#lordustin

“i know,” she murmurs, because she does. wyllas tried. tried to adjust. tried to understand. tried to stay loyal, by her side, even when things were falling apart between them, the more time that she spent, stood before an audience, their queen. it wasn’t what they’d spoken about. it wasn’t what they had agreed. as sansa had, before, wyllas wanted to go home. he wanted to go back to barrowton and have children. he wanted to be married, and happy, and everything that they had whispered to each other in the middle of the night. he wanted... something that they could no longer have. something that was unachievable, and her husband now struggled with the realisation that things were going to be so, very different from what they had envisioned. that sansa was staying here. always. the queen in the north. her brother ruling the other six kingdoms. she knew that he would need time to adjust. that he would have to get used to the idea. that he would have to come to terms with it on his own - but sansa didn’t think it would take this long. that it would be this difficult. that she would find wyllas drunk, more often than she found him any other way. that he would drink himself to sleep, on nights she was distracted with something else she needed to be doing. was she surprised? at first, yes. then it became normal. routine. until both of them knew it was too much, had gone on for too long.

i want to go home, he’d told her. i need to go home. and so, she’d let him. allowed him the time he needed to breathe, to stretch his wings. to decide if he wanted to be with a queen, or if he wanted to stay in barrowton and rule over his people. she wouldn’t hold either against him, but something in her chest still hurts at the idea that he’s okay with leaving. that he’s accepted the fact that he’s leaving.

“but you do.” she finishes, the look in her eye sad. the smile on her face sad. she wants to stay in her home. she wants her husband by her side. she wants wyllas, more than she wants anything else, but those are words she can’t tell him. not now. not with him leaving; horse, cart, everything else ready. this is it, isn’t it? she doesn’t know if he’ll return. if he’ll come back to her. she touches his face, one last time, because she needs to let this moment last. she needs to memorise the features of his face. the feel of his jaw against her fingertips. the way his eyes are conflicted, as they’ve been too often as of late. sansa speaks, and she can only hope that the words have any truth to them.

a laugh bubbles out of her throat at the words, amusement blooming across her features. eyes wander to where her husband is sat beside her, perhaps one too many drinks in. perhaps she is, too.

they’re allowed to celebrate now, no? they’re allowed to be happy. to be relaxed and calm and all the things sansa hasn’t allowed herself to feel in far too long. feelings that pose a risk, a potential threat.

sansa doesn’t find herself minding too much in that moment.

the halls of winterfell full of life, of music. louder than she remembered it being in her youth. she wonders if he’s thinking of those times, too.

“shall we?”

eyes bright, a bit hazy, but she looks at him. partly teasing, but she would. if he wanted to.

to join the bodies dancing, laughing. joyous and happy. sansa envies them in a way she can’t explain.

her hand extends out, waiting. hoping.

the words are almost enough to stop her in her tracks.

almost.

sansa breathes out against the crook of his neck, where she’d pressed her lips against pale skin only a moment before. only halted by the words. confession, perhaps? did he want this to? was that what scared him?

she raises up, hair loose and wild. brushing orange strands from out of her vision to look at him. properly look at him.

“and if i was,” she starts, fingers replacing where her mouth has been. skimming up the sides of his neck until they curl into his hair.

she admired him for a moment. was this love? a few years ago, the thought wouldn’t have even entered her mind. when she was a little girl, all she’d wanted to do was get away from him and his annoying traits. an irrational bloomed permanently in her chest.

the feeling was very different now.

she leans in, then. lips brushing his. knees pressed tight against his hips. hovering. waiting. teasing.

“would you protest?”

it was almost sun light.

there she was; surrounded by papers, candlelight, and indecision. a knot in her stomach that not even the wisest of her council had been able to dissuade. it all felt like too much, and instead of tossing and turning in their bed, sansa had decided to try and face it head on.

should she have asked him to join her? for his thoughts?

