Sansa wakes the following morning with Arya burrowed tight against her side, warm and bony and blessedly alive, and she can hardly believe that it was not all a dream. It seems as though it should have been a dream, seems impossible that Arya could possibly be here beside her, but she is, one hand fisted in Sansa's nightgown and snoring quietly against her shoulder.
It must be sunny out, because her chambers are brighter than she is used to in the mornings. Then again, this room has larger windows that Willas' room does, and she is still not used to the differences between his bedchamber and her own.
She misses him, she realises, and she feels silly for it but it's true, she does, and so she slips out of bed – miraculously not waking Arya – and darts across to Willas' room, wondering why he left the door slightly open when he retired but not thinking much of it.
He's asleep as well, completely bare except for the blanket that's only just draped over his hips, his casted leg propped up on two pillows, and with his hair tangled like that he looks so much younger than he is.
He stirs just a little when she slips into bed beside him, just enough to wrap an arm around her, and he smells warm and sleepy and she can't help but curl close against him, because she wishes they'd never left Highgarden, that things were still sweet and simple and-
"I thought you were sleeping in the other room," he says, voice low and rough with sleep, and when he lifts his head his eyes are only half open and he's frowning in confusion. "Or is this a dream, do you think?"
"Not a dream," she whispers, pushing him back down and resting her head on his shoulder. "I missed you, that's all."
"I was dreaming of you," he says, nosing against her hair. "I always dream of you. Just you. Good dreams, those."
"I dream of you, too," she says quietly, leaning up and brushing her mouth against his as his eyes close. "I like those dreams best, I think."
He hums then, in satisfaction, she supposes, and he's asleep again before she even settles properly against him. She almost tells him that she loves him, but doing so when he's asleep seems cowardly, somehow, so instead she lets her eyes drift shut and dozes off in his arms.
Aldwin and Marian wake them together not long later, both looking smugly amused, and Sansa blushes bright pink as Marian ushers her away.
"Sleeping apart is going well, milord," Aldwin says mildly when he wakes Willas the third time, before turning away to the other side of the room. Willas is startled by smallclothes hitting him in the chest (he's hardly awake, so it's hardly fair), but Aldwin simply chuckles before moving on to search out a shirt and breeches. "Half a night without one another, well done to you both."
"Stop that," Willas says, feeling terribly groggy – he took the dreamwine last night when Maester Lomys offered it, knew he'd never get a moment of rest if he didn't because his leg was aching from Sansa's kick, and his head is woolly with it now – but still throwing aside the blankets so he can begin wrestling his smallclothes up over his cast. "Sansa could not sleep, that is all."
He's not at all sure that's why she was in bed with him when he awoke – he does not remember her joining him, and he's almost certain that she was to sleep in the other room with her sister. He remembers bidding her goodnight, and he's certain that he did so in the doorway of the other room. Still, he's not going to admit that to Aldwin, no more than he's going to give into the temptation to beg Sansa to come back to their bed (her pillow might smell of rosemary again, which will be a tiny consolation, at least).
"Her sister might come looking for you today," Aldwin warns, slipping under Willas' arm and holding him steady before helping him pull up his smallclothes. "Marian says the little one doesn't seem happy about you being married to milady Sansa."
"She'll get along marvellously with Prince Aegon, should they meet," Willas grouses, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing his hands roughly over his face. "They can conspire to kill me off so Sansa might marry someone worthy of her-"
"Stop that," Aldwin chides, "and hurry along, you're to break your fast with your father, and you know he doesn't like to wait for his meals. He's waiting for you outside."
No indeed, Father becomes cranky when forced to wait for food, Willas knows that, so he heaves himself back up and begins tugging his breeches up over his cast.
"Lady Alerie is my goodmother," Sansa says sternly, combing carefully through Arya's hair and wondering at the mess of it – it's all different lengths, and matted and knotted so terribly she worries that her comb might lose a tooth. "And she is your hostess. You will show her the appropriate respect, Arya-"
"Why don't I just not speak at all, in case I offend one of your precious Tyrells?"
"If you wish to keep Lady Brienne safe, you'd do well not to alienate Lord Mace and Lady Alerie," Sansa warns. "Lord Mace was sincere in wanting to execute her last night, Arya."
"She didn't-"
"I believe you, but Lord Mace will not take Mother taking Lady Brienne into her service as sufficient evidence of her good character as I do. Please, Arya – you must behave. Everything is so precarious now-"
"Because the Lannisters are losing their grip-"
"I already told you that we have sworn to Prince Aegon at Storm's End!"
"His father stole our aunt, Sansa! He's a raper's son! A madman's son!"
