sitting across from her with Meryn Trant lounging idly
against the wall behind her. Willas spares a moment to glare at the false
knight – what sort of man strikes an innocent girl? – before turning to the
table on the far side of the room.
Father's left eye is purple and red and black and almost swollen shut, and
Willas feels guilty and smug in equal measure.
"I owe you an apology," he says, letting the guilt rise to the fore. "I should
not have struck you earlier today, Father. Nor should I have spoken as I did.
I- I am sorry."
"As well you should be," Grandmother grouses from her place by the fire,
sniffing her disapproval. "After the way you spoke, an apology is only the
start of it-"
"Mother," Father cuts her off, waving a dismissive hand that leaves
Grandmother's mouth hanging open in shock. Willas is surprised, too – he cannot
remember Father ever standing up to Grandmother. Ever. It simply doesn't
happen. "Enough. I will speak with Willas alone."
Garlan raises his eyebrows, but he takes Leonette's hand and leads her out of
the room with a grim smile at Willas. Margaery and Grandmother are slower to
leave, fussing about their skirts and sewing baskets and any distraction they
can lay hands on before finally they have no choice but to walk out.
"Father?" Willas prompts as soon as the door closes in their wake. "If I
offended you more seriously than I imagined, I do apologise – my temper-"
"Your temper had nothing to do with it," Father says. "Sit. Would you care for
a cup of wine?"
"I- No, no thank you," Willas says, utterly nonplussed. "Father-"
"You seem to be under the impression that I despise you," Father says, sipping
his own wine and looking down at the papers on the desk before him. "No doubt
your grandfather and uncle helped foster that misapprehension, but your mother
has always been of the opinion that I did little to disillusion you of it."
Willas says nothing. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say.
"You are my son," Father says after a long pause. "Mayhaps it was wrong of me
to send you to Oldtown when you were a child, but I never intended for you to
stay so long – your grandfather wished to meet you, and then, when you were due
to return home there was an outbreak of the sweating sickness and… By the time
it was cleared, you were more settled in the High Tower than you had ever
seemed in Highgarden, and you always seemed so happy there…"
"I would have been happy at Highgarden. It is my home, Father. It always has
been."
Not entirely true – there have been times when Willas has considered the High
Tower more his home than Highgarden, but that had more to do with how welcome
he feels in the two than anything else, and telling Father that would improve
neither of their moods.
"That's something, at least," Father sighs. "Your mother and your brothers
missed you more than I did, I admit – we were on shaky ground with the King
after laying siege to Storm's End during the rebellion, after all, and there
was much political manoeuvring to be done to ensure that Highgarden would still
be ours for you to inherit."
"I-"
"Loras is my favourite and always has been," Father says bluntly. "Garlan I
find easiest to talk with, and Margaery is my only daughter. You are my heir,
though, Willas. My eldest son. My firstborn. I fathered no children by any
woman but your mother, of that I can assure you, and so you are undeniably my
firstborn. We have never been close – there is too much of Baelor bloody
Brightsmile in you for that, and too much Tyrell in me, I fear."
"I have only ever wanted- Father, I-" Willas, for the first time in a very long
time, finds himself completely tongue-tied. He wishes desperately that Mother
were here – she seems more capable of translating Father than anyone else, and
surely Father can't actually mean what he's saying?
Father's hand is heavy on Willas' shoulder.
"You are my heir," he says again. "And, for her sins, Sansa Stark is your wife.
I, too, spoke out of turn this afternoon. Bah, you've always been too
intelligent for your own good – your grandmother worries that she won't be able
to use you the way she uses me when you take my place."
"Mayhaps Grandmother will predecease you, Father."
Father snorts in an unseemly show of amusement.
"That old harridan will live forever," he says flatly, shaking his head. "We
will put this afternoon aside – and yes, I am willing to do so rather than
punishing you for striking your lord as is my right-"
The thought alone makes the blood drain from Willas' face. In the Reach, the
punishment for striking your lord is to be flogged in the square of your
nearest town by that lord's chosen guardsman, thanks to Randyll bloody Tarly
and his fervent devotion to cold, hard justice.
"- and so I hope you will do the same. You are still going to Storm's End at
your earliest possible convenience. As soon as your wife is fit to sit a horse-
"
"I'm bringing Garlan and Leonette," he blurts out abruptly, startling Father.
"If- The Faith has yet to name a champion to stand against this Robert Strong
in Cersei Lannister's trial. I worry that they may choose Garlan because I
intervened on Margaery's behalf and they can't name me, for obvious reasons."
Father sits back sharply, paling at the thought. Willas shared everything
Baelor told him about this Qyburn, including the suspicions that could be taken
from the report, and while Father had dismissed the notion of the Mountain's
headless corpse wearing Kingsguard white, the idea had planted a seed of queasy
fear in the back of his mind.
"And Garlan's presence will be a greater recommendation of House Tyrell's
fealty," Willas adds hopefully. "We-"
"Very well," Father says, rising suddenly. "Sansa Stark will remain your wife,
and you will bring her and your brother with you when you go to treat with the
Mummer's Dragon."
"You do not believe that he can truly be Aegon Targaryen, Father?"
Father's mouth twists in disgust.
"Of the Targaryens, Willas, I will believe anything at all."
===============================================================================
It is not until later, while climbing into bed beside Sansa, that Willas
realises he has been manipulated into doing precisely what his father and
grandmother want once more.
Then again, considering the last decision they made for him was to marry him to
Sansa, mayhaps they do occasionally know best.
"What did your father say?" she asks, rolling over into his arms and pressing
her face into his throat. She's still far too warm, but she's not giving off
those alarming waves of heat anymore, which is a relief.
"He apologised, and made some attempt at explaining why precisely I was never
brought home from Oldtown," he tells her, pressing a kiss to the tangle of hair
at her crown. "And then, when Grandmother came back in, he didn't open his
mouth while she and I fought over her treatment of you."
"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs, matching his kiss with a brush of
her fever-dry lips against his pulse. "But thank you."
"Bugger her if she thinks she can take you away from me," he grumbles, wrapping
her tighter in his arms and pulling her closer, until she's entirely on top of
him. "The gods were good enough to give you to me, and my grandmother can
holiday in each of the seven hells if she thinks to stand between us."
===============================================================================
Sansa is drastically better the next morning, but still weak – the maester
visits again and prescribes four days of bedrest and plenty of hearty food to
build her strength back up.
"The King was stricken with the same illness just last week," the little man
confides as he packs up his bottles and vials. "Five days and he was right as
rain – it is a mercy that Lady Tyrell is not with child, else I fear her
situation may have been considerably worse."
"Excuse me?"
"Such fevers, if a breeding woman contracts them… They thin the blood, my lord,
so much so that miscarriage is almost inevitable, and that can often have a
dire effect on a lady's health, especially one so young as Lady Tyrell- but
pardon me, my lord. I speak out of turn."
He bows and excuses himself, and Willas lowers himself into the nearest chair
with a heavy sigh.
He and Sansa agreed to wait before even considering having a child – Sansa is
just gone three-and-ten, is still grieving for her family, and much as they
would like to deny it, they are still not secure enough in their marriage to be
comfortable with the idea of bringing a child into it – but the strange looks
and unwelcome opinions offered on the subject are wearisome. On the one hand is
Grandmother, constantly badgering them for an heir, and on the other is the
likes of the maester, quietly disapproving of a man Willas' age having a wife
Sansa's, and suggesting without saying a word that they mayhaps put off having
children for the foreseeable future.
He knows that it bothers Sansa even more than it does him – she, after all, was
raised to think that her only true duty in life was to bear her husband's
children. To him, it's more important that she finds some measure of genuine
happiness again, something more than the safety and peace he has offered her
thus far, but he knows that that niggling doubt is always present in the back
of her mind.
He sighs again and leans his head into his hands, wondering when things will
start to make sense again. He loves Sansa – he's not afraid to admit it – but
having her in his life makes things incredibly complicated.
===============================================================================
Garlan, of course, is ecstatic at the idea of joining them at Storm's End.
"A fine adventure!" he laughs, clapping Willas on the shoulder when he raises
the subject over dinner the following evening. Sansa is sitting with Leonette
on the other side of the table, poking half-heartedly at a bowl of what Aldwin
and Marian reported as being "hearty broth, milord, so says that fat old bitch
of a cook, but we had a good poke at it and it don't seem to hearty to us,
milady" when they brought it up from the kitchens. She smiles faintly at
Garlan's enthusiasm before catching Leonette's wry gaze and having to stifle a
giggle.
"Mayhaps I should just stuff you in a sack and tie you to Florian's saddle so
you can't make a fool of yourself," Willas suggests dryly, leaning back in his
chair and absentmindedly swirling his cup of wine. "Behave like this with the
Mummer's Dragon and he'll have us all on the cookfire."
"Oh, he's young enough that he'll doubtless be bored of stuffy old farts
kissing his boots. Mayhaps he'll play a game or two of cyvasse – you can
embarrass him into doing whatever we want that way. You're ruthless."
===============================================================================
Sansa's hair is still the most beautiful thing in Willas' world save perhaps
her smile or her eyes, and so it is with the greatest of pleasure that he
shifts all his weight onto his right leg and stands behind her to help her
brush it out for bed that night.
"I might be a liability," she says suddenly. "With Prince Aegon. I- His father
and my aunt-"
"You will be at Storm's End as the future Lady of Highgarden," Willas murmurs,
humming in disappointment when her hair starts to stand up of its own accord.
She always makes him stop when it does that. "And, once we can assure ourselves
of his relative sanity – always remembering that he is, after all, a Targaryen
– we may or may not reveal that you are a Stark of Winterfell by birth. I won't
allow any harm to come to you, little wolf," he promises, setting down the
hairbrush – a pretty thing back with silver and mother-of-pearl, a gift from
Mother so Sansa wouldn't have to bring her good heavy silver-backed brush and
mirror with her to the city – and gently pulls Sansa back against his chest,
his arms around her shoulders. She lifts her hands and holds tight to his
wrists, closing her eyes and sinking into his embrace, and he finds himself
oddly proud of how safe she feels with him.
"Do you swear it?"
"Sansa, my love, I shouted at Olenna Redwyne for you – Aegon Targaryen is
nothing after my grandmother."
===============================================================================
The third day of Sansa's convalescence is spent sitting in the window seat of
their solar with her feet tucked under her and her sewing in her lap. Marian
and Leonette volunteer to keep her company, and even Margaery offers – an offer
that is quickly refused, of course, because with Margaery comes Meryn bloody
Trant – but it is with Marian tucking a quilt around Sansa's shoulders and
Leonette chatting over the lip of her teacup that Willas and Garlan leave the
ladies for a day spent riding out with Father.
"You tell him that, with Margaery in the capital, we cannot move openly against
the Lannisters just yet. We need to be sure that we haven't another Renly-"
"If we declare for Aegon Targaryen, Father, he will have Sunspear, Highgarden
and Storm's End all in the palm of his hand. Doubtless Dragonstone would be
easily taken again now that it's been taken once, which would leave a good lump
of the realm under his control," Willas notes. "The North is in shambles, the
Vale is maintaining a very careful silence, and nobody seems to know who
precisely is in control of the Riverlands."
"Lysa Arryn is dead," Father says, seeming surprised by the words coming from
his mouth. "She married Petyr Baelish recently, apparently – he's acting as
Lord Protector for her son."
Willas grimaces, wondering if this is one more revelation that will break
something else in Sansa – he knows that she met her aunt only once and barely
remembers the woman, if at all, but she was still kin, still family, and Sansa
has precious little of that left.
"Littlefinger," is Garlan's less-than-pleased response. "That bastard. I trust
him even less than the eunuch-"
"Mind your tongue," Willas says sharply. "The Spider's web has no end."
"Bugger him," Garlan huffs, but he says no more on the subject of Varys the
Eunuch, the only man Willas is certain would smile as his paid assassin slipped
a knife between your ribs. "Willas has the right of it though, Father – if we
could somehow get Margaery out of the city without the Lannisters realising…"
"You did it for Sansa," Willas points out. "And at the time, she was just as
valuable as Margaery is now – although I do not think we would need to resort
to subterfuge to get my sister to Highgarden."
"What do you mean?" Father asks, nonplussed. "She's watched like a hawk-"
"It would be a simple matter of my going to the High Septon and offering to
take Margaery into my custody – we would of course have to remove ourselves
from the den of sin and iniquity that is King's Landing, of course, and I might
have to promise to take her to Oldtown for a time, but it should work well
enough. Still, I think the Red Keep is the safest place for Margaery for the
moment. Better her here where she can help influence King Tommen than at
Highgarden where she can do little more than fume-"
"What of Storm's End?" Father suggests, and he seems surprised when Willas and
Garlan exchange a look of astonished amusement before laughing so hard Garlan
has to cling to Florian's neck to stop from falling and Willas only stays
upright thanks to his extra-secure saddle.
"Father, please, leave Storm's End to Garlan and I," Willas says, wiping away
an errant tear of mirth. "Given how precarious our position will inevitably be
with this scion of House Targaryen, I imagine Margaery's particular brand of
subtlety may work to our disadvantage."
"How do you intend convincing him of our loyalty, then?"
Garlan grins, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword as they do when he's
anxious about something, and Willas commends him silently for controlling
himself so well in front of Father.
"Willas will take him apart on the cyvasse board until Aegon gives in and does
as we tell him," he says with a raised eyebrow. "There'll be no need to prove
our loyalty if the king is eating out of my brother's hand, Father."
Father is less amused by their japery than they are, but it is better than
telling him their actual plans, which involve giving up rather more than Father
would stand for, Willas knows.
Aegon Targaryen is Elia Martell's son, after all, and there is a long-standing
enmity between Houses Tyrell and Martell that Willas and Oberyn, Seven bless
his marvellously wicked soul, were the exception to.
The Lord of Highgarden has always been the Warden of the Reach. If allowing the
Prince (or Princess) of Dorne to assume the title of Warden of the South is
what it will take to prove that the Tyrells are fully in support of their
"rightful" King (as they were with Renly, against Willas' advice, as they were
with Joffrey and now are with Tommen, the poor – literal – bastard), then that
is what the Tyrells will do.
But Father cannot be told that, and so Willas and Garlan will quietly assume
plenipotentiary status without actually clarifying with Father and do whatever
it takes to keep the Tyrells in Highgarden.
===============================================================================
He's barely in the bedchamber with the intention of bathing before dinner but
he's hit by the not-rosemary scent of Sansa's hair and skin. She's bathing
behind a screen of pale blue silk set up in the corner of the room, and he's
settling into the deep copper tub behind her before he even remembers crossing
the room.
"Good evening, my lord," she says archly, not objecting when he pulls her back
into his lap and drops his mouth to her shoulder. "How was your day?"
"Reasonably pleasant," he tells her, his voice muffled against the sweep of her
collarbone. "And yours, my lady?"
"The same," she sighs, letting her head fall back over his shoulder. "I feel
much better."
He wraps his arms tight around her and nuzzles into her neck for a long, long
moment, luxuriating in the feel of her skin against his and resolutely ignoring
his arousal until she is completely limp against his chest, and even then all
he does is lament that he isn't alone to deal with it.
"We will be leaving in a few days," he murmurs into her neck.
"Have you ever been to Storm's End?" she asks, reaching up one hand to scratch
at his scalp until he purrs – his scalp, they've found, is incredibly
sensitive. Her hair is twisted up into a towering pile of copper on top of her
head, pins glittering everywhere to hold it in place, and he wishes it were
loose so he might bury his face in the silk of it. "I have not."
He has been to Storm's End, of course, several times, and he has always found
it…
"It's very big," he says honestly. "There is a reasonable sized market within
the walls, but the town is perhaps half a mile away. The castle itself, though…
I honestly cannot describe it much beyond big, Sansa. Huge walls of yellow
sandstone, Baratheon stags bloody everywhere – although I imagine the whole
place will be hung with three-headed dragons, now."
"I've never seen a Targaryen banner," she admits, her voice hushed.
"You've seen the sigil?"
"Of course I have! I did study with Maester Luwin, you know-"
"I know, little wolf, I know," he laughs, lifting his head to look into her
eyes. "The banners… I remember visiting the capital with Grandfather and Baelor
when I was quite young, before the rebellion. Mad Aerys was still on the
throne, the dragon skulls still decorated the throne room… The entire city was
hung in scarlet dragons. I was terrified of them – all I was used to was Tyrell
roses and the High Tower and the other portsmen's sigils, none of which are
near so threatening as a great big scarlet dragon with three heads roaring
everywhere all over the city. Half the furniture in the Keep was destroyed when
Robert took the throne, because Aerys was obsessed with dragons – he had them
carved into everything. Most of the decorative stonework was done during his
reign, all that awful nonsense around the entrance and the like."
"Awful nonsense" of three-headed dragons feasting on direwolves and lions and
trout, swallowing the sun and stamping down roses, burning falcons from the sky
and tearing krakens from the sea. Willas always wondered why Robert Baratheon
didn't have the damn thing done away with, monstrosity as it is.
"Enough about dragons," she whispers, twisting a little further to kiss behind
his ear, her hand sneaking down between her legs for his pleasure rather than
her own. "I see our agreement is weighing heavy on you, husband," she teases,
fingers closing around him before he can raise an objection. "It is a wife's
duty to attend to her husband's needs."
Willas usually argues when Sansa brings up her duty as his wife – she has some
funny notions that he generally goes out of his way to disabuse – but he finds
himself entirely incapable of speech just now.
===============================================================================
He returns from a meeting with Father and several of the Tyrell bannermen who
have come to the city the following afternoon to find the hulking mass of this
Robert Strong standing guard at the door of his and Sansa's rooms, and
immediately feels sick.
"He never leaves Cersei Lannister's side," Garlan murmurs, his brow creasing
into a deep frown. "You don't think-"
"I do," Willas says grimly, marching as effectively as he can past the silent
knight and throwing open the door.
Sansa is all but cowering in the window seat, her back flush against the
diamond-paned glass, and Cersei Lannister is sitting nearby, leaning forward in
her chair, the light glinting on her over-exposed scalp.
"Your Grace," Willas says, crossing the room with only the smallest, most
perfunctory of bows and sitting beside Sansa. "To what do my lady and I owe the
pleasure?"
Cersei's smile poorly hides the malicious intent she clearly had in mind, and
she rises carefully, watching him with hard eyes.
"It has been long since last I saw Sansa," she says, her voice warmer by far
than those bitter eyes. "I wished to enquire after her health – is it not
natural that I would be concerned, Lord Willas? She was to be my daughter
before your sweet sister usurped her place."
"Natural," he agrees. "And you, Your Grace? I hope that you are in good health
after your… ordeal?"
Her jaw tightens visibly at the reminder of her shame, but she maintains that
smile-that-is-not-a-smile.
"Exceptional health, my lord," she assures him, sickly sweet, before turning to
Garlan. "I have heard your name mentioned as the Faith's champion in my trial,
ser – will you raise arms?"
"Alas, Your Grace, I cannot," Garlan says, bowing his head as though it truly
is a pity. "Lamentably, I must be gone from the city within the next few days –
my lady and I must return to Brightwater, to stamp down the last of the Florent
loyalists. There are unfortunately many."
A blatant lie, but one Cersei is likely to believe.
"They must be eradicated," she says with a surprising fervour. "Very well, my
lord, Ser Garlan – Sansa." She spares an especially cutting smile for Sansa
before sweeping for the door.
It clicks shut in her wake, and Sansa clambers over into Willas' arms the
moment it does.
"She wanted- She tried to make me-"
"Forget her," Willas says firmly. "She is ruined, Sansa – there is nothing she
can do to you. Remember that. She is powerless now, sweetling."
"She wanted me to find out your plans," she whispers into his jaw. "She- she
thinks that you're plotting to kill Tommen and usurp the throne through
Margaery. Willas-"
"I will do everything in my power to save Tommen, Sansa, I promise you that,"
he says, nodding over her head to Garlan as he takes his leave. "You know me,
little wolf – I'd never allow a child to come to harm, especially not one so
sweet as Tommen."
"I know, but the Queen – the Dowager Queen, I mean, Willas, she won't believe
that, she won't, I know her-"
"Hush now," he murmurs, stroking her hair until the trembling subsides. "You're
still not well, sweetling – come, back to bed with you and rest some more."
"Oh, but I don't want to go back to bed," she grumbles, winding her arms
tighter around his shoulders. "Sit with me a while? Please?"
He sighs and pulls her closer, settling her better across his thighs so she can
nuzzle against his throat as she likes.
"A little while," he concedes, pressing a kiss to her hair and drowning in the
not-rosemary scent of her. "Just a little while."
===============================================================================
AN: Redemption – or a start on it, at least – for Mace? Huzzah!
Don't worry, Willas and Mace aren't suddenly going to be super-close – Willas
still doesn't trust his father, after all, which is problematic - but at least
they don't actively dislike one another, right? Right? Right.
AGH I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS FOR THIS AND I HAVE TO RULE SOME OF THEM OUT
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     Quite short and I'm not sure I like it. Whelp. Here we go. Enjoy.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Willas blinks awake in slow evening light, the soft rasp of Sansa's snoring
loud in his ears.
"Oh dear," he sighs, pulling her higher in his lap so he can hold her closer to
him. "It seems we fell asleep, little wolf."
She snores on oblivious, but her fingers tighten in his tunic and she presses
her face tighter against his throat. He couldn't explain why if someone asked
him right now, but in that moment he's so irrepressibly fond of her that it's
all he can do to hold her tighter and smile like a fool.
"Too tight," she murmurs, lifting her head from his chest to blink bleary eyes
up at him. "How long…?"
"I don't rightly know," he admits with a smile. "But mayhaps you should
actually go to bed if you're this tired?"
"No," she says firmly, pouting just enough to tempt him into kissing her. She
responds eagerly, shifting in his grip until she's kneeling over his lap, her
hands twisted through his hair and her body rocking into his. "I'm not going to
bed."
He laughs at her then, unable to help himself, and pulls her down so he can
bury his face in her hair and lose himself in the smell of her.
"Are you well enough to eat dinner with Garlan and Leonette?" he asks, nuzzling
into her neck, tasting her skin until she whimpers. "We must discuss travel
arrangements-"
"Later," she sighs, letting her head fall back to expose her throat to him.
"Later."
===============================================================================
Sansa is well enough to dine with Garlan and Leonette, it turns out, although
she makes sure to pull her braid over her left shoulder to hide a very
interesting mark below her ear.
"It shouldn't take more than a fortnight to reach Storm's End," Garlan says
brightly through a mouthful of raspberry tart. "We shan't have a large baggage
train or escort, so-"
"We'll have more than just you and Loras and I," Willas points out, swallowing
a bite of lemon cake and shaking his head. "No, best we allocate mayhaps three
weeks-"
"It can't take that long!" Garlan insists, tossing another tiny sweet into his
mouth and frowning. "It wouldn't take that long to get to Casterly Rock, or
Winterfell, or Oldtown!"
"Through disputed territory, it may," Willas argues, leaning over to poke at
the fire. There has been the most abominable chill in the air in recent days –
winter has truly come, and hearing Garlan repeat the Stark words in something
approaching levity had brought tears to Sansa's eyes – and the fire is
dwindling enough to set Sansa and Leonette both shivering. "We cannot rule out
the possibility of being taken prisoner if we show our colours, brother."
"We could hoist a peace banner as soon as we come close to those lands Prince
Aegon has laid claim to," Sansa points out, huddling closer under his arm and
looking up at him through her eyelashes. "I remember Father telling us tales of
the Rebellion – Rhaegar Targaryen raised a peace banner to negotiate with King
Robert, and even though Robert wanted to kill Rhaegar for taking my aunt, he
honoured the peace banner. None would dare dishonour it, surely?"
"What a delightfully simple solution," Leonette says approvingly, smiling a
strange, secret smile at Sansa. "And of course, my lords, you were both about
to suggest it?"
Willas smiles down at Sansa, delighted to see the flush of pride – a delicate
rosy pink in the apples of her cheeks – that has been absent since they came to
King's Landing. She has taken so little enjoyment in life since their arrival,
between her fears and her sickness, and to see even this is enough to make his
heart swell in his chest.
"Very well then," he says, stroking a stray curl back from her face as if
Garlan and Leonette are no longer in the room, "we shall organise a peace
banner and keep it aloft as soon as we come within a hundred leagues of Storm's
End, yes?"
Garlan very pointedly clears his throat, and it is with a raised eyebrow that
he agrees and he and Leonette take their leave.
"You know," Willas says as the door clicks shut behind his brother and
goodsister, "you are both very intelligent and marvellously distracting, little
wolf."
He is more than willing to show Sansa just how distracting he can be, and she
is very receptive to his display.
===============================================================================
Word spreads through the Red Keep that the eldest two Tyrells and their pretty
wives will soon be leaving the capital, and they are abruptly accosted by a
flood of naysayers shaming them for not remaining until after Cersei
Lannister's trial.
Willas is more than willing to allow Garlan to deal with their accusers in his
own inimitable style, and so he and Sansa are left alone, for the most part, to
their preparations.
Preparations grind to a halt, however, when Willas arrives in their bedchamber
after hunting down Father for some minor thing or other to find Sansa looking
uncertainly down at a cup of vile smelling tea.
"Tansy," he says faintly, feeling sick at the very thought. Could she possibly
be with child? And if she was, could she possibly be considering casting the
babe out? The idea of her not wanting their child-
"Sansa, sweetling, are you- have we- I-"
She shakes her head, setting aside the cup and coming towards him.
"Your grandmother came to visit me," she explains, sliding her arms around him
and resting her ear over his heart. "She said that it would be better that I
was not with child when we reached Storm's End, and that I had better be
absolutely certain that I was not."
"You're not, though?"
She tilts her head up to look at him, and she is not quite smiling.
"We have lain together four times," she says, "and not in several moons. No, my
lord, I am not with child."
"Oh." He is surprised and annoyed to find himself oddly disappointed. Boys with
your eyes and girls with your hair, he remembers thinking on a sunny morning in
Highgarden, and the rush of longing he feels for those imaginary children
sickens him – Sansa is still grieving her family, is still so fragile,
so young, and they have more than enough time to allow her to heal before they
even consider having children.
That sure knowledge does not make him wish for children any less, though, and
he is ashamed of himself for his lack of control.
"Oh," he says again. "That's – good, I suppose?"
She watches him carefully for a long moment before pressing her face back
against his chest.
"I suppose," she says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and he wishes he'd
delayed with Garlan as he'd intended rather than catching her with the damned
tea.
===============================================================================
Dinner that night is a quiet affair – Garlan and Leonette had a blazing row and
are not talking, Grandmother and Margaery quarrelled and are speaking only to
snipe at one another, and Father is sick and tired of the lot of them.
Willas is not sure how to go about fixing his mistake with Sansa that
afternoon, and so he is on tenterhooks with her. He hates it, but he can't
decide whether or not he should apologise – on the one hand, he feels as if he
intruded on something private, but on the other, he hates himself for feeling
guilty for wanting children with Sansa. He loves her, truly he does, and even
though they have decided not to have children yet, both of them want children.
It is not just duty for them – Willas practically aches with the desire to hold
his own child in his arms, to teach his sons and daughters to walk and talk and
ride and read.
He does not know what to do, and so what little conversation passes between him
and Sansa is stilted, because she seems as unsure as he is himself.
She is unsure, that is, until he slides into bed and finds her lovely,
delightfully naked body pressed against his side.
"I know that you want children," she says, ghosting uncertain, feathery kisses
over his neck – she is still shy of initiating contact, still waits for him to
make the first move more often than not – and reaching up to scratch at his
scalp with practised fingers. "But I thought you wanted to wait?"
He stumbles over his words, choking off into a throaty purr, before coming back
to himself enough to speak coherently.
"I do," he assures her, somehow pulling her up to sit across him, so he can
look her in the eye. "I do, love, I do want to wait, but the tea- I'm sorry,
Sansa, I'm sorry, but-"
"What have you to be sorry for?" she asks, and somehow, he feels abruptly drunk
– on what he doesn't know. Possibly the relief of having not hurt Sansa,
possibly the sheer, dizzying love he feels for her, possibly on Sansa herself,
so beautiful he thinks he might die if he doesn't touch her more.
She gasps when he twists a hand into her hair and pulls her mouth to his,
kissing her harder than ever he has before, rolling her onto her back and
looming over her, holding himself up on his forearms so he can lick deeper into
her mouth, suck harder on her lip, roll his hips into hers until she whimpers.
Her hands are hot on his skin, clutching at his shoulders, fingers digging into
the back of his neck, her body twisting underneath him as she surges up to meet
him, to equal him.
His mouth is on her neck, a mark left by his teeth livid against her pale skin,
by the time he can function enough to form words.
"Someday," he gasps, "someday we will fill Highgarden with our children," he
promises, "and they will all be as beautiful and kind and lovely as you, little
wolf, just as lovely-"
Her skin is soft and warm against his, and she tastes of salt and perhaps milk
on his tongue as he kisses and licks his way down her, tugging the covers with
him as he edges further down the bed, leaving her exposed to his gaze.
"So beautiful," he whispers into the dip under her hipbone. "Gods, Sansa,
you're so beautiful, so perfect, my Sansa, my beautiful girl."
"What will we name them?" she asks dreamily. "What will we name our children,
Willas?"
He fights for a moment to remember all the names of her fallen.
"Brandon and Eddard and Rickon and Arya and Catelyn and Robb," he announces
triumphantly, punctuating each name with a kiss to her thigh, a bruising kiss
that leaves her panting and gasping.
She shifts restlessly, pulling at his hair when he puts his mouth back against
her body once more, when he nuzzles into the curls of auburn hair covering her
mound, darker than the hair on her head and coarser, when he nudges her thighs
further open and settles himself more comfortably between her legs.
"Oh, Willas, oh, oh please," she gasps, lifting her hips when he licks right up
along her sex, revelling in the taste of her, in the sight of her losing
control. There's something intoxicating in the act of making Sansa fall apart,
he's found, in breaking away the carefully cultivated veneer of decorum she
wears like armour, in revealing the true Sansa.
She shudders and says "Six children won't fill Highgarden."
She tastes even sweeter than he remembers – it's been weeks since last he did
this for her, since they actually did anything more than just kiss, and it's
maddening to be here now with her shattering and keening and calling his name
with just the touch of his tongue and lips and the scrape of his teeth.
"Naerys, then," he groans, "and Allyn and Meredith and Samara and Ellyse."
She comes with his tongue inside her, his nose pressing against her nub, and
the drunk feeling of earlier returns tenfold as he pulls himself up to lie
alongside her, when he sees the pattern of bruises and bites marring the inside
of her thighs, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her belly. Did I do that?
"Onto your side, little wolf," he urges, cupping a hand around her hip and
pulling her tight against him and kissing her again, letting her taste herself
on his lips. She jerks back when he slides his hand down her leg to catch her
behind the knee and hitch her leg high over his hip, her eyes wide and dark
and yes, she is his just as he is hers and Aegon bloody Targaryen can go to
hell if he thinks he's getting his hands on Sansa, the whole world can go to
hell if they think they're getting their hands on her.
"Can we- like this?" she asks breathlessly, pressing impossibly closer,
shifting higher against him and tightening her grip on his hair. "Can we lie
together like this?"
He returns his mouth to her neck, her shoulder, and she cries out – one of
those delicious little chirps, so soft, so sweet – as he pushes into her with a
moan.
"That's it sweet girl," he croons when her hips begin to move with his, when
she curls her leg tighter over his waist, when she digs her fingers into his
shoulder blade with a moan that sets the hair on the back of his neck on end
and drives him faster, a moan that lingers and strips away all of his caution
and carefulness and eggs him on until he's gasping for breath and his leg is
going to be aching tomorrow but he doesn't care, because Sansa's shouting his
name, shrieking and crying out so beautifully that his head is spinning.
"Touch yourself, Sansa," he orders mindlessly, sucking on her collarbone until
she moans, and the hand curled around his shoulder blade trails over his chest
on its way south. "That's it, the way I touch you, that's it Sansa, come for me
sweet girl, come for me."
She wails when his mouth reaches the hollow at the base of her throat, her
fingers circling and pressing against her flesh and slipping against his cock
as he moves in and out of her and it's unbearable, he can't hold on much
longer-
"Come for me, little wolf," he moans, nipping greedily at her throat. "Howl for
me, Sansa," he begs, feeling the shudders that are racing up and down his
spine, through every muscle in his body, as they threaten to break him to
nothing.
She does both, shaking to her peak as she cries out, sharp and long and
possibly the loveliest thing he's ever heard, and while that shatters his
control it's the way she tightens and flutters around him that near pushes him
over the edge, and he moans her name into the skin behind her ear as he comes,
only a mental whisper of not yet prompting him to pull away from her, to spill
on her belly and not in the agonizingly hot wet of her cunt.
It's not until he comes back to himself that he realises how tightly twisted
around one another they are – he has one hand under her head, knotted into her
hair, the other hooked behind her knee, digging into her calf. She's clutching
at his hair as well, but her other hand is clawed into his thigh and she's
pressed so tightly against him that it's hard to tell where she ends and where
he begins.
His sense returns all in a rush, and he blushes hot with shame.
"Oh, gods, Sansa," he says, lifting his head from her shoulder to look her in
the face. She's flushed, her eyes distant and dreamy and so, so blue, her lips
over-full and red, as if she's been eating strawberries and blood oranges. "Did
I hurt you? I'm so sorry-"
"Ssh," she murmurs, disentangling herself from him, pushing him gently onto his
back while he panics and then curling up almost completely on top of him.
"Sleep now."
"But Sansa, we were talking and I-"
"Silly husband," she says, so quietly he's not sure that she's even awake, and
he's sure he'd laugh if he weren't so completely and utterly content.
Chapter End Notes
     I've no idea why this is so sexual. I'm sorry. Moving on.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
     Apparently the last chapter read like Twilight fanfiction.
     I've read some damn good Twilight fanfiction – my insanely wonderful
     Batman beta writes the damn stuff – but the intent was clear, and to
     that I say:
     *Well.*
     That's right. You were expecting swearing, weren't you? I don't swear
     when something irritates me, and the implication of calling a chapter
     that was not, in case of point, written just for the sex but rather
     to focus a little on some of the more delicate points of contention
     in Sansa and Willas' still fledgling relationship, absolute shit
     rather irritated me.
     Apologies to those of you who were looking forward to the road trip
     to Storm's End, but I tried writing it and yawn. So here we go –
     ADVENTURE!
     Or politics, whichever is more fun to shout.
     PS: I tried it. Adventure wins.
     PPS: Once more, I am amazed at the amount of time Sansa and Willas
     apparently spend in the bath? Idek man. I just dk.
     PPPS: Not sure if Sansa's OOC halfway through. THink she might be.
     Hit me up with a comment/review and let me know.
"Oh, fuck it anyways!" Willas snarls, pulling his knife from his belt and-
"Stop that right now," Sansa says quite firmly, appearing at Gardener's side
and working open the stuck buckle, which is all that's keeping Willas from
stretching his leg out beside the fire Aldwin has built up. "You must stop
getting so annoyed with them – we shall have a new strap made as soon as we
find a decent saddler."
He all but moans in relief when the pressure on his knee is relieved, and Sansa
runs the back of her fingers from his ankle right up to the middle of his thigh
in comfort.
"Garlan!" he shouts, turning to look for his already approaching brother. "Do
come here, will you?"
"Certainly, milord, and what did your last servant die of, milord?"
"Pox, milord Garlan," Aldwin inserts cheerfully, slipping past Garlan to help
Willas down. "But death suits me, see, so I just kept right on working, milord.
Oh, milady Sansa, our Marian's dug up an extra cloak like you asked, if you're
still wanting it?"
Sansa smiles gratefully, brushes a kiss over Willas' cheek and darts away into
the milling crowd of their annoyingly substantial camp. Willas had hoped that
it would be only himself and Sansa, Garlan and Leonette, and a bare minimum of
servants on the road to Storm's End, but of course Father had had to be
negotiated down from sending half their generals.
"Draining, milord?" Aldwin asks quietly, handing Willas his cane but not
straying too far, ready to leap into action should Willas' knee prove less
stable even than usual.
"If we had a maester on hand, mayhaps, Aldwin, but I'll make do with something
cold for now," he sighs. "And a bit of privacy so I might take off my brace, if
that can be arranged."
"Marian's setting up the screens around your and milady's Sansa's fire now,
milord, don't you worry," Aldwin promises him with that easy assurance that
Willas has always admired so. "None'll dare disturb you then, not while she's
stalking about with that ladle of hers."
Garlan badly hides a burst of laughter, but Willas merely smiles – he's seen
Marian and her ladle in action, and it is a surprisingly intimidating sight.
"Come, then," he says, hobbling as best he can towards his and Sansa's tent. "I
could eat just about anything right now."
===============================================================================
They eat well, and then they retire – it has been a gruelling journey, given
that the stormroad is sporadically occupied by men sworn to Stannis Baratheon,
the Lannisters, the actual Stormlords and, of course, the occasional member of
the Golden Company.
They have travelled without sigils, of course, but hoping that none of the
locals would recognise them was a stupid and naïve hope indeed – Willas and
Garlan had visited Loras many times while he squired and stayed at Storm's End
with Renly, had friends in their own right in the Stormlands, and so they
travel as quickly as they can, wearing dark, unmarked cloaks and keeping their
hoods up and allowing the servants to do the talking.
Willas shifts on the camp bed – the best in the camp, of course, but still
murder on his leg – and pulls Sansa closer under his arm as he thinks.
He and Garlan have plotted and schemed so hard on the journey that both
Grandmother Olenna and the Old Man would be proud of them, but he still fears
that it won't be enough – what if Grandmother was right? What if Aegon
Targaryen does want Sansa? What if he feels that House Tyrell turned their
cloaks too easily, time and again? On the Targaryens, on who they had thought
to be Robert Baratheon's heir, on Renly, now on the Lannister bastard sitting
the throne?
A hundred what-ifs drift through his mind as he falls into an uneasy slumber,
Sansa snuffling against his shoulder and his face pressed into her hair.
It does not last very long.
===============================================================================
He awakes to Aldwin and Marian looming on either side of the bed, faces placid
but eyes dark.
"Milord Willas, you'd best get dressed quickly," Aldwin says, all but lifting
him out of bed and throwing shirt, tunic, breeches, doublet, boots at him.
"Come along, milord, come along-"
"Aldwin, what in the name of the Seven-"
"A summons, milord," Marian supplies helpfully, rolling Sansa's stockings up
her legs as Sansa laces her shift closed – a pity, Willas thinks absently, he
likes to help with both – and then patting Sansa's hair as she rises and turns
to fetch a gown. "From His Grace at Storm's End."
Willas blanches and turns to Sansa, whose face is so white it almost seems to
glow. Her hand finds his – or his finds hers, it doesn't matter and he doesn't
remember – and she swallows hard.
"Then I shall need my finest riding gown, Marian," she says, voice faint. "And
my lord shall need the green velvet cloak, Aldwin, with the thread-of-gold. And
his good boots, too."
===============================================================================
Storm's End, when they reach it near noon that day, is as large and
unapologetically yellow as Willas remembers, but he almost misses the heavy
gold-and-black Baratheon banners that had always hung bright in the ever-
changing light.
There is something entirely more ominous about Targaryen black-and-scarlet
swaying in the wind, three heads snarling from every corner.
They are met not by Prince Aegon himself – an insult that makes Willas grit his
teeth and Garlan's mouth tighten – but rather by the man who proclaims himself
Hand of the King and Lord of Griffin's Roost, Jon Connington.
Willas frowns at the name.
"I see the rumours of your demise were vastly inflated, my lord," he says
quietly, knuckles white on his cane as his leg screams in agony after weeks of
hard riding and poor bedding – usually, he has time to rub the worst of the
aches out in the mornings before they set out, but this morning…
Sansa squeezes his arm just slightly, her elbow looped through his, and he
breathes deeply to show her his thanks.
"Indeed, Lord Tyrell," Connington says, brow arched suspiciously. "You must
have been young indeed-"
"I was a boy of near nine," Willas cuts in easily, forcing a small smile. "And
living in the High Tower. All whispers come to Oldtown, Lord Connington, as
surely as they come to the Spider if not so swiftly."
Connington sniffs dismissively, but he gestures for grooms to come forward to
take their horses – Willas flinches at how carelessly they handle Gardener and
Whisper in particular, who have been babied by his own hand, although he
worries for Florian and Rosette as well – and then beckons for the Tyrells to
follow him.
Growing Strong, Willas reminds himself as he almost balks at the kind of lies
he fears he will have to tell here. Because We Light the Way.
He can be the best parts of both House Tyrell and House Hightower. He will be.
He is.
He must be, else he risks Sansa and his family and Highgarden and Oldtown and
the Reach as a whole, and that is something he cannot do.
===============================================================================
Aegon Targaryen is surrounded by Martells and Sands, and Willas' heart sinks at
the sight. Friends though he was with Oberyn, he has never been sure if the
Sand Snakes save Nym tolerated him for their father's sake or actually did take
a liking to him, but he is certain that right now, they despise him for not
openly denouncing the family who caused their father's death.
"My lords and ladies Tyrell," Aegon says brightly, sounding surprisingly well-
educated despite the presumably haphazard manner of his upbringing. "You are
welcome to Storm's End."
Willas notes the famous Targaryen features – the silver hair, the purple eyes –
but also notes the boyish excitement, the flush of prideful authority, and
prays that he himself is as skilful a manipulator as he was trained to be by
his grandfather and uncle.
"Your Grace," he says, bowing at the waist as Sansa and Leonette sink into deep
curtsies and Garlan takes the knee. "It is an honour for us to have you receive
us in such a manner."
It is rude and foolish and, again, prideful for Aegon to receive them here
rather than at the doors, as he should have having ordered them taken hostage
as he did, but Willas files that aside for later. He needs to earn the prince's
trust, make the younger man like him, and losing his temper because they have
been disrespected will do neither.
Aegon seems to survey them for a long moment, watching silently as Garlan and
the ladies rise. Sansa curls herself just slightly closer to Willas once she
has her arm linked through his, as Leonette does to Garlan, and Willas is
certain that those sharp violet eyes miss nothing, not even the way Sansa
swallows forcibly before lifting her chin to meet Aegon's gaze.
"You must dine with me tonight," Aegon says after an instant too long. "You
will be shown to your rooms. Rest, ready yourselves – we may speak as we eat."
===============================================================================
"Are you quite sure you're alright? Your leg was already hurting so, and there
were such a lot of stairs," Sansa frets, settling herself on her knees between
his legs in the enormous bathtub and setting to work on rubbing the tension and
knots from his leg with gentle hands. "You were in so much pain when you
dismounted-"
"I am well enough," he says, letting his head fall back. He is exhausted, of
course, because the constant thrum of pain in his leg is draining in so many
ways, and he dearly wishes he was at home in Highgarden so Maester Lomys might
put his flensing knives to work, but he is here at Storm's End with much to do,
so he will let Sansa do what she can and then he will do what he must. "Just
tired, my love. A night's sleep in a good bed will do much for me, I promise
you."
"If you're sure," she says, worry clear in her voice even as he refuses to look
her in the eye so she can't see quite how sore and tired he is, just for the
moment. "Is there anything else I might do to help?"
He lifts his head wearily and lifts a hand slowly, brushing his fingertips over
the flush across her cheekbone.
"Trust me," he tells her. "Trust that I will keep you safe, and trust that I
will not let him have you."
She smiles faintly, and then she leans forward to touch her lips to his.
"I am afraid of them all," she admits in a whisper, "but I trust you."
Given all she's been through, that she's even capable of trust at all gives him
cause to thank any gods who might have a care – that's she chooses to
trust him makes him want to sing.
===============================================================================
It takes them an age to get back down the stairs, and Willas swears every step
of the way to Sansa's scandalised, worried amusement.
Garlan and Leonette give him matching knowing looks when eventually he sets
both feet on level ground, leaning hard on his cane and breathing heavily
through his nose – he's not sure if he needs more to stop himself crying or
swearing again, but his leg is so sore and swollen that it's a close call
between the two – and he waves away their concern as soon as he can catch his
breath.
"Come, then," he says resignedly. "Let's begin our work here, shall we?"
===============================================================================
Willas always thought that he got along with Nym best of the Sand Snakes, but
apparently he was wrong – she looks at him as if he personally murdered her
father, and while he has not showed Oberyn's memory the respect it deserved, he
thinks that his inaction is justified, given that he has been dealing with a
new wife who has been traumatised by the Lannisters.
Sansa sits as close to his side as she can, watching everyone over the rim of
her cup with wide, stunned eyes, and he supposes that she is undergoing
something of a baptism of fire – it is not every day that she finds herself
dropped into the middle of a Dornish feast, after all, and he is fairly certain
that she has never before seen a woman dressed in the Dornish fashion before
(although given how sheer Nym's excuse for a gown is, Sansa might be excused
for thinking that Oberyn's daughter is dressed in the Lysene fashion).
Prince Aegon seems to have taken to Garlan, and Willas is not surprised by that
– he does not think Garlan has ever met anyone he could not charm, after all –
anymore than he is surprised to find himself spending the entire meal trying to
convince Jon Connington that they are not here as spies.
It's going reasonably well, all in all, until talk at table turns to those
Great Houses not represented.
The Lannisters, it is agreed, are scum of the highest order, and the Greyjoys
are near as bad (Sansa would argue that they are worse, but she is tightly
guarding her birth name until they can be sure of Aegon). The Arryns are aloof
and near useless to everyone, high up in their birdcage, and the Baratheons are
as prone to madness of one sort or another as the Targaryens were ever reputed
to be.
The Tullys, Aegon opines, are turncloak scum who betrayed the House that made
them great, and when he exalts whoever it was that killed the last Stark, Sansa
flinches so violently that she knocks over her cup. The wine, finest Arbor
gold, spreads across the starched white linen like a contagion, and Willas
curls his fingers through hers, stroking his thumb over her knuckles until she
opens her eyes.
"If you will forgive me, your highness," she says, looking Aegon directly in
the eye, "I should like to know who it was that killed the last member of House
Stark."
"Oh, I don't know who it was – why the interest, Lady Tyrell?"
Sansa's eyes are cold and hard as Willas has never seen before.
"Well, I should like to meet my murderer, your highness, because by your
reckoning, I am dead."
Silence greets this proclamation, and Willas catches Garlan's eye just enough
to know that his brother is right on the verge of physically diving to Sansa's
rescue if the need presents itself.
"You… You are of House Stark, Lady Sansa?"
"My father was Lord Eddard Stark," she says quietly, firmly, "and my mother
Lady Catelyn Tully. Again, I ask – who was it that killed the last Stark,
Prince Aegon? For I am the last Stark, and I must admit that they did not
perform their duty very well."
The silence stretches on, and Willas shifts in his seat, ready to throw himself
over Sansa if need be.
"You are, then, Lady Stark," Aegon says slowly, so carefully that Willas can
practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. "And, if the need is there,
a figure to which the Riverlands may rally?"
"I did not come here to make more war," Sansa says, sounding small and shy
suddenly, as if embarrassed by her outburst. "I wish for peace, your highness.
Nothing more than that."
"The last child of a man who was traitor to two kings," Aegon muses softly.
"How interesting. How very interesting indeed."
===============================================================================
Sansa departs for bed with Leonette and Garlan as soon as the meal is over, but
Willas remains a moment to try and catch Nym – he has few enough friends who
care little for his position as heir to Highgarden, and he considered Nym one
of them, just as he knows her father was among that number.
She slaps him hard across the face and makes to move on, but he catches her
around the arm and pulls her back sharply.
"What have I done to anger you so, Lady Nymeria?" he asks as if he is not
quickly glancing down her body for fear of concealed knives. "Surely you are
not offended by my marriage?"
"Bedding down with the Lannisters-"
"Unaware of this though you may be, my brother and our wives and I are here to
betray the Lannisters, hopefully to their doom. We are only moving so quietly
for fear of my sister's life. Our pledging the support of Highgarden must have
passed you by."
"Oh, you Tyrells had a finger in every pie," she spits, clearly fuming. "Your
sister's on her third king, your little wife is the last heir of the King in
the North, and now you're here – did you think nobody would question that?"
"Tell me, Nym – do you think I would marry a girl just to access her political
ties? If I was like that, I would have been married years ago, surely."
"You are a Tyrell," she snaps, wrenching her arm free from his grip. "I do not
understand what my father saw in you."
"A pity," he says quietly. "I had hoped you might be able to tell me. I never
did understand why he lowered himself to be my friend, my lady."
She glares at him in unashamed loathing – damn Father for taking up with the
Lannisters anyways! Damn Oberyn for dying! Damn Rhaegar bloody Targaryen for
ever taking Lyanna Stark and setting them all up for this! – and strides away,
hips rolling with every step in a walk that is purposefully alluring.
Willas turns away in disgust, already dreading the walk up the stairs to his
and Sansa's room.
===============================================================================
Sansa looks up from the cup in her hands as Prince Aegon helps him through the
door.
"My lord?" she asks, trying so desperately to find the appropriate words for
this situation. It is an impossible one, Willas has to admit that, and he
blushes furiously, utterly mortified at his own inadequacy.
"My leg seized on the stairs," he admits, "and Prince Aegon happened upon me as
I waited for it to loosen – I tried to convince him that I could manage well
enough on my own, but he is most persistently kind."
Aegon laughs, bright and merry and irritatingly musical – it is like Margaery's
laugh, Willas thinks, calculated to be as seductive as possible without
actually seeming so – and Sansa makes a helpless little gesture.
"I could hardly leave my newest supporter sitting in the stairs, could I?" he
says as though it should be obvious, smiling winningly – oh, he and Margaery
would be a toxic pair indeed – and helping Willas across the room to the
nearest chair. "I will send for your brother, my lord. I am sure you would be
more comfortable in his care? And mayhaps my maester, Haldon, he might be of
assistance to you if you so wish?"
"We would be most grateful for a maester's attendance, your highness," Sansa
says before Willas can object, and he frowns at the flush in her cheeks – what
is causing it? Are Aegon's tactics working? "And mayhaps for some privacy, if I
may be so bold."
Aegon's smile is soft when he looks at Sansa, and Willas wishes he had definite
grounds to hit the prince.
"You may be so bold as you please, Lady Sansa," he assures her. "You will be
the key to half the realm – as bold as you like, I promise you."
He takes his leave then, and Willas doesn't quite manage to speak to Sansa
before Garlan and Leonette are striding through the door and slamming it behind
them.
"Come here," Garlan says, hefting Willas' arm over his shoulders and carrying
him across the room and into the bedchamber. "Idiot, you should have asked me
to wait – why did you do this? Your leg has been-"
Willas cries out as Garlan levers him onto the bed, the pain so excruciating
that he barely even notices Sansa and Leonette running into the room.
"Leonette, run and find a maester," Garlan orders, holding Willas down so Sansa
can pull off his boots and breeches despite his struggles. "Run! Now!"
"Prince Aegon," Willas grits out, eyes screwed shut tight as Sansa works his
breeches down over his knee, "is sending his personal maester. Leave it,
Leonette – I will survive some little time yet, I think. I have managed thus
far, have I not?"
Sansa gasps in horror when she bares his leg, thumping him squarely in the
chest in temper.
"Why didn't you admit to it being so bad?!" she demands, spots of crimson high
in the apples of her cheeks, her hands fisted so tight her knuckles are almost
silver. "I asked you, Willas, I asked, and you said-"
"I said many things," he grunts, forcing himself to sit up and open the straps
on his brace. "Stop shouting at me and help with this, will you?"
She seems startled by how short he is being with her, and while he feels guilty
for that he is genuinely in such agonising pain and has so much stupid,
irritating jealousy fermenting in his gut that he cannot comfort her in this
moment. She looks at him strangely for a moment before knocking his hands aside
and unbuckling his brace with nimble, careful fingers, making sure to avoid
touching the inflamed skin as little as possible. Willas almost faints from the
pain of it when Garlan lifts his leg so Sansa can pull the brace out from
underneath it, and he is ashamed of himself when Sansa touches his cheek in
sympathy.
"My lord? The maester is here," Leonette calls, guiding in a man – Willas
doesn't even look at his face, just the case in his hands, and flops back
against the pillows with a sigh of relief. Gods willing, the maester will drain
his leg and he will be well again by morning, and then he can make things right
with Sansa.
If he does not, he may well be the second man to lose a Stark woman to a
Targaryen prince.
===============================================================================
He sleeps only a little that night, but it matters not – Sansa settles herself
across him, arms folded with her chin resting on them, and watches him with
those enormous eyes of hers.
"What do you think of Prince Aegon?" he asks at last, lifting a hand to push
her braid back over her shoulder. He dreads her answer, but he needs it, too –
he needs to know if his jealousy, his fear, is warranted.
"He will make a better king than any we have had in a long while," she says
thoughtfully. "He is rather too confident, but having good men around him will
temper that. Mayhaps. He cannot be worse than-"
She still cannot say Joffrey's name, and the sickened anger that always lingers
at the back of Willas' mind flares bright at the flash of pain that rushes
across her face.
"No," he agrees, tracing her face with the tips of his fingers. "No, he cannot.
But what do you think of him as a man?" he persists, thumb brushing over her
lower lip before he pulls her up for a kiss, slow and lingering and a shameless
attempt to colour her opinion of Aegon bloody Targaryen.
"He is very handsome," she says. "And quite courteous, when he is not showing
off. He reminds me of… Of my brother. Of Robb. Just a little, although they
looked nothing alike…"
She rarely if ever speaks of her family, so he keeps quiet and lets her talk.
"Robb would bring me gifts," she says, shifting on top of him so she can hide
her face against his shoulder. "Some days he picked flowers in the godswood for
me, or if he went riding with Jon and- if they went riding in the wolfswood, he
might bring me back a pretty stone from the stream. There is much amber to be
found in the streams, and Robb always saved the prettiest pieces for me. He
could be horrid, too – when he and Jon were learning to joust, Robb was better,
and he was simply vile to Jon…"
She stops, and he thinks that she is finished, but she speaks once more in the
smallest voice he has ever heard.
"When we were at King's Landing," she says into his skin, "I was told that Jon
had been made Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and that his men had… Had
killed him."
"Sansa-"
"So you see, what I said to Prince Aegon is true," she whispers, pressing
closer to him and holding on for all she's worth. "I am the last Stark. You are
all the family I have."
He hates himself for feeling jealous. Hates himself.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
     Usual apologies for the wait. RL and other fic have been hectic.
     Also: Does anyone else get a total Thor vibe from Garlan? Because I
     do. Idk why, but I do. Oh well.
 
