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Sansa sighed in contentment before the fire of her husband’s solar.
It was a routine they had fallen into shortly after their marriage. Days were longer in Highgarden than in Winterfell, and the people dined later, long after the sun had set. There were only a few hours between dinner and retiring for the night, and her dear Willas, always a quiet and studious man, used the time to look over books and write letters. As Sansa was still finding her footing with the ladies of the Highgarden court, she decided, shortly after retiring to the empty solitude of her own solar with her needlework, that she might as well join her lord husband.
So she slipped in quietly, and Willas acknowledged her with a faint but genuine smile before returning to his books. Sansa settled into the empty velvet armchair before the fire—that she would later come to see as her own—and continued her sewing in the companionable silence of her new husband. And so a tradition was born.
Most of the time Willas remained at his desk and she in her armchair, but some evenings he joined her, lounging in the leather armchair across from her own, his bad leg propped on a matching ottoman, and they spoke of anything and everything, often into the small hours of the morning.
Not a year into their marriage two became three when she brought their son, little Eddard Tyrell, born with his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, into the world. The Queen of Thorns had scoffed at the future Lord of Highgarden being saddled with such a Northern name, but, then again, the occasions on which anything escaped her sharp tongue were few and far between.
“Gods help us, that old woman will yet outlive us all,” Willas had said with a chuckle as they both gazed down adoringly at their newborn son, swaddled in a soft wool blanket of Tyrell green edged in gold, covered in blue winter roses lovingly stitched by Sansa herself, who had chosen a strong, Northern name for her son for reasons other than honoring her dear father. Little Ned was not a child of summer, nor winter, but autumn, born in the final days of the longest summer in living memory, just before the dawn of a winter which promised to be long and unforgiving.
“This may be the South, but winter is coming, now more than ever,” Sansa had told Willas.
“His northern blood will serve him well,” her husband had agreed, their son taking one of his father’s large fingers in his small, but surprisingly strong, grip.
Eddard was followed two years later by Cleome, a true winter child named by her father after his favorite late spring flowers, a beautiful baby with red hair a few shades darker than Sansa’s—it was Willas who recognized the shade as being the same as the hair of Sansa’s own mother—that promised to fall in Tyrell curls when it grew. And when the spring came after four long years, so did their second son, Willem, who already looked the spitting image of his father and namesake.
It was well into spring now, though Sansa hesitated to think of it yet as summer, as the nights still brought a strong chill more often than not, and Sansa was grateful to be seated by the warmth of the fire.
Sansa worked on a new gown for Cleome, whose name day was fast approaching. Even at the tender age of two, Cleome had already developed a great fondness for pretty things.
Cleome herself sat on the rug before the fire, less than a yard away from her mother, attempting to braid the yarn hair of one of her many dolls—most gifts from her beloved “nana”, the Queen of Thorns herself. While none of her children or grandchildren escaped her harsh words, her sole great-granddaughter was the apple of her eye. It amused both Sansa and Willas greatly, though neither dared to say anything.
At Cleome’s side sat Eddard, a book of tales before him. Nearer to five than four, he was already a strong reader and knew how to write all his letters, though she still often saw him mouthing the words silently as he read. Their youngest brother, Willem, was already fast asleep in the nursery under the watchful eye of their nursemaid.
Willas was going over ledgers at his desk, the scratching of his pen against parchment joining the crackling of the fire and Cleome’s soft babbling, combining to form a sound Sansa had come to consider the sound of home, and it filled her with a great contentment.
“Sansa, love,” her lord husband’s voice pulled her from her silent musings, “a raven came for you earlier today. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but it completely slipped my mind.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she insisted, retrieving the letter from him.
The wax was Tyrell green, but the stamp belonged to Winterfell, which meant the letter could only come from Margaery. Margaery and Robb had married a year before Sansa and Willas, and, despite her southern heritage, took to her role as the future Lady of Winterfell like a fish to water.
Sansa easily broke the seal and began to read, relaying aloud the highlights of the contents to Willas.
“They’re expecting another child. Margaery hopes for a girl.” Robb and his lady wife already had two sons. “Father injured his shoulder in a Wildling raid, but he’s healing well. Mother’s fine. Bran is courting Howland Reed’s daughter, Rickon’s more wild than ever, and, my goodness!” Sansa exclaimed, her eyes wide, and she continued to read Margaery’s letter with a new urgency.
Willas turned, startled, to look at his lady wife.
“What is it, love?”
“Arya eloped with the blacksmith!”
Willas thought for a moment before responding.
“At least they had the common sense to wait until spring,” he finally said.
Sansa looked to her husband incredulously.
“I just told you that my sister, Lady Arya Stark, ran off with a baseborn bastard blacksmith, and you respond with, ‘at least they had the common sense to wait until spring’?”
Willas managed not to laugh, but only just.
“Don’t tell me that you didn’t see that coming,” he said, “I’ve only been to Winterfell once, and even though my time there was rather brief, I could see she had feelings for him—and that was five years ago!”
“It’s one thing to fancy a blacksmith, it’s another to marry one,” Sansa argued.
