'Sansa, what time is Miss Tyrell expecting you?' asked Catelyn to her daughter.

Sansa feigned disinterest. 'Half past two, Mamma,' she sighed.

'Sansa, don't be rude!' reprimanded Catelyn, 'I sincerely hope you are not so rude to Miss Tyrell!'

'I apologise, Mamma,' Sansa said, finding it difficult to conceal her smile.

Her brother Jon escorted her to Highgarden, as he always did because he was the only brother who could be trusted not to tell her parents what she was really up to. Not that he knew. He just knew that often Sansa visited whilst Margaery was out, and though she pretended to dislike visiting, Sansa would happily spend longer at Highgarden than Winterfell.

Jon saw her through to the drawing room, where Margaery was sitting with Loras. They both stood when she came in, and Margaery smiled at Jon.

'Thank you for delivering my little friend to me, Mr Stark,' she said, and Jon bowed and left, heading home.

Sansa sat and had a cup of tea with Margaery and Loras, and their conversation was nice, but after a few minutes, Margaery donned her mischeivous smile. 'He's in the garden, my dear Sansa, if you wish to go.'

Sansa smiled sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, Marge, it was lovely talking to you- and you too, Mr Tyrell,' she stood, 'I'll see you later.'

With that, Sansa swept out into the gardens, standing on the terrace to survey the scene. She spied Willas' easel before him, set up on the lawn under the shade of a weeping willow by the small brook that ran through their garden.

Silently, Sansa descended the terrace steps to the lawn. She came up behind Willas and peered over his shoulder. It was the painting he had started two days earlier, and he was currently shading in the shadow of the trees in the top right corner. He was sat in his chair, so Sansa had to bend over to place her hands on his shoulders- and her chin on her hands.

'Good afternoon, Lady Stark,' he said in a silky, deep voice, as formal as if he was meeting her in a tea-room in London.

Sansa slipped around the front of his chair, and settled herself back on the stone wall of the little bridge, loosening the braids from her hair and weaving a few wildflowers in. She closed her eyes and drew a mournful expression onto her face.

'A little to the left, Sansa,' Willas said, holding fingers up to measure the distances, 'Your left!'

Sansa laughed as she shuffled the right way this time.

'Sit still, love,' Willas said, lifting his paintbrush.

'I can't,' Sansa said, smiling involuntarily as Willas' liquid eyes rose up to meet hers, 'Not with you sitting there, looking so perfect.'

Willas laughed, and put his paintbrush down.

'Come on then,' he said, lifting his walking cane and heaving himself to his feet, then heading over to her. When he reached her, Sansa linked her arm through Willas' and walked across the bridge with him. On the other side, she met his eyes and briefly pressed a kiss to his lips.

'Come find me,' she whispered, and then ran away into the labyrinth his parents had paid a fortune to have constructed in their garden. It was a beautiful thing, its walls six feet high hedges curving in towards a pavilion in the centre. He had once painted Margaery there, as Hermia waiting in the woods, before he found Sansa with her beautiful red hair and she became his stunner, his muse, his model. His lover.

He walked as fast as he could to the centre, following the path he always took, calling out 'Sansa? Where are you?' in a light voice as he clicked his stick along the gravel.

In the centre, she was laid out on the floor of the little bandstand, staring up at the ceiling, her red hair splayed across the stone.

'It's a shame you won't sit for me,' Willas murmured as he laid down on his side beside her, his head raised on an elbow to look at her. 'You look particularly ravishing today.'

Sansa smiled, opening her cerulean eyes and staring at Willas.

'You're an artist,' she replied, 'You see the world through your lovely Pre-Raphaelite haze and think everything more beautiful than the last you saw it.'

Willas laughed lightly, and lifted a hand to run his fingers through her tangled hair.

'You are beautiful,' he murmured, draping his hand down to her bodice, and causing her to suck in breath like a wind.

'Joffrey assures me so each time I see him,' Sansa spat.

Willas rolled away, onto his back, ignoring the sting in his bad leg when he did so.

'I would rather die than see you marry that Baratheon pig,' he groaned.

