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Every child in Westeros knows the history of Robert’s Rebellion, where the seemingly impossible occurred. Rhaegar had side-stepped what could have been a crushing blow from Robert’s warhammer, and had lived when he should have died.
Silver hair flying in the wind, Rhaegar had forced his sword through a crack in Robert’s metal armour – a technique he apparently borrowed from Prince Oberyn. Robert had died, the rebellion along with him. Grumbles had come arisen of the punishment they would now endure under Aerys’ but when the Prince had been halfway back to King’s Landing, news came of his father’s death.
Yes, every child in Westeros knows the events that had transpired to make Rhaegar Targaryen king. But those born of families who had been partial to Robert Baratheon know them better than most, and every second-born child are constantly aware they shall be the ones to suffer for their parents’ folly.
---
It is Sansa that has the burden of being the second-born child of House Stark.
She has always known one day she shall be sent to Highgarden to foster with the Tyrells, has been told as such since the day she first started speaking, but that does not make her departure any less heartbreaking. The maester and her septa, a woman prone to wistful sighs and stories, have both told her the age gap between her and Robb is partially due to her mother’s reluctance to bear a babe that would in time be snatched from her and raised by another. She has been told countless times of how her mother wept when she was placed into her arms, a miniature copy of Lady Catelyn herself, the daughter she had longed for and would someday lose.
She has always wondered about the South, has often run her fingertips over the maps in Father’s solar and traced the outline of a land unknown to her. All she knows is snow, and ice, and freezing winds, and she longs for some warmth – Father merely laughs whenever she complains about feeling cold, telling her this isn’t a true winter. She’s read all she can about Highgarden, knows the names of all their bannermen and the crops that flourish in the climate of the Reach. She thinks she knows it better than she knows Winterfell. It might be useless preparation, might never assist her in any manner, but she is going to be a ten-year-old girl from the North in a land unknown to her, and any little piece of information might help her. Mother tells her not to expect anything from the Tyrells, whispers to her that although Lord Mace, not her Father, will have the power to arrange her betrothal, she merely has to send a raven to Winterfell and they shall not hesitate to challenge his arrangements if they are not to her liking. She knows the match between Mother and Father was arranged, was hastily ensured after the death of Uncle Brandon, but she thinks if someone loves her like Father does Mother, she shall not mind who he is.
But the Tyrells do have three sons who someday will be in need of wives, and no one shall ever know if she spends her nights dreaming of marriage to a curly-haired man who grins at her and slips roses behind her ears.
---
She is fourteen now, and thoughts of her family are few and far between, as is the snowy land where she was born and raised. All she knows now is the smell of roses and the feel of the sun on her face, her days spent walking the length of the maze, delighting in its twists and turns.
It is her sister Arya who is the true daughter of House Stark, for she will remain in the North until the day she dies. When Sansa left just before her tenth nameday, she looked upon her sister for what was certain to be the last time – Winterfell was so far away from Highgarden it might have been Essos itself, and when they both began having babes travel would be hazardous.
Arya had always had their father’s look – whereas Sansa was all Catelyn, streaming red hair and bright blue eyes, Arya was black-haired and sullen, her grey eyes sharp in her face. Her father writes that he is already looking to make a northern match for her, but Arya tells her in her own scribbled letters that she shall marry only a man of her choice, and that Father won’t dare to make her marry someone for fear she shall run away like she threatens.
Arya’s determination is a far cry away from the knowledge Sansa has always had and has never rallied against – Lord Mace shall be the one to arrange her marriage, to whoever pleases him. Whether it be a bannerman of Highgarden, a penniless hedge-knight, even no one if the thought pleases him, it is his decision entirely. She thinks remaining unmarried and without babes around her, would be the worst of all.
Nonetheless, she has no say in the matter, and despite of her outward compliance, when she is alone and drifting off to sleep she curses King Rhaegar for punishing her for her parents’ mistakes. The Tyrells have been kindness itself towards her, treating her like they would treat Margaery and ensuring she never feels alone or without affection, but they are not her real family. Lady Alerie does not look at her with the same adoration visible in her mother’s eyes and Lord Mace does not take care to stroke her hair gently until her sobs quieten whenever she is feeling sad.
Unlike her, Margaery shall have a choice in her marriage, is even allowed to suggest suitors. She often whispers her hopes of someday marrying Prince Jon himself, believing marriage to a Targaryen would be a just reward for the Tyrell’s enduring allegiance during the Rebellion and beyond. They are both of a similar age, and Sansa supposes their marriage would be a happy occurrence, if only to make Margaery the princess she desires to become.