"Your leg seems much improved, Lord Tyrell," Aegon notes brightly the following
morning, when Willas and Garlan are ushered into the solar Aegon has claimed as
his own – the solar that was Renly's not so long ago – by the ever-frowning Jon
Connington. "I am glad – you seemed in a great deal of pain last night."
"It worsens after being strained, Your Grace," Willas says, as if it were
nothing. "I am well, do not worry."
He is not entirely well – he wishes, perhaps for the first time since that
tilt, that he had his wheelchair – but he can force a smile and an air of ease
when he needs to. He knows that look in Aegon's eyes, that challenge, that
guilt at wanting to challenge a cripple, and it is something Willas has hated
since the moment he first saw it in anyone's eyes. He will not back down from
someone who looks at him like that, not for anything save Sansa's safety – and
even then, were there an alternative he would take it.
"Good, then!" Aegon exclaims, clapping his hands excitedly. "To work, my lords
– we have much to discuss, I think."
===============================================================================
Much indeed to discuss, it becomes clear as the morning wears on. For every
grumble of censure from Connington there is a ringing declaration of trust from
Aegon. For every thinly veiled insult to the fidelity of House Tyrell from
Connington, there is a firm reassurance of understanding from Aegon.
It is all very confusing, and Willas' head is spinning by the time noon comes
and Aegon decides they should break to eat.
"Be sure to give my regards to Lady Tyrell," he says as he bids them farewell
for the moment. "And to Lady Stark, as well."
It isn't the first time Aegon has referred to Sansa as Lady Stark – indeed, he
seems determined not to refer to her as Lady Tyrell at all, curse him – but it
still sets Willas' nerves on edge. The only ones the Martells hate as much as
the Lannisters were the Starks, because Rhaegar Targaryen ran away with Lyanna
Stark and forsook Elia Martell, and Aegon is surrounded by Martells and half-
Martells and Jon bloody Connington, who was, according to Baelor's ever-amused
reminisces about his time at court (he'd been careful to keep any mention of
the Mad King to himself until Willas was near a man), loyal to the point of
idiocy to Rhaegar.
Willas already hates Jon Connington, for his poor-taste jibes about the
faithfulness and honour of Stark women if for nothing else. He knows beyond
doubt that Sansa will be faithful to him, just as he will to her, but that
doesn't mean he isn't jealous of every man who so much as looks at her-
"How's your leg?" Garlan asks, pausing on the first landing of the great
staircase and frowning back down to Willas.
"Come here," Willas sighs in defeat, holding out his arm and sighing in relief
when Garlan fits himself under and takes half at least of Willas' weight. "It
aches – the prince's maester is good, I'll give him that, but I need to rest. I
need ice and a day's bed rest at least, two or three most likely, and my
wheelchair as well, but instead I am here to try and broker a treaty and keep
my wife safe. Gods damn Cersei Lannister and her splayed legs anyways."
"You wouldn't have your little wife if Cersei Lannister hadn't spread those
legs of hers for the Kingslayer," Garlan grunts. "You'd still have the Tarlys
sniffing about, trying to get a daughter into your bed and then, hopefully,
into Highgarden-"
"Yes, thank you, Garlan," Willas manages to huff out, wincing as he turns on
his good ankle on the edge of a step. "I am perfectly aware that Elayne Tarly
has been an admirer of mine for some time. Did I tell you that I went to bed
after that last tourney Father hosted only to find her naked as a babe between
my sheets? Lucky enough Aldwin had gone ahead to prepare my bath and was
already giving her something of a dressing down, as it were."
"There was talk that she was with child before Renly crowned himself," Garlan
warns. "She was claiming it to be yours."
"More power to her, because I never so much as touched her if I could avoid it,
much less lay with her," Willas says sharply. "The only woman I've lain with
since I came back from the High Tower is Sansa."
"That's no great achievement-"
"No, not since I brought Sansa to meet the Old Man and Brightsmile and Malora.
Since last I went alone, Garlan."
Garlan pulls him rudely to a halt, jarring Willas' leg and muttering a
sympathy, but his eyes remain wide and his jaw slack with surprise.
"Willas, that's years!"
"Yes, well, better celibacy than knowing every woman who looks at you with
interest sees Highgarden and hopes you're so sunk in self-hatred that you'll
not see the pity and greed in her endeavours and might even marry her."
"Oh, come now-"
"I'm serious, Garlan," Willas insists. "It's as if every woman in the Reach
thought I had no chance of ever bedding a woman on my own merits, so they took
it upon themselves to pity me in the hopes of earning my gratitude. It was
sickening."
"So until you wed Sansa, you hadn't been with a woman in…?"
"Well, a good long while. That's enough to be getting along with."
Willas cannot help but wonder what his brother would say if he were to discover
the surprising brevity of Willas' tally of lovers, and almost smiles at the
notion of Garlan ever finding out that the memory of his second and third
lovers conjures up an echo of Dornish firepeppers and sourwine on the back of
his tongue…
Actually, best none ever knows about that – such things are frowned upon in all
but the most liberal company north of the Marches, he knows, but the idea of
Garlan's face were he ever to find out the truth of Willas' adventures in Dorne
is most amusing.
"But there was that girl you told me about, Baelor's wife's niece, the Rowan
girl-"
"Melinda died not long after I was crippled, Garlan," Willas reminds him.
"Brigands on the oceanroad, don't you remember?"
"Oh, well, there had to have been others who weren't interested in Highgarden.
Damn it all, Willas, you might have a bad leg but you've an alright sort of
face – Tyrion Lannister had a reputation for womanising and he doesn't even
have that!"
"He's also willing to pay," Willas says sourly. "I have some self-respect left
to me, brother – I would rather not have to buy the affections of anyone if I
may avoid it."
"How very high-minded of you."
Garlan's worried disapproval is tangible, and Willas supposes that by many
standards he has behaved somewhat foolishly – he knows plenty who would have
taken advantage of the potential for pity of his bad leg, were they in his
position – but he never wanted to find himself in the position where he relied
on whores for his baser needs. He never liked the idea of fucking absolutely
everything with a cunt and a pulse, even as a young man (Malora's influence, he
has no doubt, and the Old Man's as well), and that, too, is probably seen as
peculiar and foolish by many of his peers.
"I chose to remain celibate these past few years, Garlan. It seemed best to
wait and find a woman who saw me rather than Highgarden."
"Oh, as Sansa saw you and not an escape from the Lannisters."
"That's different," he says before he can stop himself, blushing crimson as
Garlan grins and begins up the stairs again.
"Do tell me how, Willas. I am curious."
"It just is," he says stubbornly, knowing that Garlan will laugh if he tries to
explain the complicated tangle of feelings that makes up his marriage to Sansa.
He's not even sure he could, of course, which just makes things even more
complicated, but he is certain that Garlan is the last person he wishes to try
for save perhaps Grandmother.
===============================================================================
"I need you to declare openly," Aegon says, leaning back and folding his hands
together. "Even if it is in supposed rebellion against your father – rally what
Houses you can in the Reach and bring their levies to me."
"We- your highness, that's madness!" Garlan exclaims, surging to his feet and
throwing his hands into the air. "Half our forces are spread out across the
Crownlands and Riverlands keeping the peace, we cannot call them to arms!"
Willas stays where he is, considering it all.
"We cannot call back the men from the west coast," he says. "House Hightower
and their bannermen must stay near Oldtown to defend against the Ironmen. The
same goes for House Redwyne. There are other Houses I may be able to influence,
but… It will not be quick, sire."
Garlan turns to him, eyes wide.
"You cannot be serious," he says disbelievingly. "Willas-"
"If we are to declare rebellion against Father, then yes, I am serious. He will
understand, I think, and I have more acquaintances who will be useful to us now
than you might think."
"Willas-"
"If only we had Loras with us," Willas sighs, tapping the head of his cane
anxiously. "He is more popular even than you, brother, and would be very useful
indeed."
"We cannot rebel against Father!" Garlan insists. "Even if it is not a true
rebellion, it could divide the Reach and those loyal to Father will never
accept you as their true lord and those loyal to you will refuse to accept
Father back!"
"Which is why you will go and convince them of the truth of matters."
"What?!"
"Well, I can hardly make a mad dash around the Reach, what with my leg, and we
cannot rely on ravens to carry messages of such a sensitive nature. Mayhaps go
to Highgarden first, speak with Mother – she would be willing to help."
Aegon clears his throat, and Willas smiles slightly.
"Regardless of your physical superiority, Garlan, I am your senior in both
years and rank within House Tyrell," Willas says quietly. "I will order you if
I must."
===============================================================================
They manage to hold off until they reach Willas and Sansa's rooms, but as soon
as the door closes behind them they burst into peals of laughter.
"Do you think he believed it?" Garlan huffs, shaking his head and helping
Willas across to the chair by the fire. "Were we convincing enough, do you
think?"
"I'm just glad Connington was called away," Willas admits, adjusting his leg
and grinning up at Garlan. "He would have seen through us a mile away – to
think that we hadn't considered giving him what armies aren't under Lannister
control or fighting the Greyjoys! Does he think us fools?"
Sansa shushes him half-heartedly while Leonette pours wine for them, but
they're too busy laughing to really care – this is the first real victory they
can claim over Aegon, the first true measure of his understanding of their
politics, and it is such a relief to have confirmation that he is as under-
informed as Grandmother told them to hope that there is little to do but laugh.
At least, until the raven comes before dinner, while Sansa and Leonette are
dressing.
At least until then.
===============================================================================
Sansa runs her fingers through Willas' hair, sitting on the arm of his chair,
but it is not enough. She does not know what will be enough.
"I will go and make our excuses," she says, standing up. "I will not be long-"
"No," Willas says, lifting his head to look at her with bleary, pleading eyes.
"No, please, Sansa, please-"
"One of us must go," she soothes him, wiping away the tears staining his
cheeks, biting her lip when he leans closer and buries his face in her skirts
like a child. Leonette has already pulled Garlan away to the privacy of their
rooms, and Sansa wonders if Willas would be willing to reveal himself like this
if his favourite brother were still here.
His only brother, now.
"Please," he begs, arms tight around her to hold her near him, "please stay,
Sansa, please-"
"Someone must make our excuses," she points out gently, running her fingers
through his hair again. She remembers Mother doing that for her when she was
upset, sitting her on the edge of the bed and combing her hair until she calmed
down. Sansa used to do it for Bran, too, if he hurt himself badly or if Theon
said something nasty.
Theon. She hates him more than almost anyone.
"Don't go," Willas pleads, shaking his head, his hair ruffling against her
stomach. "I can't- Sansa, please."
"I won't be long," she promises, carefully disentangling herself from his hold
and wincing in sympathy when he curls in on himself, shoulders shaking. Aldwin
is standing in the corner with Marian, both watching Willas with worry in their
eyes, and Aldwin nods and motions for Sansa to run before Willas can catch her
again.
She darts next door and Leonette answers almost before she knocks – Garlan is
in better condition than Willas, but not by much, by the looks of things, but
that may be because he still seems too stunned to truly react.
"I was just preparing to go to Prince Aegon," he says hoarsely when he sees who
it is, coming to the door and wrapping an arm around Leonette's waist. He does
not sound quite as broken, as utterly shattered as Willas. "I-"
"I will go," Sansa says, resting a hand on his arm for a moment. "I of all of
us knew Loras the least – please, allow me to do this."
Garlan just shakes his head, sniffing fiercely.
"My lady-"
"Garlan," she says gently. "I will manage well enough with the prince – I
survived the Lannisters, did I not?"
Were it not for Willas, she knows she would hardly be able to speak the name
Lannister, much less jape about her time with them, but she has him and he has
helped her so much, so she can and she does speak the name and jape – however
darkly – about her time spent as hostage in King's Landing.
"Sansa, I cannot ask that you do this for us-"
"I am of House Tyrell, am I not?" she asks mildly, lifting her chin and looking
him square in the eye. He has the same eyes as all his siblings, honey-brown
and warm, but now they are red with tears and so shocked, almost blinded by as-
yet unhandled grief.
Sansa knows grief well – they are old friends by now, achingly familiar with
one another, and she knows that it will be a long while before Garlan and
Willas are near prepared to truly handle their pain.
Willas in particular, she fears, because for all that her husband is so strong
and even aloof, sometimes, so practical and capable, he is so soft underneath
it all, feels so much so strongly, that she worries for just how deeply Loras'
death will affect him.
"Give me a moment and I will accompany you," Garlan sighs at last, head falling
forward and arm tightening around Leonette. "I- just a moment, my lady."
Sansa nods and bobs the smallest of curtsies before stepping back to allow
Leonette to close the door.
It is not until she is alone in the corridor that Sansa realises how late the
hour is – even with the lamps lit, it is dark, and there is a chill in the air
that prompts her to pull her heavy shawl closer around her shoulders.
She reaches out a hand to touch the wall and jerks back when the stone is cold
under her fingertips – she longs for Winterfell in that moment, longs for the
blood-warm walls and the sound of Arya and Bran chasing one another through the
halls, Robb and Jon laughing in the practice yard, Mother laughing as Father
tells her some story or other-
"Lady Stark?"
She turns, surprised to see Prince Aegon standing just down the corridor, his
silver hair shining in the gloom.
"Your highness," she murmurs, dipping low into a curtsy as he came closer. "May
I offer some assistance?"
"When you did not come to dine with us, we worried – Haldon tells me that Lord
Willas received a raven earlier this evening…?"
A tiny scroll of parchment to break something in both Willas and Garlan – Sansa
understands how they feel, knows from bitter experience precisely how they
feel. She remembers how she felt on hearing of Bran's death and knows how
Margaery must feel, and she cannot help the surge of aching sympathy for her
goodsister that stops her words in her throat.
Word from Dragonstone. Loras did not survive. Return home soon. Father.
"He did," she says, folding her hands together to stop them shaking. Stark boys
dead, older girl heir to Winterfell. "His brother, his youngest brother, Ser
Loras – he was injured in the siege of Dragonstone and he recently succumbed to
his injuries. It has… Shaken my lord and Ser Garlan."
Aegon is quiet for a long moment, tapping his chin with one finger before
speaking.
"This is the same brother who was serving as a knight of the Kingsguard to the
Lannister boy?"
"Yes, sire," she says quietly. "My goodbrother. I was about to ask if you would
pardon us for not dining with you this evening – I was merely awaiting Ser
Garlan before coming to you-"
"Do you look like your aunt, my lady?" he asks suddenly, stepping closer to
her. "The one who seduced my father away from my mother and brought about the
ruin of a dynasty?"
"I have heard it said that it was your father who seduced my aunt away from her
betrothed, your highness," Sansa is surprised to hear herself say. "And no, I
do not have her look – they say I am the image of my mother, who was a Tully of
Riverrun."
He touches her hair, where it falls forward over her shoulder the way Willas
likes, and she flinches back from him in surprise.
"I have heard so much of your aunt, you see," he murmurs. "My cousins and Jon
tell me that she was a temptress, a wanton hussy who wished for a crown and
damned the consequences of her actions. Lemore, though, Lemore says different.
She knew your family, you see, and she says that your aunt was… Young.
Misguided."
"I never met her, your highness," Sansa says, startled by the sudden appearance
of the chilly wall at her back – she hadn't realised she was moving.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't have," he agrees, voice soft and velvety and she
shouldn't be blushing but she is, think of Willas, although she does not thank
that this is the sort of blush Willas rises in her cheeks with little more than
a smile, and Aegon touches her hair again. "I can see similarities in your
situations, though – trapped with an older man who cannot be enough for you-"
"I am not trapped with my husband, your highness," she says sharply,
straightening her shoulders. She loves Willas, has loved him at least a little
almost since he did not make her strip bare on their wedding night, and Aegon's
presumption is improper and downright rude and a whole host of other things.
"And if you will excuse me-"
His hand is hot on her arm, and suddenly she might be in King's Landing once
more, Robb marching south and Joffrey so angry and only Tyrion and the Hound as
meagre defences against mailed fists and the flat of a sword and Joffrey's
leering groping attentions-
"Lady Stark-"
"My name," she grits out, stiff with terror and remembered pain, "is Lady
Tyrell, your highness."
"You are the head of House Stark," he says lightly, fingers tightening on her
arm. "A House in exile, mayhaps, but a powerful name nonetheless. Until the
foolishness with my father and your aunt, a powerful ally of House Targaryen."
That he can call a war in which so many people died "foolishness" turns Sansa's
stomach. Willas would never-
"I cannot promise you Winterfell," he tells her, lifting his other hand to curl
pale fingers around her chin. "Nor Riverrun to the Tullys."
It's odd, she thinks, because when Willas does just the same, touches her like
this, tips her face up to his, she blushes and smiles and leans into his touch,
leans closer to him in the hope of a kiss or even just a smile (because Willas
smiles the way Father smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth, and that is
how she knows she can trust his smiles), but Aegon's skin on hers repulses her,
he is just another spoiled princeling taking whatever he wants-
"Is there something the matter, your highness? Little sister?"
She jerks away from Aegon and practically throws herself at Garlan, ashamed of
herself for being so afraid because she is a Stark, she should be braver than
this, but it's as if the scars on her back that Willas always washes so gently
when they bathe together are on fire and-
"My brother would not like to hear of his wife being… Harassed," Garlan says
quietly, those warm Tyrell eyes icy. There is something there that Sansa has
only seen once in Willas, on the night they dined with Garth the Gross and he
made no attempt to guard his appreciative watching of Sansa's body. Willas was
furiously angry that night, absolutely raging, but for her rather than with
her, and she can tell that Garlan feels the same.
"Lady Stark and I were just talking, that is all," Aegon says easily. "I am
sorry to hear of your younger brother, Ser Garlan."
Garlan's mouth twists into a thin line, and he ducks his head.
"Not so sorry as we are, your highness. If you will excuse us?"
"You are displeased with me, Ser Garlan. I am sorry-"
"It is nothing, your highness," Garlan says dismissively, turning slightly and
releasing Sansa into Leonette's embrace – how strange, Sansa thinks, that she
did not even notice her goodsister standing there – before turning back to
Aegon. "Or, it will not be, I hope?"
Aegon jerks back as if slapped, eyes flashing to Sansa and away. His pale
cheeks flush with- she can't say what, really, chagrin or embarrassment or
annoyance, but he makes a perfunctory bow, barely more than a nod, and sweeps
away.
"Come," Garlan says tiredly. "I've sent for food. May we join you for the
evening meal, Sansa?"
===============================================================================
Willas knows that his emotions are mayhaps running to the extreme at the
moment, but he is fairly certain that even were he not shaken to his very core
he would right now want to take Garlan's sword and skewer Aegon bloody
Targaryen with it for daring to touch Sansa.
"I will kill him if he lays a hand on you ever again," he promises her,
pressing his face into her hair and breathing in that not-rosemary scent. "Once
I have killed Cersei damned Lannister, I'll kill him-"
"Enough," Sansa says gently, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. "Enough. No
more blood is to be spilled on my account."
"Sansa-"
"You have eaten nothing, Willas," she says, coaxing his head up from her
shoulder. "You must eat. You will fall ill if you do not."
"She is right," Leonette agrees, pushing Garlan's plate firmly back in front of
him when he shoves it away. "Please, both of you – it will do no good to starve
yourselves."
No good. No, nothing will do any good now, not with Loras, beautiful, arrogant,
stupid, brilliant Loras dead in such a terrible way – although Willas cannot
help but wonder if mayhaps his little brother would prefer death to life
without his beauty, with horrible injuries that would prevent him from
fighting, without Renly.
"I have no appetite," he says honestly, curling his arm tighter around Sansa's
waist and pulling her closer. "I am sorry, my love, but I- I cannot eat."
Her eyes are soft and her face warm with compassion when she leans over and
takes a small bunch of grapes from the bowl on the table.
"For me?" she pleads, pressing a fruit to his lips until he gives in. She
watches as he chews and swallows, and then lays her palm against his cheek. "I
do understand, Willas, but you must eat. There is still so much to do."
"Will you feed me like that, sweetling?" Garlan asks Leonette in a mockery of
his usual good humour. Leonette smiles and ruffles his hair affectionately, but
she hands him a knife and a lump of cheese.
"Sansa is a softer touch than I," she says firmly. "You are more than capable
of feeding yourself, my lord of Brightwater, so do it."
Willas frowns up at Sansa, but she is nothing but not persistent, and he finds
himself eating through half the bowl of fruit in much the same way Garlan seems
surprised to find most of the bread and cheese and even some of the meat gone.
"A poor meal," Leonette murmurs, shaking her head as she spoons up the last of
the spicy lamb stew she and Sansa ate, "but better than nothing, I suppose."
"Do you remember," Garlan says suddenly, "how Loras would refuse to eat
something if Margaery did not like it?"
"And if she liked something, he would eat it even if he hated it," Willas
agrees. "I remember."
Garlan nods and stands, twisting his hand through Leonette's before nodding
again.
"We will take our leave," he says, clapping Willas on the shoulder as he
passes. Leonette hesitates a moment with Sansa, some question Willas cannot
read in her eyes, but Sansa merely nods and smiles slightly and it seems enough
to satisfy Leonette.
"Goodnight," he calls back over his shoulder, already pulling Sansa to sit in
his lap. She ate sitting on the arm of his chair, and even that is too far away
right now. "Sleep well, brother."
Garlan laughs once, a harsh sound Willas understands perfectly because he feels
the same way himself, and then the door shuts and he and Sansa are alone at
last.
"Come to bed," he says against her neck. "I- I need to hold you, Sansa. I need-
"
"I know," she assures him, rising with that fluid elegance he has come to
admire so and helping him to his feet. He is unsteady, stumbling more than
usual, but she settles under his arm and helps him to their bedchambers and to
the bed, and she has him stripped to his smallclothes before he truly registers
that she is undressing him.
"Oh," he says blankly. "I am sorry, love. I- I am sorry."
She strips down to her smallclothes without saying a word, pulls on her
nightgown and slips into bed, waiting for him with an expression of such
patience as he cannot understand. He knows that she was shaken by Aegon's
attentions, but it is almost as if she is ignoring it so she may deal
with his pain.
He unclasps the buckles of his brace and sets it aside, and as soon as he is
under the covers she curls herself around him, her head over his heart.
"I need to hold you as well," she whispers, fingers tight on his ribs, and he
wraps his arms around her as completely as he can.
"My little brother, Sansa," he says, feeling wretched for not being able to
hold onto his grief as she does, as Garlan apparently does. "My baby brother."
What little sleep they get that night is fitful, his nightmares full of Loras
boiled alive in thick black oil, and if he were to guess at the nature of
Sansa's, he would say that hers are full of groping hands and tearing cloth
before court.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     LATE UPDATE IS SUPER LATE I'M SORRY
     Have some sexy bathing (which seems to be a thing you all love about
     this fic if tumblr is anything to judge on) to make up for the delay.
     Also character development I think?
     Enjoy.
“It will be a long day,” Sansa says softly, sitting on the floor at his feet
and rubbing feeling into his leg with careful hands, “but then, if Prince Aegon
has any sense of propriety, we may leave for Highgarden.”
It is raining, which seems appropriate, and Willas sighs.
“I know, love,” he says, reaching down to cup her chin and turn her face up to
his. There is such warmth and compassion in her eyes that he almost breaks down
once more, but he has work to do today and cannot afford to waste any more time
on pointless, shameful tears. “I know. Still…”
“The sooner you go to Prince Aegon, the sooner we may return home,” she reminds
him, and that she thinks of Highgarden as home makes him smile just slightly.
“There now, is that better?”
He can feel his foot, which is more than he could before she started, so he
nods and offers her his hand as she rises. She leans in and presses a kiss to
his hair, oddly maternal, and then swishes away in a twist of copper curls and
not-rosemary to gather a plate for him. She is dressed in green today, the
colour of fresh moss, and her hair is pinned away from her face to tumble loose
down her back.
She looks exquisite, and he tells her so when she returns and takes the seat
beside his. Her blush is so pretty that he has to trace his fingertips over the
curve of her cheekbone, and she holds his hand against her face with a small,
sad smile.
“I am not going anywhere,” she promises him. “You do not need to fear my loss,
Willas.”
He sighs again and picks at the bread and fruit she brought for him, and then
Garlan knocks at the door, looking pale and tired and as lost as Willas himself
feels, has felt since that damned raven arrived yesterday evening.
“Come, then,” Garlan calls, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe
with a ghost of a smile. “Let us tame the dragon, hmm?”
 
===============================================================================
 
There is considerable taming to be done, it would seem, because the prince is
more confrontational than before, arguing against everything Willas and Garlan
offer – Willas wonders if the inclusion of Nym and Arianne to their meetings
has anything to do with that – and scowling when they prove that they know
better than he does.
Tyene lets herself into the room near midday, her usual serene smile firmly in
place as she settles herself at Arianne’s side, eyes wide and innocent and
decidedly blank. Obara and Nym and even Sarella, clever, wickedly amusing
Sarella, may be more obviously dangerous, but Willas has always wondered if
mayhaps Tyene is not the most lethal of Oberyn’s brood. There is so much of
Oberyn’s cunning hidden behind that septa’s face that she can onlybe lethal,
can only be as much a hazard as her father and more, because at least Oberyn
made no effort to hide the fact that he was a cad – he was entirely brazen
about it, and all the more fun because of it.
“If it please your highness,” she murmurs to Aegon in the middle of one more
argument, when he is trying to insist that at least some of the Arbor’s fleet
be given to him to attack King’s Landing, “mayhaps turning west would be of
greater benefit to you?”
 
===============================================================================
 
Tyene catches Willas’ hand afterwards, tugging him away from Garlan and from
her sisters and Aegon.
“My sister was… Unconscionably rude to you the other day,” she says, eyes wide
and beseeching. “Pray you forgive her, my lord – we are all overcome with grief
for our dear father.”
“As you say, my lady,” he grits out, longing for the solitude of his and
Sansa’s rooms for just a few moments before he and Garlan must discuss what
Aegon demanded this morning. “If I may-“
“You must see how difficult this is for us all, Willas-“
“What I must do is conclude our business here as quickly as possible so my
brother and our wives and I may return to Highgarden at the earliest possible
opportunity. What I must do is remove my wife from the company of a man who
frightened her so thoroughly last night that she hardly slept a wink. What I
must do is do right by my family, Tyene, and that is what I intend to do. Now,
if you will excuse me-“
“Aegon is jealous,” she hisses. “Don’t you see, Willas? He is jealousof you
having a wife and a family – he does not see himself as one of us, not truly,
and he wonders if mayhaps that is more important than winning his throne and
defeating the Lannisters.”
“Then he is a fool,” Willas says on reflex. “Surely he cannot think that the
Lannisters will allow him time to form healthy relationships with what family
he has and to find a wife? The man is an idiot if he does!”
“Precisely,” Tyene agrees, and Willas sees at last that he has been backed into
a corner. “Which is why he needs advisors from outside his family. Advisors
with a good working knowledge of Westerosi politics, of the armies of the Seven
Kingdoms. Advisors like yourself and your brother, my lord.”
She curtsies then and backs away with Oberyn’s smile playing about her lips.
“Think on it, my lord,” she calls softly. “And hurry back from Highgarden.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Do you know,” Willas says as he lies with his head resting against Sansa’s
belly after they’ve eaten, “I can almost understand why House Tyrell has
ancestrally hated House Martell at this precise moment in time.”
Sansa laughs quietly and strokes his hair, leaning further back into the
pillows. “I wish there was some way I might help.”
He struggles upright and then settles himself alongside her, wrapping an arm
around her and pulling her close.
“You can stay here, away from Aegon,” he says into her hair when she pushes him
easily onto his back and curls up on his chest. “That will at least put my mind
partially at ease.”
Her lips touch against the scar under his left collarbone, a remnant of a
particularly adventurous trip to the Oldtown harbour with his youngest uncle,
Humfrey, when he was a boy (the Old Man had shouted himself hoarse at them both
for that, even though it had all been Willas’ idea in the first place and he
was the only one who had been hurt, mostly because of his own foolish bravado
and the false belief that all ten year old boys share that they are, in fact,
invincible, and at Baelor for being stupid enough to let them out of his sight
for more than an instant), and he sighs.
“They are grieving for their father,” she murmurs, turning her face to look at
him. “Give them time, Willas. They will come around. Prince Aegon needsthe
Reach if he wants to take the rest of the Seven Kingdoms – the Stormlands will
fight him to the last, you said it yourself, and even if he has the Golden
Company, it is not enough. He needs Highgarden’s support if he wishes to claim
the Iron Throne.”
“I did say that, didn’t I? I imagine I say a great many things that serve no
purpose other than to depress everyone who hears them.”
She taps her fingertips against his lower lip, then the tip of his nose, as if
in reprimand.
“You are very morose tonight,” she teases gently, sitting up and tucking her
hair behind her ears, back over her shoulders, so he can’t play with it unless
he sits up as well. “We will be on the road home soon, remember – just a little
while longer. Come, you should bathe – the water will be cold if you don’t come
now.”
He sighs and lets her gently guide him across the room, stripping off
carelessly along the way, too tired even to be ashamed of the way she helps him
into the enormous tub.
“Join me,” he implores once he’s settled in, catching her by the smallest
finger of her right hand just as she turns away. “Please?”
She smiles, touches his face, and peels off her clothes slowly. There’s no
seduction intended – Sansa is always careful of her clothes – but by the time
she’s bending down to roll down her stockings, her hair parting to spill down
either side of her neck, leaving her back exposed to him, he’s as hard as he
ever remembers being.
She raises an eyebrow when she notices, and he blushes.
“I did not ask you to join me so I could make love to you,” he promises, not a
little embarrassed, but she smiles and slips into the water with him anyways,
on her knees straddling his hips but not actually touching him.
“We will be home soon,” she whispers, sinking down onto him slowly, her eyes
steady on his as she takes his face in her hands. “We will be at Highgarden
again soon,” she breathes as she rises and then falls again, every movement
gentle and so exquisite he can’t possibly think straight. “We will be home
soon-“
He kisses her then, leaning forward and sliding on arm around her waist, his
other hand cradling her nape, and his good leg bends to steady them so he can
keep moving with her as he kisses her with the same languid rhythm as their
hips. She has one hand braced on the edge of the bathtub, but the other is
scratching over his scalp just as he likes, just as slowly as everything else.
“Home,” he whispers, dropping his face to the crook of her shoulder when that
tension pulls taut in the base of his spine, when the rocking of his hips
becomes uneven. “You and I and home,” he gasps, turning his face to kiss
sloppy, open-mouthed love into her skin. “Oh, Sansa-“
She makes the most delicious little sound in the back of her throat, somewhere
between a moan and a sigh, and then she takes his hand from her hair and guides
it between them, between her legs, and he is only too happy to oblige, to bring
her with him to the peak that is looming ever closer, the tension is pulling
tighter-
“Home,” she reminds him, her mouth a caress against the pulse hammering in his
temple, and he jerks and pulls her down hard onto him and spills into her with
a moan, coaxing her to her release a moment later with the press of his fingers
as she likes. “Home,” she sighs as she sags against him, loose and lazy and so
trusting it just about breaks his heart, because for her to be able to trust
him at all is a miracle, as he leans back against the bathtub. “We will give
Aegon Targaryen our support, and we will go home.”
He kisses her hair, breathing in the sharp scent of it, and then laughs.
“You know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tighter
against him, “the purpose of a bath is usually to become cleaner.”
 
===============================================================================
 
It’s not until the following morning that he realises his mistake.
“I should not have finished inside you,” he says as he pulls her stays tighter,
having dismissed Marian and Aldwin so that he might have this conversation with
Sansa. “Please, Sansa, forgive me, it was a foolish thing to do-“
“I am your wife,” she says firmly, motioning that he has pulled tight enough,
and then she waits patiently for him to tie off the laces before turning to
face him. “And it is not the first time you have done so, after all.”
“But we have agreed to postpone having children,” he says, angry with himself
and worried for her – neither of them are prepared for children, not yet – as
he takes her hands. “I can send for the maester, ask that he prepares-“
“No,” she says even more firmly. “If I dotake moon tea, I do not want Prince
Aegon and the Martells to know of it. I will wait until we return home.”
“The longer you wait the more dangerous it is, is it not?” he asks, feeling
sick and remembering-
“I do not know for certain, but I imagine so,” Sansa admits, watching him
curiously. “Have you past experience, my lord?”
He does, that was how he recognised the smell of the tansy that evening while
they were still at King’s Landing, but now is not the time to share those
memories with her.
“Some,” is all he says, and then he bows his head to kiss her knuckles.
“Please, Sansa-“
“If I am with child, I am with child,” she says quietly, her eyes so sincere
that he can’t help but admire her bravery. She is so very young still, so
fragile in so many ways, and yet she is so brave.“I think I might like a
child,” she adds in a small voice. “I hope I might be a good mother.”
“I think you will be a wonderful mother,” he assures her, still holding her
hands to his mouth. “But Sansa, if you still wish to postpone-“
“What will be, will be,” she whispers. “We have both lost- Would it truly be so
terrible for us to have a child now?”
“I can think of nothing I want more than to have you bear my children,” he
admits, letting go of her hands so he can pull her close, “but I do not want to
force that on you before you are ready, my love.”
She nuzzles her way under his chin, hair catching and snarling on his beard,
and then she sighs.
“I do not know if I will ever be ready, but that is no reason we should not
try.”
 
