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Roses without Thorns is one of Sansa’s favourite bands. Actually Roses is probably her most favourite band, hands down, no competition whatsoever. She’s bought all of their albums, attended all of their concerts, and even at the age of twenty, even though she’s a second year university student and is unhappily sharing a room in the dorms, she has a poster of them hanging on her side of the dorm room. She’s forever admired the musical brother and sister duo from afar, never expecting anything more than maybe a favourite on her tweets or a hurriedly snapped selfie, and yet here she is, standing backstage at one of their concerts, a VIP pass hanging from her neck.
And just to make a fantastic situation even better, there’s also a particularly handsome man standing beside her, arms crossed as he watches his brother and sister perform for a packed audience.
Seriously, thank the lord for Myrcella and all of her connections. If Sansa has a say, Robb is never ever dumping his girlfriend – not that her brother would, it’s easy enough to see how head over heels he is for Myrcella. Cella’s the daughter of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, and having those two as her parents means she has many more connections than Sansa does, with friends in the most usual of places.
Margaery, the female counterpart of Roses, who is currently on stage in front of Sansa crooning her heart out (at sight she can barely stop herself from screaming at!), it turns out, had once upon a time dated Myrcella’s brother, a fate Sansa herself just narrowly avoided. She and Myrcella had remained close despite the eventual tumultuous breakup, and when Cella mentioned how much of a fan Sansa was of Margaery and Loras’ band, Margaery, the stunning, beautiful, talented ‘call me Margie’ Margaery Tyrell didn’t hesitate in offering both Myrcella and Sansa backstage passes to their next gig.
Sansa swears she’s dreamed about something like this happening before, but she never quite imagined it would ever become reality.
The man next to her never appeared in her dreams after all, because she definitely would have remembered someone quite as handsome as he is.
Myrcella’s phone vibrates with a call from Robb in the middle of a last song, and with a hurried apology she slips from Sansa’s side to take the call, leaving Sansa alone with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome. He’s watching his brother and sister perform just as intently as she is, glasses perched on his nose, and she swears to god that the Tyrell genes must be perfection itself. Margaery and Loras are both stunning, she’s stared at their photos long enough to know this for a fact, but the man beside her is something else entirely. Dark brown, messy curls, tall enough that she isn’t towering over him in her heels, with slightly broad shoulders and an ass that seemingly just won’t quit – it’s the first thing she noticed about him, as she and Myrcella approached him from behind, and honestly the first thing she thought was goddamn.
Even his name is perfect. Willas. She’d whisper it to herself, but he’d probably hear her, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing. Willas Tyrell, manager of Roses without Thorns, handsome as hell, and probably (considering that Margaery and Loras are around three to four years older than her at her mere twenty) way too old for her.
Sansa studies him out of the corner of her eye, mulling it over. She’s never been that good at guessing people’s ages, although that may be because she’s usually extremely intoxicated when Jeyne comes up to her giggling, her best friend asking that guy over there, no don’t look, but yeah that guy, how old do you think he is, is he too old for me, Sansa please, just guess, but if she had to take a stab she’d say that Willas is at least in his late twenties.
And that is more than likely an age that could cause her father to have a heart attack if she ever brought him home.
Although anyone she’s even brought home, Smalljon Umber included (and he’s been one of Robb’s best friends since they were both in diapers), has caused her father to immediately turn on the offensive. Something about only wanting the best for her, but how can she ever find the best if her dad keeps scaring all her potential boyfriends away?
Margaery and Loras launch into their next song, the crowd cheering rambunctiously, and when she looks over her shoulder, Mrycella is still on the phone to Robb, her blonde hair curled loosely around her face. It’s just her and Willas, Willas leaning against a speaker with his left hand tightly gripping what looks like an expensive cane, Sansa standing somewhat steadily on her heels, her face flushed from the free champagne and the general atmosphere of excitement.
“So,” she says, voice cracking slightly after minutes of not being used, “you’re Loras and Margaery’s manager?”
She already knows this to be true, because there’s a pass similar to her VIP one hanging his neck, labelled ‘Manager’, and Myrcella had introduced Willas as the manager of the band, but she’s never been particular good at speaking to cute guys, so why not repeat facts she already knows? It’s better than silence, she supposes.
But Willas doesn’t seem to mind the silence, because he merely nods in reply, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his right index finger.
Sansa continues to speak despite his silence, heart hammering in her heart as he meets her gaze. “That must be fun. I mean, probably not all fun, but still fun nonetheless.”
She can almost hear Arya berating her for being such a downright dork. Pull it together Stark, she thinks.
Willas shrugs, and half-grins at her. “It’s alright,” he says, and Jesus, the sound of his voice nearly makes her swoon right there and then, concert be damned. His voice could possibly be better to listen to than her favourite Roses’ song, and that’s saying something.
The crowd breaks into applause as Loras strums the last chord of a song, but surprisingly she can still hear Willas over the noise, Willas telling her, “Although, it’s definitely harder to order them around now that they’re not only older, but also in control of my paycheck.”
Sansa laughs carelessly at the thought, and Willas’ half-grin spreads across the entirety of his lips, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. Once she’s stopped laughing, her face surely more flushed now than it was before, she questions, “You never thought about going into music yourself? I mean, surely you weren’t born just to be a manager.”