Prince Jon is her cousin, but she has never met him, nor the Queen her aunt. Despite the closeness of Highgarden to King’s Landing, with the Rose Road smooth and comfortable to ride on, her aunt has never summoned her to court, has never desired to lay her eyes upon the niece closest to her. Nor does Sansa ever think to travel to court to visit, even though the Tyrells would surely permit her and Margaery would delight in the opportunity to chaperone her and perhaps encounter Prince Jon. Her years here at Highgarden have been lovely, and she has delighted in the newborn pups and the bloom of roses. She can hardly remember anything else but it, and she doesn’t think she wants to. Truly, what could be better than sailing down the Mander River and spending star-filled nights listening to singers?
She only hopes Lord Tyrell does not decide to marry her to a bannerman far from Highgarden, for she could hardly bear to leave it. Garlan has been betrothed to a Fossoway for years now, and Loras seems more interested in his knightly pursuits than the idea of marriage. She supposes neither would be particularly suitable anyhow, for she is her parents’ oldest daughter and the heir to Wintefell if Robb never sires any children. She hopes Lord Tyrell is aware of this as well, even if Robb is mere days away from marrying Myrcella Lannister, daughter of her aunt Lysa - and if their parents’ fertility is any indication, her brother shall sire many babes. Nonetheless, she desperately hopes the thought has crossed his mind.
For despite the differences in their ages, and despite the fact he has known her since she was a girl of ten, she would desire nothing more than to marry Willas Tyrell.
She has flowered, many moons ago, and he remains unmarried, even at the age of twenty-five. She thinks he would be a terrific husband, the very gentle and honourable man she dreams of, even with a shattered leg. She has been a constant presence within his life, and she does hope he does not view her like a sister – for she does not view him like a brother, does not tease him sisterly like she does Garlan when he mentions Leonette Fossoway, nor permits him to tickle her and chase her round the gardens like Loras delights in doing. Despite the distance between Highgarden and Winterfell, Robb and Bran and even Rickon (who she can only remember as a squalling babe) are whom she considers her brothers. Garlan and Loras, she supposes, fit in the category as well.
But Willas Tyrell… she has never considered him to be a brother in her eyes, and she can only hope he feels the same way.
---
She’s fifteen before she works up the courage to speak to Willas alone, having spent the last year in a flurry of giggles and blushes whenever he came near, her dreams occupied by thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him, how his slight beard would feel on her cheeks and how tightly he could hold her to him.
She knows he is no maid, has heard tales from the kitchen maids who heard them from the maids in Oldtown who in turn heard them from their counterparts at Sunspear. The thought does not displease her, because the septa has so often seemingly delighted in frightening her with the gory details of a bedding, and despite Margaery’s reassurance that the septa was merely repeating old stories and beliefs, not speaking the truth, Sansa is still terrified that becoming a wife, truly, shall be horribly painful. She only hopes that if and when they do marry Willas’ experience shall ensure the bedding is somewhat tolerable for her.
Willas sits in the library, the sun streaming through the high windows. He is bent over a book of some sort as she approaches him, skirts gathered in her hands. Ever the scholar, she thinks, as she creeps up beside him. His eyes are seemingly transfixed on the pages and pages of black script, detailing some historical event or another.
“I know you’re there,” he murmurs without looking up from his page. She pouts, before deciding the action is too childish and settles on arching an eyebrow coyly instead, the action learnt from Margaery. She wants Willas to view her as a woman, not a girl, and pouting shall not help her in that regard.
“But do you know what I want?” she shoots back at him, swallowing the giggle that threats to arise as she contemplates her words. Willas expels softly, before closing the book in front of him and looking up at her. He arches an eyebrow, the action almost indistinguishable underneath his thick curls.
She arches one right back, heart pounding. She is a Stark, she is a wolf, and a Tyrell should not be able to look at her in a manner that suggests he knows exactly what she is thinking. Willas stares at her for what feels like a lifetime, her heart hammering against her ribs, until he breaks his gaze, shaking his head in response to her earlier question.
“I have no clue what you could possibly want Sansa,” Willas tells her, fingers drumming against the cover of his book. “I could never tell what you were thinking, not even when you first arrived and your emotions were so easy to read.” Willas chuckles. “If I couldn’t figure you out then, what makes you think I have any hope of doing it now?”