===============================================================================
 
This morning’s council with Aegon and the Sands is less antagonistic than
yesterday’s, which is a relief – Willas isn’t sure he could take another day of
Aegon demanding things that he has no right to demand. He still seems unaware
of (wilfully or otherwise) how precarious his position here in Westeros truly
is, and Willas and Garlan find themselves dropping less than subtle hints about
how ridiculous Aegon’s claims that he would be able to take the realm without
the swords of the Reach are.
“He’s a child playing at being a warrior,” Garlan says over lunch, dunking a
chunk of bread into his soup as though both have offended him somehow. “He’s
been spoiled and pampered his whole life, and no matter that they’ve trainedhim
– he was trained for kinging, not for soldiering. He really is-“
“Hold your tongue,” Leonette scolds, thwacking him over the knuckles with her
spoon. “Honestly, man, have you no sense?”
Garlan pouts like a child, but Sansa giggles into her cup of nettle tea and
Leonette grins, but then Garlan sighs heavily and…
“Do you remember-“
“Mother doing that to Loras when he tried to steal her strawberries?”
“Exactly.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“You have the right to swear loyalty to me in your father’s name,” Aegon says,
leaning back in the big winged chair (he doesn’t fill it out right, like Renly
used) and folding his arms. “I would ask you do that before you return to
Highgarden. We might discuss the details of our arrangement after-“
“We will swear open allegiance now,” Willas breaks in. “Our family is away from
King’s Landing. We ask only that Tommen Waters be spared – he is a child, and
he has nothing to do with the Lannisters’ doings.”
“He is sitting my throne.”
“Your aunt would say that you are a pretender to her throne,” Garlan says
lightly, examining his signet ring. “And yet here we are.”
“The support of Highgarden and House Tyrell is nothing to take lightly,” Willas
adds, steepling his fingers and frowning over them. “We have the largest armies
in the realm, we are the wealthiest house after the Lannisters – possibly as
wealthy as them now, considering the money the Queen has wasted on building
fleets that were near destroyed in taking Dragonstone. We have the fealty of
House Hightower, and we are the only people in the realm with the capacity to
feed the North and the Riverlands now that they have been ravaged and winter is
coming.”
“You also have the true heir to Winterfell under your sway,” Aegon murmurs,
eyes darkening. “Lady Stark-“
“Is a Tyrell by marriage,” Willas says sharply. “My wife wishes to remain my
wife, your highness, and so she willremain mywife.”
“Who then are we to repair to Winterfell?”
“My brother’s second son, I would imagine,” Garlan pipes up, smiling slightly.
“It may be that Winterfell is held in trust for a time, but it willpass to one
of Stark blood.”
“It will just happen that that person will also have Tyrell blood,” Willas
agrees, “and, after all, my wife and her brothers and sister were Starks with
Tully blood – you yourself are a Targaryen with Martell blood. It is no bad
thing for the Great Houses to be interlinked, I think.”
Aegon looks very young when he scowls at them, and Willas feels very old –
twenty-four is not old,he scolds himself, slotting his fingers together and
sitting up straighter.
“We do not mean to lecture, your highness,” he says lightly. “But my wife is
the only remaining Stark – her brothers are all dead, her sister probably as
well. If our children do not take Winterfell, it will pass to… Robert Arryn is
the next male heir to Robb Stark’s line, I believe, and he is already Lord of
the Eyrie and, if Edmure Tully’s wife births a girl, heir to Riverrun. You
would not want a sickly boy to be lord of so much of the realm, surely?”
“Mayhaps the Starks should not be restored to Winterfell, then,” Aegon
counters. “Mayhaps some Northern House will prove themselves-“
“The North will always rally to Winterfell, and there must be a Stark in
Winterfell,” Lord Connington interrupts from his place in the corner. Willas
had forgotten that the older man was even in the room, he sits so quietly.
“Lord Willas and Ser Garlan have the right of it, your grace – but that is not
a concern for today.”
There is a warning in Jon Connington’s tone for Aegon, one Willas only notices
because he remembers receiving near identical warnings of his own from Baelor
once upon a time, and Willas is glad that someone in Aegon’s inner circle has
the good sense to warn the prince away from Sansa.
“We will give you our oath,” Willas says after a long, tense silence. “But
please, your highness – let us go home to bury our brother. We beg it of you.”
Another silence, and then “Tomorrow. Tonight, we will feast our alliance, and
tomorrow you may go home to Highgarden.”
Aegon turns his disquieting gaze – those violet eyes are unnerving – to the
window.
“I never had the chance to know my sister,” he says quietly. “Mourn your
brother, and then help me avenge all that has been taken from us by the
Lannisters.”
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
     This spiraled out of my grasp (who's surprised: no one) so the next
     chapter is busy like whoa.
     Enjoy.
Willas has to lean heavily on Garlan to get down the stairs for the feast that
night, jaw clenched and face white with pain. His leg gave out on the stairs
earlier, when they’d been coming back from meeting with Aegon, and no matter
what he says, Sansa knows he needs Maester Lomys and his wheelchair and a great
deal of bedrest.
They don’t have those luxuries here at Storm’s End, though, and there is still
the ride to Highgarden ahead of them, so she slips under his arm, trying her
best to take some of his weight even though he’s so stubborn and proud that
he’s reluctant to accept her help.
The feast is in full swing when they enter the great hall (he was right,
everything here is very big and very yellow), and so nobody seems to really
notice how hard it is for Willas to make the walk from the doors to the high
table where space has been left for them as guests of honour.
A strange noise pushes past Willas’ teeth when he sits down (heavily, the
relief obvious in his eyes), and his knuckles are still silver-white on the
head of his cane, but he waves aside her concern.
“I’m fine,” he insists, even though he’s clearly not, but Sansa knows he’ll get
snappish (more than he is now) if she presses the issue, so instead she steels
herself and turns to Princess Arianne, sitting between her and Prince Aegon.
Not for the first time, Sansa wishes she was as brave as Arya. Arya would
refuse to be intimidated by the Dornish and the Dragon Prince. Arya would know
how to stand up and demand that Aegon stop looking at her as he does. Arya
would know how to force Willas to do as he was told and rest his leg.
Arya would know how to ask just how Willas knew so much about moon tea.
Well, she’d just ask,she wouldn’t think about how, but she would never have
allowed Willas to just get away without explaining that. It worries Sansa,
makes her wonder all sorts of things – has he a mistress? Some low-born lover?
Is that why he put off marrying for so long?
She wants very much to believe that he loves her, that he is faithful, but he
is a man and he is so good and kind and handsome, and it makes a terrible sort
of sense for him to have a lover. She remembers women talking of their husbands
in the early days of marriage, of men being insatiable, but Willas has never
been like that – he shares her bed every night, even if they do not lie
together, but she does not spend every hour of the day in his company, and it
is entirely possible-
“Sansa?” he says, touching her hand (he’s let go of his cane, which means the
release of pressure on his knee has eased the pain, thank the gods) and looking
at her curiously. “You were miles away, love – are you well?”
She smiles and nods, turning her hand to lace her fingers with his. “Tired, my
lord, and eager to be home. That is all.”
She knows he hates her calling him “my lord,” but it always strikes her as
improper to call him by his name in public – and besides, there’s something
very lordly about him that she likes,even if he seems oblivious to it himself.
“We leave tomorrow,” he reminds her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her
knuckles. He looks far more tired than she feels, almost grey he’s so pale,
with deep shadows under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping since they arrived,
she knows, and he’s slept poorly since they left Highgarden for King’s Landing,
so it only makes sense that he be exhausted, even without how badly his leg has
been paining him this past week or so. “We’ll be home soon, sweetling.”
She doesn’t dare say that part of why she is so eager to return to Highgarden
is because it will mean she is far away from Prince Aegon, not when he is only
two people away, so she smiles and squeezes his hand and tries not to worry too
much.
It is hard not to worry, though, when the music begins and Prince Aegon nearly
knocks over his chair to ask her to lead the dancing with him.
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas is tired and in more pain than he can remember being in since the
morning after his and Sansa’s wedding and now he has to watch that bloody fool
Targaryen dance Sansa around the floor and try not to stew in his own jealousy,
because he is far too old to be jealous of a twit like Aegon damned Targaryen-
“Your leg is troubling you, my lord?”
Tyene has taken Sansa’s seat without his noticing, probably because he’s
concentrating very hard on not letting the pain of his leg show, and she looks
as sweet as ever.
“Some,” he says dismissively, waving his hand as though it is nothing. “You are
well, my lady?”
“Well enough,” she says, examining her nails with a smile. “Sad to see you
leave on the morrow, of course.”
He snorts derisively, too sore to bother with Tyene’s games.
“What do you want, Tyene?”
“Your wife has once more entranced my cousin,” she says, looking pointedly out
onto the floor just as Aegon swoops Sansa into a dip, deeper than necessary,
before spinning her rapidly back into the dance. Willas grits his teeth to
force back a wave of envy – he was a damned good dancer before he was crippled
– and nods for Tyene to continue. “Mayhaps keep better control over her.”
“I never dreamed that I would hear a Dornishwoman asking a man to control his
wife. It’s rather contrary to your ways, I would have thought?”
Tyene’s smile is as venomous as Oberyn’s ever was.
“A throne rarely sits in the balance of such things, my lord,” she says
sweetly. “Mayhaps it would be best if she were to remain at Highgarden when you
and Ser Garlan return to us after your youngest brother’s funeral.”
“I can’t imagine his highness would be pleased to hear you making such a
suggestion, Lady Tyene,” he murmurs, raising one eyebrow and sipping his wine.
“It is not in the best interests of House Martell for Aegon to be so transfixed
on Lady Sansa.”
“Ah,” Willas says. “Arianne is to be his wife, then, and you fear another Stark
tearing another Targaryen away from another Martell. I understand. You need not
worry, my lady – unless the prince shows the same proclivity for kidnap as his
most noble father, my wife will not be a danger to your cousin’s future.”
“Lyanna Stark-“
“Was fifteen,” Willas says quietly. “I am as old as you are, Tyene – do not
play games with me. All stories come to the High Tower in time, and the story
of Rhaegar’s descent into elegant madness following Harrenhall came to us the
same as any other.”
“Your sister is but six-and-ten and by all reports there is not a finer
seductress in the realm,” Tyene sniffs, and Willas knows he has hit upon a sore
spot – perhaps this is not the wisest company in which to defend Sansa’s aunt.
“Age-“
“Have you ever met a Stark before my wife, Tyene?” he asks, cutting her off
before she insults Margaery too thoroughly. “I had not either, but my uncle and
my grandfather have met more than one over the years and they all agree that
they are an honourable family, by and large – prone to bouts of recklessness,
mayhaps, and wild in unexpected sort of ways, but not the sort of run away from
a betrothal to a very powerful man with a marriedman.”
“What you are saying-“
“Is idle speculation that the prince does not need to hear,” Willas says
lightly, biting the inside of his cheek when he shifts in his seat and his leg
moves. “But I merely ask that you consider such speculative nonsense, tripe
though it probably is, before you accuse my wife of playing seductress for
Prince Aegon.”
Tyene eyes him thoughtfully, and then her smile fades, becomes something
different and, he thinks, realer.
“My father always had a very high opinion of you,” she says. “He thought you
were intelligent and witty, and he liked how much you openly dislike most
people, but he sometimes wondered if you’d ever find a wife who measured up to
your high standards. He would have been happy to know that you have, my lord.”
“And I intend to hold onto her,” he says, not disabusing Tyene of the notion
that it is because he was picky that it took him so long to wed. Gods, I am
only four-and-twenty, surely it has not been a subject of gossip as to why I
did not wed sooner? Father was near twenty-six when he and Mother married!“I am
rather fond of her, Tyene.”
“Yes,” Tyene says, sounding distantly surprised. “You are, aren’t you?”
 
===============================================================================
 
Aegon’s hand is too warm on her back, and he is holding her a great deal too
close, but he is very strong and she cannot move back.
“Your husband cannot dance, I assume?”
“No, your highness,” she says cautiously, not sure why he is asking – he has
only ever mentioned Willas to her in order to portray himself as a better
choice, and she is nervous of him now. “He cannot.”
“A pity,” Aegon says, “for you are a very lovely dancer, my lady.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
“Tell me, Lady Stark – what hold is it Lord Tyrell has over you that you are so
set on remaining his wife? He is a cripple many years your senior, and his
family are allied with those who destroyed yours-“
“House Targaryen would have destroyed House Stark many years ago, before I was
even born, your highness. House Tyrell have never acted against House Stark.”
“I could make you a queen, Sansa,” he says seriously, pulling her closer still
and frowning when she tenses in his arms because no, she will not have this
happen again, she won’t. “Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“I have no desire to be queen,” she says breathlessly, feeling sick because she
is trapped here between his arm and his chest and she can’t breathe-
“Surely every girl dreams of being queen.”
“I did,” Sansa whispers, turning away, turning to look for Willas, wanting to
catch his eye so he’ll smile and she can have something safe to concentrate on.
“And I saw that it was a nightmare in truth.”
“I am not the Kingslayer’s bastard, Lady Stark.”
“I am Lady Tyrell,” she says, pushing away from him. “And I will remain so,
your highness.”
Willas stands up when she darts back to her seat, and even though his face
twists with pain when he does so she can see how worried he is for her in the
way he lifts a hand to her face, the way he so gently tucks her hair behind her
ear, the way he refuses to sit down until she catches her breath and sits with
him.
“Sansa-“
“I am well,” she assures him, forcing a smile that she knows does not convince
him, but it is either that or admit to being scared and Sansa will never do
that again.
 
===============================================================================
 
Garlan has to practically carry him up the stairs, because his leg can’t bear
his weight at all, but Prince Aegon’s voice rings out sharply when they’re just
on the first landing and Willas swears violently under his breath until the
prince catches them up.
“Your highness,” he grits out, holding back his temper by sheer force of will,
“what may we do for you?”
“I am told my cousin approached you about your wife’s behaviour towards me?”
Garlan’s grip on Willas tightens forcibly.
“My wife has done her best to avoid you, your highness, but yes, Lady Tyene did
speak to me about your interactions with my wife. I was… Surprised, I admit.”
“I apologise,” Aegon says. “She had no right to discuss such a thing with you.”
“Just as you have no right to discuss marrying my wife, you mean?”
Aegon’s jaw tightens, eyes of Targaryen purple but the shape of Oberyn’s
flashing dark with anger.
“A king needs a queen, Lord Tyrell.”
“Find one, then,” Willas says, disentangling himself from Garlan and ignoring
the screaming pain in his leg. “Sansa has a husband, Prince Aegon, and she does
not need another.”
“One who can stand up may be preferable-“
Willas is holding Aegon by the front of his doublet, pulling him up so their
faces are level, but he doesn’t remember moving. His whole leg is shaking with
the effort of holding him up, but he is so angry, so very, very angry,that he
doesn’t care.
“If you were to ask Sansa,” Willas snarls, “she would choose to stay with me.
She would choose to remain as my wife, as Sansa Tyrell.She has no interest in
becoming Sansa Targaryen because she does not want you, your highness. It may
be time to consider that such a thing is possible. If ever you lay a hand on
mywife again, rightful king or no, I will see your end.”
“Is that a threat, Lord Tyrell?”
“No, Prince Aegon. It is a promise.”
He shoves Aegon away, all but falling back against Garlan as Jon Connington and
a handful of Dornishmen begin climbing the stairs towards them.
“Goodnight, your highness,” he forces out, just loud enough for the other men
to hear. “Pleasant dreams.”
 
===============================================================================
 
His leg is a terror when he manages to get out of his breeches, his brace a
good deal too tight and the skin a horrible reddish-purple colour, shiny and
taut over the swelling.
Sansa stands at the side of the bed, holding his head to her breast as he gasps
for breath and tries not to cry with the pain of it.
“I’m sorry,” he manages to force out, gritting his teeth and shifting back
properly onto the bed, motioning for her to join him. “I’m so sorry, sweetling-
“
“Don’t be,” she says soothingly, quickly slipping off her gown as he struggles
out of his doublet and shirt, trying to shift his weight as little as possible
with little success. “Is there anything at all I might do to help? Anything at
all?”
He leans into her arms when she opens them to him, buries his face in the curve
of her neck, rubbing his cheek against the soft lambswool of her nightgown,
trying to lose himself in the sharp scent of her (he’s found her secret, the
rosemary oil she combs into her hair every morning), and she coos softly and
runs her fingers through his hair, settling back against the pillows.
“Leonette and I heard you speaking with Prince Aegon,” she says softly,
hesitantly. “What were you talking about?”
“You. I’m afraid I lost my temper, sweetling. I do apologise. He mentioned you
and needing a queen in the same breath, and I-“
“Don’t let him take me,” she breathes, “please, Willas, please don’t let him
take me-“
Her arms are tight around him, tight and terrified and trembling, and he holds
her just as close, glad of the distraction from his leg, however brief it may
be.
“I will never let him or anyone else take you, little wolf,” he vows. “You are
my wife, and nothing will change that. I will not allow anything to change
that.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Of course it’s pissing down,” Aldwin sighs as he hefts Willas up into his
saddle the next morning, “bloody Stormlands living up to their name.”
It took both Aldwin and Garlan to get Willas down the stairs this morning, and
even then he bit the insides of his cheeks bloody to keep from crying out in
pain. Sansa’s eyes are nearly glowing with worry in the deep shadow of her
hood, and Willas can’t remember when last Garlan looked so concerned.
“We expect your return within the month,” Aegon says as Aldwin helps Willas
strap his leg in place (gods, oh gods, how am I to last to Highgarden like
this, I’ll barely last today like this).“That gives you time to reach
Highgarden, attend your brother’s funeral, and return here.”
“If we spend only a night or two at Highgarden,” Willas gasps, eyes snapping
shut as Aldwin pulls the strap over his knee tight. “We may not be back within
the month, your highness, but we have sworn House Tyrell to your cause and we
will not renege on that.”
“Within the month, Lord Tyrell.”
Willas grits his teeth, hating that he has to admit this in public, but…
“My health won’t allow for us to return within the month, your highness,” he
growls. “My leg, it will not allow me to leave Highgarden for some time. Our
loyalty is not in question, surely?”
Lord Connington’s hand on Aegon’s shoulder quells the prince, it seems.
“Send word before you plan on returning,” Connington says. “We will be ready
for you.”
 
===============================================================================
 
They’re barely three hours from Storm’s End but Willas is slumped forward over
Gardener’s neck, begging that they stop if only for a few minutes.
They stop, but he waves Aldwin away when he moves to unbuckle him. Sansa slides
down from Whisper’s back and slops through the muck to his side, touching his
face, wiping away the tears on his cheeks before Garlan and Leonette can see
them.
“I don’t- I can’t- Sansa, I-“
“Ssh, love,” she soothes him, slipping her hand back into his hair and
scratching at his head the way he likes, “ssh, you mustn’t worry. We will get
you home, you’ll see.”
“It hurts,” he gulps, and he sounds so wretched that she moves closer, slides
her arms around him as best she can with him still clinging to Gardener. He
presses his face into her shoulder (he can’t have a mistress, he can’t, not
when he relies on her like this, because whether he’d admit it or not he
doesrely on her) and wraps one arm around her, pulling her closer.
“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers, beckoning Marian with the flask of poppy’s
milk. “If we bind you in place, will you take the poppy’s milk? It will make
travelling easier for you.”
“And slower,” he argues, voice muffled in her hair. “I just need to rest, I
just need to stop a few minutes, I’ll be fine in a moment-“
“You’re far from fine,” Aldwin says sternly, already starting to tie Willas’
other leg in place. “Now you do as milady Sansa tells you like a good husband,
and you take your poppy’s milk and have a nice snooze. We’ll wake you when we
reach the inn, don’t you worry, and then you’ll have a nice hot bath and maybe
there’ll be a maester, eh?”
Willas slumps entirely only moments after taking the poppy’s milk, and Sansa
pulls Aldwin aside to ask something that’s been worrying her for some days now.
“He’s getting worse, isn’t he?”
Aldwin hesitates, but then he runs a hand through his hair, pushing his hood
back in the process, and turns his face up to the rain.
“I’ve been with Willas Tyrell since he were a babe, milady,” he says at last.
“I was there’n he broke his leg in that godsforsaken tilt because he thought he
had to prove himself to his father, and I was with him the whole time he was
kept in a wagon the way to Oldtown, and I stayed with him till the maesters let
him out of the infirmary in the Citadel. I’ve been his shadow for near twenty-
five years, milady, and he’s been a cripple for nine of those.”
He tips his head down, and his eyes are sad.
“Aye,” he says. “Milord is getting worse, alright.”
 
===============================================================================
 
When Willas wakes, he is lying on a very soft bed in just his smallclothes, and
his hair is wet.
There are bandages wrapped around his bad leg, from near his hip, he thinks, to
halfway down his calf.
“Aldwin?” he calls, feeling pathetic, and pushes himself up.
Sansa comes instead, hurrying from the other side of the bath screen with her
robe only half-tied and her hair soaking through the wool.
“Are you in pain? Are you well?”
He considers this for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “How long did I sleep?”
“Only a few hours,” she assures him. “We were forced to stop sooner than
planned because of the weather.”
She sits beside him on the bed, hands folded in her lap once she ties her robe
properly, and then she looks up at him.
“Aldwin says you’re getting worse.”
He sighs.
“He’s right,” he admits. “For the past year or so, my leg has been flaring up
far more often. Maester Lomys worries that… That I may be confined to my
wheelchair sooner than we thought.”
“That would not be so terrible,” she says, shivering slightly. “You manage well
enough in your chair-“
“He also thinks there is a chance I may lose my leg.”
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
     Bleargh
     Originally intended as one chapter, but now it is two chapters. I
     didn't intend to break it where I did but it got too long.
It takes them near three weeks to reach Highgarden because Willas is in too
much pain for them to ride any harder. His only comfort, Sansa knows, is
bathing, because the warm water eases the ache enough to let him sleep, but
riding every day in the cold and the rain is agony for him.
“You, boy,” Aldwin shouts when finally the walls of Highgarden come into view,
pale and bright in the dimming light, “ride ahead and have Lord Willas’
wheelchair waiting for him – if it’s not waiting, you’ll be looking for other
work, y’hear?”
“Don’t be cruel, Aldwin,” Willas gasps, waving a weak hand and forcing a smile
that’s near a grimace. “You’ve terrified the poor lad.”
Willas isn’t quite slumped over Gardener’s neck, but he’s only barely upright –
between the pain and exhaustion, he’s hunched in on himself, head down and
shoulders forward. His knuckles are white on the reins, too, and when he thinks
none of them are looking his face folds into a scowl – Sansa doesn’t understand
how he’s bearing the pain at this stage.
She keeps as close to his right side as she can, touching his shoulder and his
hand whenever his strength seems to falter – when Gardener slips on the wet
road and Willas’ leg jars, he bites down so viciously on his lip that he breaks
the skin, and Sansa quickly offers him her wet handkerchief (they’re all wet
through, right down to their skins) before Garlan or Leonette or Aldwin notice
– but he seems embarrassed if she’s too obvious about it, so she tries to hold
back her concern.
Lady Alerie comes running down the steps just as Sansa slides down from her
saddle, and there’s a manic few moments as everyone all at once tries to
unbuckle Willas’ leg – he swats everyone except Sansa and Aldwin away, though,
and twists his hand into Sansa’s hair and breathes heavily through his nose as
she carefully works the strap around his knee loose.
“I can walk up the steps,” he grits out, swinging his good leg over Gardener’s
neck and holding out a hand to Aldwin for his cane. “I can – Mother, stop that
at once,” he snaps, waving Lady Alerie away when she comes forward with her
hands out. “I may be an invalid, but I do have some pride-“
“Too bloody much,” Garlan says furiously, gently lifting their mother bodily
and setting her down so that he can get at Willas. “You’re not going to be able
to get tothe steps, never mind upthem, so you put a lid on that foolishness and
accept a hand-“
“So help me, Garlan-“
“Do as you’re told,” Sansa says suddenly, because he’s so frail looking, and
she’s seen him in bed, in just his smallclothes, and while his bad leg is
swollen and angry looking, the rest of him is pale and his skin is clammy to
the touch and his ribs are showing because he can barely eat at all because the
pain is turning his stomach. “Let Garlan and Aldwin help you, and-“
“Sansa-“
“Do it!” she snaps, fists clenching. “You’re so ill, Willas, please,let them
help you!”
He seems as shocked as anyone, and if there’s hurt in his eyes, well, it’s for
his own good, but he does let Garlan take most of his weight when he dismounts,
and when he cries out in pain as his knee buckles, he doesn’t protest to Aldwin
slipping under his other arm, doesn’t protest when Garlan and Aldwin lift him
clean off the ground and rush him up the steps to the keep.
“Thank you, Sansa,” Lady Alerie sighs as they gather their skirts and run up
after the men. “The gods know he never listens to any of us.”
Sansa only smiles before darting ahead of her goodmother, getting inside just
as Garlan and Aldwin ease Willas down into his wheelchair – which seems only to
cause him more pain.
“Make sure there is a warm bath waiting for Lord Willas when he reaches our
rooms,” Sansa orders a passing servant. “Warm, not hot, and no oils or scents
in it – not even a twist of rose oil.”
“Yes, my lady,” the girl says, curtsying quickly and dashing off, leaving Sansa
to return her attention to her husband (she is still not used to that, still
not used to saying my husbandand not having to be afraid, because from the
moment Joffrey ordered Ilyn Payn to take Father’s head Sansa had lived in fear
of the day they married, of the day she had a husband, but Willas is so far
from Joffrey that she has come to savour the word husband, has come to see it
as her salvation, her safety).
“Maester Lomys,” he gasps out, head back and eyes wide as he tries to force
away tears, and he looks so young, so much younger than when he’s behaving as
the lord his father is only on rare occasions, the worry and concern erased
from his face to be replaced by pain and fear. “Get me to- bring me to Maester
Lomys, quickly-“
Sansa makes to follow when Garlan begins pushing Willas towards the maester’s
rooms, but Willas waves for Garlan to stop and takes her hand.
“You don’t want to see this, love,” he says, breathing heavily through his nose
again, eyes bright with tears of pain that she knows he will do his best not to
shed. “Please, Sansa – go… Go bathe, and get something to eat. I don’t- I don’t
want you to see me this way.”
“But-“
“Sansa, please,” he pleads, and he is- he is ashamed!But how can he feel that
way? She is his wife!“Just… You’ll catch a chill in those wet things. Go, love
– I have Garlan with me. I will be fine.”
She stands and watches Garlan wheel Willas away, her hands in fists again, and
it’s not until Leonette takes her by the hand and begins to pull her away that
Sansa’s temper fades enough for her to move.
She is his wife.He should trust her with his everything, surely?
 
===============================================================================
 
He remains horribly, painfully alert throughout the draining, throughout
Maester Lomys’ and Father’s lectures, throughout Garlan’s reprimands for his
treatment of Sansa, throughout Aldwin’s chastisement for the way he spoke to
Mother, and really he wishes they’d all bugger off and take his leg with them,
because it hurts so horribly and he’d really just like to have done with it.
It takes hours – and he knows that this isn’t just the pain blurring the
passage of time, because Garlan has ample time to go and bathe and eat and come
back, and they have time to tell Father nearly every word Prince Aegon said
while they were at Storm’s End.
“The Martells are setting Arianne up to be his queen,” Willas says, trying to
straighten up in his seat and giving in when pain shoots up his thigh from his
knee. “Aegon was… Rather taken with Sansa, though. He…”
“He was an immaculate host aside from his behaviour towards Sansa,” Garlan
summarises, and Willas is thankful that his brother feels no need to share with
Father the fact that Willas threatened the prince. “He will be a decent king, I
think – he is not a badman, at least – but he has been spoiled. He’s not used
to being told no, which is a habit we shall have to watch for.”
Willas manages a smile when Father passes him a clean linen to put between the
uppermost cut on the back of his leg and his chair, but it is a harsh thing,
barely a smile at all, he can tell that himself and he feels bad for it,
because Father istrying, and Willas wishes he were in the humour to try harder
himself. “He’s certainly intelligent enough, and he’s shrewd,too, I think –
Grandmother will like him. Garlan’s right, though – he’s got a good mind, but
he’s a brat.”
“A brat in need of a queen,” Father says thoughtfully, folding his hands over
his belly and sitting back. “Margaery’s marriage to Tommen is a farce at best –
do you think-“
“No,” Garlan says firmly. “We tried to raise the issue, but… No. Like it or
not, Father, Tommen isMargaery’s husband. She says he’s a good boy, a nice
child – how many men will be willing to take a woman thrice wed, twice widowed?
Maybe a good boy is the best we can hope for in a husband for Margaery.”
“Your grandson will not sit the Iron Throne, Father,” Willas says quietly. “The
Martells have a greater claim on Aegon, and they are making use of it –
Margaery will not be queen for long.”
Father’s frown deepens, and Willas once more tries to straighten up in his
chair – he hates how hard it is to keep his balance with only one foot on the
floor – before reluctantly reaching for the beaker of poppy’s milk Maester
Lomys left for him.
“I need to sleep,” he says at last. “I- Tomorrow, Father. Might we talk about
this in more detail tomorrow?”
Father’s frown changes now, and Willas can see the concern there that just a
few months ago he would have dismissed. “Aye, we can wait till morning – do you
need help…?”
“Garlan is enough,” Willas assures him, setting down the beaker and instead
taking up the long roll of linen bandages sitting on the table at his side.
“Thank you, though.”
Things are still – not precisely awkward, but there is still a tension between
himself and Father, and…
“We buried Loras last week,” Father says softly just before he leaves the room.
“We could not… We could not wait any longer.”
Willas freezes.
“But I should have been there to turn the sod,” he says dumbly, not certain how
to process this. “I am his eldest brother, I was supposed to-“
“I know,” Father says. “But… Mayhaps you should both be thankful that you did
not see him. Even Margaery could not see… It was best you did not see him.”
“May we see where he was laid tomorrow?” Garlan asks, hand tight on Willas’
shoulder, because he seems to understand that Willas cannot speak the words
himself. “May we, Father?”
“I will bring you myself,” Father promises. “Margaery, foolish girl, she
thought to send Loras to Storm’s End. I put a stop to that talk before your
mother heard, of course, but to think that she believed…”
He shakes his head and bids them goodnight, and Willas finds himself laughing.
“What a mess we are,” he says, and there are tears on his face but he has
neither the inclination nor the energy to pay them any heed. “Me, a wreck who
can hardly move without needing a maester, Loras dead and the subject of so
many rumours that it’s a wonder Mother hasn’theard them, and Margaery being
called a curse on any man she marries. Gods above, Garlan, all the hopes of
House Tyrell are on your shoulders, little brother.”
“Grandmother is already despairing, I suspect,” Garlan says wryly, but his own
eyes are shining and Willas can’t help but wonder how he’d manage without his
brother. “Come, you’ve not changed out of your travelling clothes – well and
good telling Sansa she’ll catch a chill, but you’re in worse shape than her at
the moment, I dare say. Let’s get you to your rooms, eh?”
It takes a lot more painful moving and fiddling than Willas would like to get
him into his wheelchair, but Garlan calmly bears Willas’ weight and then, when
Willas strength seems to fail him, Garlan pushes him along without a word.
“I should have been the one to turn the sod,” Willas says. “Gods, Garlan, how
can Loras be dead? He is- he was, gods, he wasso alive.”
“You didn’t see how he was after Renly was killed,” Garlan confides. “Margaery
and the rest refused to see it, but there was something wrong. Something
broken. I can only imagine how he felt – if someone killed Leonette, I wouldn’t
be able to rest until I’d killed them, and even then I don’t know how I’d cope
without her.”
“I never even thought of that.”
And it’s true, he didn’t, but now that Garlan has said it Willas realises that
he can’t even begin to imagine what he’d do if something happened to Sansa.
“I think he’s probably happier now, Willas,” Garlan says quietly. “I hope
they’re together, at least – there’s bound to be one of the heavens where they
won’t be regarded as they would have been here had everyone known the truth.”
Willas’ rooms – his and Sansa’s rooms, he reminds himself – are empty when
Garlan pushes him in, except for a serving girl tipping a final lot of hot
water into his bathtub.
“Unscented water?” Garlan asks in surprise. “Who ordered this?”
“Lady Sansa, milord,” the girl says, lifting her head just slightly. “She
ordered that we not even put a twist of rose oil into the bathwater.
Everyonegets a twist of rose oil in their bathwater, though.”
“You didn’t add the oil?” Willas asks, just as surprised as Garlan that such an
order was followed, but not at all surprised that Sansa was the one to issue
it. He makes a note to thank her, because treated water stings so badly after
he’s had his leg drained that it almost doubles the pain. “Not even a twist of
rose oil?”
“Well, no, milord,” the girl says uneasily. “Marian said we was to do exactly
as Lady Sansa says, so-“
“Thank you,” he says, waving for her to go. “That will be all.”
“Yes, milord,” she says, relief clear on her face as she bobs an excuse for a
curtsy and scurries away, closing the door behind her.
“Clever Sansa,” Garlan says approvingly, dipping his fingers into the water to
test it. “Not too hot, either – she knows you well, brother. Do you need help
getting in?”
“You should go to Leonette,” Willas says. “Thank you, though – send for Aldwin
on your way out, please?”
He sits and thinks in silence when Garlan leaves, wishing his leg wasn’t
ruined, wishing Loras wasn’t dead, wishing they didn’t have to broker accord
after accord with king after king, and then he sighs and begins to peel his
damp, clinging clothes off, swearing aloud when he can’t quite manage to get
his left boot off, because taking it off would involve moving his leg and he
can’t bring himself to do that.
Aldwin appears before he can truly lose his temper, and soon enough he’s
sinking down into blessedly hot, blessedly clear water.
“Anything else, milord?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Willas sighs, sliding deeper into the water, tipping his
head back over the rim of the tub. “Is my lady nearby, Aldwin? I feel I may owe
her an apology for how I spoke to her earlier-“
“And your mother, too,” Aldwin says mildly as he gathers up Willas’ wet things
and lays out dry. “And mayhaps your brother and Lady Leonette.”
“I- what? Why?!”
“I know you’ve been sore, milord,” Aldwin calls, “but you’ve been a rude
bastard this past month and the ladies and milord Garlan bore the brunt of
that.”
Garlan’s well used to handling Willas’ temper by now, and Leonette as well, but
Sansa, his Sansa, who still flinches if he raised his voice even in jest with
Garlan while she is in the room, who spends every night locked in terrible
nightmares?
He feels half-sick with regret by the time Aldwin returns to help him out of
the bath (although the nausea may be because of the pain in his leg, which
makes his head spin when Aldwin carefully unwinds the bandages to replace them
with fresh, dry bandages treated in Maester Lomys’ poultice).
 
===============================================================================
 
His dinner arrives with Sansa, who is dressed in a clean gown of pale blue wool
edged with cream, her hair hanging in a heavy braid over her left shoulder. She
looks lovely, he thinks, hating that Maester Lomys sent orders that he is to
remain abed for at least as long as it takes for the swelling in his leg to go
down.
“Father still hopes to marry Marg to Aegon,” he says lightly, patting the bed
beside him as the maid pulls the door closed. “He seems quite willing to ignore
that she is already married, of course, and that the betrothal between Prince
Aegon and Princess Arianne is all but settled, but Father has his little
foibles, I suppose.”
“He was very worried for you,” she says, sitting up on her heels and clenching
her fists in her lap. She’s stopped wearing her butterfly ring, he notices,
instead wears the same slender ring of golden roses as Mother and Grandmother
wear (it is shaped just precisely so a second ring, this one gold and emeralds,
can fit against it on the birth of their first son), on the same finger as he
wears his signet. It fits her hand better than her butterfly, he thinks, which
always seemed too large for her slim fingers, but he wonders if mayhaps she
feels obliged to wear it, feels as though she can’t wear her other jewellery –
not that she has much aside from that which he has given her, but he doesn’t
want her to feel as though she hasto do anything. “We all were. We all are.”
“I will be fine,” he says dismissively, waving aside her concern before lifting
the cover on his plate. “Ah, venison. Lord Tarly must be about – there is
always fresh venison when he is nearby.”
“Willas, please,” Sansa says, and when he looks to her she is biting her lip.
“Why did you not tell me how much pain you were in, before? Garlan says-“
“My brother says a great many things about my health, and only half of them are
true,” Willas cuts across her, annoyed with Garlan for discussing him behind
his back, even with Sansa. “He worries too much, Sansa, you know that – surely
you do not consider me as much an invalid as my family do?”
“Nobody considers you an invalid, Willas,” she tells him firmly, frowning when
he scoffs because gods, has she been living with him at all these past moons
since they wed? Grandmotherconsiders him an invalid, never mind Garlan. “We
worry, though, because you are pushing yourself too hard.”
“I can manage-“
“You can hardly move!”
“I can manage,Sansa,” he says sharply, surprised by this sudden anger from her.
“I am well enough-“
“You would not admit when your leg was paining you while we were at Storm’s
End, which meant you did not get to rest it as you should have – your pride
would not allow you to admit to Prince Aegon that you have a weakness-“
“What has caused this?” he demands, and her shoulders snap straight at his
question. “Gods above, Sansa, I did not want to worry you!”
“And this isn’t worrying me? You were so illon the journey home, Willas!”
“I will be well soon enough,” he says, and for the first time in their marriage
he thinks he might be truly angry with her. “I did not need bedrest while we
were at Storm’s End, and I will be well in a few days-“
“You would not be in the state you are in now had you rested-“
“I am not a child to be ordered to bed!”
She leans away from him, something he doesn’t quite recognise in her lovely
eyes, and gods, gods but he is so angrywith her for seeing him as weak, just as
everyone else does – he thought she knew better than that, thought-
“You are behaving as a child,” she says tightly. “You are conducting yourself
shamefully, illness and grief aside – we are trying to helpyou, Willas. You
told me you do not want to lose your leg, but if you continue to behave as you
are now, if you continue to ignore the maester’s advice and the fact that you
do not have two fully functioning legs-“
“I am well enough-“
“You are not!”
“Damn it, Sansa, you are my wife, not my master!” he shouts, and her fingers
spasm and her mouth goes tight. “I will not be lectured-“
“I only wish to help-“
“If this is the help you offer, then it is unwanted,” he says acidly. “I will
not be treated this way, Sansa-“
“I do not understand why you are so angry! You areunwell, Willas, you
dosometimes need help!”
“Gods damn it all, Sansa, stop this!” he snaps, throwing up his hands-
And she flinches away from him.
“Sansa,” he says, straining after her as she scrambles away from him. “Sansa,
wait, I’m sorry, I am so, so sorry, love, please-“
“It may interest you to know,” she says, hands so tight on the doorframe that
her arms are trembling, “that I am not with child, so your expertise with moon
tea will be unneeded.”
He completely forgot about their worries, about everything, between Loras and
the hell of the journey home and making sure they told Father everything-
She’s gone before he can say a word, the echo of her boots clicking on the
floor ringing back into their bedchamber, and he cannot be sure if he hates
himself for being so stupid as to frighten her that way, or if he hates that
she is just like everyone else, hates that she sees him as a weak invalid, just
as he feared she would when first they were wed.
He throws his tray across the room, watches the shattered porcelain hit the
floor, the food sliding down the wall, and decides that yes, he hates himself.
No matter how foul his mood, after everything Sansa went through at the
Lannisters hands…
“What have I done?”
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     If this were an episode of Friends, it'd be called "The one with all
     the self-loathing".
Sansa runs and runs and runs, and she feels a fool for doing it in a faraway
corner of her mind, but Willas raising his hand frightened her so terribly,
because she thought he was different, thought she was safe,but he is just like
the rest, and she presses a hand to her mouth to try and stifle a sob as she
bursts past Garlan and Leonette and runs out of the keep, not caring about the
icy-cold rain and that she has no cloak because this cannot happen again.
                              
===============================================================================
 
“I lost my temper,” Willas says desperately, pulling on his right boot and
reaching for the left, which Garlan is holding too high for him to reach. “Damn
it all, Garlan-“
“What did you say to her?” Garlan asks. “Gods, Willas, she looked terrified-“
“I shouted at her,” he admits. “I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t, but I
shouted and I sort of did this-“ he throws his hands up again, as if in
frustration, “-but I think she thought I was going to strike her, and she ran.
Please, Garlan, give me my boot, I have to go after her-“
“How are you going to get a wheelchair down the steps?” Leonette points out,
digging out fresh clothes for Sansa. “I’ll go for her-“
“No,” Garlan says. “You find Mother, tell her what’s happened, tell Maester
Lomys that Willas was fool enough to get out of bed not two hours after having
his leg drained – I will go for Sansa. Bring clean things for her to our rooms
– might she sleep with you tonight, sweetling?”
“I did not mean it, Garlan,” Willas says wretchedly as Leonette disappears out
the door, Sansa’s things over her arm. “I swear I didn’t, you know I’d never
raise a hand to her-“
“Except you did,” Garlan says. “You know what she went through in King’s
Landing, and you raised your hands in anger. What did you expect her to do,
Willas?”
“I-“
Garlan’s hand whips across his face before he can form a full thought, never
mind a full sentence, and the sting of the blow is enough to stun him. He’s
just thankful that Garlan slapped him instead of thumping him, because he’s
seen half-hearted blows from Garlan’s fists break men’s noses.
“Allow me to attempt to salvage your marriage, brother,” Garlan says, and
Willas realises for the first time just how angry his brother is. “But first,
permit me to offer you some advice – when a woman who was scared out of caring
a damn for anything but her own survival worries for you, do try and not be a
complete bastard about it, hmm?”
 
===============================================================================
 
It is so, so cold in the gardens, and dark and wet, too, but Sansa does not
care because it’s away from Willas’ anger, something she never thought to see
directed at herself-
“Sansa? Sansa, where are you?”
She looks up when Garlan appears at the end of the avenue (it can only be
Garlan, even though she cannot see his face under his hood, because he’s the
tallest man in Highgarden, and besides, who else would come looking for her and
not call her LadySansa?).
“Here,” she calls, hating that her voice is thick with tears. “Here, ser.”
He ducks under the overhanging amaryllis and sits down beside her, wrapping a
cloak (Willas’ cloak, it smells faintly of saddle leather and is much too big
on her) around her shoulders and tugging the hood up over her sodden hair.
“Now then,” he says softly, folding his arms and leaning back against the
trellis behind them, and she wonders why he is not putting his arm around her
shoulders as he often does when they are talking together. “Tell me what
happened to frighten you so much.”
“It was nothing,” she says carefully. “I overreacted-“
“What my idiot brother did was wrong, Sansa,” Garlan says. “You have nothing to
apologise for, and you certainly did not overreact. Now, tell me what happened,
little sister.”
So she tells him – tells him that she was worried for Willas, that she tried to
make him see that he does not needto be so stubborn, that she’d rather he was
not if it meant his health would be better, “Because he’s so ill, Garlan, he’s
feverish half the time with the strain, and he can hardly eat much beyond a few
spoonfuls of broth or stew, and I worry!”
“And if he weren’t in such a foul humour, he would appreciate that,” Garlan
assures her. “He did not mean to scare you, Sansa, you do know that, don’t
you?”
She nods miserably and lets Garlan help her to her feet, huddling against his
side because she is freezing.
“He does not confide in me, though,” she blurts out, unable to stop herself.
“He does not turn to me for comfort as he should, and I worry that- does he
have a mistress, Garlan? Or a lover? Does he love another woman?”
Garlan hesitates, she can see that this worries him, and then he sighs.
“Do you promise not to tell Willas that I shared this with you?”
“Of course!”
“He confided in me, after I teased him for it, that he has been with no woman
but you since he returned from the High Tower almost three years ago.”
Sansa can feel her eyes go wide, and Garlan smiles slightly before guiding her
under the cloister that lines the southern wall of the keep, steering her
towards the Kitchen Door.
“He has no mistress, Sansa,” he promises her. “I’d kill him on your behalf if I
thought he did – we were raised better than that.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Mother shouts magnificently, her voice loud enough to rival the Old Man’s, but
her fury burns out quickly and then she sits with him, running her fingers
through his hair as he bites down on his knuckles and tries not to cry out
while Maester Lomys pokes and prods at his leg to ensure that he hasn’t done
any harm.
“Foolish boy,” she sighs when they are alone once more. “Do you not see how
skittish Sansa still is, even with you? Whatever the Lannisters did to her
broke her, Willas, and while you have gone some way towards healing her, this
could break her all over again-“
“I did not meanto frighten her, Mother!”
“I know, sweetling, I do know that, but you have to understand that you
did.That is the important thing here.”
“I just- I hate that she has to see how useless I am, Mother. I hate that
everyonesees me that way.”
“I do not,” Mother says. “Garlan, your father, Margaery, your uncles and your
grandfather – your grandmother may think you’ve served your purpose in her
schemes now by marrying Sansa, but none of us have ever seen you as useless,
silly boy.”
Willas huffs sceptically, but Mother grabs his chin and turns him to face her
properly.
“There are more sorts of worth than being able to swing a sword and ride a
joust,” Mother says sternly, looking very like Baelor. “Now stop this silliness
– it will help neither yourself nor your wife.”
There is a knock at the door, and when Leonette pops her head around
immediately after she is frowning just slightly, and Willas can practically
smellher disapproval.
“Sansa will stay with us tonight,” she says, “but she would like to break her
fast with you in the morning, my lord.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is exhausted the following morning – Leonette gave her the use of her
bed, and being alone (or, more specifically, being without Willas) left her
with the most horrible nightmares she has had in a long time (since starting to
share a bed with Willas, almost).
She takes her time preparing for the morning meal, carefully combing her hair
over her shoulder just as Willas likes, wearing the deep green gown he likes
best, sliding on her wedding ring, the ring that names her a Tyrell (Sansa has
her suspicions that Leonette will soon be wearing the complimentary emerald
ring, and wonders if Willas would not have been so angry with her had she given
him cause to give her the same ring, if she was carrying his heir, their child,
a babe with his lovely eyes and her hair, because he does love her hair).
She ignores the way her hands shake as she makes her way down the stairs to her
and Willas’ rooms, having thanked Garlan and Leonette for allowing her to
invade their privacy as they did and accepting their assurances that Willas did
not mean it, that it was an isolated incident never to be repeated, and Marian
pats her shoulder before opening the door for her.
“Aldwin’ll make sure milord behaves, milady,” Marian promises, and she is both
Old Nan and Septa Mordane at once and Sansa almost weeps she misses Winterfell
so much. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Willas is in his wheelchair, sitting under the single clear glass window of
their solar – the west wall has three windows, but the outer two are stained
glass, and all three look out over one of the pocket gardens that are tucked
into various little alcoves around Highgarden. The early sunlight is pale gold
and picks out the bronze and copper in his dark hair, the green in his eyes,
and he looks so ashamed when he turns to face her that she almost believes
Garlan and Leonette’s promises.
“Sansa,” he breathes, as if surprised that she is here, even though she sent
word that she would break her fast with him, and then he carefully wheels
himself across the room to greet her. She hears Marian and Aldwin depart just
as Willas reaches her, just as he halts at her side (closer than he could get
if he stayed directly in front of her).
“My lord,” she says quietly, not meeting his eyes but still able to see his
flinch at the formal address – she curses herself for not remembering that he
prefers to be called by his name, at least in private, and takes a seat when he
gestures to the table behind him.
“Will you eat with me, my lady?” he asks, sounding almost defeated, and she
wonders what she is doing wrong now,she is not fussing over him, she is not
implying that he is weak (although she had never meant to do that, he is so
strong that she sometimes wonders how he can stand to be so strong all of the
time without breaking, but she is grateful that he does not break often if last
night is a hint of what lies behind his strength). “There are strawberries – I
know how you like them. They may be some of the last fresh we have, if winter
has truly come.”
“This is not winter,” Sansa says automatically, reflexively rising to the hint
of her words (but no, no, she must remember that she is a Tyrell now, not a
Stark, though part of her still longs for Winterfell). The rain has cleared,
and while it is still quite cool, she would hardly have worn a cloak at
Winterfell if the weather was like this – why, it did not even freeze
overnight.
“Pardon my being a thin-blooded southerner,” he teases gently, but she cannot
quite shake the fear that if she does not behave as he wishes, he will raise
his hand again, so she must be perfect, must be sweet and good and gentle,
everything Septa Mordane trained her to be, but she must be clever, too,
because Willas grows bored if their conversation is not clever, and if he is
bored he might lose his temper again. I was free,she thinks, or at least, I
thought I was.
His fingers under her chin startle her, gentle and warm, and that shame is
there in his eyes again when she tentatively looks up at him.
“Sansa,” he says uncertainly, and it aches to see him as unsure of her as he
was in the very early days of their marriage. “Sansa, I would never hurt you,
you do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course, my lord,” she says, pulling back just slightly, but it is enough of
a hint and he drops his hand, something almost like despair in his lovely soft
eyes.
“Sansa,” he says again, “I am sorry.”
And it costs him dearly to say the words, she knows that, he is so fiercely
proud, this husband of hers (he said them twice last night, too), but she is
not entirely sure she can trust him, not after him showing her that anger, that
fury (his hands are so big, and she has loved that until now because they have
always been so gentle, and she managed to convince herself that they always
wouldbe gentle, but what if she was wrong?).
“I know, my lord,” she whispers, turning her face away from his in the hopes he
will not see how much she wishes to believe him, because she wished dearly to
believe Joffrey and Cersei and they turned that against her.
They eat in silence, and Garlan and Lord Mace arrive before Sansa has managed
to choke down much more than three strawberries (will he be annoyed if she does
not eat them?) and half a cup of sweet berry tea.
She hates that she is afraid now, but how can she not be, how can she not be
cautious when caution and courtesy have been her only defences in the past?
 