Willas wiggles the fingers of his right hand at her in response, telling her, “I’m more of the classical musical type. Grand piano, that sort of thing. It’s much harder to try and break into music when you refuse to divert from a specific genre. Loras and Margie, they’ll perform anything, rock, punk, pop, you name it, but when their label heard about me and approached me, I told them point blank that I was a classical artist, and I was going to remain that way. They quickly lost interest after that.” He shrugs again. “Besides, I’m 27. No one who has half a brain in the music industry wants to sign a stubborn twenty-seven year old, not when there’s thousands of eager teenagers willing to sing anything if they only get a chance at fame.”
“You still perform though?” Sansa asks, because she is honestly curious now. If he does, seriously, give her a time and a place and she’ll be there, front row.
He nods, waving a hand at the stage in front of them, and then down at his left leg. “Not to this extent though. It’s much harder to play large stadiums like this with a bad leg. But when I’m sitting at the grand piano, no one knows about the leg, they just know what they’re hearing, and that’s good music. And I love the music, so when I can find the time, and when people want to hear me play, I’m more than happy to perform.“
“Well, I’d love to hear you play,” Sansa says before she can regret it.
She would though, she would love to see him play. Sansa’s never really had a thing for classical music, never liked to the extent she does pop music, but the amount of times she’d arrive home to hear her Mum blasting Mozart in the kitchen as Catelyn prepared dinner meant she learnt to at least tolerate it, if not like it. Sansa will always prefer music that has actual lyrics, not just rises and falls, but if someone like Willas were to be the one playing, well he’d have her total attention.
Willas rummages around in his pocket, pulling out his phone as Loras and Margaery shout something to the crowd. He offers it to Sansa, telling her, “Put your number in and I’ll text you the details the next time I perform somewhere close.”
Sansa beams at the suggestion, taking the proffered phone happily and quickly typing in her own mobile number. She also sends herself a quick text, and when her phone dings, she says to Willas with a grin, “Now I have your number too.”
Willas chuckles, taking his phone back from her and slipping it back into his pocket mere seconds before Margaery collides into him, his sister hugging him tight. She is positively radiant, even moreso with beads of sweat dotting her forehead, and she winks at Sansa over her brother’s shoulder, Loras sipping calmly on a bottled water behind her.
Those damn Tyrells, she thinks, blushing at Margaery’s wink.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” she asks Sansa, and all Sansa can do is nod, her mouth dry and her cheeks presumably tomato red, which she knows from experience is not a very good look, especially when combined with her auburn hair. “Good,” Margaery murmurs. “I hoped you’d would.”
“C’mon Marge,” Loras says, tugging on his sister’s arm. “I’m exhausted, I’m sweaty, and Renly’s due to call in about ten minutes.”
“Alright, alright,” Margaery replies, unwinding her arms from around Willas’ neck and shooting one last grin at Sansa. As she lets Loras tug her away from backstage, presumably back to their swanky trailer, she looks over her shoulder and shouts to Willas, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Willas flushes, an action that’s really quite adorable, and shakes his head as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Sorry about her,” he murmurs, stepping closer to Sansa. “She’s always quite obnoxious when she steps off stage – something about the crowd’s applause and total devotion turns her back into an attention seeking toddler. I have no idea why,” he teases, rolling his eyes at her behind his glasses.
Sansa shrugs, smiling. “It’s no big deal, really. She’s Margaery Tyrell,” she says, hoping that Willas gets just how important that is to her. Margaery could have said anything to her just then, and in the moment, she wouldn’t have cared. Even later, when she’d processed the interaction, she probably still wouldn’t have cared.
“Well, she might be Margaery Tyrell,“ Willas repeats, “But she’s first and foremost my sister.”
Sansa merely nods, and they stand in relative silence for a few moments. She looks back for Myrcella, who seemingly has now disappeared, and Willas fidgets with the end of his button-up shirt.
And then, moments later, they both decide to, awkwardly, break the silence at the same time, Sansa beginning with, “So..” whilst Willas asks, “What..”
Sansa laughs, gesturing for Willas to speak as she giggles. “Go on, go on,” she breathes out, her shoulders still shaking from laughter.
“I was just wondering what you were doing after this?” he questions, speaking so quickly she almost doesn’t catch his meaning.
“Oh,” she murmurs, brushing a stray piece of hair away from her face. “I mean, we had nothing planned, not really. I suppose Myrcella and I were just going to go and get drinks somewhere, but she’s disappeared on me. She’s probably still talking to my brother, or better yet, with him right now.”
“Well,” Willas suggests, a hand coming up to scratch at the side of his neck, “You and I could always go and get drinks?”
Sansa nods at the idea, a smile spreading across her lips. “That sounds great,” she tells him, and she shoots Myrcella a quick text to inform her of her plans.
It’s a text she doesn’t get around to replying to until the next morning, the taste of Willas’ lips still lingering on her lips, Sansa trying desperately to contain her squeals as she lies in bed, ever considerate of her roommate.
She squeals about it all later as she showers though, already making plans to meet up with Willas in the coming days before Margaery and Loras head back out on tour.
---
Her favourite band performs at her wedding, humbly (but not so humbly) free of charge, and at her favourite man’s request their first dance is set to Willas’ favourite classical piece, the one he says always reminds him of Sansa, of his newly-wedded wife.
They sway in place in the middle of the ballroom in time to the rise and fall of the music, Sansa’s hair neatly coiled at the nape of her neck, and when she looks up at Willas, all she can thinks about is how much she loves him.
Even more than she does Roses without Thorns, surprisingly.