She grins at his words. “I would like you to take a walk with me in the gardens,” she proposes, folding her hands neatly in front of her in an attempt to hide just how shaky they are due to her nerves. “I want to visit the stables.”
“Whatever for?” Willas questions, turning to face her. He has to look up at her, his head level with her waist, and she thinks he might be admiring the swell of her breasts. The thought delights her, for she has long desired him to look at her, to see just how much she has changed, and to view her in some other way than the little frightened girl that arrived weeping so many years ago. She is a woman grown now, and she knows what she wants, and just how to achieve it.
“Thorn finally had her puppies, or so everyone is saying. You would have known yourself if you hadn’t been so cooped up in here,” she tells him, motioning around to the books stacked high. The library is lovely, truly, but with such beautiful surroundings outside, who would deny themselves the pleasure of the sun?
Willas grumbles under his breath, raising himself to his feet and leaning heavily on his cane. An injury in a joust meant to honour Rhaegar’s seventh year as king had robbed Willas’ of the use of his right leg, and by the time she had arrived in Highgarden he had traded sword-play for books and tourneys for libraries. She does not move to support him, knows better than to insult his pride. “Learning is important Sansa,” he mutters, finally standing solidly on his feet.
“So is breathing in some fresh air,” she shoots back, grinning over her shoulder at him as she leads the way out of the stuffy library and into the gardens. The sun is warm on her skin, and she is glad she decided to wear her favourite gown, especially since the colour so beautifully compliments her eyes. It is a little more revealing that the gowns she tends to wear, definitely less so than Margaery’s and her cousins’, but Willas cannot keep his eyes off her, his gaze seemingly pinned to her bare shoulder and the swish of her light green skirt around her hips. She hears him curse behind her, hears him slightly stumble, and can barely contain her grin of delight.
Arya has written to her, expressing her own joy at finding a litter of direwolf pups stranded on the road to the godswood. There are six in all – one for Arya, Robb, Rickon and Bran respectively, and two, a boy and girl, which they’ve decided to bestow upon Mother and Father. They’ve named them Nymeria, Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Summer in turn, with her Father dubbing his white pup Ice and Mother delighting in hers, Arya writing she has called it Lady after Sansa’s fascination with stories of ladies and knights. A lump had risen in her throat after she had finished reading the letter, setting it aside to cradle her head in her hands and weep. She rarely misses her family, rarely thinks of them, but when she does the blow is so crushing she can barely breathe.
Thorn has just birthed a litter of pups, three girls and two boys, and Sansa intends to claim one for her own, to have something that can bring her comfort whenever she feels alone amongst the roses. Perhaps she shall bestow one upon Willas as well, even if he already has a pup and could gain another one easily if he so wished. It is only fitting for a lady to give her betrothed gifts, and that is what she hopes Willas shall soon be.
She has not spent all these years in Highgarden, lovely as it is, isolated from her family and used to ensure their loyalty to the throne, only to marry someone she does not desire. If Margaery gets to have a say in who shall be her lord husband, why can’t she?
She can hear the pups mewling softly as she enters the stables, her mare neighing loudly at her arrival. She spares a moment to pat her softly and feed her a carrot, before moving on, looking behind her to ensure Willas is still following. He rolls his eyes at her as she looks back, and she merely giggles, sweeping her skirts across the hay that lines the stable floor as she moves eagerly. In a basket in the corner, the pups await her, eyes still closed and moving around as if in a daze. She coos softly at them, kneeling down to better see them. Willas hovers above her, unable to bend down due to his leg. She picks a pup up, its fur so very soft against her fingers, and places it in Willas’ outstretched palm, Willas cradling it to his chest and murmuring softly to it.
She thinks he shall be just as tender with any babes she bears him, and delights at the thought.
Only pup in particular catches her attention when she finally looks away from Willas, its fur a soft cry and its mewl softer than the others. She scoops it up in her hand, saves it from head-butting one of its siblings, and sighs at the sight of it. Her sigh causes Willas to look up from the pup in his hands, and he inhales sharply as he looks at her. She looks back, grins, and murmurs, “That one adores you.”
I adore you, she longs to say.
He nods softly, running a hand down the pup’s spine. “I suppose it does,” he murmurs back, a smirk lining his lips.
I suppose you do, lingers unsaid in the air between them, and she must lower her gaze for fear of her cheeks flushing red under Willas’ intense stare.