===============================================================================
 
The ground is wet and mucky, so Willas has to hobble with Garlan under one arm
and Father under the other to see where Loras has been laid.
“Who turned the sod?” he asks, forcing himself not to react to Father’s frown
of concern when his words come out hoarse and raw. He will not lose control of
himself, not again. Not after that terrible fear on Sansa’s face last night.
“I did,” Father assures him, and both Willas and Garlan sag with relief –
Willas wonders if Garlan, like him, was worried that Father would have gone
against generations of tradition and allowed Margaery her way and let her turn
the sod. “Garse offered, but it was not his place.”
No, it was less the place of their bastard cousin than of their sister, Willas
is certain of that, but he still hates that he was not able to do this one
thing for Loras, hates that had they been able to travel just a little quicker,
had he not been such a burden…
“Did he suffer?” Garlan asks, and Willas feels sick – Loras was not made for
suffering and pain, their stupid, brilliant baby brother was made for glory and
happiness, not this grave when they are all still young – when Father takes too
long in answering.
It begins to rain, but none of them make any move to turn back for shelter.
Willas grits his teeth against the pain in his leg and the pain in his heart,
grips tight to Garlan and Father’s cloaks, and when Father reaches across and
pats him on the chest he nods, and they leave Loras to his peace.
 
===============================================================================
 
Leonette is the one to find Sansa, to bring her to wherever it is that they are
to spend their morning (Sansa intends on avoiding her and Willas’ rooms, as
well as Garlan and Leonette’s, the library, and maybe Lady Olenna’s – all the
places Willas is most likely to look for her).
“You seem unwell,” Leonette worries, brushing Sansa’s hair back from her face,
back over her shoulder. “Are you sure you did not catch a chill yesterday? You
were ill before we left King’s Landing, and then the ride home from Storm’s
End-“
“I am fine,” Sansa insists, and she ducks her head, hiding her face as best she
can until Leonette draws them to a halt.
“Come, then,” she says after peering at Sansa for a long moment, tugging her up
the stairs by the hand, towards Lord Mace and Lady Alerie’s rooms, the lord’s
chambers and the lady’s. “I know who you need to speak with now.”
“Leonette, please-“
“Nobody knows Willas better than his mother, despite what my husband and Baelor
Brightsmile like to think,” Leonette says firmly. “And besides, few women are
as useful in a crisis as Lady Alerie – she is wonderful, Sansa. You do not know
her yet, not truly, but trust me, little sister, she isas good and kind as the
boys say.”
It amuses Sansa when Leonette refers to their husbands as “the boys,” if only
because there is, to Sansa’s mind, absolutely nothing boyishabout either Willas
or Garlan, aside from their occasionally childish sense of humour (particularly
not Willas, she cannot imagine a boy kissing her until she can’t breathe,
cannot imagine a boy’s hands making her gasp just with a touch, cannot imagine
a boy’s eyes darkening and going hot when she walks out from behind her
dressing screen in her nightgown).
She lets Leonette lead her to Lady Alerie’s rooms and stands just slightly
behind her goodsister while they wait for their goodmother to answer Leonette’s
knock on her door (carved with roses, is there anything in Highgarden not
choking with roses?).
Willas looks very much like his mother, Sansa thinks when Alerie Hightower
comes to the door, very much like his uncle and grandfather, although he is
much slighter through the shoulders and chest, not quite so tall, and his jaw
is not quite so square as, say, Baelor Brightsmile’s. Lady Alerie has that same
way of smiling as much with her eyes as her mouth that Willas has, though, and
that is why Sansa does not hesitate to take the hand her goodmother extends to
her, why she pauses only to see why Leonette has released her other hand.
“I will be with Margaery and Grandmother,” she says, smiling and bowing her
head to Lady Alerie, who waves her off with a nod before pulling the door
closed behind Sansa.
Her solar is a beautiful room – Sansa does not mind having to keep rooms on the
ground floor of the keep, knows how difficult it would be for Willas if she
wished to move higher up, but the view out across the softly sloping banks of
the Mander afforded by Lady Alerie’s high, arched windows fair takes her breath
away – and there is a bowl of fruit sitting on a low table between two deeply
cushioned chairs.
“Leonette was going to bring me here regardless of what I said,” she notes,
tensing when she realises that she has said the words aloud, but Lady Alerie
only gestures for her to sit, which she does.
“Now then,” Lady Alerie says once she has settled herself and her voluminous
skirts in the other chair and picked a shiny, deep red apple from the bowl,
“tell me what happened last night.”
“I am sure my lord-“
“Willas told me, and Garlan told me both what Willas said and what you said,
but I should like to hear from you, my dear.”
So Sansa tells her, because under the fear that Willas will be angry with her
now she is angry herself, angry because she knowsthat she did not do anything
wrong, knowsthat he had no real reason to be angry with her in the first place.
“He is so ill,” she says earnestly, needing Lady Alerie to understand, needing
to know that she is not the only one who sees it (although she knows only
Aldwin is likely to be in a position to count Willas’ ribs, now that they are
so obvious under his clammy skin). “I- I worry, my lady. He does not seem to
like it when I worry, though, but I do not understand why.I am his wife, it is
not as though it is not my place-“
“I know, sweetling,” Lady Alerie soothes, patting Sansa’s hand gently and
smiling sadly. “You must understand, though, growing up apart from the family
made Willas… He feels as though he is expected to be entirely autonomous from
us, you see. He loathes relying on us for anything, I think, and that makes his
infirmity particularly difficult for him to bear.”
Sansa almost protests that, because she knows how Willas hates to be called
infirm, but Lady Alerie holds up a hand to forestall her objections.
“Oh, I know how sensitive he is to being called ill or infirm – or an invalid,
which seems to rile his temper as few things ever have – but he isunwell, my
dear. You of all people must see that.”
She nods, thinking of how he sleeps so little because he cannot get comfortable
in bed, how he eats so little because the pain and, if not the pain then the
pain relief, turns his stomach, how he smiles so little these past weeks
because even when he is not in pain he knows that he soon will be.
“He does not want to lose his leg, either, even though the maesters are
insistent that it is the best course – he could have a false leg made, but he
is so proud that-“
Sansa says nothing when Lady Alerie breaks off with a sigh.
“He is so much more like his father than either of them would ever admit,” Lady
Alerie confides. “My husband has that same foolish pride, you see, so I have a
better idea than most how best to handle my boy.”
“My lady?”
“Willas did not raise his hand to you, Sansa, not as you think he did – have
you noticed that he sort of waves his hands about when he’s explaining
something?”
“I- yes, my lady, I have.”
“Now, I assume that last night was the first time you were witness to his
temper – for his sake, I hope it was the first time – and, while it does not in
any way excuse how he frightened you, he doeshave a tendency to wave his hands
about even more frantically when he is upset.”
“I know,” Sansa says. “When he is hurting, he sort of…” She trails off and
gives a demonstration of Willas’ absurd waving, and Lady Alerie laughs.
“Yes, that’s it!” she exclaims. “I just hope that you know that he would never
have raised his hand to strike you, Sansa. I know my son well enough, I think,
and I know beyond any doubt that he adores you – Willas could never harm
something he loves as much as he loves you.”
Sansa can feel her cheeks heating up at that, because everyoneseems certain
that Willas loves her enormously except her, because she still cannot
understand why he wouldlove her as much as everyone seems to think he does
(because she still wonders if they are wrong, if there is some other woman who
truly holds his affection, his heart, and even though she is still not ready to
give him her own heart, not completely, she desperately wants to be the one to
hold his).
“He wants to help, sweetling,” Lady Alerie says gently. “And mayhaps, in
allowing him to help you, you might help him. He has been happier since
marrying you than he has been since before his accident – it is as if I have my
son back, Sansa, and mayhaps it is selfish of me, but if seeing you smile makes
him happy, then I will do everything in my power to make you smile.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas tries to eat when Aldwin lays out lunch for himself and Garlan (Father
is gone to eat with Uncle Garth, and Sansa is nowhere to be seen), truly he
does, but the rich smells turn his stomach and he has to leave before he throws
up.
He stops outside the music room, hesitant to enter after so long, but someone
has been playing the dulcimer recently and it annoys him more than it should –
the dulcimer is his, a gift from Grandfather, and for gods’ sakes if it was
Marg can she not content herself with her harp and her flute and her half dozen
other instruments, and leave his one alone? – to see it uncovered, heavy sheet
folded neatly on the floor beside it.
The music room smells of beeswax and brass, and the windows are tall and face
south – it’s raining today, so that makes little difference, but on a good day
the whole room is bright because the sunshine reflects off the bare floorboards
that are kept polished to a shine. Even when he was small and visiting
Highgarden with Baelor (he has to admit, in hindsight, that he spent more time
in Highgarden as a child than he may have led Sansa to believe), the music room
was one of his favourite places to come and sit, one of the few places he would
chose to go even knowing that Garlan would not want to come with him.
He pulls out the cushion-topped stool at the dulcimer before carefully, slowly,
levering himself out of his wheelchair. It is hard work, laborious, but when he
lifts the lid and sets his hands on the keys for the first time in too long, he
thinks that it is probably worth it.
He’s rusty – it’s been too long since last he played – but he was always good
at this, and it isn’t long before he’s so immersed in the music that he forgets
to worry about his leg and Sansa and Loras and the war and Aegon bloody
Targaryen.
“Willas?”
His fingers slip in the middle of an upward progression at the quiet sound of
Margaery’s voice, and he turns to look over his shoulder.
She looks so young, hair loose around her shoulders and none of the elaborate
corsetry Grandmother had recommended she start to use when she’d married Renly,
and her eyes are slightly pink, as if she has been crying.
Of course she’s been cryinghe scolds himself, she was closer to Loras than
anyone.
He shifts himself across on the stool and gestures for her to sit with him,
which she does, but then she links her arm through his and rests her head
against his shoulder just like she used when she was small and did not want him
to return to Oldtown.
“You haven’t played in a long time,” she says quietly. “I was beginning to
think you’d given up. You used to play happier things, though.”
“These are far from happy times, Margie.”
“Youshould be happier,” she says, and there’s something almost accusatory there
in her tone. “You have a wife you adore and who loves you back as best she’s
able, you have Garlan with you even though you knowhe should be at Brightwater
by now, you’re the one negotiating with kings-“
“Margie-“
“Why are you not happy?” she asks, lifting her other hand and touching his
face. “Is it your leg?”
“I- I am happy, Margaery! I know I’ve been in bad form since we arrived home,
but, I, with Loras-“
“No, this is different,” she says. “Garlan said something about you fighting
with Aegon Targaryen-“
“He had no right-“
“He didn’t mention it to Mother or Father or even Grandmother,” she promises.
“But, Willas… You must know Sansa would not want to marry someone else, surely?
I have hardly seen you together and I know that.”
He looks away from her, down at the keys on which his right hand still rests,
and all he can see is Sansa’s face when she thought he was going to hit her.
“She hates me,” he whispers, shutting his eyes to try and force back the
foolish tears that have sprung up from nowhere. “And rightly so, too.”
“Is this about your argument last night?” Margaery asks, nonplussed. “Willas,
it’s only normal you and Sansa fight sometimes! Why, Mother and Father shout so
loud at one another that you can hear them at the other end of the castle-“
“She thought I was going to strikeher, Margie,” he says, and he feels sicker
even than when Aldwin laid the table. “How could she think that of me if she
loves me, as you say she does?”
The whole stupid story spills out then, all in a rush, and his voice is rough
with the tears he is still battling by the time he finishes.
“You are a fool, Willas.”
He pulls away from Margaery sharply, slams the lid of the keyboard shut, and
they sit there in the ringing silence for a long moment, her too stunned to
speak and him too angry with himself.
“I know that,” he grits out, and suddenly, he doesknow. “Gods, Margie, I know
that, I know-“
She doesn’t seem to know what to do with him when he slumps forward onto the
keyboard and wraps his arms behind his head, when he starts to cry, and gods he
feels so weak,but if he has truly ruined things with Sansa then what use is
there in being strong? He has been strong for her these past months, but if
that same attempt at strength is going to push her away…
“She thought I was going to hither,” he gulps out, breath hitching. “She
thought that I could raise a hand to her in anger, and- gods, Margie, she
thinks I’m no better than that creature-“
“Willas, no,” Margaery says, nudging closer to his side and leaning over his
back, resting her cheek just under his shoulder blade. “No, she could never
think you like Joffrey, nobody could ever think that-“
“No, at least I hit my wife myself, I don’t ask other men to do it for me,” he
forces out on a sob, and Margaery’s fingers are soothing in his hair. “What
have I become,Margie? I’m just- I’m so angryof late, and Sansa, I was never
angry with Sansa until we went to Storm’s End-“
“You’re jealous,” Margaery points out. “Needlessly, but you are jealous-“
“I knowSansa would never be unfaithful”, he says, “I do, I know that, but how
can she want me when she could have him?He’s every maiden’s dream, Margie, even
Garlan had to admit that, and he’s so much closer to her age-“
“Willas-“
“Yesterday night… What must she think of me, Margaery?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know that when you arrived yesterday
evening, she cared about nothing but making certain that you were well, Willas.
She was annoyed when you would not let her come with you to Maester Lomys, and
that does not strike me as the reaction of a woman who hates her husband.”
“That was before I- I-“
He can’t find words to express just how disgusted he is with himself, how much
he wishes he could erase every word spoken to Sansa in anger. He tries to find
something, anything to say, but all that comes out is a sob and he hateshimself
for that.
Margaery winds her arms tight around him and shushes him the way Mother used
when he was small, but she smells of roses and he has had quite enough of
Highgarden, thank you very much, he wants rosemary and cool hands and shiny-
soft hair and Sansa, his Sansa,he wants his wife,but he has ruined that, ruined
everything because of his stupidtemper-
“Willas? Are you hurt?”
He jolts upright as Margaery springs away from him, rubbing a hand roughly over
his face before turning to Sansa, knowing that it makes no difference (gods,
what must she think of him?) because he looks awful, he must do, and he cannot
seem to catch his breath.
“I’ll see you both at dinner,” Margaery says, breezing past Sansa with a small
smile and whispering something Willas doesn’t catch before she closes the door.
“Are you?” Sansa asks, fists clenched in her skirts for a moment before she
forces them open. “Hurt, I mean?”
He shakes his head, not trusting his voice as he watches her walk a circuit of
the room, her long fingers tracing the shapes of instruments and furniture
alike. She is so, so beautiful, and he presses a hand to his mouth to stave off
another sob because she honestly believes he would hurt her.
He’d rather cut off his own hands than hurt Sansa. He just wishes he could make
her see that.
She stands just too far for him to touch her, and her hands are clenched again,
pink fingers and white knuckles and when he dares look up to meet her eyes, he
can see that she has been crying too, but she manages to look so delicate about
it, red-rimmed eyes and the skin underneath just slightly puffy.
“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers, feeling like a complete ass.
She jerks, almost as if she is going to touch him, but then she stops.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”
And it is as if he’s having an epiphany: she is so, so young.
She is only just barely fourteen, they celebrated her nameday in the rain on
the way home from Storm’s End, and he is such an idiot,because he knowsthat she
is so young, but he has been forcing himself to forget that because it is
easier to not think of the fact that his wife, his beautiful, brave wife, is
eleven yearshis junior.
And she hates him and thinks he could do her harm.
“Do you have a lover?”
He can’t look away from her, but he can feel his mouth drop open.
“You think I have a lover?”
“You never talk to me the way-“
And he wonders if she is right (the way my father spoke to my mother,he knows
she was going to say, he knows that she judges their marriage against her
parents’), if it’s true that he doesn’t confide in her, because he does not
want to worryher.
But for her to think that he is being unfaithful…
“I do not have a lover, Sansa,” he says as firmly as he can.
“Garlan said that. He said that you’ve not… That you haven’t… None but me in a
long time.”
“Three years,” he agrees. “More – Garlan was teasing, and I just wanted him to
stop.”
“How long?”
He hesitates, but if telling her things will earn her trust…
“Not since I left Oldtown after the maesters said that there was nothing more
that they could do for my leg.”
“How long?”
“I was eighteen,” he said softly. “When last I lay with anyone other than you.
I- I could hardly move without pain for years after the accident, and then…”
“People saw Highgarden, not you.”
She understands, because she was seen as Winterfell, not as Sansa, but he needs
to tell her the whole truth.
“And I was… I lost someone very close to me, not long after the accident.”
“Close to you in what way?”
In the way that I wanted to marry her,he thinks.
“Her name was Melinda,” he says softly. “Her mother and Baelor’s wife are
sisters. She was two years my senior, and we were…”
“Lovers.”
“I wanted to marry her,” he forces himself to tell her. “I would have spoken to
her father had she not… Had she not already been betrothed.”
Sansa gasps, and he looks away, so ashamed.
“I loved her, Sansa,” he admits. “I was thirteen when she came to the High
Tower, and she… She was beautiful, and because I was living with Baelor as his
squire, and she was with Rhonda as her ward…”
“You and she-“
“Yes. For years.”
“Oh.”
“She was betrothed to a Lannister of Lannisport from childhood,” he goes on.
”But we… We didn’t care. We were careful not to conceive a child, and we never
thought to worry about anything else.”
“She was married not long after your accident?”
“She died, Sansa.”
And Sansa’s fingers are cool on his cheek, just a brush of her fingertips over
his cheekbone, but it is enough to make him look back up.
“After my accident, before the wounds healed, I contracted blood poisoning. We…
Everyone was certain that I was going to die – I suspect it’s why my parents
get so angry with me even still when I strain my leg. Linda had a somewhat
different reaction.”
He forces himself not to look away.
“We were not careful enough,” he says briskly, “and I- I got her with child.”
Sansa is pale, even for her.
“And your b- your child?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on hers, seeing the pain and the fear.
“Melina chose not to reveal her pregnancy to me until three moons had passed,
and I knew that the only way that I would ever be allowed to keep my child with
me would be if she and I married, so we went to Baelor and Rhonda and confessed
everything.”
He takes a deep breath.
“Her betrothal was part of a binding contract, though. There was nothing we
could do, and having my child would have ruined her, could have ruined
everything, so Baelor sent for a maester.”
“That’s how you know things about moon tea.”
He nods.
“How did she die?”
“It- the moon tea did its work,” he says bitterly, and even though he knows
that his parents would have been ashamed of him, bringing home a bastard,
sometimes (not in a long time, not since Sansa) he wondered what it would be
like to have a son with Melinda’s dark eyes and her turned-up nose to keep him
company, to love.“And we thought that that was the end of it – Melinda despised
me for not fighting Baelor, and we did not speak again.”
He pauses for a moment.
“Rhonda wrote to her sister, Melinda’s mother, and suggested that it was about
time for the wedding to take place – Melinda was eight-and-ten, after all – and
while they were on the road north…”
He isn’t sure he can actually form the words – nobody, not even Garlan knows
the full truth of his and Melinda’s relationship, nobody but Baelor and Rhonda
– but he must, he owes Sansa this honesty.
“Her mother said that she started to bleed,” he says. “Something – the moon
tea, she was near four moons gone by the time she took it, and something went
wrong. She bled to death, and her family staged a bandit attack so nobody would
know the truth of it.”
He turns back to the keyboard, lifts the lid but does not play, terrified of
what her reaction will be.
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she says softly, and she rests her hand
on his shoulder for a moment before departing.
How can she not hate me now, he thinks, and Mother lifts his hands from the
keys when the light has slanted low and long, and there is sympathy in her eyes
when she takes out her handkerchief and dries his face.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Sansa sits on the edge of the upper mezzanine in the library, legs hanging down
into empty space, and tries to make sense of everything Willas told her.
He will never love me as he loved her she thinks, and that hurts so, so much,
aches deep in her chest, and she presses her face into her hands and weeps. Is
this how Mother always felt about Jon’s mother, I wonder? Afraid that she would
never measure up to some other woman?
To think of Willas loving another woman hurts more than she thought possible –
if he had a mistress, some woman to sate his desire, she thinks she might
almost be able to understand that. He comes to her so rarely to lie with him,
and his kisses are always sweet, never demanding, and it almost makes sense
that he would have a mistress.
But this is something else altogether, and she does not know how she is
supposed to feel about it at all. She thinks that Garlan must not know, else he
would have tried to warn her somehow, to prepare her, and to think that Willas
has been carrying this around inside himself all these years (eight years,
because he said it was not long after his accident and he was just barely
sixteen when he had his accident, such a long time to hold onto something so
terrible)makes her ache with sympathy for him.
It explains some things, she supposes – there has always been a sort of sadness
tucked away in the back of Willas’ eyes, behind the kindness and the love
(because she does not doubt that he loves her, she simply thinks that he must
not love her as he did this Melinda) and the smiles, because Willas’ smiles are
all in his eyes. She put it down to his leg, to sorrow at the state of his
relationship with his family save Garlan and Lady Alerie, but it must at least
in part have been rooted in his secret all this time.
Another woman was carrying his child,Sansa thinks, and she feels sick because
she may not be his wife in every way, she may not be giving him a child yet,
but sheis the only woman who should carry Willas’ children, not some faceless
woman who seduced him when he was younger than Sansa is now. And he loved her,
and it nearly ruined him to see her ridded of the babe.
That, oddly enough, is the one thing that does not trouble Sansa – Willas has
so much love in him, hidden under confused resentment and misdirected anger,
that it is impossible to think of him notloving a child of his, to think of him
not wantinga child of his own. Even with how careful he has been not to get a
child on her, two or three instances aside, he has never hidden his longing for
children with her, sons called Brandon and Eddard and Rickon.
(But not Robb, not after what the Freys did to him, because Sansa isn’t sure
she could look at her son and not see that every time).
She likes the idea of having children, more than just to secure her place here
at Highgarden. Children with Willas’ lovely eyes and his love of learning and
his sweet, almost shy smile and all that love in them, more beautiful than
Loras and Margaery. She does wantto have Willas’ children, but she cannot help
but wonder if he will always compare them to the child he might have had with
Melinda and find them lacking because they are hers, not belonging to the woman
he wantedto marry (Mother must have wondered if Father compared Robb and Jon
and found Robb lacking, too, no wonder she could not love Jon).
Had Willas and Melinda been allowed to have the babe, even if they were not
allowed to marry, the child would be eight now, almost the same age as Bran and
Prince Tommen (King Tommen, now). Sansa’s stomach turns over at that (no,
plenty of women marry men older than them, Mother’s sister married Jon Arryn
and he was old enough to be her grandfather, Willas is not so terribly older
than me and he isWillas, anyways, he isdifferent)and at the thought of how
different her arrival in Highgarden might have been had she been greeted not
only by her betrothed but also by his bastard.
Her weeping turns to sobs, and she makes no effort to keep quiet.
How is she supposed to fight against a dead woman, she wonders? And she does
not doubt that she will have to fight for Willas’ affections, because this
woman who was his first love, the mother of his first child (but not his
firstborn, Sansa thinks, and immediately feels despicable for it when she
remembers the heartbreaking grief on Willas’ face while he spoke of Melinda
having to take the moon tea), his first woman,how is Sansa to measure up to
that? From that to a girl masquerading as a woman, who he coddles and soothes
and worries over – surely he cannot be satisfied with her when he has known
love between equals?
Marian comes and finds her when she has been crying for longer than she thought
and brings her away for a bath and to change for dinner (in the other
bedchamber in her and Willas’ rooms, she notes, and she thinks that mayhaps
even just knowing that he is nearby might be enough to stave off the worst of
her nightmares tonight, so she will stay here).
She hears a cry of pain from the other room while Marian is helping her rinse
her hair, and she almost pulls on her robe and runs to him, but then she stops
– when last she tried to express her concern, he became so, so angry, and she
does not wish to risk provoking him again (because his hands have always been
so gentle, but they are so big and he is so surprisingly strong).
 
===============================================================================
 
Spots dance in Willas’ vision as he leans almost all of his weight on Aldwin
and tries not to move until the pain subsides enough for him to both move and
not pass out.
“I’ll have the smith take that ruddy handle off the tub,” Aldwin says, glaring
murderously at the offending loop of copper, the same one that Willas managed
to catch the side of his knee on while climbing out of the bath. “C’mon,
milord, just a bit more, then we’ll get you into your chair and you’ll be right
as rain, come on now.”
Willas does as he’s told, moving jerkily because he can hardly stand the pain
(sitting at the dulcimer all day with no support behind his knee was a very bad
idea indeed), and even the relief of sitting down isn’t enough, and he still
can’t see straight.
“How do I fix this, Aldwin?”
“Let them cut it off above the knee, milord.”
“No, not my leg,” Willas sighs, “Sansa, Aldwin, what am I to do about my wife?”
“I’d start with your leg, milord – easier to fix a mangled limb than the wreck
you’ve made of things with Lady Sansa, I’d say.”
“Aldwin-“
“Telling you for years to have the damn thing off,” Aldwin continues as though
Willas didn’t speak, didn’t try to object. “Your temper might improve if you
don’t have that useless lump hanging off you all the damned time.”
For all his bluster, Aldwin’s hands are still gentle on Willas’ bad leg as he
pats it dry, as he lifts it to help Willas into his smallclothes and breeches
(but not his brace, because Willas isn’t certain he’d survive the pressure of
his brace on his knee).
“You’ll take your poppy’s milk now, I assume?” Aldwin says archly while Willas
is pulling on his shirt. “No need for you to be wincing and whining your way
through dinner, after all. Your lady has quite enough to worry about without
worrying about you,you know.”
Willas tugs his shirt down over his head, shifting slightly in his chair, and
bites his lip.
“I told her about Melinda, Aldwin.”
“Oh? About time, too. Not as if you’ve much of a romantic history to tell her
about, that madness in Sunspear aside.”
“I told her the truthabout Melinda, I mean.”
It’s the first time Willas can remember seeing Aldwin speechless, and there’s
so much sadness in Aldwin’s eyes that Willas feels almost ashamed.
“Oh, you poor fool,” Aldwin sighs. “Let’s pray you can help her understand
about that.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is waiting in their sitting room (when did it become a sitting room, not
a solar?) when Willas wheels himself out, her hair loose down her back and
livid red-gold against the pale silver-blue of her gown. She herself is pale,
the usual healthy hint of pink in her cheeks absent, and there are deep shadows
that he did not notice earlier under her eyes.
“My lady,” he offers, and he tries a smile, which she returns wanly. “Shall
we?”
She holds the door open for him and pulls it closed behind them, and then she
walks at his side in silence as they make their way along the corridors to the
lower dining hall – Willas suspects Father’s request that the whole family dine
together has to do less with his and Garlan’s absence for Loras’ funeral and
more to do with Father’s overwhelming need to control every aspect of their
lives – Father wasn’t entirely convinced of the wisdom of Willas marrying Sansa
in the first place, and now that they are so obviously not on good terms…
“Sansa,” he begins, but he isn’t sure what to say, doesn’t know how she took
the truth of his and Melinda’s relationship. “Sansa, I…”
She smiles another of those small, thin, wan smiles, her hands fluttering at
her waist before she clasps them firmly together. She’s wearing a ring he’s
never seen before on the third finger of her right hand, he notices, silver, a
thick, heavily-engraved band, a pattern of twisting branches and leaves. It
covers almost the whole joint between her bottom and second knuckles, and it
seems almost too big for her hand and yet somehow just right.
She is not wearing her wedding ring, though, and that makes his stomach twist
uncomfortably. Does she wish to separate herself from him visibly?
“Will you sit with me after dinner?” he asks just as they reach the doors, and
he prays that she does not refuse him this. “I feel that we… We ought to talk
some.”
She hesitates almost long enough to make a coward of him, to make him take back
his request because he feels as though she does not wish it, he can see it in
her eyes that she does not wish it, but then she gives him one more of those
shadows of her usual smile and nods.
“It would be a pleasure, my lord,” she says, and he knows that even days ago
that would have been the truth but it is not now, and he is amazed by how
painful that knowledge is.
He sighs and motions for her to enter before him, and thanks any god who might
be listening that the lower dining hall has no dais for Garlan to have to carry
him up with his leg as it is.
 
===============================================================================
 
“You should come riding with us tomorrow, Sansa,” Margaery suggests with a
smile, gesturing further down the table to her cousins. “Willas will be in
council with Father and the rest for much of the day, and even Mother is coming
out with us, aren’t you Mother?”
Lady Alerie, sitting on Sansa’s other side, laughs.
“Margaery is quite insistent when she sets her mind to it,” she says, smiling
indulgently at her daughter (it reminds Sansa of how Father used smile at Arya
when she misbehaved, when he knew but had no intention of telling Mother). “I
rather think my company might help convince you to come, Sansa – conversation
amongst silliness.”
Sansa sits back and lets Lady Alerie and Margaery’s gentle, heatless argument
wash over her, watching Willas where he sits across the table between Lord Mace
and Lord Garth. He looks so unwell, drawn and paler than she has ever seen him.
He sits with his head resting in his hand half of the time, hiding his face
even as he speaks with his father and uncle, but she catches his eye more than
once and is not sure what to make of what she sees there.
“There is a stand of sentinel pines a ways along the roseroad that I think you
may like, Sansa,” Lady Alerie says, breaking Sansa out of her reverie. “Mayhaps
you and I might visit it on the morrow, sweetling, while we are out on this
ride of Margaery’s – no doubt she and her cousins will be distracted by
thoughts of pretty knights and us barely out of Highgarden.”
“Sentinel pines?” Sansa breathes, barely daring to believe – she would have
thought it too warm here, for such trees, but mayhaps the Reach truly is as
fertile as people say, mayhaps the land here truly can support anything. “The
godswood at home- I mean, at Winterfell, it is all sentinels save for the heart
tree.”
“Is it indeed?” Lady Alerie asks with a smile. “Well, it will be nice for you
to see something of your home, then. I dare say you miss it.”
“Oh, I did not mean- Highgarden is-“
“Lovely, yes, sometimes suffocatingly so,” Lady Alerie agrees, waving aside
Margaery’s protests and smiling to her other side, to Leonette, who is nodding
in fervent agreement as she tries to swallow down a mouthful of sweetwine. “But
I know that I often miss the salt air of Oldtown, and Leonette doubtless
sometimes wishes for the orchards of Cider Hall. You are allowedto miss your
home, Sansa.”
Lady Alerie’s hands are the same shape as Willas’, long fingers and a broad
palm, when she takes Sansa’s in her own.
“Highgarden may in time become like a home to you, Sansa,” Leonette says
gently, leaning around their goodmother, “but you do not have to forget your
true home – your home is further than mine or Lady Alerie’s, it is true, but
mayhaps that is even more reason for you to hold onto it.”
“There will be fools who call you a rose, dear,” Lady Alerie says, squeezing
Sansa’s hand, “but you are no more a Tyrell than I am, or Leonette is – or even
than my goodmother is, for all that they call her the Queen of Thorns.”
Lady Olenna is sitting on the other side of Lord Mace to Willas, offering sharp
opinions when she feels the menfolk are not doing as she thinks they should.
“You do not haveto be a Tyrell, Sansa – if you were more like Margaery and her
cousins, I daresay Willas would not dote on you as he does.”
Sansa flushes and looks away, and in that moment she catches Willas’ eye and he
is smiling, smiling and rolling his eyes as if in amusement at something Lord
Garth is saying, and for that moment it is as if the past two days have not
happened.
But then his smile fades slightly, and he seems unsure of himself, and she
looks down because they have happened, and she cannot pretend otherwise.
 
===============================================================================
 
He is waiting for her when she returns to their sitting room, easing himself
into his armchair by the fire, biting his lip against the pain.
“My lord?” she calls softly from the door, not wanting to startle him. “Should
I fetch Maester Lomys?”
Sansa likes Maester Lomys, because he reminds her of Maester Luwin sometimes
but also of Ser Rodrick, in a strange way, because he is a much bigger, more
robust man than Maester Luwin, and is very practical with it. She trusts him
with Willas, knows that she will be able to trust him when the time comes to
worry about her children, but she wishes Willas would listen to his advice a
little more.
“No, Sansa,” he grits out, moaning in relief when he settles himself, reaching
down to pull off his boot. “No, my lady, but thank you for your concern – I am
well enough.”
She does not argue (not after when last he said those words to her) and takes
her own chair on the other side of the fireplace. They are complimentary but
not matching, she notices for the first time, upholstered in the same rich
claret velvet but shaped differently – Willas’ is higher, suited for his
limited mobility, and has less cushioning than her own, and, she sees, has
hidden compartments in the arms, under the padded armrests, where he stows
books and-
“I did not know you smoked, my lord,” she says, unable to hide her surprise
when he draws forth a long pipe (as decorative as everything else in
Highgarden), trimmed in silver, and a leather pouch that can only hold tobacco.
“Only a little,” he says with a small smile, packing the bowl of his pipe and
then frowning. “Damn it all – would you mind lighting a taper for me, Sansa? I
meant to before I sat down, but I forgot.”
She drops quickly to the hearth, lighting the taper he offers her and handing
it back carefully.
“Sansa,” he begins as he lights his pipe, “Sansa, what I spoke of today, you do
understand that it is long in my past, don’t you?”
She does not move from her place on the hearthrug, because she wants so
desperately to believe that, truly she does, but the grief on Willas’ face
while he spoke of Melinda and their child was so raw, so fresh,that she
cannotbelieve him.
His hand under her chin startles him, palm cradling her chin and fingers
splayed along her jaw, her cheek. His skin is warm, his callouses rough but not
so much that they scratch, and his fingertips move gently over and back as he
simply looks into her eyes, deep into her eyes as though searching for
something.
“You do not believe me,” he says at last, and when he turns his head away he
closes his eyes, and there are tears clinging to his eyelashes. “You must
understand, Sansa, I haveput it behind me – I was… Overwrought today while I
was telling you. Melinda is in my past, Sansa. Youare my present, my future –
you must believe that.”
She rises up from her heels, onto her knees, so she might reach his face.
“You loved her enough to- to-“
“To ruin her? To be reckless and foolish enough to cause her death? I hope
never to love you in the same way I loved Melinda, Sansa. I had no right to
Melinda, Sansa, and I knew that but I did not care. I was young and arrogant
and stupid, and what I felt for her was… It was a shadow of what I feel for
you.”
He wears his beard even shorter than his hair, just a fine covering tight to
his jaw and cheeks, and it’s soft and rough at the same time under her
fingertips.
“I want to believe,” she whispers, primed to move away in case this angers him.
“I do, but…”
“But after last night, you cannot.”
“It is not just that,” she protests, and he opens his eyes again, looks at her
once more. “I just… I don’t understand.”
“Your father had a son with a woman not your mother,” he says, setting aside
his pipe and taking her face in both hands, leaning closer to her. “He went
against all custom and raised your bastard brother with you and your trueborn
siblings, you’ve told me as much yourself. Do you doubt that he loved your
mother?”
“Never.”
“Then why doubt that I love you, Sansa? Am I a lesser man than your father?”
“I never-“
The tip of his nose touches hers, and his eyes are half-closed. She keeps her
eyes open though, open to see his face, the furrow in his brow, the way he’s
gnawing at his lip.
“Why can you not believe that I love you?” he whispers, holding her close to
him, thumbs stroking over her cheeks. “Do you doubt me so entirely? Sansa, last
night was oneindiscretion, and I have never hated myself more for anything.
Please, Sansa-“
“I know,” she assures him, splaying her fingers over his cheeks and not knowing
what to do when his tears run down her hands. “But- I- Willas, help me
understand.”
His mouth is warm on hers, and gentle, and she leans up as close to him as she
can, twists her hands into the short, soft hair behind his ears (he keeps his
hair short at the sides and hardly longer on top, just long enough to curl and
fall over his forehead), tilts her head and parts her lips for him because she
loves kissing him, loves having him kiss her, but something feels off, feels
wrong,and she can see that he knows that too when he pulls away.
“Please, Sansa, please,” and he guides her up to sit in his lap and wraps her
tight in his arms, holds her as close as he can and buries his face in her
hair. “Please, love, trust me, believe me-“
Sansa is so confused that she cannot even cry, that she does not know how in
the world she is supposed to react to this, to Willas breaking apart in her
arms, so she holds tight to him and tries not to do the wrong thing, to say the
wrong thing.
“Please,” he begs, “please, Sansa, I love you, you must believe that.”
“I do,” she whispers into his hair, “I do, but I wonder if it is enough.”
“It can be.”
“No,” she disagrees. “No, you don’t, don’t trust me enough, and we cannot be
happy, not trulyhappy, not unless you trust me.”
“I dotrust you-“
“You only told me about Melinda because you thought it would make me forgive
you for last night,” she says, and even as she says it she realises the truth
of it. “You do not trust me enough to ask for help when you are unwell, you do
not seek my council in anything-“
“I dotrust you, I just do not wish to worry you-“
“That is precisely the problem!” she shouts, scrambling back out of his lap to
stand before him with her fists clenched at her sides. “I am your wife!If I do
not worry for you, who will? You certainly do not worry for yourself, and I
will not see you destroy yourself through your own stupid stubbornness!”
“Why should you be forced to carry my burdens?” he demands, rubbing the back of
his hand over his cheeks – she can see that his temper is rising, but she
refuses to back down again, wonders if maybe he needs her to fight back the way
Aldwin and Garlan do to keep him in check – and leaning forwards. “Bad enough
that I suffer for my pains without-“
“Yet you wish to take on mypains! You wish to shoulder myburdens, even those I
can carry myself! Do you not see why that is wrong, Willas? I see Garlan and
Leonette, and they talkto one another, your mother and Lord Mace the same, but
we do not!”
“Yes we do! Of course we do! How can you say that we do not speak?”
“That is the problem, we speak much but talk little!”
And yes, Lady Alerie’s assurances that Sansa is right to miss home, is right to
not feel completely a Tyrell, they have made her realise that it is not wrong
for her not to understand Willas, too.
Yet, she wonders if mayhaps Lady Alerie gave her some unintended insight - He
feels as though he is expected to be entirely autonomous from us, you see,and
Sansa does see, she sees all too clearly now just how much her husband has
isolated himself, able to love but refusing to see just how loved he is.
“What can I do to make this right?” he asks quietly, all temper and anger gone
from him in an instant, and he sags, shoulders sinking forwards and head
falling so low his chin almost touches his chest. “Tell me what I must do,
Sansa, and I will do it. Anything, love, just let me know and it will be done,
I swear it.”
She touches his face, the soft skin of his temple, the sharp line of his
cheekbone (too sharp, now, because he will not eat) and sighs.
“I do not know,” she admits. “I don’t know, Willas. I am sorry.”
 
===============================================================================
 
She sleeps poorly again that night, but is amazed to be woken not by Marian but
by Margaery, for once without her coterie of cousins.
“Come, sister,” Margaery says brightly, throwing back the curtains and letting
in what little sunshine there is. “It is not so nice a day as we might have
hoped, but wrap up warm and we shall not let it worry us – at least it is not
raining, after all.”
“Margaery-“
“Come, come!” Margaery practically sings. “You did not tell me you had your
namedaylast week – Leonette only mentioned it last night, and I have not yet
had time to find you a suitable gift.”
“You do not need-“
“Of course I do,” she says breezily, and Sansa likes that Margaery is not so
careful as she was in King’s Landing, that she is so much freer here in her
home. “Now, let us see – oh, this is pretty! You should wear this one!”
She draws a riding gown from the biggest of Sansa’s trunks, thick wool the
colour of a storm sky, dark grey with a queer hint of purple, a hint brought
out by the deep purple velvet trim and the embroidery along the hem and cuffs
(purple alyssum, like used grow in the window boxes in her and Arya’s and
Mother’s rooms, Father had them planted because of the sweet smell).
“Did you do the embroidery yourself?”
“I- yes,” she says, completely overwhelmed by Margaery’s presence, which has a
force not unlike a mailed fist to the jaw but which is much, much sweeter.
“You have a lovely touch for needlework,” Margaery tells her. “I was admiring
Willas’ doublet last night – I thought it was new, but Mother says no, that you
unpicked the old stitching and did it fresh. He looked well turned out, even if
he’s half a corpse.”
Margaery looks away when Sansa strips to slip into the bath (she will wash her
hair this evening, it has gotten too long and she needs Marian’s help), and she
is still looking away when Sansa emerges from behind the screen in fresh
smallclothes and shift, her hair gathered untidily on the top of her head with
a long strip of ribbon.
“Now then,” Margaery says once she has Sansa sitting at the dressing table.
“Let us see about your hair – do you know, I don’t think Willas looked away
from it once last night?”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Sansa manages to say, unable to think of Willas
without seeing him as he was when she took her leave last night, tear-streaked
and despairing. “I- Margaery, what are you doing?”
Margaery’s hands are busy in Sansa’s hair, twisting narrow braids from her
temples, from above her ears, pulling her hair back from her face.
“Trust me, Sansa,” Margaery says, bending so her chin is resting on Sansa’s
shoulder. “I do know something about styling hair, you know.”
By the time Margaery is done, there must be some seventeen or eighteen smaller
braids in Sansa’s hair, but they’re all bound together in one long plait that
hangs to her hips, threaded through with ribbons of purple and grey and pearl.
“There now,” Margaery says, no small satisfaction in her voice and the purse of
her full lips. “I’ll send Marian in to you, and when you’re dressed, come to
Mother’s rooms – we will all break our fast together, and then we shall set
out. What do you say to that?”
She manages a smile and a nod, which seems to satisfy Margaery, and she has a
few moments alone before Marian comes in and closes the door very firmlybehind
her.
“Lady Margaery is quite something,” Marian says diplomatically, and then she
digs through the drawers (she moved all of Sansa’s things in here yesterday
morning, anticipating Sansa’s plans to not sleep in Willas’ bedchamber anymore)
and brings forth warm stockings and a warmer shift, too. “And she still has no
clue how to dress herself beyond the pretty side of things. Here we are, milady
– wouldn’t want you catching a chill, now would we?”
Sansa obediently rolls up the stockings and changes into the warmer shift
(lambswool instead of linen) before Marian lifts the gown.
“She is good at the pretty side of things, I’ll give her that,” she admits
begrudgingly, but there’s a smile playing at the edge of her lips and it
softens her words. “You have a lovely purple cloak, too, my lady, do you
remember the cloth coming from Oldtown, from milord Willas’ grandfather –
purple is such a lovely foil for your hair, almost as nice as blue.”
She holds onto the bedpost and lets Marian pull her stays firm, but not tight,
and then she checks her reflection in the full-length mirror by the window
before pulling on her long riding boots and lacing them tight.
“I’ll bring your cloak out before you leave, my lady,” Marian says. “Go on now,
you know the way to Lady Tyrell’s rooms – hurry on, they shan’t eat until
you’re with them.”
Willas’ door is still closed when Sansa makes her way through the sitting room,
and she forces herself not to think on that as she climbs the stairs to Lady
Alerie’s chambers.
 