“i—“

lips part and close again. an apology didn’t feel like enough, suddenly. like there was no real explanation that would remove the crease between his eyebrows, the assumption that she had left him because she simply did not want to be around him. days of tension, of too many thoughts in her head and no explanation of what was the best thing to do.

there were too many paths to choose from.

how could she be a queen in this world?

“i’m sorry,” she spoke at last. quiet. a tight frown on her face as she looked at the candles lit, burning bright, beside her.

shoulders slump. a sigh.

who would want to confess to such thoughts?

“i — i am trying, and — and no one’s happy with any decision i make,” a queen could not cry. sansa did not feel like a queen. the mountain of emotions catching in her throat.

try harder. do better. be more than this.

“i felt like it was too much to ask of you,” she finally looks at him, eyes shining. “and i couldn’t - i couldn’t sleep. i can’t understand how he kept everyone, before.”

the last stark to rule. the king in the north! they would cry it from the heavens. would they do the same for her?

“i’m sorry, i did not mean to make you feel abandoned. i swear, that is the last thing i want.”

lips part and the noise that escapes them is sudden; loud, sharp, caught off guard. a hand flying to cover her upper arm to defend from the sudden pain that shot through her.

what a bastard!

red hair dashes across her vision as she whips around to see the culprit, and she immediately knows who it is. two can play at that game.

before he leaves the room, before he has a chance to escape, sansa does what she expects will irritate him far more than the pinch could have.

she parts her lips again - but only, this time, she knows what she’s doing.

a pause. she almost doesn’t know what to say, how to feel about the statement. is it flattery? is she doing too much? is she around him too much? a girl that once used to find humour in his disdain, that used to wish that he would just go away and leave the stark family alone. that wanted nothing more than to be amongst her older brothers and not have him glowering at her from in the corner of the room, making her feel like she is the one out of place. a pattern she was soon to discover would be all too familiar in life.

an intake of breath; sharp, loud, unexpected.

she had been staring, this time. he’d been the one to notice, this time. disdain raised its ugly head again. is this how he’d felt all those years ago?

no. no!

they were past that now, weren’t they? past the childishness and the small, false pleasantries when everyone was watching. alone, together. she’d let herself falter, and there he was.

staring right back at her.

“don’t get used to it,” she finally responded, sounding half out of breath. sansa barely hides her irritation at the fact. at the questions it raises for her. does she indulge him? or does she ruin this whole situation? end it now before she may actually think more than just —— she may actually feel — something.

“oh,  because you nearly tripped over them,  she’s now  my daughter?”     there’s a grin on sansa’s face as she speaks,  can’t hide it she tries.   she raises her eyebrows as she looks at him,  before rising from her seat.   the clothes she’s trying to sew momentarily forgotten about as she pushes fingers beneath the shoulders of wyllas’ jacket.   leans up onto tip toes,  presses lips against his.   against his mouth,  against his cheek.   soft,  affectionate.   amusement still shines in her eyes.     “i will be sure to tell her,  so that neither you or anyone else kills themselves tripping over them.”     until then,  sansa will just go and pick them up herself.   will say that fiona picked them up in the unlikely event that he does ask.

sansa can’t stop the smile,  soft and pleased,  on her features as she watches the two of them together.   she was buried beneath blankets;   had watched as wyllas got out of bed,  walked off without a word at the first noise of their son crying.   she’s tired,  so tired,  but she isn’t going to miss it.   cannot.   refuses to.   so she’d climbed out of bed,  a blanket of yellow and navy wrapped around her shoulders,  faded due to time and use.   finds her husband,  their newest child   -   their last,  a son   -    wrapped up together.   she wants to press against his side and fall asleep there;   knows it would be safer than anywhere else in barrowton.   instead,  she watches.    sits at his side,  on the floor,  admires the view of them together.     “he does,”     she agrees,  quiet.   brushes fingers across wyllas’ own.   her smile never leaves.     “he’s going to be just like you,  i can tell.   that’s why i named him after you.”