Sansa had said it before, and she would say it again. 'We could run away,' she whispered, turning onto her side and hooking her leg over Willas'.

'Sansa,' he sighed, stroking her hair as her head dropped onto his chest, 'I'm a painter, not a character from a romantic novel.'

'Oh, but you are,' she said, looking up at him, so radiant that he couldn't help kissing her mid-sentence, a long, slow kiss, 'You're the roguish, handsom hero, corrupting an innocent young girl with his beautiful eyes and his ruinous, heavy hands.'

'Ruinous?' he echoed, 'Oh, Sansa, but I refuse to ruin you, I'll never ruin you, you perfect, good girl.'

It was true, much to Sansa's chagrin. Even when they were so close, and his long fingers stroked her so beautifully she screamed, Willas would never let himself get past the point of sensibleness. No matter how much she begged him, his breeches remained firmly intact, and he wouldn't ruin her. (Though if it was half so good as when he touched her, Sansa didn't see how something so good could ruin anything).

'I don't want to be a good girl,' she purred, her fingers running down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. She was very glad it was a warm day, and he wasn't wearing a jacket or an undershirt. 'Good girls marry Joffrey Baratheons.'

'Oh, Sansa,' he muttered, seizing her face in the palm of his hand and kissing her ferociously.

His hand slipped under her skirts, and as she gasped and moaned softly, she soon forgot Joffrey Baratheon.

When they got cold, the pair went inside, bringing Willas' easel with them. They set up in the conservatory, just so that Willas could do some detailed study on her face (though he could quite easily have painted it from memory).

She laid back with her eyes closed.

'I still don't know what expression you want,' she said.

'Think Eurydice thoughts,' he called across to her, smiling, 'Now keep still.'

After a few minutes, Sansa heard footsteps on the marble and opened her eyes. Margaery was in the room, looking over her brother's shoulder.

'You've caught her likeness precisely, brother,' she said, smiling pleasantly at Sansa, 'You look beautiful, my dear Sansa.'

'Thank you, Marge,' Sansa said, moving.

'Oh, come on, Marge, she won't keep still now!' complained Willas good-naturedly.

'You've been sitting for hours, she must be tired!' protested Margaery, in a voice that said she knew very well what they had been doing.

'Oh, what time is it, Marge?' asked Sansa, walking over to stand slightly too close to Willas.

'Half past five,' she answered, and Sansa gasped.

'Oh, I have to go home!' she exclaimed, and Willas' face fell. 'I have a dinner with the Baratheons.'

'I'll walk you,' Willas said, picking up his cane.

'Your leg...' started Sansa.

'Will be fine,' he finished, leading her through to the hallway, where a maid fetched their coats. Sansa quickly said goodbye to Margaery and then left with Willas' arm hooked through hers. The pressure of his flesh against hers, even through all their layers of clothing, made her giddy.

'Will you have to dance with Joffrey tonight?' asked Willas quietly.

Sansa nodded, looking at the floor.

'Damn him,' Willas spat, taking a heaving breath to calm himself. 'I should be dancing with you, damn my leg, and you should not have to marry a man you despise.'

'Boy,' she corrected, 'He's a stupid boy.'

Willas laughed bitterly. 'I always forget I am so much older than you, sweet Sansa. Maybe that is why your father wouldn't let me marry you.'

'No, he and Robert Baratheon have been planning my and Joffrey's wedding since we were children,' she explained, 'I am caught in a trap.'

'Oh, love,' he murmured, pulling her into the shade of a pine tree on Winterfell's lawn to buy some time. Willas put his hands on her waist and kissed her hard, dragging his lips along her jawline and across her cheekbone, marking his territory so that no matter how much Joffrey repulsed her, she would remember Willas' touch, wear it like a badge.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' she said with another kiss, before shaking the pine needles off and walking calmly up to the front door of her home.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this (ridiculously long) chapter! I've wanted to write something about this pairing for a long time, and kudos to Maie (wants2beloved on tumblr) for workshopping (if that's what we did haha) this plot idea. I've been obsessed with the Pre-Raphaelites for ages, so it was the greatest piece of inspiration possible!