===============================================================================
 
Riding out with the other ladies serves first and foremost to prove that Sansa
is by far and away the weakest horsewoman in Highgarden, but she finds that she
does not really mind – Lady Alerie and Leonette slow their pace to ride with
her, while Margaery and Megga and Alla and Elinor ride on ahead, hair streaming
loose behind them as they laugh together.
“We married women will take things at a more sedate pace,” Lady Alerie says,
winking at Sansa as she wheels her horse around and draws to a halt, motioning
for Sansa and Leonette to join her. Sansa notices only for the first time then
that only Lady Alerie and Leonette have their hair bound back fully like her
own, and she wonders at that – it feels almost silly to be dressing her hair
more maturely than Margaery, but now that Sansa sees Margaery away from court,
away from Lady Olenna, she feels older than her, too, not just than the
cousins.
They’ve come to a stop on a rise in the road, and Highgarden and the Mander
both are below them – it is a beautiful view, even in the dim light of the
overcast day, and Sansa drinks it in (and wonders how deep the snow is about
Winterfell by now).
“You have been very quiet, Sansa,” Leonette says gently. “Did you and Willas
argue again last night?”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Right then,” Garlan says, bursting through the door of Willas’ bedchamber with
Father, Aldwin and Maester Lomys behind him. “We are seeing to your leg this
morning while the ladies are away, or so help me, Willas, I will saw the damned
thing off myself.”
Willas holds his blanket close around himself, fresh out of the bath and only
in his smallclothes, and tries to muster an objection but unable to get past
stammering, like he did when he was a small child, before the maesters trained
it out of him.
“Get him on the bed,” Maester Lomys orders, and almost before Willas can think
Garlan and Aldwin are lifting him by the arms and Father is carefully gathering
his legs and they have him lifted across from his wheelchair onto the bed, and
he can hardly remember ever being so confused in his whole life.
“What is going on?” he demands once he finds his voice, sitting up and ignoring
just how mortifyingly embarrassing it is to know that really, there’s nothing
he can do to fight against their manhandlingof him.
“We’re getting you out of your wheelchair,” Garlan says. “You hate the damn
thing so much that getting rid of it might cheer you up a bit – now lay back
and let the maester go about his business.”
“Don’t I get a say in this? It’s my damned leg!”
“No, you don’t,” Father says firmly, crossing his arms over his belly. “Your
choices with regards to your leg have done nothing but cause you pain – if
Maester Lomys decides that amputating it is the best course now, you willhave
it off.”
Willas recoils in horror, pushing himself to the other side of the bed to get
away from them all, hatingthem so much.
“You can’t do that,” he gasps, “you can’t, Father, please, you can’t do that,
you have no right-“
“If you are so insistent on keeping your leg, my lord, there is something else
I might do to improve your mobility,” Maester Lomys says. “It will put you on
crutches, but crutches are eminently easier to manoeuvre than your chair, are
they not?”
Willas hesitates, afraid that this plan of Maester Lomys’ will involve him
taking dreamwine and that, when he wakes up, he’ll be less a leg.
“What does it involve?”
 
===============================================================================
 
“He doesn’t seem to understand,” Sansa says at last, “I cannot accept his worry
when he won’t accept mine,when he won’t trustme to care for him, and I- I-“
“Oh, he is more like his father than I feared,” Lady Alerie fumes. “Stupid,
prideful, stubborn idiot,just like Mace, oh, I will have his skin for this, I
swear I will. Oh, Sansa, I did not realise he was so stupid as this, sweetling,
I amsorry.”
Sansa looks up to her goodmother and is surprised by the genuine apology in her
face.
“I- what?”
(Cersei would have called her stupid for that, for this whole mess,but Lady
Alerie is everything Cersei Lannister is not and for that, Sansa is more
thankful than she could possibly express.)
Margaery and the others are off by the little stream in the copse they’ve
claimed for their lunch, but Lady Alerie encouraged Sansa to sit with her and
Leonette a little ways away from them, and Sansa is grateful that she accepted.
She does not think she could bear the others seeing her this way.
“Willas is being just as much a blockhead as his father ever was,” Lady Alerie
sighs. “I am not going to ask for more detail than you have already given, but
tell me – can he not see how he was wrong? Has he made some sweeping gesture in
the hopes of being forgiven for unrelated transgressions?”
Sansa finds herself rendered speechless, because that is preciselywhat Willas
has done, is doing, so she nods and nods and grasps the hand that Lady Alerie
holds out to her.
“Ah, yes,” Lady Alerie huffs. “Preciselylike his father. Does it feel as if he
will never, ever see what a fool he is being? As if his stubbornness is as
unshakeable as the Wall?”
And yes, that is exactly it, so Sansa keeps nodding and then Leonettelaughs.
“Garlan was just the same when we had our first real argument,” she says,
shaking her head. “We were not even married at the time, do you remember, my
lady?”
“I remember he returned from a visit to Cider Hall in as foul a temper as ever
I’ve seen him,” Lady Alerie reminisces, a bitter twist to her smile. “All my
boys took their pride andtheir temper from Mace, I think. Willas needs a shock,
Sansa, to bring him out of this rut – Mace was just the same after ourfirst
true fight.”
“What shocked him out of his… His “rut,” my lady?”
Lady Alerie takes Leonette’s hand, too, and her smile is so sad Sansa almost
begins to weep again.
“I almost miscarried Willas during a row,” she says, shrugging. “Mace hardly
dares raise his voice to me even now, although his temper does sometimes still
get the better of him – the trick is to shout louder, and there has never been
anyone fit to shout down a Hightower of Oldtown. Pray that it will not take
something so terrible to heal the rift between yourself and Willas, Sansa.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas coughs when someone – Father, he thinks – removes the gag from his
mouth, and then he sobs because the pain-
“I did warn you that you would be better if not conscious for this,” Maester
Lomys points out, and Willas jerks away as the old man pulls another layer of
treated bandages tight around his leg, bandages that will harden into a cast
and hopefully hold his knee steady to heal in this new shape.
Having the ruined bones broken and reset was more painful than anything he’s
ever known, including the original breaking, but he had to stay awake, he
didn’t trust them not to take his leg-
Father clasps his shoulder and he reaches up without thinking to hold tight to
Father’s fingers, gripping hard on the blankets underneath himself with his
other hand as his back arches in agony,and Garlan holds down his good leg to be
sure he doesn’t kick Maester Lomys.
“It’s for the best, lad,” Father says, but Willas can see the regret in his
face (not so long ago he would have passed that off as regret on Father’s part
that his heir is so ruined, but he knows better now, knows that it is regret to
have been party to Willas’ pain). “You’ll be better able to get around with
your leg off the ground, you know that, don’t you?”
Willas nods, but then Maester Lomys starts on the fourth layer of bandages and
the pain is just too much, far, far too much.
(Before he passes out, he has time to note that Sansa’s pillow still smells
softly of rosemary.)
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     So I've been ridiculously sick and have had pretty chronic writer's
     block, hence the delay.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Three days after they rode out for the morning, Margaery is the one to wake
Sansa again, this time with two enormous boxes tied with silk ribbons in her
arms.
“Nameday gifts!” she trills, setting them down beside Sansa and plumping down
onto the bed in a wave of rose perfume and rich deep pink damask. “The top one
is from Mother and Father, but the other is from myself and the other young
ladies. Go on, open them!”
Still half asleep, Sansa forces herself to smile and babble thanks as she opens
the gift from Lord Mace and Lady Alerie (never mind that she didn’t draw
attention to her nameday because she did not want a fuss, under any
circumstances, because Rickon’s nameday fell just a week before hers and Rickon
will never have another nameday), tied with silver ribbon.
“Oh,” she sighs, because oh, Lady Alerie must have noticed the bracelet Willas
gave her, the one he had Aldwin leave on her dressing table the morning before
last with a note that she’s still trying to decipher, links of slender racing
wolves that chase around her wrist, and this ring, deep band engraved with
those same wolves, it matches, it matches perfectly and it feels so good to be
able to be proud of where she comes from. There’s more from Lord Mace and Lady
Alerie, too, a deep green shawl edged with silver roses, new riding boots
(Sansa will have to thank Lady Alerie for all of this, and Lord Mace too, she
supposes, even though she has thanked him for things before and it seems to
embarrass him somewhat) and a velvet bag full to bursting of hair ribbons in
all the colours Sansa likes. “How did they manage this? It has only been a few
days!”
“Mother noticed you didn’t have proper riding boots before you left for King’s
Landing,” Margaery says with a shrug. “And as for the rest, well, the
silversmiths are only too willing to oblige Father because he pays so well, and
Mother’s always been a deft hand at knitting, and it isn’t as though ribbons
are hard to come by – now open the other, Sansa, come along.”
Sansa eyes Margaery suspiciously as she carefully sets aside the gifts from her
goodparents, and wonders what has Margaery so excited as she pulls the dark
green ribbon and lifts the lid of the second box. Under layers of packing cloth
(raw silk, of course it would be silk, only the best for the future Lady of
Highgarden, everyone had made certain that Sansa was aware of that), there is…
“Is this a nightgown?” she asks incredulously, lifting the flimsy thing of
soft, pale green silk up to examine it. It’s short, much shorter than anything
she’d usually wear to bed, with narrow little filmy straps, and she can just
tell that if she puts it on – if – it will hide practically nothing, because
the silk is so fine as to be almost transparent, and because it dips so low in
the front and is practically backless-
“Of course it’s a nightgown,” Margaery says briskly. “I dare say my brother
will be helpless the moment he sees you in it-“
“I could not- I mean-“
“Oh, Sansa,” Margaery laughs. “I may not be married in truth as you and Willas
are, but I rather think I know something more of the marriage bed than you do,
sweetling.”
Sansa remembers Willas telling Lord Mace that Margaery was “fucking” one of
Lady Oakheart’s sons, and she wonders just how much Margaery really understands
about the marriage bed, if she’s ever had anyone look on her with the reverence
(with the love, the almost painfully intense love) Sansa sees in Willas’ eyes
every time he touches her.
“Willas will be yours to do with as you wish once he sees you in this,”
Margaery says with a grin. “Oh, do smile, Sansa – you two have been fighting,
this might help!”
Sansa smiles and thanks Margaery and sends her on her way, and when Marian
arrives to help Sansa dress she has a reaction to the nightgown closer to what
Sansa’s own would have been had she not been worried about offending Margaery.
“Gods above!” she exclaims, holding the nightgown up to the light and casting a
critical eye over it. “That girl spends altogether too much time thinking about
seduction and not half enough thinking about behaving!”
 
===============================================================================
 
“I want to get out of bed,” Willas says firmly. “And not just for a wash,
Aldwin, I want to- to at least sit out in the sitting room. It’s not as though
I intend on riding all the way to Oldtown in the next three days, is it?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Aldwin says, throwing back the curtains and smiling
over his shoulder. “Your father’s ordered the stablehands not to let you in, on
the maester’s advice.”
Willas scowls, hating that they all feel the need to watch him, that they do
not trust him, and reaches out for the crutches that are just beyond arm’s
reach from the bed.
“Damn it, Aldwin, what do you think I’m going to do?” he snaps, straining and
biting back a curse when Aldwin lifts his crutches away. “I only have one
bloody functional leg-“
“And you’ll rest the other until the maester says otherwise,” Aldwin says.
“Now, shall I fetch your chair?”
“Let me use the damned crutches-“
“You’re well enough to support yourself on them, are you?” Aldwin says archly,
folding his arms and planting himself firmly at the bedside. “You that could
hardly push yourself up yesterday because you’ve eaten naught but half a bowl
of broth in three days?”
“So help me, Aldwin-“
“You’ll do as the maester says and I won’t tell your father that you’re
behaving a foolish boy, milord.”
Willas is so stunned by Aldwin’s apparent anger that he can’t speak, and he
dresses himself (it’s near impossible to get his breeches up over his cast, but
he manages it) and lets Aldwin help him down into his wheelchair without
argument.
Sansa is waiting for him in the sitting room, dressed all in blue and tying a
gold ribbon around the end of her braid, a new ring that he doesn’t recognise
on her right hand. She smiles faintly, and he wonders if he should mention that
he heard her cry out in her sleep – he thinks not, because her nightmares seem
to embarrass her so much, but she seems pale and tired and he does worry.
“How are you this morning, my lord?” she asks when Aldwin wheels him to the
table (and yes, he must admit that he probably doesn’t have the strength in his
arms to support himself on his crutches but gods, couldn’t he at least be
allowed to try?). “Do you feel well enough to eat?”
Willas dismisses Aldwin and Marian with a wave and, when Aldwin lingers by the
door, a frown, and turns back to Sansa. She’s already busy with her food,
spreading strawberry conserve on toasted bread-
“You should eat,” she says softly, passing her plate across the table to him.
“You’ve hardly eaten a thing in days, my lord.”
He catches her hand before she can pull back, examining her new ring, the
pattern of wolves.
“My mother?” he guesses, and she nods slightly.
“And Lord Mace,” she agrees, letting him hold her hand and he feels almost
pathetic at how much that pleases him. “A nameday gift, one among too many.”
“It matches your bracelet,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumb over her
knuckles. He can feel the pulse on the inside of her wrist under his
fingertips, and when he glances up at her face there’s a pretty pink blush in
the apples of her cheeks. “I never thought of a matching ring. I should have.”
“You have given me more than enough, my lord,” she insists, and she is still
letting him hold her hand, is looking down at their hands with the same
surprise he feels, because he has barely touched her since their fight and she
has gone out of her way to avoid touching him (the nights are so, so lonely
without the warmth of her curled against his side, her head on his shoulder and
her arm thrown over his chest). “You have given me safety, and-“
“Sansa,” he says softly. “Please.”
They sit there in quiet for a little while, him holding her hand and her
allowing him to do so, and it feels almost normal.
“Did you sleep well, my lady?” he asks, and now that he looks there are deep,
dark shadows under her eyes, and he is so concerned that he touches them
without thinking, tracing them with a fingertip and not realising that he may
be doing wrong until Sansa’s breath hitches.
“I have not slept well for the past few nights,” she whispers, meeting his eyes
carefully. “I have- I have found no peace.”
He curls his hand around her jaw, thumb stroking over her cheek, and sighs.
“Would you like for me to speak to Maester Lomys for you? He might have some
tincture that would ease your sleep-“
“I miss you,” she blurts out. “But I-“
“You still do not trust that I will not raise a hand to you again,” he says,
nodding and trying not to sound bitter. “And you are still… Disappointed in me,
because of Melinda.”
“Not disappointed,” she disagrees, biting her lip. “I just…”
He waits, thumb still stroking across the soft skin of her cheek, still holding
her hand, closer to her than he has been for days and gods, she smells
exquisite and gods, he’s missed her so much, missed being able to touch her
like this and he aches to kiss her but worries how she would react.
“I don’t fully understand yet,” she decides at last. “I need more time to piece
it all together. I am trying, though.”
He sighs, biting his lip as his thumb presses to hers, watching the blood rush
back in its trail. So beautiful, he’s not been coherent enough for weeks now to
truly register just how stunning she is, because no matter what he might have
told himself, the pain and the lack of food and sleep left him near delirious,
and he…
“The other night, Sansa,” he says reluctantly, because it’s been plaguing him
since yesterday afternoon, when he finally felt himself (or very nearly) for
the first time in weeks. “When I- frightened you. I know you said I didn’t, but
did I strike you?”
With how strange and contradictory his memories of the journey home from
Storm’s End have been, when he’s discussed them with Garlan, he worries that he
might have convinced himself that he hadn’t laid hands on Sansa when he had.
“No, my lord,” she says, voice harder than he expected. “You have never hurt me
like that. Not once.”
That is a relief, at least, and she does not move away from his hands, lets him
touch her and watch her like this, and that, too, is a relief, because with her
in the other bedchamber and holding herself so apart from him, he feared that
they would never have anything like this again.
His stomach growls, ruining the moment but making her smile that sweet little
smile, and she moves away from his hands. He laments the loss, but she’s
already picking out a plate of food for him, pushing the plate of toasted bread
towards him without looking away from the fruit bowl.
“Sansa,” he sighs, “Sansa, you must eat too, my love.”
She glances up at him almost shyly, from under her eyelashes, and simply
continues setting skinned grapes and slices of apple on the plate by his hand.
“Eat up, my lord,” she says, and then she reaches for the strawberries, and he
smiles – she has such a sweet tooth, and he laughs under his breath when her
eyes close in pleasure when she bites into one of the fruits-
But then the juice drips down her fingers and she, she sucks it off, and his
laughter dies in his throat and he can feel his eyes going wide and his cheeks
flushing, but gods be good if that’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever
seen and he’s rooted to his seat, unable to move even when she notices him
staring.
“My lord?”
He doesn’t mean to do it, truly he doesn’t, but she’s so beautiful and he has
missed her so much and gods, sucking her fingers clean, but he reaches over and
slips his fingers into the soft hair at her nape and pulls her mouth to his-
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa’s seen that heat in Willas’ gaze before, but not usually unless they’re
in bed or the bath, not usually unless she’s bare under his hands and he’s bare
under hers, but oh, the wrongness in their kiss has faded from the other night
and it feels so good to be with him like this, the rub of his beard on her
cheeks and the warmth of his big, long hand on the back of her neck, the tickle
of his tongue against the roof of her mouth and the faint scent of saddle
leather that clings to him like a perfume (she wonders if he notices that his
hands smell of rosemary after he’s touched her hair, from the rosemary oil she
started using when Marian recommended it to help smooth her curls) and she
truly has missed him, but part of her cannot stop thinking of the slinky excuse
for a nightdress Margaery presented her with not an hour past, and she knows
that this is not the way to repair what is wrong between her and Willas.
“No,” she says sharply, pulling away so quickly that he is left quite clearly
startled. “I- no, my lord, we-“
And he looks hurt and angry and upset and ashamed, so deeply ashamed that it
takes her breath away, and then he’s awkwardly pushing himself back from the
table, jaw tight with the effort of wheeling himself away from her, and that
isn’t what she wanted at all but his control has been so fragile this past
while that she fears pushing him lest he break and lash out at her.
“I am sorry, my lady,” he says through gritted teeth, “I should not have taken
liberties. Please, forgive me.”
He’s halfway into his bedchamber by the time she finds her voice.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she calls after him, but he merely pauses a
moment before continuing on and slamming the door behind him. “There is nothing
to forgive,” she whispers to the polished wood, wondering if she should follow
him in, but she decides against it. Let him calm down, and later, when he is
more rational, she will speak with him, tell him that she did not mean to
reject him as severely as she did.
In the meantime, Lady Alerie invited her to ride out to the market with her and
Leonette today, so Sansa supposes her and Willas’ conversation will wait at
least until she returns.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Willas kissed you this morning, I see.”
Sansa can only look at Leonette in horror, wondering how in the world her
goodsister worked that out, but Leonette is grinning as she taps the side of
Sansa’s mouth.
“Beards,” she says, still grinning as Lady Alerie returns. “The bane of the
wives of House Tyrell, I think.”
Lady Alerie’s smile is more demure but still teasing when she passes a little
pot of the beeswax balm Leonette swears by to Sansa.
“It might not be so bad if they wore their beards a shade longer,” Lady Alerie
laments. “They might not scratch so much if they did.”
Sansa blushes and carefully rubs a little of the balm into the tender skin
Leonette pointed out, but Leonette ducks away to laugh heartily, and Lady
Alerie rolls her eyes.
“I daresay I know a great deal more about kissing than you, Leonette Fossoway,”
she chides mockingly. “I have mothered four children, you know, and none of
them were conceived in any untraditional manner.”
“Lady Alerie!” Leonette exclaims, throwing her head back and laughing (she and
Garlan are almost frighteningly well-fitted for one another) so hard that Sansa
feels herself start to giggle along. “We do not need details!”
“Well, my lord and I were quite bountiful, so clearly we were doing something
right,” Lady Alerie says before bursting into peals of laughter herself, and
Sansa turns away because suddenly she can’t stop laughing, the three of them
must look fools, standing in the middle of the market and laughing, but no one
is paying them a moment’s mind, and that is somehow beautiful – it is almost
like being home, in the winter town with Mother and Arya, where nobody paid any
mind to Lord Stark’s younger daughter jumping in puddles or the elder one
begging new hair ribbons.
“Oh, come now,” Lady Alerie sighs at last, taking Sansa’s hand and motioning
for Leonette to join them as they continue along the walkway. That is new to
Sansa – everything here in Highgarden and its environs strains to be beautiful,
and that means that even here in the market the pathways between the stalls are
cobbled, the same smooth, slightly rounded cobbles as lined the roseroad all
the way to Oldtown. Part of it, Sansa thinks, is that the Reach really is as
wealthy as everyone says, but part of it must be vanity, because even she was
never so squeamish about getting her skirts mucky. Then again, she doesn’t
think she’s ever seen quite so much silk and velvet as she has since she came
to Highgarden, not even in King’s Landing, and the idea of sturdy boots other
than riding boots seems to escape just about everyone – even the men wear soft-
soled, almost decorative boots unless they’re riding (well, Willas wears solid
boots all of the time, but that is to support his weak ankle).
Still, everything here is a novelty – the cobbled pathways, the brightly
coloured awnings hanging out over the shop fronts, the colours
in everything, in fact. From the children running errands for their parents to
Lady Alerie herself, resplendent today in rich teal edged with gold, everyone
seems dressed for a feast or a ball, and Sansa wonders what they would make of
the muted greys and browns and blues of Winterfell.
And everyone, absolutely everyone, seems to be wearing roses! That confounds
her so much that she feels compelled to ask, and Lady Alerie’s smile is proud.
“Despite what my goodmother and indeed my father and brothers may think, my
husband is well liked here in the Reach,” she says. “He may be no visionary
leader or great tactician – he entirely loses his head when he tries to be one
or the other, but unfortunately fancies himself both – but he is an excellent
administrator, and our people are thankful to him for it.”
“My father always says that it was better to have the trust of your people than
their love,” Leonette adds, “and while the people may not like Lord Mace – no
offence meant, my lady,” she hastens to amend, but Lady Alerie only smiles and
waves her on. “But they definitely trust him, Sansa, and that is why they are
happy to have House Tyrell as their lords.”
“That is why nobody is paying us any mind, sweetling,” Lady Alerie says,
“because no matter how silly Leonette may be in her manner, they know that we
are Lord Tyrell’s wife and gooddaughters.”
“And that we pay, unlike Lady Olenna,” Leonette adds wryly. “She seems
to expect, which is poor practice – we have gold, the smallfolk need gold, and
in giving them our gold we get things we need. Lady Olenna is under a
misapprehension wherein she needs things, the smallfolk have those things, and
they should be glad to give them to her.”
“Lady Olenna feels that a great many people have what is rightfully hers and
should give it to her and be grateful to do so, myself included,” Lady Alerie
says, mouth twisting. “Rest assured, Sansa, when the time comes for you and
Willas to take Highgarden as your own, I will hopefully be a great deal more
gracious about it than my goodmother was.”
“I can’t imagine you being ungracious,” Sansa says honestly, and Lady Alerie’s
face softens and she pulls Sansa closer.
“I wish you could have known Willas before his accident,” she says. “Before all
this bitterness took him, Sansa – he was almost as sweet as you, dear.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas slides gratefully into the bath after a long day spent discussing the
defences of the northern borders, and wishes more than anything that he could
submerge his bad leg, too – but that, of course, would ruin his cast, and
Maester Lomys already told him off for that the day before yesterday, when he’d
splashed it because he lost his balance getting out of the tub. Still, at least
his back will be eased somewhat by the heat of the water. It’s a touch hotter
than what he usually likes, closer to what Sansa likes, but-
But now all he can think of is baths shared with Sansa, him wincing at the heat
that almost had her purring, and he supposes there’s no point in fighting the
arousal he’s been pushing aside all day, since that damned kiss this morning,
his blood’s been up all day and he’s had to concentrate fiercely to not fall
into daydreams of, of, gods he’s ashamed of himself but he’s had half a mind to
just find Sansa and throw her down on the bed and fuck her, fuck her until she
can’t walk, his leg be damned, and gods, oh he can already hear her, those soft
little sounds she makes (his hand slides under the water) when he touches her,
the way her kisses always start so shy (he takes himself in hand and hisses
because it’s almost painful) and then grow more daring, the way she whimpers
when he slides his hand between her legs to touch her cunt, (his hand moves
faster, grips just a little tighter) her sweet, hot cunt that always feels so
utterly perfect around his cock-
He comes so quickly that he’s embarrassed, that he’s glad Sansa is not sharing
this bath, because gods above he’s a man grown, he’s nearly five-and-twenty
years of age, he should have more control, he shouldn’t, he should not need to
touch himself in the bath like a boy ten years his junior, especially not to
thoughts of his wife when she so clearly does not want him thinking of her that
way, and he feels dirty and small and upset with himself and so
chronically embarrassed that he can’t even bring himself to call for Aldwin,
and, well, his crutches are just there, surely he can manage to get out of the
bath?
This proves a greater challenge than expected, as per usual because of his knee
(and his arms, which he has to admit are a great deal weaker than he would
like, because this was the first day that he ate more than one meal in over a
week). Maester Lomys had the ends of his crutches wrapped in stippled leather
for grip, but they still slip a bit on the tiled floor of the bathing area, and
he nearly loses his balance more than once – but he manages, he does, he
is not as incapable as everyone thinks he is (oh gods, how is he going to look
Sansa in the face over dinner, knowing that he sat in the bath and
did that thinking about her?!).
He nearly slips and falls three times on his way across the room to the chest
of drawers, his towel wrapped loose around his hips and another length of linen
tucked into the top of his cast to stop it from getting wet, and he holds his
smallclothes and his shirt in his teeth while making his way back to the bed
(all the way around to his side, Sansa’s side still smells faintly of rosemary
and he wants to preserve it for as long as he can because he doesn’t know,
gods, especially after he – did he force that kiss on her? Oh gods, he did,
didn’t he! She’ll never want to share a bed with him now!)
He’s only barely gotten his smallclothes up (sit down pull them up over his
cast stand up get them the rest of the way up while balancing on one foot grab
crutches before he falls) but there's a knock on the door. Willas ignores it,
just as he tries to ignore the flush of embarrassment (and want, he's not going
to deny that if anything he just wants Sansa even more now) in his cheeks as he
pulls on his smallclothes. But then- "Willas, lad, may I come in?"
Father.
He stands there for a long moment, unlaced and blushing deeper even than
before, wondering if Father would excuse him for being rude if he's passed out
from sheer mortification on the floor, but then Father knocks again and Willas
thinks he might be sick with how much he wishes the ceiling would cave in.
“Just a moment, Father,” he  calls over his shoulder, sitting back down and
quickly lacing himself up and reaching for his shirt – which he only has half-
on when the door bangs open and shut in quick succession, because Father has
never been a patient man. “I could have been nude, Father,” Willas notes dryly
when he manages to wrestle his shirt down over his head, and Father huffs and
frowns and goes looking for breeches for him, frowning deeper when he comes
across empty drawers.
Willas sighs.
“Those were Sansa’s drawers,” he says quietly, rubbing a towel through his hair
(gods, he’s glad he washed his hair before… that) and refusing to look at
Father.
“Were?”
“She’s moved into the other bedchamber. My breeches are in the second drawer of
the dresser, by the way.”
Father finds a pair – Willas’ finest pair, of course, because Father is of the
eternal opinion that Willas should dress better, but right now Willas is
willing to take anything at all if it means Father will leave and he can have a
moment to stop blushing and mayhaps call for another bath because he feels
so wrong-
“What’s wrong, lad? Is it your leg?”
Willas looks up, startled by the alarm in Father’s voice, and it’s only then
that he notices the tears on his cheeks.
“Gods damn it all,” he says, tossing aside his crutches and flopping back onto
the bed, screwing his eyes shut because he will not cry, not again, he’s been
like a child this past week or so and that’s near as bad as what he was-
He opens his eyes in surprise when the mattress dips beside him, and he looks
across to see Father lying there, looking up at the canopy with his hands
folded over his belly and a contemplative little frown on his face.
“Your mother tells me that the main problem here is that your wife wishes to
look after you, but you will not allow her to,” he says, twiddling his thumbs.
“Does she displease you, son?”
“I- no, I just-“
Are her ministrations somehow offensive to you?”
“I do not-“
“Other than to your pride, I mean.”
Willas fires back up to sitting then, furious again because this is precisely
what he hates most about his family, their refusal to see that he does not need
a nursemaid.
Father stays where he is, linking his ankles and swinging his legs idly as he
speaks again.
“If it were me in your position, my boy, I think I would rather have my wife as
confidant and support than pushing her and everyone else away just because of
my misplaced pride.”
“You don’t understand,” Willas says sharply, hunching his shoulders and
gripping the edge of the mattress to try and force himself to calm down. “You
all… I am not weak, Father.”
“We never said you were, lad,” Father points out. “We try to make things easier
for you because we hate seeing you hurt.”
There is a pause, a moment of quiet, and then Father heaves himself up to sit
beside Willas.
“Do you remember much of your accident, Willas?” he asks. “Beyond what Baelor
Brightsmile told you?”
“What do you mean by that? Why do you ask?”
“The very first thing Brightsmile did, before even sending for a maester, was
blame me for allowing you to compete. Mayhaps he was right, but you were more
than good enough – I maintain to this day that there was some trickery involved
when you rode against the damned Viper – and I’d never been prouder than I was
when you came to me to ask permission to enter the lists.”
Willas still isn’t certain what the point of this is when Father wraps an arm
around his shoulders and pulls him close, kissing his damp hair and sighing
before setting his brow against Willas’.
“I have always been proud of you, lad,” he says firmly. “I may not be very good
at showing it, but I’ve never thought you weak. Stubborn as a mule, of course,
and near as proud as I am, but you are a Tyrell, no matter how much Hightower
there is in you. You are my son, and you have borne your injury with better
grace than any other man I know would have – how could I not be proud of you?”
Father makes to move away, but Willas catches hold of the hem of his doublet,
the way he used when he was a child.
“Does everyone hate me, Father?” he asks quietly, looking down. “For how I’ve
been behaving, I mean.”
“Oh, you stupid boy,” Father says, sounding exasperated but so fond, and then
he’s hugging Willas tight to his belly and Willas, for the first time in too
long, allows himself to be comforted.
 
===============================================================================
 
Dinner is strange that night, everyone wrapped up in his or her own thoughts,
but even preoccupied as she is Sansa notices that Willas seems slightly less
forlorn than she expected, which can only be a good thing.
That is not to say that he is not melancholy – he does not speak much, spends
most of the meal frowning at his plate, but at least he does not seem as
hopelessly sad as he has the past few days, and that is an improvement.
He is quiet, too, as they make their way back to their rooms, pensive, almost,
and seemingly oblivious to visible the strain he was under wheeling his chair
by himself.
“My lord? Would you like me to…?”
He looks up, and she can see that he’s about to bite back, but he restrains
himself and forces a small smile instead.
“I am heavier than you might be able for, sweetling,” he warns, but while he is
heavier than she expected he is no heavier than she can manage, and she feels
hugely pleased with herself for helping him, and pleased with him for accepting
her help.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asks once she has the door of their sitting room
closed, shutting them off from the rest of the world, and he looks at her
strangely, cocking his head and pursing his mouth.
“Come here, Sansa,” he says, holding out his hand, and she squeaks in surprise
when he pulls her down to sit across his lap, carefully keeping her weight on
his good leg. “I have not been a very good husband of late, have I?”
“I- my lord, I-“
“Sansa,” he says softly, pressing a finger to her lips. “May I?”
She nods, and he takes a deep breath before continuing.
“I want to be better,” he says slowly. “Which means, which means allowing you
more control.”
“Have you been talking with your mother?”
“My father, actually. He thinks that I… Need to step back a little, in some
ways. He feels that I could benefit from allowing others – you, mainly – to…
help me more.”
“Your father is a wise man, then.”
He smiles slightly, and then he sighs again.
“I never courted you, Sansa,” he says. “And, if you will permit it, I should
very much like to try courting you now.”
She frowns in confusion – they are married, in every sense of the word, surely
the time for courtship was long past?
“That does not mean, however, that you should feel as though you cannot come to
me, if you need me,” he tells her. “It is more… I can never seem to stop
myself, Sansa, and for that I apologise – this morning was a case in point, I
think.”
She blushes at the memory of this morning’s kiss, the first that has felt good
in too long.
“I despise the way I have been treating you, Sansa – everyone else, too, but
you are my wife, and…”
“Slowly,” she says. “We should take things slowly. I still do not fully have
everything in place in my mind, and you are still very ill.”
“I hate that word,” he says. “People say that Malora is ill, and they call her
the Mad Maid – I cannot help but wonder what they call me behind my back.”
“I’m sure Garlan would kill anyone who said a bad word about you,” Sansa
whispers, smiling and pressing a kiss to his temple. “But you do need to rest –
do you need help getting into bed?”
“Aldwin is waiting for me,” he says, nuzzling against her cheek for a moment.
“But thank you, love. Go on, get to bed – we will speak in the morning, yes?”
She slides carefully out of his lap before answering, making certain she has
not hurt his leg.
“Of course,” she promises, leaning down and kissing his lips this time,
surprising him. “Goodnight, my lord – sleep well.”
“You as well, my love,” he calls after her, and then she closes her bedchamber
door feeling less apprehensive about sleeping than she has in a week or more.
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas wakes with a shout when the door of his chamber slams open, and he is
still lying down when Sansa lands heavily in his arms.
“What is it, sweetling?” he asks softly, stroking her hair and ignoring how
good it feels to hold her because she is so obviously distressed - no,
terrified, she’s shaking as she hasn’t since the very early days of their
marriage, when the nightmares took her every night. “Is it a bad dream?”
She points a trembling hand back towards the door, huddling closer to him when
he sits up, and for the first time he notices the shadow in their sitting room.
A shadow in a hooded cloak that hides its every feature from view.
“Who sent you?” he asks, pulling Sansa closer, one arm tight around her waist
and his other hand on the back of her head, pressing her face against his
shoulder so she need not see. “Why are you here?”
“Nobody sent me,” and that voice is too high and too highborn to be an
assassin, surely? That is a girl’s voice, and he cannot imagine the Lannisters
sending a child, much less a girl child, to kill Sansa. “I’m here for her, so
let her go.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” he says, but he can feel Sansa stirring in his arms,
feel her peeping back through her hair, and he hears it when her breath
catches.
“Put down your hood,” she orders shakily. “Put it down. I want to see your
face.”
“Sansa,” Willas murmurs, but she puts her hand over his mouth without looking,
transfixed on the girl in their sitting room as she reaches up and pushes back
her hood. Her hair is a mess, shorn short and half grown out, nearly to her
shoulders in places, and her eyes are dark and sharp. There is something there,
in the shape of her mouth of the tilt of her head, but it’s not until Sansa
leaps from his arms and scrambles off the bed to get to the girl that Willas
thinks to make anything of it. “Sansa, what in the world-“
“I thought you were dead,” she’s saying, taking the girl’s face in her hands,
“I thought you were all dead, that I was alone-“
“I ran away,” the girl says, “the man from the Night’s Watch, Yoren, he helped
me hide-“
“Sansa,” Willas calls firmly. “Who is this girl?”
When Sansa turns back to him, she’s happy in a way that he has never seen
before, and she’s so beautiful it takes his breath away.
“Arya,” she says, almost laughing. “It’s my sister, my sister Arya, Willas –
she is alive!”
Chapter End Notes
     ANGSTURBATING!
     Sorry that became kind of a running joke on tumblr sorry non-tumblr
     readers sorry.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sansa’s sister seems impossibly out of place, standing on the hearthrug in
their sitting room in her filthy breeches and tunic, especially surrounded now
as she is by Willas’ family all bundled up in robes of varying colours, in
Father’s case edged with gold embroidery at the hem and cuffs.
Sansa stands protectively at her sister’s side – Arya Stark, alive and well and
standing under Sansa’s arm, Willas still doesn’t entirely believe it – and
glares defiantly about her, her own deep blue robe and the long, soft braid of
her hair a comical contrast to her sister’s appearance.
And then, of course, there is the matter of the damned swordon Sansa’s sister’s
hip.
“You say a recruiter for the Night’s Watch helped you escape King’s Landing
with the intention of returning you to Winterfell on the way to the Wall,”
Father says sceptically, and Willas can’t help but share his disbelief – it
seems too neat that Sansa’s sister should show up now, here, but Sansa is
insistent that the girl really is Arya, and he supposes that she would know
best, would she not?
“The Starks have always supported the Watch,” Sansa offers. “It is not truly so
absurd as it sounds, my lord, to think that the Watch might have in turn
offered ussupport in something like this. Besides, what does it truly matter
how Arya escaped King’s Landing? My sister is alive, my lord – we should
celebrate!”
“And we will, Sansa,” Mother promises her, edging slightly closer, eyes
narrowing when Arya scowls at her. “But you must see why we worry-“
“This ismy sister,” Sansa insists. “I would know if she were an imposter, Lady
Alerie, please, you much believe me!”
“How did you find your way to Highgarden?” Willas asks, and Sansa looks at him
with something that might be hurt in her eyes, hurt or betrayal. “I am sorry,
my love, but we must know – if nothing else, we must know how your sister found
her way into the keep at night. The guards are obviously not doing their work-“
“I was at the Twins,” Arya says suddenly. “That night. When Mother and Robb
died. The- The Hound wanted to ransom me to Robb, but then… And I got away, and
the Brotherhood found me again-“
“The Brotherhood?” Garlan asks. “Who are the Brotherhood?”
“The Brotherhood Without Banners,” Arya explains. “Lord Beric Dondarrion leads
them – or at least, he did. Gendry and me ran away from them because they were
planning on marrying me off to someone, or ransoming me to our aunt in the
Vale, and while we were in the Riverlands we heard people talking about a woman
leading the Brotherhood. I don’t know if it’s true or not, though.”
She’s not telling us something,Willas thinks, watching the way Arya refuses to
meet even Sansa’s eyes. But mayhaps she will tell us, in time. “Continue, my
lady. My brother did not mean to interrupt.”
“We met Lady Brienne while we were travelling south,” she says. “And she said
that Mother had charged her to bring Sansa and me to safety, and she said Sansa
was probably safe here at Highgarden so she’d been hunting me, even though
everyone said I was dead.”
“Brienne of Tarth?” Father asks, rising to his feet with a face like thunder.
“That murdering-“
“She didn’t kill Lord Renly!” Arya snaps. “She loved him!”
“Who was it then?” Father demands, folding his arms and matching Arya scowl for
scowl. “This shadowshe was screaming about when my son found her standing over
Renly’s corpse?”
The corner of Arya’s eye twitches, and Willas wonders what precisely Sansa’s
sister has seen on her travels.
“Stranger things walk now than shadows, my lord,” she says coldly, eyes like
winter and hands balled into tight little fists at her sides.
“Did Lady Brienne bring you all the way here?” Sansa asks hurriedly, turning
her sister to face her. “And this Gendry – who is he?”
“He’s a blacksmith. He’s stupid, but he’s strong,” Arya says, and Willas can
see a gleam of amusement in Garlan’s eyes at that. “Him and Lady Brienne
travelled with me.”
“Where are they now? I should like to thank them for returning you to me,”
Sansa says, her arm tightening around Arya’s shoulders. “Are they within the
castle as well?”
“Gendry is,” Arya says, shrugging. “He got work as with the steward and I’ve
been working in the kitchens. Like I said, he’s strong.”
“And Lady Brienne?”
“She’s camped not far away,” Arya says, “but I won’t say where because
he’lljust have her arrested for something she didn’t do,” she adds, pointing at
Father and looking positively murderous. “She wouldn’t be able to disguise
herself enough to work in the castle so she stayed away, but Gendry goes out to
her with food and messages.”
“How long have you been here?” Sansa asks, sounding as amazed and confused as
Willas feels. “Arya, why didn’t you come to me immediately? Did you think I
would turn you away?”
 
===============================================================================
 
Arya – she is alive she is alive she is alive– frowns suspiciously at the
Tyrells before tugging Sansa down so she can whisper in her ear.
“I wanted to get you away without them knowing because I heard Rickon is
alive.”
Sansa jerks away then, horrified, because no,how could she-
“You mustn’t say such wicked things,” she says, feeling tears springing to her
eyes. “How can you say that? Did you not hear what, what Theondid to Bran and
Rickon?”
“There are rumours of a direwolf prowling White Harbour,” Arya insists. “A
great black direwolf that howls in the night, and sometimes there is a boy with
him, a boy with red hair – it hasto be Rickon, Sansa!”
“Rumours!” Sansa shrieks, suddenly furiousbecause this is typical of Arya,
ruining a perfect moment with something like this. There was always a chance, a
tiny chance that Arya was alive because nobody ever saw her body, her corpse,
but Bran and Rickon were burned and Theon had- “Theon Greyjoy killed our
brothers and burned them and put their corpses on display for all to see!
Rickon is dead,Arya-“
“He might not be!” Arya shouts back, apparently just as angry as Sansa. “And we
are his pack, Sansa, he needsus-“
“Do you imagine that we three might take Winterfell back from the Boltons
alone?” Sansa rages, trembling she’s so angry. “How do you think it will go,
Arya, do you dream of us presenting ourselves and the Boltons stepping aside
because Winterfell is rightfully ours? Do not be naïve-“
“I am not stupid,” Arya fumes, “but if we are withhim, we can help him, you
know that!”
“And if it is a trap?” Sansa snaps. “As far as the Lannisters know, I am the
only Stark still living, and the Queen must know that if I were to hear of one
of you, of anyof you being alive, that I would-“
That I would run in my bare feet across the whole of Westeros to have you back
with me,she thinks, but she cannot say it for some reason.
“It is a rumour,” she grits out. “Nothing more.”
“Of course you want to stay here,” Arya snarls, and it is like a slap. “Here
where everything is pretty and you have pretty dresses and you can laugh and
smile and you have the kind of sisters you always wanted and a brother to
replace Robb-“
“How dareyou,” Sansa gasps. “Nobody could ever replace Robb - how can you think
that? And we may have fought, Arya, but you are my sister, and- do you truly
think so little of me? Do you think I would choose anythingover having you all
back?”
 
===============================================================================
 
“That’s her sister, alright,” Garlan whispers, “they fight like you and Loras
used.”
And that’s true, but Willas is fixated on Sansa just now, on the brilliant fury
and absolute pain in her face, on how much her sister is hurting her.
Is it possible that one of Sansa’s brothers is alive? Surely not, not after
Winterfell being taken twice, both times by celebrated murderers, but then
again, a girl her sister’s age and size should never have survived any time at
all on the road, much less years, so who knows what is possible?
“We could send someone to White Harbour,” Willas offers, cutting across
whatever insult Arya is about to level at Sansa – he understands the virtues of
allowing fights like this to run their course, but he can’t stand to see Sansa
hurting so, and therefore he feels that mayhaps this fight should have an
altered course – and silencing them both. “Someone we trust, someone who could
ascertain whether or not your brother truly is alive.”
Arya smiles, but Sansa still looks doubtful.
“How can he be alive?” she asks in a voice so small and frightened that Willas’
heart near breaks for her. If he could get to his feet now, he would go to her,
but she kicked his bad leg in her panic and he can hardly move at all for the
pain now. “If he is, he is just gone six years – he has spent half his life
without us. How…”
She shakes her head, eyes closed as she struggles to regain her composure, and
Willas turns to Father to create a distraction, to allow her a moment.
“Uncle Garth,” he says. “He could go to White Harbour – if Sansa’s brother
isalive, it is in our interests to support him in retaking Winterfell, Father.
You must see that – and Prince Aegon would doubtless rather have an ally than a
Lannister puppet in the North.”
“The Lannisters claimed to have sent you north to marry the new Lord of
Winterfell, my lady,” Father says, and Willas rolls his eyes because if Sansa
says that this is her sister, Willas is becoming inclined to believe her,
particularly after seeing the way they fight.
“That wasn’t me,” Arya says firmly. “I don’t know who she was, but it wasn’t
me.”
“This ismy sister, my lord,” Sansa insists, and Willas wants to throttle Father
for sticking on this when there is a chance for an advantage to be pressed, one
that can only advance their position in Prince Aegon’s esteem. “I do not know
if it is possible that my brother is alive – don’t look at me like that, Arya,
it isfar-fetched and probably false – but even if he is not, Arya and I are
rightful heirs to Winterfell, us and our sons. Mayhaps we should reach out to
our bannermen…?”
“Last we knew, Stannis Baratheon was in the North,” Garlan says quietly,
unusually serious. “If he removes the Boltons from Winterfell, your bannermen
may well want him for their king – if nothing else, he isn’t the son of the man
who supposedly kidnapped and raped your aunt, Sansa. He’s not the Mad King’s
grandson.”
“And he’s just,” Willas says, realising the truth of Garlan’s words. “Damn it
all, from what you’ve told me of your father, Sansa, he and Stannis had the
same way of ruling – Stannis might be harsher, harder, but given all that’s
happened men will respect that. Damnit all.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Finding themselves with a problem that cannot be solved with wily manoeuvring
seems to have flummoxed the Tyrells. Willas disappears off with Lord Mace to
discuss things, and Sansa calls for a bath for Arya – one that is long, long
overdue.
Arya struggles against Marian, though, fights when she realises that her
breeches and tunic are going to be gotten rid of.
“I need clothes!” she argues, holding onto them, huddled in a robe that Marian
produced from one of Sansa’s chests. “What am I to wear-“
“We have clothes here,” Sansa says firmly. “I-“
“You have skirtsfor me, you mean,” Arya fumes. “Stupid cumbersome skirts-“
“Arya, please,” Sansa begs, “Lord Mace still isn’t convinced that you are who
we say you are, please, just behaveso he has no excuse to say anything.
Please?”
“Why should I have to do what he wants?”
“Because he is my goodfather, and your host,” Sansa says, trying for sternness
but unsure if she achieves it. “You can have one of my nightgowns for tonight,
but tomorrow we must find you skirts and things – women don’t wear breeches
here anymore than they did at Winterfell, Arya.”
“But-“
“No buts,” Marian says, appearing from behind the bathing screen and setting
her hands on her hips. “You’ll do what your sister says because she’s the head
of your House if not out of sense, child, but first you’ll bathe and we’ll see
if we can’t scrub some of that dirt out of your skin.”
That makes Arya hesitate – “You won’t make me wear a corset and things?”
“A child of your age in a corset?” Marian laughs. “Oh, my dear girl-“
“I’m near twelve,” Arya says sharply. “You were happy to see my sister
marriedat my age.”
“Arya,” Sansa soothes. “Please, we’ll talk about my marriage later – please,
let Marian help you bathe? Please?”
Arya looks as though she’ll fight for a moment, but then she sighs and nods
and, surprising Sansa, hugs her tight for a moment before darting behind the
screen.
 