“I may not know your sister very well, but from my few interactions with her and the many stories you’ve told me, Arya is not the type to ‘fancy’ anyone. In truth, I’m just as surprised she married him—not because of the ‘him’ bit so much as the ‘marriage’ one.”
Sansa sighed and knew that Willas was right.
Her sister was thousands of leagues away (or maybe not, because she ran off with the blacksmith to gods knew where), and yet she was still capable of giving Sansa a headache.
“I guess you’re right.”
Willas got up from his desk and made his way over to her. His limp was more pronounced than usual, as wet, rainy weather—the kind that spring so often favored—caused his bad leg to constantly ache. Sansa suspected he was in much more pain than he would lead her to believe, pain that he hid because he did not want to worry her or the children (or the Maester, for that matter, who would insist on giving him Milk of the Poppy. Willas hated Milk of the Poppy, it made him feel sluggish and clouded his thoughts. Willas hated anything that interfered with his mind).
When he reached her he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t know if this will make you feel any better, but I’m sure she’ll be back home before long. Your sister loves Winterfell, Gendry would be a fool to throw away his position at the forge—I’m sure he’ll be able to get his job back so long as they return within the year, a smith of his calibre is not easily replaced—and, somehow, I don’t think any sister of yours would run away with a fool.”
Sansa had to smile at that.
“They’re probably just giving your lady mother some time to calm down, which I would imagine is for the best. She took it the worst, yes?”
Sansa nodded. Margaery had mentioned how Lady Catelyn’s face turned redder than her Tully hair in her anger after reading the note Arya had left on her pillow before sneaking out her window in the dark of night. A maid had found the letter the following morning and immediately presented it to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Sansa could not help but feel sorry for that poor maid.
“Does this mean we’ll be getting new cousins?” Eddard had not yet been able to meet his cousins, as the winter had been harsh and the road from Highgarden to Winterfell was long and difficult in the best of times. Still, Eddard and Torrhen—Robb and Margaery’s eldest, only months older than Eddard—communicated often by raven (with considerable assistance from their parents), and had become good friends.
“I guess it does,” Sansa replied. There would be, of course, Robb and Margaery’s new baby, and a child being born to Bran Stark and Meera Reed seemed to be becoming a more and more likely eventuality as time went on. A month ago Sansa would have snorted at the idea of Arya as a mother, but the news of Arya’s elopement made Sansa less certain. Sure, Arya had sworn up and down from the time she could talk that she would never have children of her own, but she had also sworn that she would never marry with equal, if not greater, fervor.
But now that Sansa thought about it, that would be sweet justice indeed. Oh yes, a black-haired, blue-eyed little hellion with all of Arya’s energy and disregard for rules or propriety, topped off with the so-called-“Bull”’s infamous stubbornness.
“What are you thinking, love? You look like Grandmother on a productive day.”
Sansa gasped as if insulted, though it did not reach her eyes.
“Willas!”
“But mother,” Eddard interjected with an innocence only a four year old could possess, “you were smiling just like nana.”
Willas laughed and Sansa could not help but grin. She loved his laugh, though she heard it far less than she would like. Her husband had a seriousness about him that reminded her of her father, but when Willas did laugh it was warm and deep and sudden, as if it took him by surprise. The joy his laughter brought Sansa was equalled only by that brought to her by the laughter of her children, which she had the pleasure of hearing often.
“Was I now?” She asked, putting the letter aside before sinking to the floor and pulling Eddard into her arms, tickling his sides. He squealed in delight and his sister giggled, toddling over to them and stumbling into her mother, her arms wrapped around her mother’s neck and her fingers tangled in her mother’s long red hair. The scene warmed Willas’s heart, though it was tinged with bitterness as he knew he could not join them.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the family moment.
“Come in.”
Their nursemaid, Flora, appeared in the doorway.
“Beg pardon, m’lord, m’lady, but I was thinkin’ you might want the little ones off to bed.”
“Of course, Flora. We completely lost track of time.” Sansa stood up, Cleome on her hip and Eddard holding her hand.
“But I don’t want to go to bed,” Eddard insisted, as if that would change anything.
“No bed!” Cleome seconded her brother’s opinion as her mother handed her over to the nursemaid.
“Say goodnight, children,” Flora told Cleome and Eddard, who she had taken by the hand, choosing to ignore their protests. Her voice was kind but firm.
“Goodnight mother, father,” the children parroted in surrender. Sansa kissed both their foreheads and Willas ruffled Eddard’s hair.
After Flora left with the children, Sansa could not help but think that the room was too quiet. Willas wrapped an arm around her and Sansa gladly rested her head on his shoulder.
“Another babe for Robb and Margaery,” Willas commented. “They’ve caught up with us.”
Sansa turned in Willas’s embrace, grinning wickedly.
“We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?” she said, one hand raking suggestively down the front of his doublet.
Willas returned his wife’s grin and pulled her closer, his eyes glinting mischievously.
“Well, if we must,” he teased, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
Nothing else coherent was said for a good long while.