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His wife looked up from their bed, her face stained a delicate pink and her eyes blazing blue. Which was, he thought, a hint obvious enough even Loras could not fail to miss it- Sansa rarely allowed herself to be abed Town hours, a fact that had greatly endeared her to the family.
She also turned as red as her hair in rage or embarrassment, not this delicate pink that looked like one of Margaery’s false shows of modesty. Trusting her to a Harley Street doctor would be a cruelty after her godfather’s family and their false friendship, so…
“I won’t bring a proper doctor to see you,” Willas promised, arranging himself on the bed.
Sansa, rather than looking relieved, narrowed her eyes. “Oh? And what are your plans, then? One of your horse doctors?”
“Oberyn and his niece, actually,” he smiled.
Sansa threw the pillow at him, dislodging her mostly uneaten breakfast and causing them to scramble to keep it from spilling everywhere.
~
Dr. Tully was, truly, a real doctor, who had a licence. She was, however, rather scandalously married to Sansa’s uncle, who she all but eloped with when she was sixteen to avoid a Season. Edmure also supported her wish to be a doctor, and Sansa’s aunt had tartly commented on the actresses and demi-mondes who used her services.
She chatted cheerfully to a tired seeming Sansa, asking when her symptoms started.
“Perhaps two weeks ago? I thought it was just…” Sansa shook her head and then bit her lip, as if regretting the movement. “I had uneasy rest, some dizziness, but thought it was just missing my husband.” She turned her large, expressive eyes on Willas, seeming regretful. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“But Willas returned a week ago, and there has been no sign of improvement,” Dr. Tully said, frowning slightly as she checked Sansa’s wrist.
Oberyn was seeming pensive, and long years of friendship had taught him to worry about that.
Worry and summon legal council.
“Now, Willas, I take it your recent trip hasn’t done your knee any favors,” she called from across the room.
“No, it hasn’t,” Sansa answered for him, smiling sweetly. “And the rest of us are to simply pretend that we do not notice how heavily he limps along, or the pain on his face.”
“Has he been taking anything for pain?” Rhaenys asked, directly at Sansa.
“I am here, you know,” he said to Oberyn.
“Mmm, but your wife is much prettier,” his friend said, earning a giggle from Sansa.
“He takes a slight dose of laudanum- I keep it locked away, and he only takes it for a set number of days,” Sansa said.
“Ah,” Dr. Tully said. “Well, my official diagnosis is that you and your husband should have a romantic holiday. Paris is lovely this time of year, and I know he can afford you some Worth gowns to boot.” She winked, and drew a silk choker Sansa had been wearing off of her throat, a lovely creation of green and grey with a seven-pointed star he’d gotten her for their first anniversary. “And keep an eye on these little marks, right here- they look like you were stuck with something, perhaps developed a light infection. I will make myself available at need, but you should probably just avoid London for a week or so. Very damp and chilly, not a place to recover.”
“Paris does sound romantic,” Sansa said wistfully, and Willas found himself agreeing to go.
“Oberyn,” he said, escorting his friend and Dr. Tully to the door. “What didn’t you tell Sansa?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Willas, then are…” he started, ducking Willas cane as it snaked towards him.
“Trust us, Willas, even if Uncle has no sense of decorum. Or tact,” Dr. Tully said. “Sansa will be fine in France.” She touched the long red scarf around her neck ruefully. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to wrestle with this particular brand of demon. Now, the both of you look after your health, and hold true to each other. The two of you seem to be very good at walking down long and difficult roads together.”
“Does this demon have a name?” Willas asked.
Uncle and niece looked at each other for a long moment. “Have you ever heard the term vampire?”
~
Sansa bloomed in Paris, as predicted. She got her Worth gown, in river blue and gold looking like Melusine herself, and they toured the city and its wonders, Sansa rummaging through the bookseller stalls eagerly and finding a copy of La Morte d’ Arthur with remarkable illustrations and the Heptamaron. There was another, slyer purchase that he couldn’t see and wondered if she had stumbled onto some Gothic novels.
They toured more of France as well, including Brittany for a month, Lyon for a week, and at Sansa’s insistence, the Riviera for Willas, who she thought looked a bit travel-worn.
He smiled at her, one day, amid the sun and drew a light hand down her throat. “Love, did you notice something?”
She gave him a cheeky smile. “That the marks are entirely healed? Well, I did expose my throat, yes…”
“Which means we could return home…” he offered.
“We could,” Sansa said, thoughtfully. “Aunt said it would be safe.”
“But I promised that Count we would see his palazzo in Rome,” Willas mused. “And it would be rude to change plans so suddenly.”
She laughed.