===============================================================================
 
Later, when Arya is clean enough to at least look human, dressed in one of
Sansa’s nightgowns (it’s far too long and gapes terribly about the neck – Sansa
is still quite small through the chest, still slender despite the maturing
curves of her body, hips and breasts and bottom where before she needed
corsetry to define them, but even so she is far larger than Arya), Sansa guides
her to sit on her bed. The sheets and blankets are tangled and messed, but
Sansa thinks she can probably place the blame for that with Arya, given as how
she’d woken up earlier to her sister, hooded and cloaked and with her skinny
little sword bare in her hand, looming over her, kneeling on the empty side of
the soft mattress.
“How did they convince you to say yes to marrying him?” Arya asks, and Sansa
wants to laugh.
She does not, though.
“It was a good match,” she says instead. “He will be Lord of Highgarden
someday. It is a worthymatch, better than anything I might have hoped for while
under the Queen’s control.”
“He’s aTyrell, Sansa,” Arya insists, brow furrowing. “They are on the
Lannisters’ side-“
“No,” Sansa disagrees. “We- Willas and I, and Garlan and Leonette, we have been
in Storm’s End – with Aegon Targaryen.”
Arya’s mouth drops open, and she is apparently so stunned that she cannot
speak. Sansa fidgets and fixes the blankets some, looking away before
continuing.
“He has agreed to restore the Starks to Winterfell,” she says quietly. “We-
there were not even rumours of you or Rickon, so we agreed that mine and
Willas’ second son would inherit Winterfell-“
“Brienne says that he is a cripple,” Arya goes on, face twisted in- what is
that? Is it worry? Disgust? Sansa cannot tell, cannot read her little sister’s
face. “She says that his leg is ruined.”
“It is,” Sansa admits. “He cannot move his knee-“
“Why is it bandaged if it is an old hurt?”
“Maester Lomys broke the joint afresh to try and give Willas greater mobility,”
Sansa explains. “He usually relies on a cane, but he will be able to move about
more if he can use crutches-“
“He will not be able to protect you on crutches,” Arya breaks in. “Bad enough
that he is one of themwithout him being useless.”
The scars on Sansa’s back itch and burn in that way they sometimes do, that way
that can only really be soothed by the gentle touch of Willas’ hand as he
strokes his fingertips along her spine and that and the steady beat of his
heart lulls her to sleep.
“He is not useless,” she says sharply, looking up at Arya properly. “He is good
and kind and clever, and he loves me and has kept me safe from Lannisters and
from Prince Aegon, and he- he is a goodman, Arya, a truly good man.” She
hesitates, something she has not yet told Willas but that she thinks he would
appreciate on the tip of her tongue. “Father would have liked him.”
“He’s old and crippled and his family allied with the Lannisters,Sansa! His
brother is on the Kingsguard!”
“Was,” Sansa corrects. “Loras died while taking Dragonstone. And Willas is not
old,he is just…older.That is all.”
“He is far too old for you,” Arya huffs, pulling her knees up to her chest and
wrapping her arms around her legs. She looks cold, so without thinking Sansa
takes the spare blanket from the end of the bed and makes to throw it around
Arya’s shoulders, but before she can Arya’s hand is painfully tight on her
wrist and-
“I- I am sorry, Sansa,” she says, turning her head away as Sansa rubs at the
red marks on her wrist. “I did not mean-“
“It is nothing,” Sansa says quietly, her scars burning again, and her fingers
flexed against her thighs as she settled back onto her heels. “Nothing at all.”
“He’s still too old for you,” Arya says after a moment. “He must be twenty
years-“
“Eleven,” Sansa corrects. “He will be five-and-twenty on his next nameday, just
after the next new moon. It is not so much – he is much closer to my age than
Lord Arryn was to Aunt Lysa, after all, and there are many women not so lucky
as me. He iskind, Arya, and he loves me so much, and-“
And he is clever and brushes my hair so gently and lets me sleep in his arms to
keep the nightmares away, and he has the loveliest eyes and when he kisses me I
feel like singing, and I had not felt like singing in so long before I came to
Highgarden. So long.
Sansa does not know if Arya would understand such things, though, so she does
not say them.
“But what if someone tries to hurt you?” Arya presses. “He’s a cripple,Sansa!”
“He would kill any man that harmed me,” Sansa says with absolute certainty. “It
may not be quick or in a duel, but he would do it. For me. He would do anything
for me, I think.”
Confusion and incredulity edge into the suspicion on Arya’s face, and her mouth
twists.
“Youlove him,don’t you?”
Sansa opens her mouth to object, but then she closes it – is it a lie to say
that she loves Willas? She knows that she does love him, but had not thought
that she loved him the way he loves her.
Would it have hurt so much to learn about his past if I did not love him?
“Not as much as he loves me,” she tries, “but yes, I love him. He- when I
thought I had lost everything, Arya, he gave me a home. When I thought all of
you were dead, he gave me a family. How could I not love him?”
“You already have a home and a family,” Arya says, but she seems less certain
of it now. “Winterfell, and Rickon and me – weare your family.”
“Willas is my family as well,” Sansa says gently, reaching out carefully to
take Arya’s hand. “Just as Mother was a Tully but also a Stark, I am a Stark
but also a Tyrell. Willas is my husband, Arya – we swore vows to one another
before the gods. I cannot abandon him to go gallivanting off across Westeros
after a rumour, surely you see that?”
“It would not take much to have your marriage set aside,” Arya says
thoughtfully. “If you married in a sept, it’s simply a matter of writing to the
High Septon once we are restored to Winterfell.”
Sansa’s cheeks burn, and she cannot quite look at Arya.
“It’s rather more complicated than that, actually,” she whispers, linking her
fingers together in her lap and biting her lip, thinking of the hazy, soft-
edged dream that Arya had interrupted when she woke Sansa earlier that night, a
dream full of the familiar warmth of Willas’ skin against Sansa’s own, of how
fullshe feels with him inside her, of the sound of her name on his lips as he
gasps it desperately against her neck and she buries her face against the soft,
short hair behind his ear that always smells of nothing and yet also of him-
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” she says, searching for the correct words. Sansa is good with words,
can almost always find the right thing to say, but this is not a situation she
ever thought to find herself in. “He is my husband,Arya! We have been married
for some time now, we- that is, he and I- oh, I am not a maiden, Arya!”
Arya makes a small, shocked noise, but when Sansa looks up she sees only fury.
“He rapedyou?!”
“What?! No! No, of course not! He would never- he is a goodman, Arya! He would
never force himself on me!”
“But if you-“
“I- It hurt the first time, because I was a maiden,” Sansa admits, “but he did
his best to make it not hurt before we-“ She pauses and clears her throat
delicately before continuing. “But he would not force himself on me, Arya. He
never has, and I know he never would. When we- when he and I do- he always
makes certain that it is what Iwant before he-“
Before he puts his hands on your skin, before he slides his lovely long fingers
under your nightgown and under your smallclothes, before he kisses you as
though you are the most delicious thing he has ever tasted-
“Well. He would never force himself on me, Arya. Not ever.”
A sudden fear seizes her heart and she cannot breathe, cannot do anything but
grab at Arya’s hands and- and-
“Please tell me you were not-“
“No! No, I- I was safe. I was with Gendry most of the time, he made sure I was
safe, and then… I was safe.”
They both look up at the knock on the door, and Sansa pulls her robe back on
before going to see who it is, belting it closed before lifting the latch.
“My lady,” Willas says, and he’s leaning so heavily on his crutches and looks
so terribly tired that she almost leads him in to lie down before remembering
their agreement and that Arya is sitting on her bed. “Do you have everything
you need? Does Lady- Lady Arya have need of anything?”
Sansa glances back and Arya shakes her head.
“We are well, my lord,” she says, stepping closer and pulling the door with
her, shutting Arya out just a little, as if to shield Willas from the cruel
things she said. “What news from your father? Will he allow my sister to stay?”
“Of course,” he says, sounding surprised. “Sansa, Father would never have sent
your sister away! No, it is Lady Brienne he is concerned with, and these
rumours about your brother.”
“He would prefer they were untrue, so there might be a Tyrell in Winterfell.”
“He would prefer to know if there is any truth in them so he might consult with
Lord Tarly about the possibility of taking the North now that winter has come,”
Willas corrects her, “but I will tell you everything in the morning – I am sure
you and your sister have much to talk about, and I confess that I am in need of
a few hours more sleep.”
She touches his face, the shadowed skin under his eyes and the soft patch just
above the edge of his beard, and then he leans down and presses a kiss to her
brow.
“Goodnight, love,” he murmurs, lips still against her skin. “Sleep well – we’ll
discuss what is to be done in the morning, I promise.”
Chapter End Notes
     Arya is deflecting I am not ignoring anything okay good
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
     SORRY IT WAS SO LONG I'LL TRY NOT TO GO SO LONG NEXT TIME ENJOY
Sansa wakes the following morning with Arya burrowed tight against her side,
warm and bony and blessedly alive, and she can hardly believe that it was not
all a dream. It seems as though it shouldhave been a dream, seems impossible
that Arya could possibly be here beside her, but she is, one hand fisted in
Sansa’s nightgown and snoring quietly against her shoulder.
It must be sunny out, because her chambers are brighter than she is used to in
the mornings. Then again, this room has larger windows that Willas’ room does,
and she is still not used to the differences between his bedchamber and her
own.
She misses him, she realises, and she feels silly for it but it’s true, she
does, and so she slips out of bed – miraculously not waking Arya – and darts
across to Willas’ room, wondering why he left the door slightly open when he
retired but not thinking much of it.
He’s asleep as well, completely bare except for the blanket that’s only just
draped over his hips, his casted leg propped up on two pillows, and with his
hair tangled like that he looks so much younger than he is.
He stirs just a little when she slips into bed beside him, just enough to wrap
an arm around her, and he smells warm and sleepy and she can’t help but curl
close against him, because she wishes they’d never left Highgarden, that things
were still sweet and simple and-
“I thought you were sleeping in the other room,” he says, voice low and rough
with sleep, and when he lifts his head his eyes are only half open and he’s
frowning in confusion. “Or is this a dream, do you think?”
“Not a dream,” she whispers, pushing him back down and resting her head on his
shoulder. “I missed you, that’s all.”
“I was dreaming of you,” he says, nosing against her hair. “I always dream of
you. Just you. Good dreams, those.”
“I dream of you, too,” she says quietly, leaning up and brushing her mouth
against his as his eyes close. “I like those dreams best, I think.”
He hums then, in satisfaction, she supposes, and he’s asleep again before she
even settles properly against him. She almost tells him that she loves him, but
doing so when he’s asleep seems cowardly, somehow, so instead she lets her eyes
drift shut and dozes off in his arms.
 
===============================================================================
 
Aldwin and Marian wake them together not long later, both looking smugly
amused, and Sansa blushes bright pink as Marian ushers her away.
“Sleeping apart is going well, milord,” Aldwin says mildly when he wakes Willas
the third time, before turning away to the other side of the room. Willas is
startled by smallclothes hitting him in the chest (he’s hardly awake, so it’s
hardly fair),but Aldwin simply chuckles before moving on to search out a shirt
and breeches. “Half a night without one another, well done to you both.”
“Stop that,” Willas says, feeling terribly groggy – he took the dreamwine last
night when Maester Lomys offered it, knew he’d never get a moment of rest if he
didn’t because his leg was aching from Sansa’s kick, and his head is woolly
with it now – but still throwing aside the blankets so he can begin wrestling
his smallclothes up over his cast. “Sansa could not sleep, that is all.”
He’s not at all sure that’s why she was in bed with him when he awoke – he does
not remember her joining him, and he’s almost certain that she was to sleep in
the other room with her sister. He remembers bidding her goodnight, and he’s
certain that he did so in the doorway of the other room. Still, he’s not going
to admit that to Aldwin, no more than he’s going to give into the temptation to
beg Sansa to come back to their bed (her pillow might smell of rosemary again,
which will be a tiny consolation, at least).
“Her sister might come looking for you today,” Aldwin warns, slipping under
Willas’ arm and holding him steady before helping him pull up his smallclothes.
“Marian says the little one doesn’t seem happy about you being married to
milady Sansa.”
“She’ll get along marvellously with Prince Aegon, should they meet,” Willas
grouses, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing his hands roughly over
his face. “They can conspire to kill me off so Sansa might marry someone
worthyof her-“
“Stop that,” Aldwin chides, “and hurry along, you’re to break your fast with
your father, and you know he doesn’t like to wait for his meals. He’s waiting
for you outside.”
No indeed, Father becomes cranky when forced to wait for food, Willas knows
that, so he heaves himself back up and begins tugging his breeches up over his
cast.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Lady Alerie is my goodmother,” Sansa says sternly, combing carefully through
Arya’s hair and wondering at the mess of it – it’s all different lengths, and
matted and knotted so terribly she worries that her comb might lose a tooth.
“And she is your hostess. You willshow her the appropriate respect, Arya-“
“Why don’t I just not speak at all, in case I offend one of your precious
Tyrells?”
“If you wish to keep Lady Brienne safe, you’d do well not to alienate Lord Mace
and Lady Alerie,” Sansa warns. “Lord Mace was sincere in wanting to execute her
last night, Arya.”
“She didn’t-“
“I believe you, but Lord Mace will not take Mother taking Lady Brienne into her
service as sufficient evidence of her good character as I do. Please, Arya –
you mustbehave. Everything is so precarious now-“
“Because the Lannisters are losing their grip-“
“I already told you that we have sworn to Prince Aegon at Storm’s End!”
“His father stole our aunt, Sansa! He’s a raper’s son! A madman’s son!”
Sansa hesitates a moment – Prince Aegon’s cousins had been of the opinion that
he was the image of his father, that Princess Arianne was the image of his
mother, and Arya is so like their aunt Lyanna, if what Father and Uncle Benjen
used say is true…
“Better him than the Lannisters,” is all she says. “Now come, we must get you
dressed-“
“Your gowns won’t fit me,” Arya points out, sounding relieved.
“Good thing you’re not the only young lady of your size and shape to ever pass
through Highgarden, then,” Marian says, breezing in with a gown over her arms.
“Lady Alla’s near as small and skinny as you, and she didn’t mind giving a gown
for milady Sansa’s sister – they’re all eager to meet you.”
Sansa bites her lip to keep from smiling at the notion of Arya sitting with
Margaery and her companions during the day – she might get along well enough
with Merry Crane, she supposes, but Megga and Elinor in particular will drive
her mad. Mayhaps it would be best to keep her nearby, with Sansa herself and
Lady Alerie and Leonette.
The gown in question is typical of Alla – a mass of delicate embroidery in soft
shades of deep blue and golden-cream. Arya’s looking at it with the same
scepticism Sansa felt for some of the day gowns she was given upon her arrival
at Highgarden, wondering how something so ornamental can possibly be meant for
wearing all of the time, she doesn’t doubt.
“It’s lovely, Marian,” she says, sitting down to brush her own hair while
Marian helps Arya dress. “It will do nicely.”
“I’ll try pinning her hair when I have her dressed,” Marian calls over her
shoulder, and Sansa can’t hide her smile this time as she watches Arya struggle
against the gown through the mirror. “You get yourself ready, milady, and then
I’ll help with your stays and your gown.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Did your wife say where her sister is hiding the Beauty?” Father asks, passing
half a peach across to Willas once he’s settled down and biting into the other
half himself.
“No, Father,” Willas sighs, reaching down to adjust his leg and shaking his
head. “Sansa and I have barely spoken since her sister arrived. We will have to
speak with Lady Arya today and ask that she tell us all she can.”
“Well, where is the girl?”
“With Mother and Sansa and the rest,” Willas says tiredly, setting down his
knife when his hands begin to shake. Gods, if he could just sleep,but he hasn’t
had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, longer. “We may speak to her after we’ve
all eaten, Father. I’d like to ask her about this Gendry she mentioned, too –
by the sounds of it, she’s travelled an awful amount with him, which could make
it difficult for her in a few years.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Father muses, spreading butter on a cut of bread and
handing it across the table without a word. Willas is thankful for his father’s
uncharacteristic tact, but he wonders how bad he must look to have prompted it
in the first place.
Next he knows, Father and Garlan are standing on either side of him, Father’s
hand on his shoulder and both of them frowning concernedly down at him.
“Back to bed with you, my lad,” Father says firmly, and Willas just about
manages to open his eyes again when he blinks (damned dreamwine, he thinks,
damned me for not taking poppy’s milk when we were on the road to help me
sleep, damned me for not listening to a word anyone said even when it would
have been to my benefit). “Come along, up-“
One of them under either of his arms, and he’s glad of it, because he doesn’t
think he’d manage his crutches, not when he feels as if he hasn’t slept in a
year, and his head lolls to the side so his temple is resting against Father’s.
“I hate dreamwine,” he opines, and he can hear Garlan laughing but doesn’t
particularly mind, because he supposes he must look quite silly. “I should have
asked for poppy.”
“You should have asked for poppy weeks past,” Garlan corrects him, and Willas
hums in agreement, still leaning his head against Father’s and hopping along
between them. The enforced drowsiness of the dreamwine has dragged his body’s
stockpiled fatigue up from wherever he’d been forcing it down to, and now he
feels pleasantly dazed, nodding off standing up.
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas smiling dopily while leaning on Father’s shoulder is not something
Garlan ever supposed to see, but now that it is happening he can’t help but
hate all the years when Willas could hardly stand to be in the same room as
Father without reason – the years Willas bickered with everyone, especially if
they offered him help, found offence in everything Loras did and Margie said,
the years when Willas spent every day in the library and the music room and the
stables and the aviary and the kennels, anywhere but the keep proper, sometimes
not speaking to any of the family for days on end.
Still, anger at all that aside, Willas snuffling against Father’s hair and
smiling is more amusing than Garlan could possibly have imagined, and Father’s
fondly exasperated smile does little to help him to keep from laughing.
“I missed you,” Willas slurs, head falling forward. “When was in t’High Tower.
Didn’ want to so got mad. M’sorry.”
Garlan knows his father better than anyone might suspect, so the flash of pain
in Father’s eyes doesn’t escape him any more than it surprises him. Willas
might have been oblivious to it, but his anger hurt Father more than Father
would ever admit – it didn’t help that they’re as stubborn as each other,
foolishly headstrong and utterly convinced that they’ve been right the whole
time.
Even Father laughs when Willas’ head droops forward and he begins to snore
quietly, hanging heavily from their shoulders, and they carry him the rest of
the way into his bedchamber.
“He needs new boots,” Father huffs as he tugs the offending boots off Willas’
feet, holding them up for inspection with a frown. “Softer ones, mayhaps.”
Willas snores on, oblivious, as Garlan works him out of his doublet.
“He needs sturdy boots for his ankle, Father,” Garlan says firmly. “You know
that. You know it’s not been as strong since the accident.”
“Well, if he’s not going to be standing on it, why should he need support for
it?”
“Leave the boots be, Father,” Garlan says, rolling his eyes as he tugs Willas’
shirt over his head and-
“Gods be good,” Father says quietly. “When did he get so thin?”
Garlan can’t speak, because while Willas has never been near so big as him –
always closer to Loras’ build, if broader in the shoulders and a bit taller –
he’s never been like this, ribs and collarbones and elbows sharp under clammy
skin.
“He’s not been eating properly,” Garlan says, “but I didn’t think he was this
bad. I’ll speak with Maester Lomys this afternoon.  I… Mayhaps Sansa will know.
I will speak with her, too.”
Father nods once, sharply, mouth twisted the same way Willas’ goes when he’s
worried, and then he strides from the room, presumably before Garlan is
supposed to be able to see that he’s upset.
“Fool,” Garlan says to Willas, pulling the blankets up and shaking his head.
“Both of you, but I think most especially you,big brother.”
Uncle Garth is with Father in the outer room – Garlan has never liked the Lord
Seneschal, trusts him even less because of the way he behaves towards Leonette
(and Sansa, he has no doubt), but he is damned good at his work, and has been
invaluable all these years in keeping Father from bending completely to
Grandmother’s will.
“Scouts have been sent out to look for the Maid of Tarth,” Father says once
Garlan has closed the door to Willas’ chamber. “If she is nearby-“
“I thought we were speaking with Lady Arya?” Garlan asks, folding his arms with
a frown. “We owe her Sansa’s sister’s life-“
“And she took Renly’s,” Father points out. “Enough, lad, we’ll speak of it when
we have her. For now, I think we ought find out what the girl was doing all
this time – someone must have given her refuge, surely? A child her age could
never have survived alone-“
Garlan moves to have something to eat while Father rambles, partially because
he’s hungry (and because boxes of apples arrived from Cider Hall yesterday, and
no matter Highgarden’s claims to growing the finest of everything, Garlan has
never had anything to rival the apples from Leonette’s home), but partially
because he thinks Father is wrong. There is something hard about Sansa’s
sister, something that worries Garlan a little because he doesn’t recognise it,
doesn’t understand it, and he wonders if it might end up causing harm to
someone he loves.
He leaves Father and Uncle Garth to their plotting – because it’s always
plotting, with those two – and climbs the stairs two at a time on his way to
Mother’s rooms, wondering if Sansa’s sister might be able to offer some form of
proof as to Lady Brienne’s innocence. Garlan saw the way the Maid of Tarth
looked at Renly, after all, and he cannot imagine Lady Brienne ever harming
Renly – despite her appearance, she has a gentle heart, that he is sure of, and
while she is as deadly with blade in hand as any man he knows and more so than
most, he cannot imagine any circumstances in which she would turn that blade on
Renly.
Garlan has been of the opinion – shared with none save Leonette and Mother –
that there truly was an assassin in Renly’s pavilion that night, although he
doesn’t believe this shadownonsense. Leonette agrees that it was likely some
agent of either Stannis Baratheon or the Lannisters, most likely the Lannisters
because the killer’s efficiency implies the work of a Faceless Man, and theydo
not come cheap. He would not have thought it of Lady Brienne, but the only
reasonable explanation is that she failed in her duty to protect her king, and
her pride would not allow her to admit to it – hence the absurd shadow
killertale.
He sets that aside for now, down beside his worries for Willas, and he’s
smiling when he pushes open the double doors of Mother’s solar. He’s always
loved sitting with her here – mostly because he loves her company, but also
because it’s such a lovely room to simply sit in, with the high north-facing
windows that leave the room cool in the summer heat, and the sweet-smelling
clematis creepers on the walls outside.
“Good morning, my ladies,” he calls, sweeping a bow and knowing without looking
that Leonette is rolling her eyes to the heavens. “Each one of you looking
fairer than ever, I must say.”
“Oh, stop being silly and sit down,” Mother chides, but she’s smiling and
gesturing to the empty seat to her right. “I had hoped your Father and Willas
might…?”
“Father is speaking with Uncle Garth,” Garlan tells her, nudging Leonette’s
shoulder with his hip as he passes, “and Willas has gone back to bed-“
“Is he unwell?”
How Willas can possibly doubt that Sansa is as besotted by him as he is by her
escapes Garlan, because everyone else that sees them either with one another or
speaking of one another knows full well that they’re mad for each other.
“He’s fine,” he promises her, taking his seat and immediately reaching for one
of the slices of apple on Mother’s plate. “The dreamwine – it always struck him
harder than most. Maester Lomys offered him some last night because his leg was
paining him, and he fell asleep in the middle of speaking with Father at
table.”
“He’s always been soft for it,” Mother clucks, thwacking him over the knuckles
with the flat of her knife when he reaches for more apple. “But poppy makes him
queasy – Garlan, there are plenty of apples on the table, please refrain from
stealing mine!”
“But they are all the sweeter for being yours, Mother,” he teases, ducking when
she swipes at his head. “If it bothers you so, I will impose upon my lady wife-
“
“You will have an apple of your own and be happy with it,” Leonette says
firmly, tossing one – glossy deep red, his favourite – across the table to him.
“Now, tell us whatever it was that drove you to seek out our company.”
“I cannot simply enjoy spending time with my favourite ladies-“
“Do stop, Garlan,” Mother advises him, pouring tea for him from her little
silver pot. “Did your father send you to us?”
“I come bearing information,” he says, sniffing the tea and adding honey before
even considering sipping it. “Uncle Garth has sent out scouts to search for the
Lady Brienne – do you think, Lady Arya, that it is likely they will find her
easily?”
“No,” Sansa’s sister says, and Garlan can see the same exasperation he and
Willas always felt when Loras spoke out of turn making Sansa frown. “Because
she’s already on her way here – I sent Gendry to fetch her before I went to
Sansa.”
“She must know that my father intends to execute her for Lord Renly’s murder,”
Garlan says thoughtfully, looking Lady Arya square in the eye. “Her loyalty to
you is admirable.”
“She swore a vow to our mother than she would see us safe,” Lady Arya says, and
there is a definite challenge in the way she leans forward over the table –
Garlan wonders if she knows how to use that little sword she was wearing last
night – but Sansa’s hand on her arm seems to soothe her. “She is a good and
honourable woman – better than most knights.”
“Well that your goodbrother and I are lords, then,” Garlan says mildly. “And
that Brienne of Tarth is no ser, either. I imagine she will fit right in, here
at Highgarden – we value knightly virtues above knightly vows, you see. They
seem more useful, after all.”
Mother very firmly sets a peach on his plate and he ducks his head, smiling
just a little, and says no more.
 
===============================================================================
 
Brienne of Tarth is the tallest woman Sansa has ever seen, and even through the
dirt and filth on her face it is plain that she is not pretty, but she looks at
Sansa with such astonishment that Sansa hardly notices her crooked teeth.
“This is my sister,” Arya says, and Lady Brienne simply nods and bows at the
waist like a man. “Sansa, this is Brienne.”
“It is an honour, my lady,” Sansa says, dipping a curtsy – not as deep as Lady
Brienne’s bow, of course, but deeper than she might otherwise have given to
someone of Lady Brienne’s rank, because the woman before her is the one who
returned Arya to her – and smiling. “My sister speaks very highly of you. She
says you knew our mother?”
And it is hard, so impossibly hard to speak of Mother with a smile on her face,
and when Lady Brienne’s face twists with grief Sansa can hardly force away the
urge to slap her. Who is she to mourn their mother? What did she lose when Lady
Catelyn Stark was slaughtered at the Twins?
But Sansa knows her courtesies, so her smile remains and she even goes as far
as to offer her hands to Lady Brienne, who takes them and clasps them tight.
“You are her image, my lady,” she says uncertainly. “She was a great lady. It
was my honour to serve her.”
The moment is ruined by Lord Mace’s emergence from the castle, flanked by
guardsmen and trailed not only by Garlan and Lady Alerie, but also by a
slightly dazed looking Willas on his crutches.
“Arrest-“
“She didn’t kill him!” Arya explodes, jumping in front of Lady Brienne and
spreading her arms. “She is innocent-“
“Father, listen to reason,” Garlan insists, stepping forward and standing
beside Arya. “Why would Lady Brienne have sworn herself to Renly only to murder
him? Why would she do so while Lady Stark was present as a witness? It makes no
sense!”
“My mother would not have taken a vow of fealty from a murderer, my lord,”
Sansa offers, folding her hands together nervously. “She wouldn’t, I swear it
to you.”
“I don’t know that there was a shadow in Renly’s pavilion,” Garlan says firmly,
holding out a hand when Lord Mace moves forward, “but I cannot see that Lady
Brienne would raise a hand against him – you know it to be true, Father. Her
devotion to him was equal even to Loras’.”
Lord Mace hesitates just long enough for Garlan to turn and bow to Lady
Brienne, motioning for her to follow him when he walks back towards the keep.
“You will be a guest here,” he says, ignoring Lord Mace’s protests and guiding
Lady Brienne inside. “We have you to thank for Lady Arya’s safe arrival, I am
told?”
Sansa looks away from them only when Willas arrives at her side, biting his lip
to keep from laughing and looking slightly less dazed but still very, very
sleepy.
“You should not have risen,” she says softly, reaching up to brush sleep-dust
from his eyes, blushing when he leans into her hand.
“Garlan thought Father was going to be more difficult,” he says, eyes drifting
shut when she runs her hand back into his hair. “I was supposed to be
reinforcements, if I could stay awake long enough.”
“You should return to bed,” she suggests. “Lady Alerie said-“
“That I’m soft for dreamwine?” he guesses, but instead of being annoyed as she
thought he might be, he smiles and shakes his head. “I suppose I am, really. I
rather think that this is as much the past month catching me up as the
dreamwine, though – I’m just so tired, Sansa. Tired right through.”
It’s not until someone clears their throat – Lord Mace, as it turns out – that
Sansa remembers that they are not alone. Arya is looking at them in a way that
makes Sansa’s cheeks flush hot, but Willas just smiles a little and shakes his
head.
“Would you accompany me, my lady?” he asks, turning back for the doors. “I
think it might be best that I have someone with me lest I fall asleep standing
again-”
“Not just yet, my lad,” Lord Mace says, and Sansa drops her hand from Willas’
face, pursing her lips when he huffs in disapproval. “I’d like at least one of
you boys with me when we meet this other companion of your goodsister’s.”
“Father, I’m only in my shirtsleeves,” Willas protests. “At least have him
brought before you inside somewhere – it’s quite cool out, you know.”
As if to emphasise his point, Willas shivers, and Lord Mace frowns before
swinging off his light cloak and draping it around Willas’ shoulders.
“There,” he says, “now come along – I had Garth find the lad earlier, he’s
waiting for us.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas just about manages to keep his balance as he follows Father, is just
about aware of Sansa to his right and Mother to his left and Lady Arya behind
him, but he manages, and the cold is just sharp enough to clear his head
somewhat.
“Are you liking Highgarden, Lady Arya?” he asks back over his shoulder,
blinking rapidly when his vision spots as his balance shifts. “Have you need of
anything?”
“It’s very nice,” she says, and there is a careful diplomacy in her tone that
Willas thinks he recognises from the early days of his and Sansa’s marriage,
something he mislikes very much.
“We are at your disposal,” he assures her. “Our hospitality is famed, and you
are after all next to family, now-“
“I have everything I need,” she says sharply, and Willas doesn’t miss the way
Sansa flinches at her sister’s harsh tone. “I will let my sister know if I need
anything else.”
They go the rest of the way in silence, but Willas can see that Sansa is
bothered by something – if she fears that her sister’s sharpness offended him,
she needn’t worry, but he suspects it’s more to do with this young man they’re
about to meet, who-
"Gods," Willas breathes after an awkwardly protracted silence. "It's uncanny."
"It is a he," Lady Alerie says sternly, "What did you say your name was, my
boy?"
“I didn’t,” says Renly-but-not in an accent so rough Renly would have mocked
it. “It’s Gendry, though," he grumps, scuffing his worn boots on the flagstones
under his feet. "Gendry Waters."
“You are speaking to the Lady of Highgarden,” Father snaps. “Show her some
respect, boy.”
Comprehension dawns, and pity with it – given the late King Robert's
reputation, how much Lady Arya's friend looks like Renly, and that name, he can
only be a bastard. A royal bastard, true, but a bastard nonetheless, of no real
account because he is unacknowledged, unclaimed. As far as Willas is aware,
Robert Baratheon only ever claimed one bastard, the one he had by the foolish
Florent woman, Delena, and that boy was raised at Storm’s End.
"You have our sincerest thanks," Sansa says earnestly, stepping forward. "Arya
is my sister, the only blood kin left to me – I owe you a great debt.”
“Was just doing what was right,” he grumbles, and Willas frowns slightly – who
is he to speak to Sansa, the futureLady of Highgarden, in such a way? Sansa
herself seems unperturbed, and Lady Arya is standing halfway between her sister
and the bastard, as if her loyalties are torn – as if she expects Sansa to
behave in a way she won’t like, or as if she expects the bastard to harm Sansa,
he's not sure which.
“Arya says that you were a smith's apprentice, in King’s Landing – are you any
good?"
"I apprenticed with Master Mott," the bastard says, standing up straight and
proud. Willas is surprised by both – Tobho Mott is the finest smith in King’s
Landing, so Loras always said, and for a bastard boy to have been given an
apprenticeship must be a mark of truly unusual skill. "I'm better than good.”
Willas isn’t sure he likes that arrogance, but he’s unsurprised when Sansa
suggests to Father that mayhaps a place can be found with their smith for the
bastard, even less surprised when Father agrees – it’s a neat solution, tidily
rewards the bastard without having to actually interact with him to any great
deal, and there is future gain for House Tyrell in having him there.
He issurprised by the way the bastard glances to Sansa’s sister before
accepting, just as Brienne of Tarth had looked worried while Garlan was leading
her inside until Lady Arya nodded. There is something not quite right about the
whole thing, and Willas intends on speaking to his goodsister to find out just
what that is.
First, he thinks as he lets Father under one arm and Uncle Garth under the
other when he loses his balance, he’ll go back to bed. Maybe after a few more
hours sleep, he’ll be able to think straight and stand up at the same time.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
     Excuse the delay, I had laptop issues (ie my laptop died and I had to
     get a new one :S)
Sansa spends the afternoon with Arya, which is both everything she thought
never to have again and everything that makes her want to grind her teeth,
because if anything, Arya’s manners have worsenedduring their time apart.
“Please,” she pleads in a whisper. “Arya, please-“
“What use is knowing how to embroider?” Arya snaps, not even bothering to keep
her voice down as she throws down her hoop and needle and fidgets with the
bodice of her gown. Alla is sitting across the room, beside Margaery, and she
frowns prettily (Alla does everything prettily) to Arya.
“Is the gown to your liking, my lady?” she asks, and then flinches back sharply
from the vicious glare Arya throws at her.
Sansa wonders who she’s to be more annoyed with – Alla, for being silly, or
Arya, for being rude. She decides on both.
“My sister is unused to gowns, I fear,” she says lightly, or at least as
lightly as she can manage given how angry she is. “There was little time for
her to dress nicely while she was hiding on the road to avoid those who would
see all of House Stark dead.”
“Oh, Sansa,” Megga gasps, clapping one dainty hand over her mouth. “Surely you
don’t imagine anyone could want you dead?”
“If you believe that, Megga, you are a far sillier girl than even I imagined,”
Lady Alerie says sharply. “We will not speak of such things, particularly not
if you girls are to behave so foolishly – you know better than that, Lady
Olenna has made certain of it, and you would do well to exercise what sense the
gods saw fit to give you, child.”
Arya looks surprised – she clearly was not expecting anyone to jump to her
defence at all, much less Lady Alerie – but Sansa is grateful. She manages a
smile before motioning for Arya to follow her and leaving the room, squeezing
Lady Alerie’s fingers as she passes.
Lady Alerie winks, and Sansa manages another smile.
“I do not know what you went through while we have been apart,” she says,
dragging Arya into one of the unused rooms just down from Lady Alerie’s, “but
neither do Alla or Megga – you cannot expect everyone to-“
“Oh, of course you defend them,” Arya huffs, sitting down on the floor and
wrapping her arms around her knees. “Because they know how to behave-“
“I am not defending them,” Sansa sighs, dropping to her knees beside Arya. “I
am trying to help you understand that they don’tunderstand what you’ve been
through any more than they understand what I-“ She has to stop and clear her
throat before continuing. “They have never known pain, Arya. Not true pain.”
Marian and Willas are the only ones who have seen Sansa’s scars, and Marian has
never mentioned them. Willas hasn’t either, of course, and she knows that that
is only because he worries that speaking of what she endured under Joffrey’s
dubious care will distress her, but she knows that the way his fingers drift
whisper-soft across her ruined skin, has felt how much he wishes he could ease
her pain in the way he holds her close and strokes her hair when her nightmares
drive her to tears at night.
“You were held in the Red Keep,” Arya says suspiciously, lifting her head and
frowning. “Who there would have…?”
“You do not think that the Kingslayer was the sole false knight of the
Kingsguard, surely?” Sansa asks bitterly, her back itching and wishing more
than anything that she could just run to Willas, but he is asleep, needsto
sleep, and she cannot disturb him. “You are not the only one who bears marks of
our time apart, Arya.”
“You mean-“
“Joffrey had the Kingsguard beat me, yes. And half strip me before the whole of
court, too. He was more unkind than even your dire opinion of him could have
convinced any of us, I think.”
“But you were a hostage,” Arya says, clearly confused. “A valuable hostage –
surely it was in his best interests to treat you well?”
“Oh, probably, but Joffrey enjoyed hurting me too much to care about such
things. At least he never… At least I was still a maid coming into Willas’
bed.”
“You should still be a maid,” Arya spits suddenly, and Sansa’s head jerks up at
how sharp her sister’s tone is. “He should never have touched you-“
“The Lannisters – well, the Queen, at least – were working to tame the Faith,
to turn them away from the Tyrells. A false, unconsummated marriage between
Willas and I, that would have helped the Lannisters’ case.”
“He still should not-“
“Arya, I have already toldyou – he never laid a hand on me unless he was
certain it was what I wanted! Not once!”
That achingly sweet kiss he stole the other morning springs vividly to mind,
dizzying her for an instant, the memory of Willas filling her every sense
completely, but she quickly shakes her head to dispel it.
“I… I enjoy sharing a bed with Willas,” she forces out, blushing hot to admit
such a thing aloud. Ladies are supposed to endure the marriage bed, Sansa was
always taught that to find pleasure there was unseemly, obscene, even, but
Willas pursues her pleasure even more determinedly than his own, and she is
quite helpless under his hands and mouth, seems to derive as much pleasure from
pleasuring her as he does when he lets her have a moment to pleasure him. “I
never thought I would, not after the things I was… told in King’s Landing, but
I do, Arya.”
“Is it because you love him?”
“I suppose a little,” Sansa admits. “He is… He is a good man, Arya. The best
I’ve known except Father.”
“And Robb and Jon,” Arya challenges sharply, and Sansa has to bite back the
cruel accusation that Robb valued his crown more than he did them, because he
did not trade the Kingslayer for them. He promised he would always save me she
thinks, remembering their games as children, but he didn’t, he didn’t. She
chooses instead to say nothing, because Robb was their brother, and she loved
him, and it would not be well to speak ill of the dead.
“You are so determined to hate everyone here, Arya,” Sansa says at last. “But
they… You need to be careful of most of them, save Lady Alerie and Leonette and
Garlan and Willas, but they will not do anything to bring either of us to harm.
I know they won’t.”
We are much too valuable for that.
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas is more alert than he was when last awake when Sansa’s sister walks into
his study, a tiny cubby of a room off his and Sansa’s sitting room. There’s
something entirely brazen about Arya Stark, a challenge in everything from her
walk to the set of her jaw to the whiteness of her tightly clenched knuckles.
“Lady Arya,” he says, not looking up from his letters – from Grandfather and
Baelor, telling him much the same thing twice over – and motioning for her to
take the other chair. “How may I be of assistance?”
“My sister,” she says, standing just inside the arch rather than taking a seat.
“What do you want of her?”
He looks up then, looks up and laughs in surprise.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, my lady,” he says, nonplussed by the
question. “She is my wife – am I supposed to want something of her?”
“You wanted Winterfell – you wanted her claim, nothing more-“
“My fatherwanted Sansa’s claim,” he corrects. “I… When we were wed first, I
wanted only to save her from whatever fate the Lannisters had in mind for her.
But then I came to love her, and now I want only for her to be happy.”
“And yet you keep her here,” Arya Stark snarls, and Willas is taken aback by
something that looks alarmingly like hatred in his goodsister’s eyes.
“You think Sansa would be safer elsewhere?” he points out. “Where would you
have me send her, my lady? To Riverrun, which is occupied by Lannisters and
Freys? Or mayhaps to Storm’s End, to Prince Aegon, or to King’s Landing, back
into the Lannisters’ hands – or to Sunspear, where House Martell would surely
welcome a Lady Stark with open arms, mayhaps? Oh, wait, I know! I should send
her north, to chase a rumour that may well be a trap set by Lannisters or
Boltons to lure her to the North where she will, if it isa trap, likely be wed
to Ramsay Bolton-“
“Ramsay Snow-“
“- in order to legitimise his claim to Winterfell! Have I won the game, Lady
Arya? Have I proved to you that I am truly a mercenary fool because rather than
sending your sister to any of the many places that would mean either death or
being wed to someone who I can assure you would never treat her near so well as
I do, I have kept her here? Because clearly the only reason that I would do
such a thing is to be sure of keeping her claim to Winterfell and the North for
House Tyrell.”
“How am I supposed to know you love her?” she demands, and gods but if she
weren’t Sansa’s sister he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from slapping
her - how dare she question his feelings for Sansa? How dare she accuse him of
a deceit that he is completely incapable of? 
“How am I supposed to trust that you won’t bring her to harm when you refuse to
tell the truth of what you’ve been doing since you left King’s Landing?” he
bites back, heaving himself up on his crutches and standing over her, forcing
her to crane her neck back if she wants to keep glaring at him like that. “You
demand everything of my family and I - and yes, I do consider Sansa a part of
my family - and yet you are completely unwilling to make even a single
concession. Have I done anything to give you cause to doubt that I love your
sister? Has Sansa given any indication that I have mistreated her at all?” 
He ignores a twinge of guilt at the memory of Sansa’s suddenly pale face when
confronted with his foolish anger and presses on.
“I adore your sister,” he says sharply, too angry to even be embarrassed at how
open he is being. “I would give anything to have her happy - your presence in
Highgarden makes her happy. You and I fighting would make her unhappy, so I
would ask that you avoid my study, if you could. I do not see that we will be
able to get along, considering your opinion of me is so low and my opinion of
you is that you are a lying brat who is unwilling to see her sister happy
unless it is on your terms.”
“How dare you-“
“I think the question is how dare you attack me in my home, where I have kept
your sister safe for well over a year now, and think that you are in the
right!” he snaps. “I understand that I am far from an ideal husband for Sansa,
believe me, I do – I am too old, I am a cripple, I am nothing at all like the
knights she doubtless dreamed of, but I loveher, Lady Arya, with all my heart.
She is everythingto me.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Garlan likes his brother's wife very much, but he wonders if mayhaps he should
have trusted her slightly less easily given that she has concealed Willas'
condition from them all.
“He looks as though he's not eaten a proper meal in weeks,” he says as they
walk along the eastern cloister, the ground slippery with rain and sludgy
fallen petals and leaves that the gardeners have yet to clear away. “He's skin
and bone, little sister.”
“He hasn't,” she says, long fingers appearing from beneath her cloak for a
moment as she pulls it closer around herself. “Eaten a proper meal, that is. He
picks at his food unless I all but put it in his mouth myself – the poppy makes
him sick, and the pain makes him sick, and the hungermakes him sick... I've had
Marian ask the kitchens to prepare broth like we used take when we were ill, at
Winterfell, but I don't know if he'll take it.”
“Why did you keep it a secret?” Garlan asks, catching her elbow when she slips.
“Sansa, you must realise how delicate Willas' health is at the moment!”
“Of course I realise that,” she snaps sharply, eyes hard in a way that Garlan
never thought to see on Sansa, and then she turns her head away. “But youmust
realise how stubborn and proud he is – the idea of me telling you that he is
weak and ill now would infuriate him, and...”
“He did not mean that, Sansa. He would never have actually laid a hand on you.”
“I know,” she sighs. “But you surely understand, Garlan – he is my husband. His
health is my utmost concern now, aside from my sister. Everyone pestering him
about eating is only likely to make him angry, and if he is angry he is less
likely to eat. I am doing my best, but he is so unwell and hates to send for
Maester Lomys for something to settle his stomach, and... I am doing my best!”
“He accepted dreamwine last night, Sansa! He has not taken dreamwine almost
since his accident because he fears we will take his leg while he is insensate!
Your best-”
“Is not good enough, I know that,” she hisses. “Do you think me foolish,
Garlan? I can see better than you how ill my husband is, though you have my
thanks, my lord, for bringing your concerns to my attention.”
He blinks in surprise as she storms away, the end of her heavy braid bouncing
against her back, and wonders if mayhaps he overstepped.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa slips into Willas' bedchamber that night before dinner, and she's not
quite certain what to make of the sight of him in the bath with his bad leg
propped up on a high stool.
“Maester Lomys insists,” he says sheepishly, taking her hand as she sinks to
her knees on the floor by the tub. “To keep my cast dry – another five and a
half weeks of this, and then hopefully I should be somewhat better off.”
“It will be worth it,” she assures him, folding her arms on the rim of the bath
and leaning closer, settling more comfortably. “You will be much easier without
having to strain your leg just to get from place to place.”
“I was thinking that we might move upstairs,” he suggests, sitting up
straighter and leaning in towards her. “I should be able to manage the stairs,
once I get my strength back, and the rooms up there are nicer. More fitting for
you, I think.”
“Willas-”
“I know that you are happy with these rooms, but the ones upstairs – the ones
that would be ours if we moved up – they are better suited, I think. You would
have a solar to yourself, because I would have a study, and-”
“But I like sitting with you in the evenings,” she says, and it's true – he
often shares things from his correspondances with her, and she likesthat he
trusts her so (even if he does not trust her with himself, but it is better
than nothing, better than being told that she is a stupid, foolish, idiotic-)
The touch of his hand on her face draws her back, and his eyes are full of
concern, his lip caught between his teeth.
“You disappeared,” he says quietly. “The way you do after a nightmare.”
“I- I was just-”
“It's alright, love,” he soothes, his hand slipping back into her hair and
drawing her closer, pressing her brow to his. “Hush now, it's alright, come
here-”
He smells of soap and warmth and lavender (he was with Lady Olenna for some
reason, then, or she was with him), and she closes her eyes and breathes him in
because even just being this close to him helps calm her when Joffrey or Cersei
sneak out of the shadows in the back of her mind and make her hands shake.
“Garlan said he spoke with you today,” he says softly, and when she opens her
eyes his are closed and he's smiling. “He is afraid that he offended you – I
told him that it was up to him to apologise if he had, that I would not make
excuses for poor behaviour on his part when I have enough of my own to make up
for.”
“Arya said she hopes she offended you,” Sansa laughs, the tip of her nose
brushing his and she aches to kiss him, but she is not sure if such a gesture
would be welcome. She has missed kissing him very much since they fought –
since he become really ill, actually, because he has fallen asleep the moment
his head hit the pillow since they arrived at Storm's End, unless the pain was
keeping him up, and she is still shy of being affectionate outside their bed in
the way he sometimes is. She likes to keep that closeness between just the two
of them, does not want to share it with anyone else. “I feel as though I ought
apologise for her.”
“She meant well, I think, although I fear my temper did snap,” he whispers, and
oh, his mouth is just there, his words are warm against her lips, and he tastes
so good when she leans just a little closer and he sighs into her mouth as his
tongue slips against her own and his hand tightens in her hair and she twists
her fingers into his-
“Oh,” he gasps, pulling away. “Sansa, your hair-”
The end of her braid fell into his bathwater, and for some reason she finds
herself giggling uncontrollably as she rises to her feet and reaches for the
soap, pushing back her sleeves and moving to stand behind him.
“It will dry,” she says, tipping a jug of water over his head and scrubbing the
soap into his hair, which is in dire need of a good wash. She giggles some more
when he begins making those funny humming noises while she scrubs his scalp,
tipping his head back into her hands and all but purring with pleasure.
He stops purring when she tips another jug of water over his head to wash away
the soap, but then he dunks his head under the water, scrubs his hair clear and
then sits up and-
“Willas!”she shrieks, turning away when he shakes his head like a wet dog and
showers her with soapy water. “Willas, stop!”
He's laughing, though, truly laughing as he hasn't in so long, and that alone
makes her laugh and fall to her knees beside the bath again, makes her throw
her arms around his neck and pull him to her for another kiss, because she has
missed him so much, as he was when they wed, as he was before they went to
Storm's End.
“I am sorry, love,” he chuckles, nuzzling into her neck and winding his arm
around her as best he can while still sitting in the bathtub. “Could you fetch
me my crutches so I might get out? I don't need Aldwin quite yet, if you
wouldn't mind helping a little.”
So she does – she helps him settle heave himself upright, helps him keep his
cast out of the water, wraps a towel around his hips and tries not to fret
about how sharply his hipbones jut under his too-pale skin, the hollow of his
belly where before there was a soft little bit of fat that she was oddly fond
of – and walks with him to the bed, sits beside him and gladly lets him take
her face in his hands and draw her mouth back to his.
And then, just before he can kiss her, he turns away to yawn, and that like
just about everything else is hystericallyfunny, and they lean into one another
and giggle like children until Aldwin knocks on the door to send Sansa to
Marian and to help Willas dress for dinner.
“Come sit with me tonight,” he implores, catching her hand before she can move
away. “After your sister has gone to sleep, come sit with me a time – I am
making a bad show of wooing you by sleeping away the day, aren't I?”
***** Chapter 23 *****
Chapter Notes
     Late update I know but life and also millions of writing so yeah
     enjoy
“He ate plenty tonight,” Garlan remarks quietly as he escorts Sansa and Arya
away from Lady Alerie's rooms, where they retired after dinner. Arya seemed to
like Willas' aunt, Lady Janna, well enough, which is something,she supposes.
Sansa spent the entire time talking quietly with Lady Alerie about Willas'
health and, to her surprise, Lord Mace's.
“Mace has a bad chest,”Lady Alerie had confided, and Sansa quickly realised
that this was something not many at Highgarden knew. In fact, she would not be
surprised if Willas and Garlan were ignorant of their father's deteriorating
health. “Maester Lomys is talented at his crafts, but I sometimes wonder if it
will ever be enough.”
Sansa feels the same way about Willas – Garlan's words are true, Willas'
appetite doesseem to have returned, but there's a nagging worry that won't let
her be, that makes her wonder if mayhaps there is something else. Could the
strain of bearing his injury be sapping his strength enough to cause serious
harm, regardless of how much and how often he eats?
Highgarden is abundant in ways Sansa never even dreamed were possible before
she arrived, but she still worries that even in that abundance there is nothing
that can help or heal her husband, who had to excuse himself early from dinner
so Maester Lomys could do something or other with the cast binding his leg in
place.
“He did,” she agrees just as quietly, squeezing his arm to reassure him – and
feeling silly for doing so, because Garlan is four-and-twenty, his nameday just
a short week before her own, and he is a lord in his own right, a warrior of
great reknown, and he hardly needs his brother's woman-child wife to sooth his
fears, surely? “He ate a great deal more than I did, that is for certain.”
Garlan grins at that, but Arya seems confused – she has not been privy to
Willas' health for long, Sansa supposes, so it wouldn't make much sense to her,
really.
“He'll be challenging you for the last of Leonette's apples before his nameday,
just you wait and see,” she teases, more cheerfully than she really feels, but
it makes Garlan laugh and, when he bows to her and Arya at the door of her and
Willas' rooms, he is still smiling.
“Why wouldn't your husband be eating?” Arya asks, and while her continued
insistence on not calling Willas by his name, despite Sansa'sinsistence,
irritates Sansa a little, her concern is a good sign.
“The pain and the poppy's milk both turn his stomach,” Sansa says, guiding Arya
into the other bedchamber, unable to stop herself from glancing across at the
door to her and Willas' chamber. Come sit with me tonight,and she fully intends
on doing so, just as soon as she can settle Arya and fix her own hair. “It
makes it difficult for him to eat, sometimes. He's lost a great deal of weight
that he did not need to lose, and we are all quite worried.” I am in
particular,Sansa thinks, and then feels guilty – Willas' family are worried as
well, she just wonders if mayhaps they are worried wrong.She does not think
that any of them truly understand that it is as much the terrible melancholy
that gives him nightmares he does not remember having as much as the physical
maladies brought on by his leg that has weakened him so.
“He is better, though,” she says, as much to reassure herself as to stamp down
on Arya's probable insistence that Willas is an unsuitable husband for Sansa
due to his being crippled. “Much better than he was – his leg isn't troubling
him near so much, I don't think.” I hope. “And he didclear his plate at dinner
tonight.” There wasn't much on it to begin with, but it is a start, I
suppose.“He's asked me to sit with him for a little while tonight, if you don't
mind?”
“Does it matter very much if I do, or shall you sit with him regardless?”
Sansa takes a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm.
“I shall tell him that you have need of me if you wish me not to sit with him,”
she says at last, and it hurts her heart to say it because she desperately
wants to sit with Willas, wants to talk properly with him now that he's so much
brighter, so much more himself.
===============================================================================
 