Willas sighs, and pats the dog almost absent-mindedly before he speaks once more, “But I cannot take it.”
“But you must!” she declares, in a pitch so loud the puppy in her arms bolts from out of her grasp in fear.
Willas quirks his mouth in questioning, and she instantly realises her folly, cheeks flushing an embarrassing shade of red. She sucks in a sharp breath. “I meant it to be a gift to you,” she murmurs, nervously threading her fingers together. Her left thumb makes a crescent indentation in the skin of her right palm as she tries desperately to regain her composure.
“A gift,” Willas repeats, raising in eyebrow and furrowing his brow. “When it came from my stables?”
She flushes once more, unlinking her fingers and smoothing out her skirts, preparing to stand up and flee. As she raises herself to her feet, Willas shakes his head quickly at her, and stands up himself from the bale of hay. She stands still as he walks over to her, the puppies now all back in their basket, curled up together and napping. All she had wanted was to claim a puppy as her own, to have some sort of connection to her family so far away from her… and she’d thought it would be sweet to offer Willas one of his own, not realising that because Thorn was his, the puppies were too, by association. It is all she can do to try and control her embarrassment as Willas comes close to her, looking down at her. She has always considered herself a particularly tall girl, assumes that her height comes from her father, but Willas is taller than even she, her eyes directly aligned with the hollow of his neck, which bobs now as he swallows before speaking.
“That was unkind,” he murmurs, taking one of her hands in his. “I was up particularly late last night reading, so I presume I am over-tired.” He lets go of her hand, the contact instantly missed by Sansa, to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. She notes that strands of his hair somewhat block his vision, and thinks he shall soon need it to be cut. She loves nothing more than the way his hair curls over his forehead, but being able to truly see the brown of Willas’ eyes will be delightful and worth the missing curls.
“Sansa, I must apologise,” Willas tells her gently. “When you told me your family had found some direwolf pups and taken them as their own, I should have immediately suggested you go down to the stables and pick a pup out at your own leisure. Instead I merely tried to offer you comfort, misguided as it may have been, by telling you the dangers of having a direwolf as a pet – in one foul swoop I not only didn’t not think of the proper balm for your sadness but managed to make you fret over the safety of your family.” Willas pushes his curls back away from his eyes, and frowns slightly down at her.
“But despite my behaviour, you still desired to share with me your delight with Thorn’s newest litter, holding no grudge towards me for my actions.” The corners of his lips quirk up into a soft smile, and Sansa finds herself smiling back. “You’re a better, kinder person than I Sansa, and that is…” He breaks off, and she watches him swallow harshly, Willas inhaling sharply before he continues, eyes unblinking as he looks at her, “That is why I love you. I thank the gods every day that Rhaegar won because if he hadn’t you would not have come to Highgarden and I could not have found happiness, true happiness, for the first time since I rode in that blasted tourney.”
Willas’ speech trails off, the man before her looking just as flustered as she felt mere moments ago, pressing his lips together tightly as if to prevent any more words from escaping his mouth. She thinks she might have fainted, if it weren’t for Willas’ tight grasp on her hand and the bales of hay stacked high behind her.
Willas loves her.
There is no need for her to enact her well-devised plan, no need for her to claim a puppy as her own and then ask Willas to take one of its siblings– for wouldn’t it be fitting if her husband had a puppy from the same litter? He has beaten her to the confession, and she can only hope that he too desires to marry her.
Willas is still gazing down expectantly at her, and she thinks cruelly for a moment that she should not respond to his declaration, should treat him with the same aloofness he has so often treated her with. But she cannot ponder upon this for more than a moment, as Willas’ declaration is the very thing she has dreamt about for years now.
She meets Willas’ gaze, forces herself to breathe, and asks him, “You love me?”
Willas nods hurriedly, nods eagerly, and the nervousness clear on his face, something she nor any of his siblings view very often, makes her smile up at him, taking his hands. Their fingers link easily, Willas’ palms hot against hers. It is with the contact between them, and the look of hope in Willas’ eyes, that she finds the courage to admit, earlier than she had expected, “Then, I love you too. And I too thank the gods everyday that I was sent to Highgarden, because I doubt that there is another man quite like you Willas.”
They leave the stables hand-in-hand, both with a puppy cradled to their respective chests with their free hand. Sansa is overjoyed, and seemingly, so is Willas.