The door creaks twice, and then the air is sharp with rosemary and Sansa is
slipping under the blankets to curl against his side.
“Hello, love,” he sighs, pulling her close and kissing her brow. “Your sister
is settled?”
“Asleep the moment her head touched the pillow,” Sansa murmurs, and he can hear
how much that seems to amuse her. “I think it is partly the relief of having a
proper bed to sleep in after so long travelling, but I never remember her being
such a deep sleeper before.”
“I remember when Loras came home, after squiring with Renly Baratheon,” he
tells her, shifting as best he can to ensure her comfort, “he slept for near a
week without waking except to eat and use the privy, and when we asked, he said
it was because he hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep since going to Storm's
End – the wind kept him up, apparently.”
Renly Baratheon had kept Loras up too, Willas knows, and the ache that always
throbs when he thinks of Loras, that he is always careful to ignore because he
is simply too exhausted to sort through it just now, twists sharply – Loras was
his brother, and Renly was his friend, and they are both gone now.
“Has Lady Brienne been accomodated fittingly?” she asks, moving until she's
lying mostly on top of him, folding her arms so she can rest her chin on her
forearm and look down at him as they talk. “I know that Lord Mace-”
“Garlan and I spoke with Father before dinner,” he assures her. “Lady Brienne
will not be executed if we can stop it, sweetling. You have my word on that.”
He wonders if he ought to approach the source of the tension that lingers just
beyond the bounds of their easy comfort and conversation, but it is so niceto
just lie here with Sansa in his arms that he can't quite manage it.
“Loras always thought that she was in love with Renly,” Willas remembers. “Lady
Brienne, I mean – oh, if only she'd known...”
“Known what?”
Willas lifts his head to look at Sansa, and is amazed by the genuine curiosity
in her eyes. Surely she heard the rumours? She lived in King's Landing for long
enough, and during a time when all possible means of blackening opinion of
Renly would have been engaged, surely?
“Renly was...” He casts about helplessly, searching for a way to say more
interested in buggering my brother than lying with any woman, although Brienne
of Tarth is manly enough to have been the best chance a woman ever stood of
tempting him, I suppose. “He was uninterested in women, Sansa.”
Her eyes go wide, her mouth opening just a little, and then her brow creases in
serious consideration.
“You mean he-”
“Preferred men, yes,” Willas confirms. “Or mayhaps just preferred Loras, I know
not – but it was through his and Loras' closeness that my family were able to
influence him and forge an alliance against the Lannisters.”
He wonders if he has told her too much, and then she shifts to rest her chin on
his chest and look very seriously at him.
“Garlan truly is the only one of you with any thought for propriety,” she says
primly, and he's so surprised by her reaction that all he can do is laugh.
“Ask Leonette why there was such a short time between Garlan asking for her
hand and their wedding, love,” he tells her, “and then tell me again that
Garlan gave any thought to propriety in matters of the heart.”
She looks stunned, and then she giggles along with him before stilling in his
arms, resting quietly against him. She is thinking about something, thinking so
loudly he can almost hear her thoughts, and he wonders what is troubling her
now – there are so many possibilities that he could not even begin to guess.
“Willas?”
“Yes, love?”
She hesitates, her fingers tapping up along his ribs and back down before she
speaks.
“Why did you tell me of your past? Of... Did you love her?”
He catches her chin and brings her face up so he can look her in the eye.
“I thought that I loved Melinda,” he says softly, “but now, knowing you, I know
that I did not – I was flattered that she was interested in me, despite my
being younger than her, and I was attracted to her very much. We also had a
great deal in common, or at least, we had a great deal of interestsin common,
and we were good friends before she took me into her bed. I think that there
may not be a word for what I felt for Linda – more than friendship, less than
love – but know that it is nothing at all compared to what I feel for you,
Sansa. You have nothing to fear from her ghost.”
“And what of the ghost of her child? Will my sons and daughters have to fear
the memory of their long-dead brother?”
The anger that boils up his gullet takes him by surprise, and he forces himself
to remain calm when he answers, even though he has to grit his teeth to do so.
“You honestly think so little of me?” he demands, sitting up and forcing her to
do so as well. “You honestly believe that I could bear any ill will against my
own children? How could you think so little of me, Sansa? Do you not understand
me better than that? I-”
Is this how she felt, he wonders, when he told her the truth of his past? This
bone-deep sense of betrayal? How can she believe such a thing, though, how can
she possibly believe that he could resent their children because of what
occurred between him and Melinda?
Her arms slide smooth around his shoulders, her face warm against the side of
his neck and her body soft against his.
“I am sorry,” she whispers, “I didn't mean it, Willas, but I- there is so much
of this that still does not make sense.”
He sighs heavily, reminds himself how young she truly is, and then winds his
arms around her, pulls her properly into his lap and buries his face in her
hair.
“Your sons and daughters,” he says, nuzzling through her hair until his mouth
is at her ear, “our sons and daughters, will be the heirs to Highgarden, the
most beloved children in the whole of the Reach – in the whole of the world,
love. Nothing could ever change that.”
He wishes he could explain how much he already loves their children, who yet
live only in his dreams, how just the thought of children with Sansa's hair or
eyes or sweet smile makes him so happy he feels he might burst, but he thinks
she might find him silly, so instead he holds her and says nothing.
“Willas?”
“Yes, my darling?”
“Why did they fake the bandit attack? That makes less sense than anything else,
I think.”
“Remember I told you that Melinda was betrothed? To a Lannister?”
They settle back against the pillows, her head tucked under his chin, and she
nods.
“Had it been discovered that Melinda died of... Had it been discovered that...
Had anyone found out what caused her death, Melinda would have been shamed, and
through her, Baelor and Rhonda – they were her guardians, after all, and they
allowed her to be dishonoured.”
He pauses, considers how best to phrase the bitter anger Melinda's father had
snarled at Willas, when he had come to the High Tower to share the news of her
death.
“Then, of course, it would have had to come out,” he says, “that it was mewho
dishonoured her, because it would be impossible to hide the truth when my uncle
would have been blamed for being negligent, had I not been honest.”
“But a bandit attack? It seems... Excessive. Surely some illness or other?”
He sighs, because this is something that has never made sense to him, either.
“Melinda's parents acted as they saw fit,” he says. “I do not understand,
but... I sometimes wondered if they did not act as swiftly as they ought when
it became apparent that something was wrong – it would likely have been
apparent that Melinda was not a maid on her wedding night, and that could have
raised more problems with the Lannisters. Even the Lannisport Lannisters are
considered too powerful to make an enemy.”
She seems to consider this for a long time.
“You said that you wanted to marry her,” she says at last. “Would you have? Had
the contract with the Lannisters been broken?”
“My father would never have allowed it. Motherwould never have allowed it – I
think they would have found someone to marry Melinda, and done their best to
keep what would have been seen as an indiscretion on my part secret. Then
again, had it gotten out that I am capable of conceiving a child, regardless of
my leg, Father may have had an easier time of it when looking for a wife for
me.”
“Oh.”
“My parents... I do not think Mother could ever have forgiven me that. I don't
think she will, if she were ever to learn the truth. Aside from my uncle and
Aldwin, you arethe only person I chose to tell, Sansa.”
She sits up, slow and languid, her hair tumbling all around her and her
nightgown gaping wide at the neck. He looks away sharply, feeling guilty,
because no matter how beautiful she is this is not the right time – she was
right on that above all things.
“I still don't entirely understand why you told me,” she says, sitting back on
her heels and frowning down at her hands (gods above, she's wearing her wedding
ring!). “But it does help to put certain things in perspective.”
“Such as?”
She looks at him through her eyelashes, smiling ever so slightly.
“Why you are so protective of me, mayhaps?” she suggests, rolling her eyes.
“And why you were... You are very reserved towards your family.”
He sits up at that – towards Father, mayhaps, but they are working to repair
all that has been lost and broken between them – and regards her curiously.
“How so?”
“Aside from Garlan and sometimes Lady Alerie, you seem... Unhappy with your
family. It is as if you are afraid of being close to them.”
“That's ridiculous,” he says, stunned. “I am not afraidof my family. I love
them.”
“And I love my sister, but she terrifies me,” Sansa points out. “Willas-”
“This is nonsense,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “I-”
“It is not nonsense,” she says sharply, climbing off the bed and gathering her
robe around herself. “If you are going to be stubborn and rude, I am not going
to upset myself by arguing pointlessly with you. Goodnight, my lord.”
He is so surprised by this unexpected turn of events that he isn't even
particularly annoyed that he didn't get to kiss her.
===============================================================================
 
Sansa curls onto her side and almost giggles at her daring – Lady Alerie gave
her all sorts of advice on how to handle Willas' temper, but she never thought
she might be brave enough to use any of it.
She sleeps well enough, although she does startle awake once or twice simply
for lack of Willas' bulk beside her, and Marian tells her that he will not be
breaking his fast with her because he has gone out for a walk.
“He was already half-dressed when Aldwin went to wake him,” she explains as she
tugs a brush through Arya's hair. “Headed out for the western gardens,
apparently.”
The stables and kennels both are in the southern gardens, the aviary in the
eastern, and so Sansa has no idea why Willas might have gone west – but then,
the gardens here are so vast that she thinks that she has seen only a tiny
fragment of them.
“Lord Garlan and Lady Leonette are waiting for you when you've finished with
your meal, milady,” Marian calls over her shoulder while lacing Arya into her
gown – another of Alla's, this one pale green edged with silvery white – and
Sansa wonders at that, too. She worries that she offended Garlan the other day
when she snapped at him, but he has not seemed angry with her.
“Did they say why they wish to see me, Marian?” she asks, and is surprised when
Marian cackles.
“It's a surprise, milady,” she teases, and Sansa cannot help but laugh with her
at that – at least she knows that, from Garlan and Leonette, it will be a
nicesurprise, which washes away the shiver of fear that she knows is only a
remnant of Joffrey's cruelty.
She wishes Willas were here.
===============================================================================
 
“Are you quite sure about this?” Leonette asks, standing back with her arms
folded while Garlan ducks into the kennels. “Mayhaps she would prefer-”
“Sansa will love it,” he says firmly, emerging with the floppy eared little pup
he'd chosen (with Willas' blessing, although he isn't sure Willas remembers
giving it) the day before Sansa's sister arrived. “She spoke about her wolf pup
plenty while we were traveling, didn't she? This is precisely what she needs,
darling, I- Sansa! Sansa, this way!”
Sansa's sister is trailing her steps like her shadow, but he hadn't expected
anything different – the girl seemed determined to find some fault with
Highgarden terrible enough to convince Sansa to go on this mad errand to hunt
down rumours of their youngest brother.
“Marian said that you wished to see me?” Sansa says, blinking up at him
prettily – he must remember to tease Leonette for being so small beside his
brother's wife later – and smiling. “I am sorry that I was delayed, but-”
“It matters not,” he says, grinning to Leonette before shifting his hold on the
pup. “We merely remembered that we had not given you a gift for your nameday –
for good reason, I promise – and thought that we had tarried long enough.”
“Stop being silly,” Leonette admonishes him, and he passes the pup to her
without argument when she holds out her hands. “We had to wait until she was
strong enough to be away from her mother, Sansa, and then-”
“This puppy is for me?” Sansa breathes, and Garlan is taken aback by the tears
in her eyes – he knew that she would like their gift, but he had never expected
such a strong reaction!
“A nameday gift, from Garlan and I,” Leonette says gently, passing the pup to
Sansa. “To welcome you properly to Highgarden – we all have a hound of our own
save you, Sansa.”
“At least you have a decent horse,” Garlan says without thinking, holding up
his hands when Leonette scowls at him. “Well, she does –I still cannot quite
believe that Willas gave her Whisper.”
“Why shouldn't he have given me Whisper?” Sansa asks, looking terribly confused
as she scratches her little dog between the ears. “Is there something wrong
with her?”
“Quite the opposite,” Leonette laughs, and Garlan notices the way Sansa's
sister is glaring at Leonette – he won't stand for that, so he moves slightly
between them, just enough to discourage her. “Willas was so leery of letting
anyone else near Whisper that even Loras gave up on asking if he could ride her
– it was quite... telling when he gave her to you.”
Sansa's cheeks are bright pink now, which would have made Garlan laugh had
Leonette not kicked him in the shin, so instead of teasing her about how easily
Willas fell in love with her, he asks what she intends on calling the pup.
“Blossom,” she says, after considering it for a long moment, looking up at the
trailing sprays of apple blossom overhanging the avenue leading to the back
gate. “I think it's quite fitting, don't you?”
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Notes
     Late I know ssh
Loras' grave is a riot of baby's breath and alysum, white and sweet smelling,
and there is a trailing tendril of peony roses being coaxed up over his stone.
Willas can't be certain if that's Mother's doing or Margaery's, but he feels
intensely guilty for not coming to Loras' grave in so long.
Part of him feels that he ought speak to his brother, but the rest of him feels
that such a thing would feel silly.
A tiny, tiny fragment of him – the most honest part, mayhaps – knows that only
Sansa's opinion that he is somehow afraid of his family spurred him into doing
this. Otherwise, he might have waited for a half dozen moons to turn, for
Loras' nameday, before visiting here.
You always did confound me, little brother,he thinks miserably. I loved you all
the same, for all we fought. I wonder if you knew how jealous I was of you?
He hears someone rustling through the thick grass – a gardener, he assumes –
and bends down to pluck the beginnings of a thistle from the left corner of the
grave.
I hated you near as much as I loved you, he tells Loras, or at least wishes
that he could.I resented so much that everything came so easily to you – I
hated that you and Renly were so easy together, even though most the realm
would have helped the Faith execute you both for loving one another. I was
jealous of you for having that, I think. I never meant any of the cruel things
I said, Loras. I hope you knew that.
“What are you doing here?”
He looks over his shoulder, surprised to see Margaery – although he supposes he
should not be, given that Mother told him that Margie has taken to spending
hours at a time at Loras' graveside. He wonders if he would do the same had
Garlan been the one to die, and realises that he cannot imagine a world without
their fool brother in it. A world without Garlan would be a dark place
indeed,he thinks. I wonder if the same is true for Margaery, now Loras is gone.
It certainly is for Mother, he knows – she puts on a good front, but he knows
her well enough to see the shadows in her eyes, the twist to her smile, the way
her hands tremble and her eyelids droop from many sleepless nights. Father is
near as bad, but he hides it better behind his usual bluster and bravado.
“I came to see Loras,” he says, and then wonders if that was a silly way to
phrase it.
“I don't see why,” Margaery says, and her voice is bitter and sharp. “You never
wanted anything to do with him when he is alive – is this to make your precious
Sansa think better of you? Everything you do now seems to revolve around her.”
“It was you who was so adamant that Sansa and I would be a suitable match,
little sister,” he says mildly, wondering if everyone thinks he had so little
regard for Loras. “And Loras was my brother as much as yours, Margie. I am
entitled to mourn him, you know.”
“What have you to mourn?” Margaery demands, shocking him. “You hardly knew him
– you were away at Oldtown half our childhood, and then he was at Storm's End
when you did eventually come home. He might have been one of the cousins, for
all you knew him-”
“Loras was my brother, Margaery, whether you like it or not,” he says,
nonplussed by her apparent fury but unwilling to bend to it. He has long been
of the opinion that Margaery is too indulged, by their parents as much as by
Grandmother, and he will not indulge her now. “I loved him – mayhaps not so
well as you-”
“Nobody loved him so well as me!” she announces, and Willas is impossibly glad
that Mother and Father are not here to hear this. “Garlan tried, but you were
too caught up in your misery and self-pity to look long enough to see that he
wasn'tall the horrible things you said he was!”
“What horrible things?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Margie-”
“You used say he was shallow, and vain, and rude, and arrogant, and-”
“But Margie,” he says, “Loras wasall those things – he was more than that, I
know, but he was most certainly those things.”
“You don't-”
“What is going on?”
They both turn, surprised by Father's sudden and deathly silent appearance.
Surprised more by the obvious anger on his face, Willas can admit that.
Father's tendency to bum and blow makes his true anger, which, surprisingly,
runs cold, all the more unnerving.
“How dareyou both squabble like children over your brother's grave?” he
demands, coming to stand between them, glaring from one to the other. Willas
can feel his cheeks warm, can see Margie's do the same. “We all loved Loras,
Margaery, and we all mourn him, and you werecloser to him than any of the rest
of us, sweetling.”
Margaery ducks her head, not looking up until Father cups her chin and draws
her face up, tipping her nose with his knuckle as he did when she was small and
then drawing her under his arm.
“As for you, you lummox,” he says to Willas, “you and Loras were intolerable to
one another, and you made sure that we all knew it – you should not be as
surprised as you are that Margaery did not expect to find you here. We know
that you loved him, Willas, but we never thought that you and Loras liked one
another – you were always too alike, too much like me, to be truly close.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas laughs when Sansa introduces him to Blossom, stroking her floppy ears
and ruffling her silky coat.
“My best bitch is her mother,” he says with a grin, lifting her up into his lap
to check her over. “Garlan couldn't have picked a better pup for you, I'll
admit that – and I suppose Leonette is behind the collar?”
The collar being braided satin ribbons and one length of creamy-soft leather as
a nod to practicality, but before Sansa can respond, Blossom gives Willas'
cheek a sloppy lick and he's laughing again.
She loves him with his animals – he doesn't seem to worry when he's grooming
his horses or training his hawks or sneaking treats to his hounds when the
kennelboys aren't looking. There's something very sweet about him, in the way
he spoils them like every one of them is a treasured pet, Blossom, it would
seem, is no different.
“You know,” he says, kissing Blossom's wet nose and passing her to Sansa, “I
think it's only fair that Garlan gives mea pup now, for my nameday.”
“They're already your pups,” Sansa points out with a smile, settling Blossom in
the nest of her gathered skirts, thrilled at the way the little dog curls up
and watches her with bright eyes. “It would be redundant for Garlan to give you
one.”
“He'd pick one out for a pet for me, though,” Willas says thoughtfully. “I can
never bring myself to separate one from the rest of the litter, you see – I
feel cruel.”
Sansa thinks of herself and Arya going south with Father, taking Lady and
Nymeria away from their brothers, of Jon going to the Wall with Ghost, and she
feels so sad that she almost loses grip of the sweet happiness that is this
sunny interlude with her husband and her pet.
In this moment, it's hard to tell who's looking at her with more love in their
eyes.
“I hope to go riding as soon as Maester Lomys allows me out of this thing,” he
says, gesturing to his casted leg – he pushed himself too hard this morning,
out by Loras' grave. He had been very melancholy when she found him, sitting by
the window and looking out into their little garden (Sansa found a door in the
other bedchamber, and she intends on forcing Willas to break his fast there
with her as soon as the grass is trimmed and a table and comfortable chairs
might be found). He told her something vague about fighitng with Margaery and
speaking with his father when she asked, and she did not press him – there is a
strange distance between himself and Lord Mace and Margaery, something she does
not understand, and it is very delicate, so she does not like to add pressure
to it by needling him.
“Will you accompany, my lady?” he asks, and she has lost track of the
conversation so obviously that he smiles and explains. “For a ride, my love,
once I'm free of this contraption.”
“If Maester Lomys says that it will cause you no ill, then I would be glad to
go riding with you,” she says firmly, and he pouts like a child at that, which
makes her giggle. “Garlan and Leonette have offered to take Arya riding, to
show her some of the Reach – they think it might make her more at her ease
here, if she were to see that there is no war here.”
“If she could see that you are not in danger here,” he corrects. “I do not
think she trusts me an inch – I can't see what it is I've done to earn such
animosity.”
Sansa hesitates – he already feels so guilty, she knows, she has seen it in the
way he no longer even touches her, really, unless she initiates the contact,
and to think that Arya sees it as such...
“She refuses to believe that I consented to sharing your bed,” she admits at
last. “She thinks- She believes that-”
“That I forced you,” he says, clearly astonished. “Well, it seems that this is
a day when I am seen at something beyond my worst. Gods above, does she truly
think me a rapist?!”
“I have done everything I can to convince her otherwise,” Sansa promises, “but
she is stubborn, and if something does not fit into the way she sees things...
Had she been in my position, she says that she would never have consented to
sharing a bed with a husband who she married only as an escape, and so she
cannot believe that I would do so.”
“Your sister and you are very different people,” he says, a wry twist to his
small smile. He is smiling so much more this past few days, and it makes her
probably more hopeful than she ought to be that he is sincerely happier now
than he was. He certainly seems calmer, which is wonderful. “You should see
Mother and her youngest brother, Humfrey – if you didn't know them, you'd swear
they detested one another. It is the same with your sister and yourself, I
think.”
Sansa can't help but laugh at that – if Willas were even slightly less
stubborn, he might have used himself and his father as an example there, but he
is stubborn, more than Sansa could ever have imagined.
“I suppose,” she admits. “Have you thought any more about who you might send to
White Harbour?”
“Father is considering Garett, Uncle Garth's younger son,” he says, stretching
his arms high over his head and yawning hugely. “A bastard won't attract as
much as a lord of our House would, particularly one with as little talent for
subterfuge as Uncle Garth, but a bastardof our House might just avoid bearing
insult to House Manderly, if he is explained well enough.”
“Do you think it possible that my brother is alive, Willas? Truly?”
“Sansa, a week ago I would have thought it impossible that your sister could
possibly be alive,” he says, shaking his head and reaching over to scratch
Blossom's head again. “Now, I think anything is possible of House Stark, love.”
A knock on the door startles them both, and Sansa makes an effort to right her
skirts until she sees that it is Aldwin come calling on them.
"A raven just came to your father, milord," he says, looking concerned. "From
Storm's End - the Prince is on his way here, milord."
***** Chapter 25 *****
Chapter Notes
     Ah, filler chapters, how I love thee and apologise to my readers for
     your recent unintended abundance.
Sansa has seen Highgarden at its best advantage only once before, during the
days before of her and Willas' wedding, and so it takes her breath away when
she sees the full extent of the preparations for Prince Aegon's arrival –
Leonette, apparently, feels the same.
“Garlan and I were married at Cider Hall,” she explains as they walk through
the kitchen garden with Lady Alerie and Arya, baskets of fresh peaches hanging
from their arms. “Your wedding was the first Highgarden celebration I was ever
truly present for – I was tending my mother when Margaery married Renly
Barathon, and aside from that, there has never been a time of true celebration
that I was a member of the family for.”
“I only wish that it were a more joyous occasion that were your second
celebration, Sansa,” Lady Alerie says, shaking her head. “Ah, this well be
uncomfortable for us all, particularly if Prince Aegon behaves inappropriately
towards you again.”
Sansa and Leonette both stop, stunned by that.
“I-”
“Willas and Garlan did not say a word,” Lady Alerie assures them, “but I know
my sons well enough to understand when they dislike a man, and to understand
why they dislike him.” Then she grins. “And Marian tells me a great deal more
about Willas than he would like, although you are never to tell him that.”
Sansa wonders what else Marian has told Lady Alerie, and decides to ask later.
“Why are we gathering peaches?” Arya asks, hefting her basket – filled to
overflowing – higher towards her elbow. “Aren't there servants for this?”
“A special mark of respect,” Lady Alerie explains, “for particularly esteemed
guests – peaches are a speciality of ours, dear, and for guests who we
particularly need to impress, we present peaches picked by members of the
family.”
“As our husbands are in council, organising the war, it has fallen to us,”
Leonette adds. “Besides, we've picked enough that there will be more than
enough for all of us, and Highgarden peaches really are as good as everyone
says they are.”
Sansa takes Arya's hand, worrying that her sister might object further, but
instead, Arya shrugs.
“Makes sense,” she says, surprising Sansa. “But what do you mean, Lady Alerie,
that the prince was inappropriate towards Sansa?”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas swings himself down the stairs at Garlan's side, wondering how he didn't
notice his arms strengthening to the point where it didn't ache to crutch up
and down the stairs anymore.
“Are you quite certain that you can behave yourself with the prince?” Garlan
asks quietly, his voice and their steps echoing off the walls. “You won't be
able to balance well enough to hold him by the throat this time.”
“I didn't hold him by the throat last time, either,” Willas points out. “I held
him by the front of his doublet. Utterly different.”
Garlan only shakes his head and catches Willas' elbow when his crutches slip on
the polished floor.
“Yes, well,” Garlan offers. “Be glad Father is unaware of that. I can't see him
being as amused by it as I was, hmm?”
“I imagine his reaction would be closer to Sansa's,” Willas admits. “She was
unimpressed by what she politely termed my theatrics.”
The click of Willas' crutches and boot are louder by far than the soft thud of
Garlan's boots, but not loud enough to drown out the steady thump of Father's
feet following them down from his solar.
“You left something behind you, lad,” he calls down to Willas, and Willas rolls
his eyes at the sight of Sansa's Blossom gamboling down the steps at Father's
feet. “She trails you near as faithfully as she does her mistress, it seems.”
Willas bends down to scratch between Blossom's oversized ears, and he shakes
his head in amazement.
“She trails whichever one of us is inside,” he corrects Father. “And if we are
both inside, she blatantly prefers Sansa to me.”
“I should hope so,” Garlan huffs, sweeping Blossom up and pressing a kiss to
her head – a pet for the family as much as for Sansa,Willas thinks with a smile
– before grinning to Father. “She was Sansa'sgift, after all. Willas is just
jealous.”
Willas almost sticks his tongue out at Garlan for that poorly-hidden jape, but
then he might have to explain why he did so to Father and it's truly not worth
it.
“Put the dog down, little brother,” he chides instead, and Garlan snickers a
laugh before setting Blossom back down, where she proceeds to do nothing more
than make a nuisance of herself by scampering their feet so Willas is afraid to
lift his crutches in case he puts them back down on her paws. “Do you know, I
think you picked the stupidest pup in the litter when you chose Sansa's gift,
Garlan.”
“Don't speak so of Blossom!”
Sansa's cheeks are pink and her hair mussed from the breeze outside, and the
whole hall smells suddenly of peaches – Sansa and Mother and the others are all
carrying two baskets each, heavily laden with fresh fruit that looks so ripe
Willas is half tempted to steal some of it...
“If either of you boys even think about taking so much as a single peach,”
Mother warns when Sansa sets her baskets down so she can kneel and smother
Blossom with kisses (if Willas were an honest man, he'd admit to being jealous
of that, just a little).
“Where's Margie?” he asks instead, suddenly noticing his sister's absence – she
was with Mother this morning, when she went to meet Sansa and her sister and
Leonette in the orchards, he's sure of it – and frowning. “Has she taken ill?”
“Alla fell from a tree,” Sansa says absently, and if Willas thinks that Arya
Stark looks guilty then he must be the only one, for nobody else seems to
notice how interesting she suddenly finds the floor. “We think she broke her
wrist, so Margaery brought her to the maester with Merry and Megga's help.”
“What possessed Alla to climb a tree?” Garlan asks, having missed the look on
Arya's face that explained it all quite clearly – not someone he would have
supposed Alla to wish to befriend, but he does not know his cousins thatwell,
after all. “Alla? Alla Tyrell?”
“Yes, Garlan, your cousin Alla,” Mother says, rolling her eyes and passing one
of her baskets to Father. “Now, come along – we must get these to the hall and
then prepare ourselves for the prince's arrival.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Every room in Highgarden has been stuffed full of sweet-smelling flowers, and
Sansa knows that she only has Willas to thank for the merciful lack of roses in
their own rooms.
Their new rooms – he was true to his word, those weeks ago when he offered to
move upstairs, and their rooms, a suite across from Lady Alerie's that looks
south across the gardens and out over slow, rolling fields of flowers as far as
she can see, are beautiful, high-ceilinged and airy and full of windows, huge
windows that let in so much light Sansa half wonders how the walls don't just
collapse under the weight of the roof – are brimming over with honeysuckle and
clematis and wisteria, twisted into pretty arrangements that climb temporary
trellises around the windows in their solar and that curl around the posts of
their bed, leaving tiny blossoms all over their pillows every night.
“Just think,” Willas calls over his shoulder as he levers himself carefully out
of the bath on his crutches, “by the time the prince is gone, I shall be able
to bathe with both legsin the bath!”
“Stop it,” Sansa laughs, wincing when the comb in Marian's hand catches in her
hair. “You've done nothing but whine about that cast since the day Maester
Lomys put it on, a few more days will hardly kill you.”
“It iskilling me,” he sighs melodramatically, waving Marian away when he lowers
himself onto the bench of the dressing table beside Sansa. “Maester Lomys has
forbidden me from going outside, he says it's too likely I'll slip and damage
my leg – I'm bored,Sansa!”
“Well, there will be plenty of excitement to be had inside while Prince Aegon
and his people are here,” she says firmly. “Did you learn nothing from Alla's
fall? It isslippy out, Willas, it's rained for the past three days almost
without break!”
Rain here in the Reach is as pretty as everything else, soft and warm, and it's
just as lethal as everything else, too, turning every surface as slippery as if
there's been frost in the night.
“Yes, well, Alla put herself in harm's way when she climbed that tree,” he
points out. “I would not be so foolish – are you wearing the blue tonight, my
love?”
“You would be justas foolish, just because you would refuse to accept what you
cannot do,” she says wryly, knocking away his hands when he moves to pull her
into his arms – he is naked, and still dripping wet, and she already has her
smallclothes and her shift on and they are silk, which will be ruined if he
gets his wet hands all over it. “And no, the gold.”
The gold is not truly gold, but rather a deep, warm, golden-green, a lovely
autumnal colour that Sansa very much liked when the dressmakers offered fabric
samples. Lady Alerie agreed that it would be a lovely foil for her hair, and so
she has a new gown that Willas has not yet seen, but that she hopes will stun
him completely.
“I have a gift for you, then,” he says, surprising her, and he calls for Aldwin
and Marian before she can react – Aldwin, who has a robe over his arm that he
holds out until Willas gives in.
“Mayhaps put on your drawers before giving anything to milady Sansa, hmm?” he
says with a frown, and Willas rolls his eyes in just the same way Lady Alerie
does before giving in and letting Aldwin help him dry off and dress while
Marian finishes Sansa's hair.
“You are going to be very polite to Prince Aegon when he arrives,” she tells
him once they're standing together in their solar, once she feels beautiful and
confident and he's too busy staring at her in such blatant admiration that it
makes her blush to refuse her anything. “You are going to behave as though he
were nothing but respectful towards me, because if you give even the slightest
hint that something is amiss, I fear my sister may murder him, and then we are
all ruined.”
“If he sees you in this gown,” Willas says, his voice strained, “then I may
have no choice but to commiserate with him.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
He finally meets her eyes, smiling just a little, and then shakes his head.
“Have you even the faintest notion of how beautiful you are, Sansa?”
 
===============================================================================
 
Aegon's horse is a silver, gleaming as bright as his hair in the sudden sunset.
“The bastard,” Garlan grumbles beside Willas. “You'll have to give him your
best, ugliest horse just to get him off that beauty.”
“So long as he does not try to get on any other beauty during his stay, I think
we may be able to tolerate him,” Leonette murmurs primly, and it's all Willas
and Garlan and Sansa can do not to burst out laughing as Aegon's feet touch the
fresh-swept cobbles of the courtyard.
***** Chapter 26 *****
“Highgarden is more beautiful than I could have imagined,” Prince Aegon says,
gazing about him in open wonder. “You are lucky indeed to have such a home, my
lord.”
Willas smiles – Prince Aegon has been nothing but respectful since his arrival,
even to Sansa and her sister, and so Willas is behaving so impeccably that even
Garlan and Leonette have no cause for complaint.
“The Reach is a beautiful place as a whole, your highness,” he agrees. “We are
blessed with a perfect situation – Highgarden simply takes advantage of its
surroundings.”
“You are too modest, my lord,” Aegon insists, and Willas feels his eyebrow lift
in amusement. “Your House has done great things for the Reach and in the Reach
– I have rarely seen such prosperity as I did while riding here from Storm's
End.”
“My father is an able lord,” Willas says, nodding towards Father and Lord
Connington where they walk a little ahead, with Mother and Lady Lemore (not a
septa after all, but Aegon's foster-mother, and, Willas suspects, a great deal
more than she seems even now). “Our people have flourished under his rule, just
as they did under my grandfather's – we are lucky to have mild winters and
fertile land, your highness, and much of our lands have been untouched by war
for many long years. Even now, it is only our western coast and our northern
borders that are in danger – much of our farmland is in the south-eastern
areas, so our people are in no danger of going hungry.”
“How interesting,” Aegon says, and Willas is surprised that he seems genuinely
interested. “I would like to see more of the Reach – would that there was
time.”
“Mayhaps when the war is won, sire,” Willas says, glancing back to Sansa. She
seems to be holding her own well enough with Princess Arianne, her hands
clasped demurely before her and her head bowed closer to Arianne's – the
difference in their heights is almost funny, because Sansa seems to get taller
every time he looks at her, and Arianne is only about Leonette's height. Almost
funny, but not, because there is a curl to Arianne's full lip that Willas much
mislikes, because it looks as though she is laughing at Sansa. “When we are at
peace, I would be glad to tour the Reach with you.”
And again he is surprised, because it is true, in a way, he loves the Reach and
loves introducing people to its wonders, and he thinks that the prince might
appreciate it.
“I would like that,” Aegon says, and he sounds as surprised by that as Willas
is. “But first, we will win the war.”
“No, your highness,” Garlan says, leaning over Willas' shoulder with a grin.
“First, we will celebrate!”
 
===============================================================================
 
This is who he ought to be,Sansa thinks, watching Willas laugh and charm and
tease all at the table. This is who he is, without the pain.
He has held her hand the entire time since the plates were cleared away, and
even when he is speaking with someone on the other side of the table, he leans
towards her, always close by.
Always firmly between her and Prince Aegon.
“Are you well, darling?” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer, smiling even
though she can see the worry in his eyes. “You have been very quiet.”
She blushes – she has not been quiet, she has been staring at him and he knows
it, but she has so rarely seen him so at his ease, so in his element, that she
can't quite look away.
“I am well,” she whispers, smiling a little. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,
my lord.”
His smile is a shade more genuine now, and it makes her happy, so happy that
she can't help but kiss him, just on the smooth skin above his beard.
“It has been a long time since I could think so clearly,” he admits softly.
“And being able to think clearly means that I can see all this for the game it
is once more.”
“The game?”
“Mm,” he agrees. “Grandmother always said that politics were a game, and
Grandfather always said the same – not that either of them would ever admit to
being in agreement over something, of course. I've been trained to play this
game since I was a child, my love, but I have been so preoccupied that I... I
forgot, I think.”
“And you... Enjoy these games?”
The thought makes her a little queasy, brings back so many memories of Cersei
telling her what a fool she is, but Willas' fingers are linked through hers and
they are warm, and he tips her head up with a bump of his nose to hers.
“They are the best means I have of serving my family, just as Garlan's prowess
in battle is his” he says. “And I have always enjoyed those things that I am
good at. Doesn't everyone?”
“I suppose,” she admits uncertainly. “But-”
“We could teach you, too, love,” he murmurs, looking strangely excited at the
prospect. “You will need such skills if your brother is truly alive – there
will be much politicking to be done in order to restore order in the North, and
you may well be called upon to aid in restoring the Riverlands, and you and
your siblings are, to my knowledge, near the only relatives left to the Lord of
the Eyrie. You potentially could seize control of three of the nine regions of
the realm, and with our marriage, the North, the Vale and the Riverlands are
bound to the Reach and all our allies – in this case, the Stormlands and
Dorne.”
“Dorne and the North,” Nym says from Sansa's other side – how it irked Lord
Mace to seat the bastard Martells above the salt. “An unusual alliance, some
would say, but mayhaps not – we are more similar than any would guess.”
“Oh, I don't know about that, Nymeria,” Willas says lightly. “Both with extreme
weather, both with different customs, both with different blood – not such
strange bedfellows, my lady.”
“You think our weather makes us suitable allies?” Nym asks with a laugh. “What
a peculiar man you are, Lord Tyrell.”
Prince Aegon is seated to Lord Mace's right hand, in the place of most honour,
and Sansa has to bite back a laugh at the way Lady Alerie watches him with one
eyebrow quirked coolly – to Prince Aegon, Sansa does not doubt that her
goodmother looks interested and even a little amused. Sansa knows better,
though, and knows that Lady Alerie is in fact gauging Prince Aegon's abilities,
his intelligence, and has yet to judge herself interested in him or otherwise.
Lord Mace, of course, is interested. Prince Aegon has enormous potential for
power, and Lord Mace is intensely attracted to to power. He is sceptical of
Princess Arianne, but Willas is the only one of the Tyrells who seems capable
of not being openly suspicious of the Martells.
“You're staring at me again,” Willas murmurs, leaning right in close so his
mouth is against her ear. “Is there something on my face?”
She looks away, embarrassed, and looks to where Arya is sitting further down
the table with Garlan and Leonette and some more of the Dornish folk, and she
seems to be having the time of her life – Alla keeps giggling at everything she
says, and Sansa longs for a friend like that, wishes she were sitting closer to
Leonette.
“Sansa,” he says softly, squeezing her hand. “Are you sure you are well?”
No, she doesn't feel well at all – she's had a terrible sense of foreboding
since Aldwin told them Prince Aegon was on his way, and she doesn't quite know
why. She thinks it's silly, can't place why it feels so strange – but she
cannot tell him that. He will worry, and he cannot afford to be thinking of her
now, when he must concentrate on doing his best to keep the Martells and Prince
Aegon in check.
 
===============================================================================
 
The rain stays away the next day, which is a torture while they are locked
inside at council but a marvel when Father suggests they take a walk about the
rose gardens – Garlan likes the gardens best after the rain, when they look
fuller and healthier than usual.
Willas, though, is having some difficulty – the rain has made the paved paths
slippery, and with his crutches, he keeps skidding. It is souring his mood,
Garlan can see it in how tight Willas' jaw is, but he's putting on a brave face
and Garlan doesn't think that anyone but himself and Father can see how
irritated Willas is.
“There was nothing like this at Storm's End,” Aegon says curiously, pausing to
catch the scent of a peachy coloured rose (Leonette's favourites). “Your
gardeners must work themselves to exhaustion to maintain all this.”
Garlan has never really considered such a thing – the gardens simply are,and he
cannot imagine Highgarden without them – but Willas is laughing.
“They are well paid for their work, your highness,” he says, shaking his head.
“And they are under our direct protection, because by necessity they live
within the walls – we take our gardens more seriously than I imagine they do at
Storm's End, sire.”
Garlan has been surprised by how readily Father has left Prince Aegon in
Willas' care, but mayhaps that is all to do with how Lord Connington is so
clearly the true power. He and Father have walked with their heads bowed
together the whole time since they left council, and Garlan knows that Willas
has been watching them closely whenever he has not been speaking with Prince
Aegon.
“Do you know,” Willas says out the side of his mouth when the prince turns to
talk to his Lord Commander, “he's not so bad as I thought, now that he's not
trying to make my wife leave me.”
Garlan can't help but laugh at that – it's been so long since Willas was in the
sort of humour to jape and joke, particularly at his own expense, and it is a
relief to see him so much more himself now than he has been in such a long
time.
It is probably because he is laughing that he misses the gleam of the sun on
the knife. It is probably because he is laughing that he is not the one who
throws himself between Prince Aegon and the would-be assassin.
It is Willas.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is laughing at something Lady Alerie has said when the doors of Lady
Alerie's solar are thrown open, and Leonette shrieks in horror before Garlan
can open his mouth to say a word.
Sansa feels sick, watching Leonette press her hands to Garlan's stomach and
chest, because she knows that it is not his blood. If it were his blood, he
would not be here – he would be with Maester Lomys, and he would not be
standing, not when there is so much blood.
“They sent me away,” he says, sounding faint. “Maester Lomys said I was in the
way, and Father said I was being useless.”
So it is not Lord Mace's blood, either.
“Where is he?” she asks, setting aside her sewing, feeling strangely calm. I
knew something was wrong,she thinks. I knew it.
“He- there was an assassin, one of the prince's guards, and I didn't see until
it was too late, but Willas, he jumped between them, and the knife- the bastard
stamped on his leg, too, his bad leg-”
“Where is my husband, Garlan?”Sansa demands, rising to her feet and swatting at
Arya's hands. She has no time for Arya's frowns, no more than she does for
Garlan's wittering on. “Where is Willas?”
“He is- he's with the maester, Sansa, in Maester Lomys' rooms-”
“Thank you, my lord,” she says, smoothing her skirts and making for the door.
“Sansa, they won't let you in,” Garlan calls after her, “they threw me out-”
She ignores him, ignores everything but the sharp click of her boots on the
floor (Willas wanted to go riding, I'm breaking them in properly for him, he
must not die). It is a long walk to the maester's chambers – right to the other
end of the keep – and Sansa concentrates on her breathing as she goes, her
hands folded together before her and her spine straight.
She pushes open the door without knocking, because she can hear shouting from
behind it and does not think that any of them would hear her.
This is what it must feel to be on a battlefield she thinks, ignoring a wave of
dizziness and moving across the room to kneel by Willas' head as the bonesaw
cracks through his leg. He has vomited from the pain, but Lord Mace, Lord
Connington and Prince Aegon are holding him down firmly while he squirmed and
shouted.
“Hush now, love,” she murmurs, pressing her temple to his as he begins to sob,
tucking his face against her neck and and running her fingers through his hair.
There's a wide, jagged wound in his back, gaping open and oozing blood, from
his spine almost to his right shoulder blade, and Sansa's stomach turns a
little looking at it.
He screams when the cauterising irons are pressed to his leg, and she shushes
him gently and strokes his hair, rocking slowly to try and calm him.
The room stinks of blood and burning and Sansa forces back the steps of
Baelor's sept and riots in the city, focuses instead on the uneven rhythm of
Willas' sobs and the blood soaking into her sleeve from his back.
Maester Lomys leaves his apprentice to finish with Willas' leg, binding it with
bandages that smell heavily enough of lavender oil to clear the air for just a
moment. He will hate this, she thinks, shushing him again when he cries out at
the touch of Maester Lomys' hands to his back. I am so sorry, Willas.
“The blade was poisoned,” the maester says after a moment. “I will have to open
his back more to drain the bad blood-”
Willas groans, in protest or fear or both, but Sansa just hushes him and looks
to Lord Mace, who looks sick with fear.
“Do it,” he says, and Sansa nods in agreement.
The knife in the maester's hand is bright and silver and wickedly sharp, and
Sansa chooses to stare at it rather than react to Prince Aegon's nonsense about
her leaving.
"Hold him still!" Maester Lomys orders, and Sansa grips tighter, digs her
fingers into the slick, sweaty skin of Willas’ shoulder and prays and prays
that this works. Maester Lomys’ apprentice is holding down one of Willas’ arms,
Prince Aegon the other, and Lord Mace and Lord Connington are holding his legs
- or what’s left of his leg, in Lord Mace’s case,
She doesn’t look away when the knife cuts into the swollen redness around the
wound. She watches as the blood and poison well up and spread, watches as
scalding hot water is poured over it all to draw out more of the poison, then
boiling wine. She doesn’t flinch when the water and wine soak her sleeve, even
though she can feel her skin blistering as sure as she can see the blisters
forming on Willas’ back.
She keeps running her fingers through Willas’ hair, whispering nonsense to him
as he screams and sobs, as he begs her to make it end, and she keeps watching
as if that means this will work and she won’t lose him.
 
===============================================================================
 
Afterwards, when Maester Lomys is directing his two apprentices in carrying the
stretcher holding Willas, who managed to choke down enough dreamwine to sleep
despite the pain and Prince Aegon and Lord Connington have gone to bathe and
wash away the stink of Willas' blood, Sansa holds her arm up against her chest
- it stings a little, where the water splashed against it - and watches as
Willas is carried away down the hallway. She wants to follow him, but for some
reason she can’t make her feet move.
"Come and see me when you’ve changed, my lady," Maester Lomys reminds her. "I
will treat the burn then."
"Why should I need to change first?" she asks absently, not looking away from
Willas. "I-"
When she does look away, it’s to her gown, her skirts a mess of vomit and
blood, her bodice wet with wine and water and more blood, and it’s only then
that she realises quite how hard she’s shaking, and that there are tears
streaming down her face, and Lord Mace pulls her close and presses her face to
his chest with a gruff “Come here, girl, you did well,” just as the first
scream tears from her throat.
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the long wait, but here we are!
Sansa refuses to stay away from Willas for any longer than it takes for her to
calm down and change into something clean – she doesn't even look to see what
it is that Marian helps her into, hardly notices anything save that the left
sleeve is left unbuttoned from the elbow and then snipped up halfways to her
shoulder, to leave the scalded skin free for the maester to treat.
Arya hovers nearby, biting her lip and frowning, but Sansa has no time to worry
for her sister – Willas may yet die, and nothing beyond that in the whole world
matters. Please don't die,she prays, I need you, please live.
His bedchamber smells overwhelmingly of lavender, between the bandages that are
wrapped tight around what remains of his left leg and the fresher bandages
Maester Lomys is wrapping around Sansa's arm and hand, and Sansa thinks she
might be sick with it – she always liked the scent, but she knows that she will
forever more associate it with this, with Willas crying out senselessly in pain
as he's laid on the mattress, as his arm is bound so he cannot move it and
disrupt the healing of the wound in his back.
“All of you,” Maester Lomys says as he ties off the bandages high up Sansa's
arm. “Out of this room – we must keep it as clean as we can, to reduce the risk
of infection, and that means as few people as possible in and out.”
Sansa smiles faintly to Garlan when he guides her down into a chair that
someone – likely him – moved to the bedside while Lord Mace and Lady Alerie
argue with the maester, insisting that they be allowed to stay.
Arya fiddles at something with Sansa's hair, offering a tiny smile when Sansa
looks back over her shoulder, but she goes when Leonette takes her by the hand
and tugs gently, promising to return soon.
Sansa doesn't think the maester's orders could possibly have included her until
Lady Alerie stoops and wraps an arm about her shoulders, says something that
Sansa chooses not to hear because it is nonsense.
“I must remain with him,” she says, because such a thing ought to be blatantly
obvious. “I must stay with Willas.”
Lady Alerie almost argues, but then, surprising Sansa, Lord Mace steps forward.
“Alerie,” he says quietly, “leave them be. It cannot do any more harm to leave
her here than it did to allow her stay while Lomys tended him.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Mother curls against Father's chest as soon as Maester Lomys closes the door of
Willas' bedchamber, and Garlan has half a mind to follow her example and just
wish the world away from the safety of Leo's arms.
He cannot, of course. With Willas indisposed as he is and Father and Mother
here, keeping vigil, it falls to Garlan to play host to their illustrious
guests.
“I should go to Prince Aegon,” he says quietly, pulling Leo close under one arm
and reaching out to Margaery with the other hand. “Then I will speak with
Vyrwel, seek any information he might have found on our assassin, and then...
Then, I do not know.”
“I will help,” Margaery offers, even though her eyes are red and her chin is
trembling – he knows, vaguely, that she and Willas fought recently, but does
not know why or what over. The idea of them so much as arguing astounds him,
but Willas has been known to be cruel or careless with his words while ill...
“I can organise the household, ensure that everything is still in place for
dinner tonight, and Grandmother can help with sending word to the bannermen
calling the banners, if you'd like – she and I can write the letters, and
Father can sign and seal them when Willas is better.”
Her faith in Willas' recovery forces a lump to Garlan's throat, so he only
pulls her close and kisses her brow before sending her on her way with a wave
and a nod, but he thinks she understands. She has always been so intuitive.
“You shouldgo,” Leonette says quietly, reaching up to touch his face. “Willas
is in the best possible care, darling, he will be as safe as we can hope.”
“You will stay here?” he asks, tucking her hair back. “You will watch him for
me?”
She looks up at him, as if to say I will watch him for us both,and he nods his
thanks, pressing a kiss to her brow and guiding her back to sit.
“I am more than well enough to stand for a few minutes, husband,” she whispers,
and he can't help but brush his fingertips over her belly – he had intended on
adding to the cheer tonight by sharing their wonderful news, but if there are
assassins about, he will not risk her or the babe. “Go, look after our prince-
who-would-be-king, and I will look after our fool brother.”
Prince Aegon and Lord Connington both are standing in the foyer when Garlan
comes down the stairs, and it isn't until he sees how clean they both are – the
prince is wearing white,for gods' sakes – that he realises how filthy he is,
Willas' blood dried into his doublet and shirt and likely his breeches, too.
“Lord Willas lives?” Prince Aegon asks urgently, coming forward to meet him.
“He lives,” Garlan agrees, shaking his head. “But we do not know if he will
live for long. His injuries are... Considerable.”
“If there is anything-”
“There is not, Lord Connington,” Garlan says sharply, and then backtracks
frantically, “but thank you all the same. My brother is in the hands of our
maester and of the gods now, my lord. All we can do is obey the one and pray to
the other.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“It may be the poison, it may be the sheer magnitude of his wounds,” Maester
Lomys says, throwing back the covers before taking a scissors to Willas'
smallclothes. “Soak the cloths, my lady, lay them here, here and here,” he
adds, pointing to Willas' throat, his belly, the insides of his thighs. “Then
more for his brow, and for under his arms – we must try to cool him at least a
little.”
Sansa does as she is bid while the maester throws open the windows as wide as
they will go, while he turns his attention to the fire. Sansa does not pay much
attention, just continues to soak cloths in cool water and lay them to Willas'
flushed, overheated skin – so overheated that she can feel how hot it is from
an inch or more away.
“We must keep his head cool,” Maester Lomys tells her, removing the pillows
from under Willas' head. “I will send from his man, have him shaved-”
“Will that help much?”
“It may help a little, my lady,” he says, shrugging. “Beard and hair, and we
keep him doused in cool water as best we can.”
Sansa continues to drape wet cloths all over Willas, and though she was not
aware of the maester sending for Aldwin he is suddenly there, bowl of hot water
and soap and shaving brush and razor at the ready.
“I'll need to cut his hair short first,” he says gently. “Will you hold his
head, milady?”
She does as she is told, watches as Aldwin snips away Willas' curls and then
sets to soaping his hair, working up a thick lather before lifting the razor.
“He will live, won't he, Aldwin?”
“I certainly hope so, milady,” Aldwin says, scraping the razor across Willas'
scalp. “I certainly hope so.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Sansa loves him,” Arya whispers, sitting on the windowsill of Brienne's room –
she has gotten as good as Bran ever was at climbing, is maybe even better – and
watching the door warily. “I think she does, at least – she won't leave before
he's well or he dies, not even if that cousin of the fat man's sends proof that
Rickon is at White Harbour.”
“He is her husband,” Brienne says uncertainly. “She may not be ableto leave
Highgarden, not without his express permission.”
“He would let her do whatever she wanted, provided she was in no express danger
doing it,” Arya disagreed. “He's besotted by her.”
They sit in silence for a time, Brienne scratching absently at the scars on her
cheek.
“She will come north when word comes that it truly is Rickon,” Arya says. “I
know she will.”
“You would rather she did so without a husband in the south,” Brienne notes,
too knowing for Arya's liking.
Arya shrugs it off, though.
“If she comes north, she may never come back south,” she says, knowing it will
hurt Sansa but knowing, too, that it is likely for the best. “It would be
better for her if he died.”
***** Chapter 28 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sansa returns from dressing the following morning to find Willas not only still
flushed and sweating, but also muttering deliriously, tossing and turning as
best he can with half a leg and his arm bound to his chest.
Maester Lomys is gone to rest for an hour or two, having stayed awake through
the night with Willas, and so Sansa sets about doing the best she can – soaking
more rags with cold water, laying them against his skin in the places the
maester showed her.
He starts to toss and turn and thrash about an hour or so into her stay, and
she wishes desperately she might send for Maester Lomys, but he is an old man,
sixty years and a few more, and he needsto rest.
“Please,” she begs the gods, wondering if they have ever truly listened to her
prayers, because they seem intent on stripping her of her every happiness in
this life, sitting on the edge of the bed at Willas' hip, “please, spare him,
please-”
She cuts off with a shriek as Willas' hand, in a particularly violent spasm,
connects with her cheek, knocking her clean off the bed.
“No,” she gasps desperately, throwing herself across him as his limbs begin to
shake and shudder, “no, please,”and then she begins to scream for help, because
she knows not what else she is to do.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is stroking her dog's silky coat as the maester stitches the gash in her
cheek, preternaturally calm.
“He is not going to die,” she says, voice terrifyingly even. “He cannot.”
Arya glances to Alla, who is ghostly pale – everyone is more afraid than ever
now, because Sansa's husband has had a seizure, caused by the poison in his
back, which the maester fears may have reached his heart.
“I won't lethim die,” Sansa insists, wincing as the needle slips through her
skin again – apparently, her husband backhanded her in the throes of his
seizure, and nobody had thought to remove his signet ring, and it cut into
Sansa's cheek. “He will not leave me, not like this.”
Arya doesn't think she understood how much Sansa loved her Tyrell before he
stepped between the prince and the assassin – now, though, she wonders if Sansa
might love him more than she loves her. No,she thinks, it is a different sort
of love, Mother did not love Father in the same way she loved her brother or
uncle or father or sister or even us.
Thinking of their mother makes Arya's stomach turn, so she forces herself to
think of something else.
“Is there nothing that can be done?” she asks, looking towards the open door of
Sansa's husband's bedchamber – his parents and brother and sister are with him
now, and his wicked little grandmother as well, but Arya knows that they will
all step aside to allow Sansa to return to her place at his side the moment she
indicates that she is ready to do so.
“I will apply a poultice to try and drain what poison remains in the wound,”
the maester says, shrugging tiredly. “There is little else I can do at this
point, my lady – we must all pray, I suppose.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas' back is a thing of absolute horror when the maester peels away the
final layer of bandages, passing them into Sansa's waiting hands. The skin is
blistered and red, scalded smooth and rough by the water and wine Father said
they used to try and draw the poison out yesterday, but even so the darker red
streaks of blood poisoning are visible, shooting away from the vicious wound
that stretches across too much of Willas' back.
Garlan feels sick just looking at it now, when it is as neat and tidy as it is
likely to be for some time, so he steps out of the room, ignores Lady Arya's
demanding questions, and makes his way to Father's solar – Prince Aegon and
Lord Connington await him there, likely with Princess Arianne in tow, and he
has already neglected them long enough.
If he has to think about keeping Prince Aegon happy without signing away all of
House Tyrell's independence, then he cannot think about Willas and Willas' back
and Willas suffering a seizure that may have been his death knell-
“Prince Aegon,” he says, pushing the door closed behind him, “Lord Connington,
Princess Arianne – please, sit.”
“Your brother,” Arianne Martell says, looking more inquisitive than concerned.
“There was some development with his condition this morning? We heard the
commotion from our rooms.”
“He suffered a setback of sorts,” Garlan says shortly, sitting behind Father's
desk, the familiar green marble and stained oak a comfort that is most
desperately needed just now. “We hope that it will not be a permanentsetback,
of course, but only time will tell.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“Lady Arya? Might I have a word?”
Arya is surprised – Lord Tyrell has not deigned to speak to her beyond
interrogating her to be sure that she is who she says she is since her arrival
at Highgarden, so she is unsure what his presence here in Lady Margaery's
solar, where Arya has been exiled, means.
“Of course, my lord,” she says as graciously as she can – Sansa did ask that
she accord Lord Tyrell the respect due to him as their host – before rising to
her feet. “Here, or elsewhere, my lord?”
He motions for her to join him in the hallway, and closes the door behind them.
“My cousin is in the Riverlands at present,” he says, “and has sent word that
there is a force of vigilante bandits attacking and killing Freys and
Lannisters there, all in the name of the King in the North.”
“I am aware, my lord,” she says coolly. “I travelled extensively in the
Riverlands between my disappearance in King's Landing and my arrival here. It
was in the Riverlands that I came upon my companions, my lord. Why do you
mention this to me?”
“Because these men are killing in your brother's name,” Lord Tyrell says, arms
folded over his great fat belly, “and because it was in the Riverlands that you
found your travel companions – who, might I say, seem more like guards than
companions, Lady Arya – and because you planned on spiriting my gooddaughter
away in the night like a kidnapper, on a journey that would inevitably take you
throughthe Riverlands.”
“Your gooddaughter,” Arya grits out, “is mysister.”
“And my son's wife,” Lord Tyrell says sharply. “She is Sansa Tyrell now,
remember, and regardless of what hopes you might have entertained, you and
whatever band of miscreants sent you on this mission, she and Willas are happy
with one another, by some miracle. I will not allow that to be taken from
either of them – you cannot be unaware of what your sister suffered during her
time as hostage to the throne, and even if you are unaware of what my son has
suffered, I will not allow you to behave towards him as such. She belongs in
Highgarden now, Lady Arya.”
“She is a Stark of Winterfell,” Arya hisses, absolutely enraged at this stupid
fat man's presumption. “She belongs in Winterfell,with our brother and me. She
is of the North, Lord Tyrell, and she belongs inthe North.”
“Have you asked the girl what she wants?”
Arya blinks in surprise at that – of course Sansa wants to go home! Of course
she wants to find Rickon, to avenge their family! How could she want anything
else in the world?
Sansa always wanted to find her prince...
 
===============================================================================
 
“You should rest, milady,” Marian coaxes gently, wrapping a heavy blanket
around Sansa's shoulders – yes, she should rest, she is perfectly aware of how
heavy her eyes are, how badly her back and shoulders ache, but Willas could
have died this morning and she will not leave him.
“I will rest here,” she says firmly, resting her hand on Willas' back – Maester
Lomys thought it best to lie him on his front, to make it easier to get at the
wound on his back. “We shared this bed for long enough already, one more night
will not make much difference.”
“Milady-”
“I will rest here,” Sansa insists, settling down on the empty half of the bed,
reaching over and gently turning Willas' head so she can watch his face for any
change. “It will serve perfectly, Marian, and I will be nearby if my lord needs
me.”
He looks so fragile, stripped naked with his backside bare to the world,
without his lovely hair or his beard, with his right arm pinned under him and
his left still secured to the bedframe, lest he suffer another seizure.
Without his leg. The void where it should be draws Sansa's eye when she is not
thinking of other things, the bandages covering his stump gleaming with sweet-
smelling lavender oil to ease the scarring from the cauterisation. 
He will have so many scars,she thinks miserably, for she knows already how he
will hate them all – the wound in his back would have been bad enough even
without the incisions Maester Lomys was forced to make to draw more poison, and
as for the remains of his leg...
“You will wake up,” she whispers, curling as close as she dares, reaching out
to stroke her fingers over his brow, down his jaw – his skin is cooler now, but
clammy and sticky with sweat – and along the line of his neck, down his back to
the edge of the bandages. “You will wake up, and we will take everything from
there, Willas.”
She swallows thickly, wishes she were able to do something to help him, and
sits up to change for bed.
“I love you,” she whispers, kissing his cheek and climbing off the bed.
 
===============================================================================
 
“- and he said that Humfrey should be arriving within a fortnight,” Mother
says, squeezing Garlan's hand and forcing a smile. “You know how close he and
Willas have always been, sweetling, Humfrey visiting is bound to help him
along.”
Provided he lives that long,Garlan thinks bitterly, unable to shift the image
of Willas, now shivering with the cold and bundled up in as many blankets as
Maester Lomys thinks sensible where only last evening he was hot to the touch,
sweating through the sheet underneath him, eyes still closed and mouth slack.
Garlan does not dare say such a terrible thing aloud, barely dares think it
because it makes him want to scream to acknowledge the possibility that Sansa
refuses to allow anyone else to entertain, but Willas may die.
“Lord Garlan? Lady Tyrell?”
Mother turns automatically, dipping into a neat curtsy, but Garlan takes a
moment to compose himself before turning to bow to Prince Aegon, Princess
Arianne on his arm.
“How is Lord Willas this morning?” he asks, concern plain on his pretty
features. Part of Garlan wants desperately to hate the prince, because had he
not entered their lives, Willas would not have been injured, Willas would not
be lying upstairs, clinging to life by the tired tips of his fingers.
“He has survived a second night, Your Highness,” Garlan says, exhausted by it
all. “With luck, he will survive the day, and then we might turn our attention
to one more night.”
“Maester Lomys says that three nights mean that Willas is past the most
dangerous period,” Mother explains, once more taking Garlan's arm and drawing
him close. “If he survives one last night, then he may be safe.”
“I will be sure to include him in my prayers,” Aegon promises, pressing her
hand and smiling warmly – Willas had better survive, damn him, because he's
alike enough to the prince that they might become friends, if Aegon can
overcome his fascination with Sansa, but Garlan finds him insufferable, for all
he spent hours assuring Willas that the prince wasn't truly a bad sort.
Mayhaps he has only found Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, who would be Aegon,
the sixth of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, insufferable since he almost
caused Willas' death. Garlan can no longer be sure of anything, not truly.
“My grandfather, Lord Hightower has sent word from Oldtown,” Garlan says,
afraid to say anything else for fear of what he might do. “He is sending my
youngest uncle, Ser Humfrey, to Highgarden. He will be carrying a formal
declaration of fealty from Lord Hightower and his vassals, as well as a sworn
oath from the leaders of the Faith in Oldtown that they will crown you at the
Starry Sept as they did your ancestor, if you so wish.”
“To be crowned as Aegon the Conqueror was,” Aegon breathes, following when
Garlan turns to lead Mother back upstairs, back to Willas. “What a wonderful
thing that would be!”
“Were his queens not crowned with him, my prince?” Arianne Martell asks, her
tone teasing but her words not – Garlan wonders if Aegon is as interested in
marrying his cousin as she apparently is in marrying him, and has half a mind
to ask Aegon just that when Sansa's sister comes tearing down the stairs, the
skirts of her borrowed gown hiked up about her knobbly knees, laughing aloud as
Alla and Margaery chase after her.
“Arya! Arya, come back!” Alla calls, stumbling over her hem, unable to catch
herself with her broken wrist – Garlan lunges forward and sweeps her back to
her feet, patting her head and watching, mystified, as she takes off once more,
hair flying behind her and ribbons clutched in her good hand.
“What in the world is going on?” Mother asks when Margaery draws to a halt
beside them, pink-cheeked and smiling her courtly smile, the one she uses to
beguile.
“I thought it wise to cheer the girls some,” she says with a delicate shrug.
“Everyone is so melancholy about- about Willas' health, and I just-”
“I understand,” Mother assures her quickly, and Garlan's heart aches for Margie
– he has been so busy taking care of Highgarden and their guests that he has
had barely a moment to spare for her and Leo, even with all the administrative
work Margaery and Grandmother are doing so he can better entertain the prince,
and he deeply regrets it. Losing Loras near to ruined her, and though she has
recovered more than Garlan would have thought possible in so short a time, she
is still a shadow of herself – to lose Willas, particularly given that they
have been on such bad terms of late, would be her end, he is sure of it.
And what would he do then? Garlan Greensick, all alone without his brothers and
sister. Who is he without them? He doesn't think he knows.
 
===============================================================================
 
“One more night,” Lady Alerie says tiredly, leaning heavily into Lord Mace's
chest as she watches Sansa and Maester Lomys settle Willas more comfortably –
they have dressed him a little, just in his smallclothes, to preserve his
dignity, so Sansa is not quite so embarrassed to have his parents in the room
with them now – and prepare him for the night.
Sansa spent what little of the day she was not allowed stay with Willas in the
sept, praying to the Warrior for strength for her husband, and the Stranger for
mercy, for a respite. She can only hope that it was enough, because she does
not know what use the time she spent before the silver birch heart tree in the
godswood will be (there are no weirwoods this far south, but gods forbid that
anything in Highgarden does not at least make an attempt at lookingthe part).
“One more night,” she agrees, rubbing the palm of her hand over the scratchy
stubble sprinkled over his scalp. “One long night.”
 
===============================================================================
 
The sun is bright on Sansa's hair when Willas opens his eyes.
I must have fallen from the saddle,he thinks, wondering at the pain in his
back, at the way his arm is pinned to his chest. Maester Lomys will be angry
that I rolled about during the night.
It is not until he registers the lack of pain from his leg that he begins to
remember, and he scrambles desperately, trying to sit up, to see his leg for
himself, and jars his shoulder and his back in the process.
Sansa's hands are cool on his face as he sobs in pain, and she whispers thank
you thank you thank you as she kisses his cheeks and eyes and nose and all of
him that she can reach, over and over and over.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     As noted on tumblr, there'll be a surprise either at the end of the
     next chapter or the one after that ;)
***** Chapter 29 *****
“It has been a fortnight,” Willas says plaintively. “More, in fact – sixteen
days. Please,maester, it is – or rather, it was my leg. I would like to see it,
and today.”
Sansa kept her fingers gentle as she scratched idly at his scalp, trying her
best to calm him down. He had become steadily more agitated as the days had
worn on, begging to be allowed to sit, to unpin his arm, to see his... His
stump.
“You cannot sit up, my darling,” she reminds him. “You cannot even lay on your
back – how are you to see your leg like that?”
“I- Sansa,”he complains, “you are supposed to side with me.”
“Not when you are planning on putting yourself in harm's way again,” she tells
him, wishing she could offer him something more by way of comfort. “Willas, be
reasonable-”
“I have been reasonable,” he protests, “for two long weeks, Sansa, I have been
nothingbut reasonable, I have done everythingthat was asked of me, and I have
absolutely obeyed the maester's every order, asking only this – I want to see
it!”
“I don't understand why,” Maester Lomys grumbles, cutting through the bandages
binding Willas' back with a long-bladed scissors, unleashing a ferocious waft
of lavender into the room. “It is not quite healed, my lord, and you would
better served to wait for it to heal fully before you decide to poke and prod-”
“I shan't poke and prod-”
“You always do,” Maester Lomys says. “Don't think I have forgotten that broken
arm when you were a child, my lord, that became so infected that only the
threat of amputation halted your poking and prodding.”
Willas buries his face in the pillows with a groan, his free hand fisting in
the bedclothes – clean and fresh, now that he is no longer sweating himself
away to nothing with a fever – in pure frustration. He is becoming more
difficult, Sansa knows, largely because he is so bored, but there is little to
be done for that. He mustremain as he is, just for a few days more, and until
then he will have to make do – circumstances could be worse, after all.
He could be dead.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is the only thing keeping him sane, Willas knows, but even so, he is glad
of the respite offered when she goes to her sister and the other women during
the day.
This... Incident, and the reactions of his family thereto, it has given him
much to think on. From the embarrassment caused by Prince Aegon's effusive
thanks to the confusion and pain he felt upon waking the second time, this time
with his whole family gathered around, to find that Margaery had excused
herself because she thought he would not want to see her, to Sansa –she has
taken to calling him my darling,and no endearment has ever sounded even half so
sweet... It is all so much.
Too much, he thinks, especially considering what Maester Lomys has told him –
that he will never entirely regain what health he had before the incident,
likely not even to the level when his leg was at its worst, that he is crippled
in more ways than one, that his lung was damaged by the assassin's blade, that
his heart has likely been damaged by the poison, and then, of course, there is
his leg.
He has unbent his pride just enough to admit that yes, he has been a fool to
hold onto it all these years when amputation could have saved him so much pain,
but that does not mean that he has to like it. He is not sure what to do with
himself, in some ways, because he never realised quite how much of himself was
focused on fightingthe pain, and he feels so much sharper now. Even with the
inordinate amounts of poppy that Maester Lomys insist he take on account of his
back and his leg, he feels clearer than he has in years, clearer even than how
bright he felt between the maester rebreaking his leg and the incident in the
gardens, and it is a glorious thing.
But Margaery. She is a conundrum all of her own, if only because he cannot
understand how he managed to neglect her so entirely.
She apparently does not feel the same, though, because she burrows under his
arm when he holds it out to her as soon as he hears her coming, and she makes
no move to leave him in the near future. He is glad, he thinks – he always
adored Margaery, and he is only now realising what a fool he was to push her
away.
Loras as well, but at least he can set things to right with Margaery. With
Loras, he will have to wait until they are reunited, which hopefully will not
be for a good long while yet. Nearly dying has made Willas realise just how
desperately he wants to live, something he thinks would come as a relief to
Sansa and Garlan and Mother in particular.
“Prince Aegon has promised to spare Tommen,” she tells him, turning her face up
to his and smiling. “He is such a sweet boy, he does not deserve to be punished
for his mother's wrongdoings.”
“Are you to remain his wife?”
“For the time being, at least,” Margaery admits. “Tommen seems to quite like me
as his wife – or at least, he seemed to before we fled the capital. He is a
sweet boy, Willas, and I could not bear to see him harmed.”
“I don't doubt that his mother has been poisoning him against you from the
moment you departed,” he warns her, shifting as best he can to look at her more
comfortably. “Cersei Lannister is a uniquely poisonous woman, after all, and
Tommen is still only a boy.”
“He is too sweet to believe the sort of thing that whore will tell him of me,”
Margaery insists, and because she is generally a very good judge of character,
he wonders if mayhaps she is right about little Tommen.
 
===============================================================================
 
“We have had word from my cousin,” Lord Mace says quietly, almost gently, and
Sansa's stomach swoops sickly – is it not Rickon? Is it Rickon, and has he been
hurt? Is he truly dead?
“Garse reached White Harbour four days ago,” Lord Mace continues, “and was
granted an audience with Ser Wylis Manderly, Lord Manderly's heir, two days
ago, once his credentials had been thorougly investigated. Also present at this
audience were Ser Wylis' eldest daughter, Lady Wynafryd, and Ser Davos
Seaworth, who styles himself Hand to the false king, Stannis Baratheon.”
Sansa jumps at the feel of Arya's hand twisting into hers, but she says
nothing, not wanting to interrupt Lord Mace.
“Ser Wylis seemed not to want to share any information at all, although
generous offers of accommodation were made. The moment Garse mentioned that he
came from Highgarden, at the behest of both of Eddard Stark's daughters,
however, Ser Wylis became mostforthcoming.”
Sansa squeezes Arya's fingers tight, sick with anticipation.
“During the audience, however, before Garse could receive any sort of
confirmation as to your brother's presence or absence at White Harbour, they
were interrupted.”
The sickness turns, and Sansa nearly screams – what if Rickon wasat White
Harbour, and the Lannisters somehow discovered it and murdered him?!
“By a direwolf, girl,” Lord Mace says urgently, taking her other hand and
smiling as encouragingly as she suspects he knows how. “The beast took two of
Garse's fingers – your brother's direwolf, girl!”
***** Chapter 30 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It is both a wonderful afternoon and a terrible one.
Wonderful, because Maester Lomys finally agrees to allow Willas to move onto
his back, despite insisting that he could not do so even this morning. Willas
is so relieved to be able to take a proper breath again that he laughs, just to
prove he can, and then kisses Sansa until shecannot take a proper breath, until
she's as red as her hair.
Terrible, because Sansa's brother is at White Harbour, and how is she supposed
to remain with Willas when one of her brothers is alive and well and in the
North even now?
“It is not forever,” she says encouragingly, curled under his good arm and
refusing to meet his eyes. “I will remain with Rickon until- until-”
“You may have to remain until he reaches his majority, my love,” Willas points
out. “He has seen how many name days? Six?”
“Six,” she agrees miserably. “Ten years, Willas! They cannot expect us to
remain apart for so long, can they?”
She does not say who theyare, but he knows – her sister, her brother, those
lords of the North still loyal to House Stark, whichever king emerges from the
oncoming winter and the accompanying war the victor. All could order her to
remain at Winterfell for as long as they feel her brother needs her, whether by
outright edict or through the sort of emotional manipulation Willas knowsArya
Stark to be capable of.
He feels sick at the thought of spending ten years without her. He can hardly
stand the notion of ten dayswithout her, how is he to manage half his life-span
again alone?
“We will manage,” he tells her. “Even if we are forced apart for that long, we
will manage – we might visit one another, and we can write to each other as
many letters as there are ravens enough to carry, and... I know not, Sansa.”
“I don't want to leave you,” she whispers, pressing her face into his shoulder,
above the edge of the bandages winding around his torso. “I can hardly stand to
think about being away from you for such a long time, Willas, it willkillme, I
know it.”
“No,” he says sharply, terrified at notion of Sansa's death. “No, you must not
allow anythingto kill you, my darling, I could not bear your death.”
“Nor I yours,” she says plaintively, turning her face up to look at him once
more. “What are we to do, Willas? I cannot abandon my brother to the care of
strangers, not after all he musthave suffered since last I saw him.”
“And what of all you have suffered, Sansa?” he asks gently. “Sweetling, you
must consider your own safety and health, your own sanity – they say Winterfell
is near a ruin, after Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay Bolton's less than tender care.
Will you be able to stand seeing it as such? Will you be able to bear being in
the North with only your sister and one of your brothers? Will you be able to
stand by while, by necessity, some of those who betrayed your brother and
mother to their deaths are welcomed back to Winterfell?”
“I will do whatever I must,” she says, her eyes huge and sad and firm and lost.
“I am my mother's daughter as much as my father's, Willas, and she put a great
deal of stock into the Tully words.”
Family, Duty, Honour,Willas thinks, and he thinks they suit his wife better
than Winter is Coming ever could.
“You are a Tyrell now, my sweet,” he reminds her, tipping his nose against her
own and teasing her in for a kiss, short and soft and pointed. “Remember to
grow strong whilst doing your duty by your family – honour is worth nothing to
the dead.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Willas' youngest uncle, Ser Humfrey Hightower, is both nothing and everything
that Sansa expected. He was absent from Oldtown when Willas brought her to meet
his grandfather and Ser Baelor, and so she is near as unprepared for Ser
Humfrey as Arya.
He has that same almost sharp-featured face as Ser Baelor, as Lady Alerie and
sort of like Willas, who seems more like his father now that Sansa has seen
Lord Mace smile genuinely and frown in concern, now that she has seen him and
Willas together for more than a moment at a time. Ser Humfrey is, Sansa thinks,
the most handsome of Lord Leyton's sons, smiling and confident and easy in his
beauty, with a thick shock of fair hair and bright, bright eyes.
She likes him immediately, if only because her first impression comes in the
form of him stretched out on Willas' bed alongside her husband, his boots off
and his arms folded behind his head as he regales his nephew with tales of Lys,
where his sister apparently resides.
“- like a highly paid whore, if truth be told, but she seems happy enough, and
it seems to be a position of some honour and renown in Lys, so Father said to
leave her to it – ah, this must be the famous Lady Sansa!” he exclaims,
bounding to his stocking-clad feet and sweeping an extravagent bow. “An honour
and a pleasure, my lady, truly a pleasure – I have heard so much about you! My
father was extremelytaken, which is an achievement if only because he loathes
most everyone not a Hightower by blood.”
“Ser Humfrey,” she says demurely, curtsying as low as required – it is a
strange thing, to be officially of higher rank than this man who is so much,
even after just these few moments, and so to need only curtsy just enough to
acknowledge him and no more. “The honour is mine.”
“And the pleasure surely yours alone, fool,” Willas calls hoarsely, and though
there are black-dark circles around his eyes, he is grinning. “Sit down,
Humfrey, you're bothering my wife.”
“I am not!” Ser Humfrey booms, settling gently back down on the bed beside
Willas and then making a great show of folding his arms huffily. “I am merely
introducing myself – I cannot help my innately exuberant nature, nephew.”
Sansa takes her customary place on the edge of the bed at Willas' hip, so she
might hold his hand, and does her best to hide a smile – they bicker as Willas
does with Garlan, as she remembers Robb bickering with Jon, and such a normal
thing warms her when thoughts of her upcoming journey chill her to the bone.
“I have asked something of Humfrey,” Willas says, bringing her hand to his
mouth, pausing a long moment with her knuckles pressed to his lips. “I would
have him care for the most precious thing in my life when I cannot.”
Sansa's mind goes to Gardener, and she wonders at that – the idea of Willas
allowing anyone but himself to ride his beloved horse is laughable, after all –
before he speaks again.
“I would have him go north with you, my lady,” he says, looking up to meet her
gaze with earnest, near desperate eyes. It frightens her for a brief moment,
that intensity, but then she realises that she is holding his hand hard enough
that it must be hurting him, and she feels as if she is drowning at the thought
of being apart from him, for ten yearsfor such a long time. “I would have him
guard you when I am stuck here without you. He will ensure that no harm comes
to you – I would send Garlan, but my father needs Garlan.”
“I- I would be honoured to have Ser Humfrey with me,” she says, confused – Lady
Alerie implied that Ser Humfrey was coming to Highgarden for Willas' benefit,
and Sansa assumed that he was to command the guard here while the majority of
the men were away. “But Willas, surely you will be as great a target as I?
Would Ser Humfrey not be better served-”
“One of his bastard cousins will keep an eye on Willas for us both, my lady,
have no fear of that,” Ser Humfrey says easily, rolling onto his front and
leaning up on Willas' chest the way Sansa herself sometimes does when they talk
before sleeping, although it does not seem quite so affectionate or intimate –
and he jumps away the moment he remembers Willas' current infirmity, rolling
somehow to his knees. “Regardless of any horror stories my siblings or their
children may have told you, I am not a terrible companion, and I am more than
capable of wielding my sword, which I suspect is my dear eldest nephew's
primary concern.”
“Bastard,” Willas grumbles. “I'll have your balls if you try to become overly
companionablewith my wife, Humfrey, you see if I don't.”
“And here I thought incest the purview of Lannisters and Targaryens,” Humfrey
teases, “and buggery to be more Loras' habit than yours – what an enlightening
evening this is proving to be!”
 
===============================================================================
 
Arya stares at Gendry in amazement.
“What do you mean, staying here?” she demands. “You know full well you can't
stay here, stupid, you have to-”
“I have an honest living here,” he says, shrugging. “The smith is good, the
board and lodgings are the best I've ever known, and I'm getting paid more in a
week than I'd see in a year if I came back north with you, m'lady – and I can
be eyes and ears here in Highgarden, that'll be a help-”
“It might be if you could write enough to send reports,” she snarls, shoving
against his chest. “You were sent to escort Sansa and me back north with Lady
Brienne-”
“But because you didn't manage to sneak her out, you'll have an escort of
Tyrell men with you the whole way,” he points out. “They'll be better at
looking after her than I would, won't they? And you'll get her north easier if
you've a whole bunch of men loyal to her-”
“That's not the point!”Arya fumes, and she's so angry that she can hardly stand
it – she thinks, no, she knows that she is overreacting, but she was so
genuinely afraid that Sansa would choose to stay with her beloved husband
rather than come north to Rickon, to home,that Gendry's decision to remain at
Highgarden has left her feeling confused and almost sick – she was so certain
that he would return with them! Gods, Allahas offered to accompany them, but
Gendry, who has a lifefurther north than here, is refusing to do so!
 
===============================================================================
 
Sansa is off with Mother and, Willas thinks, Father, discussing provisions and
protection for the long journey ahead of her, likely with Grandmother somewhere
nearby, offering her advice on how to keep control of a bunch of strong-headed
men, when her sister sneaks through the door of his bedchamber and sits very
calmly on the footboard of his bed.
“I need to know if Sansa has picked up any habits that will put her in danger
on our journey,” she says without preamble, something he likes about her. He
thinks her forthrightness will serve her and Sansa both well, in the days to
come, and he cannot truly dislike something that may be good for Sansa.
“Anything at all that may endanger her in any way.”
“Her compassion,” he says simply, shrugging and immediately regretting it –
anything at all that causes his back to move is painful, even through the haze
of poppy. Humfrey is sitting under the window, on the floor, for some reason,
and watching Lady Arya curiously – Willas has a sneaking suspicion that she
reminds him of Lynesse. Every young girl who is even vaguely unhappy seems to.
“She may try to help where she cannot, and will give herself away by it – be
practical on her behalf, my lady, and she ought not cause you much trouble.”
Lady Arya stares hard at him, as if trying to understand something difficult,
and he sets aside his book.
“I believe we have needlessly made enemies of one another,” he says
thoughtfully, watching her with as much interest as she regards him with at all
times. “For all that we see it as two wholly different things, I do believe
that we both want only what is best for Sansa, yes?”
“I suppose.”
“Then let us call a truce, my lady,” he offers. “If you will protect Sansa for
me – from herself as much as from those who might want her dead – then I will
see that every possible help that is mine to offer will be the North's,
regardless of whether or not you prevail in convincing Sansa to divorce me.
Would that content you?”
She looks suspicious now, and he wonders what he is supposed to do to earn
anything but her distaste.
“Why should you offer the North help even if Sansa is not your wife?”
“A number of reasons,” he says, thinking of how closely it would bind them to
the Reach and, through the Reach, Prince Aegon's cause, by obligation. “But
primarily because I love Sansa, and I would see her happy even if she does not
love me.”
 
===============================================================================
 
It takes just three weeks for all the preparations to be completed.
Sansa can hardly believe it – it seems only yesterday that she was arriving at
Highgarden, terrified at the thought of marrying a stranger, but in reality she
has had two years, give or take, to come to know and love her strange husband.
He looks just as lost as she feels, in this awful moment.
“I wish I did not have to go,” she whispers, holding his hand tighter and
moving closer, if that is possible. “But I must.”
“But you must,” he agrees, eyes bright and voice heavy. “Would that I could at
least accompany you, my love, but with Father and Garlan riding out with the
prince, there must be one of us here to rule Highgarden.”
“And your health would not allow for it either,” she points out, resting her
free hand on his bandages, over his heart. It is beating strong and steady, and
the tears lingering in her eyes spill over at the feeling she had feared lost
so short a time ago. “I wish I could stay to help you recover.”
“Your brother needs you,” he reminds her, albeit reluctantly. “I daresay every
man and woman in the North still loyal to House Stark has need of you just now,
Sansa – you must be everything I know you to be for them. It is... They need
you more than I, Sansa, for all that I know that I want you more than they ever
could.”
She leans in and kisses him, hard and fast, and she relishes the tight pull of
his fingers in her hair and the sharp edge of his teeth on her lip, and then
she pulls away and runs for the door. If she does not leave him now, she will
never do so, and she knows that he is right – she is neededelsewhere, no matter
that both he and she would rather she might stay at Highgarden with him forever
and a day.
“I love you,” she calls from the door, backing out quickly and blowing him a
kiss. “Be better, Willas, for me – heal, darling.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“I love you,” he calls after her, watching the end of her braid swing as she
darts away, feeling as if he cannot breathe. Humfrey is lingering by the foot
of his bed, fingers tapping the seven-pointed star pommel of his sword.
“I will keep her safe for you,” he promises quietly. “She'll come home, Willas
– she's just as dotty for you as you are for her. She'll come home.”
Willas will never admit it aloud, but he fears that Sansa is goinghome now, and
that once there, she will never want to leave.
Chapter End Notes
     Before anyone tries to eat me alive, there IS going to be a sequel.
     There is. I'm not just leaving this here. I promise.
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