Sansa hesitates a moment – Prince Aegon's cousins had been of the opinion that he was the image of his father, that Princess Arianne was the image of his mother, and Arya is so like their aunt Lyanna, if what Father and Uncle Benjen used say is true…
"Better him than the Lannisters," is all she says. "Now come, we must get you dressed-"
"Your gowns won't fit me," Arya points out, sounding relieved.
"Good thing you're not the only young lady of your size and shape to ever pass through Highgarden, then," Marian says, breezing in with a gown over her arms. "Lady Alla's near as small and skinny as you, and she didn't mind giving a gown for milady Sansa's sister – they're all eager to meet you."
Sansa bites her lip to keep from smiling at the notion of Arya sitting with Margaery and her companions during the day – she might get along well enough with Merry Crane, she supposes, but Megga and Elinor in particular will drive her mad. Mayhaps it would be best to keep her nearby, with Sansa herself and Lady Alerie and Leonette.
The gown in question is typical of Alla – a mass of delicate embroidery in soft shades of deep blue and golden-cream. Arya's looking at it with the same scepticism Sansa felt for some of the day gowns she was given upon her arrival at Highgarden, wondering how something so ornamental can possibly be meant for wearing all of the time, she doesn't doubt.
"It's lovely, Marian," she says, sitting down to brush her own hair while Marian helps Arya dress. "It will do nicely."
"I'll try pinning her hair when I have her dressed," Marian calls over her shoulder, and Sansa can't hide her smile this time as she watches Arya struggle against the gown through the mirror. "You get yourself ready, milady, and then I'll help with your stays and your gown."
"Did your wife say where her sister is hiding the Beauty?" Father asks, passing half a peach across to Willas once he's settled down and biting into the other half himself.
"No, Father," Willas sighs, reaching down to adjust his leg and shaking his head. "Sansa and I have barely spoken since her sister arrived. We will have to speak with Lady Arya today and ask that she tell us all she can."
"Well, where is the girl?"
"With Mother and Sansa and the rest," Willas says tiredly, setting down his knife when his hands begin to shake. Gods, if he could just sleep, but he hasn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks, longer. "We may speak to her after we've all eaten, Father. I'd like to ask her about this Gendry she mentioned, too – by the sounds of it, she's travelled an awful amount with him, which could make it difficult for her in a few years."
"Aye, that's true," Father muses, spreading butter on a cut of bread and handing it across the table without a word. Willas is thankful for his father's uncharacteristic tact, but he wonders how bad he must look to have prompted it in the first place.
Next he knows, Father and Garlan are standing on either side of him, Father's hand on his shoulder and both of them frowning concernedly down at him.
"Back to bed with you, my lad," Father says firmly, and Willas just about manages to open his eyes again when he blinks (damned dreamwine, he thinks, damned me for not taking poppy's milk when we were on the road to help me sleep, damned me for not listening to a word anyone said even when it would have been to my benefit). "Come along, up-"
One of them under either of his arms, and he's glad of it, because he doesn't think he'd manage his crutches, not when he feels as if he hasn't slept in a year, and his head lolls to the side so his temple is resting against Father's.
"I hate dreamwine," he opines, and he can hear Garlan laughing but doesn't particularly mind, because he supposes he must look quite silly. "I should have asked for poppy."
"You should have asked for poppy weeks past," Garlan corrects him, and Willas hums in agreement, still leaning his head against Father's and hopping along between them. The enforced drowsiness of the dreamwine has dragged his body's stockpiled fatigue up from wherever he'd been forcing it down to, and now he feels pleasantly dazed, nodding off standing up.
Willas smiling dopily while leaning on Father's shoulder is not something Garlan ever supposed to see, but now that it is happening he can't help but hate all the years when Willas could hardly stand to be in the same room as Father without reason – the years Willas bickered with everyone, especially if they offered him help, found offence in everything Loras did and Margie said, the years when Willas spent every day in the library and the music room and the stables and the aviary and the kennels, anywhere but the keep proper, sometimes not speaking to any of the family for days on end.
Still, anger at all that aside, Willas snuffling against Father's hair and smiling is more amusing than Garlan could possibly have imagined, and Father's fondly exasperated smile does little to help him to keep from laughing.
"I missed you," Willas slurs, head falling forward. "When was in t'High Tower. Didn' want to so got mad. M'sorry."
Garlan knows his father better than anyone might suspect, so the flash of pain in Father's eyes doesn't escape him any more than it surprises him. Willas might have been oblivious to it, but his anger hurt Father more than Father would ever admit – it didn't help that they're as stubborn as each other, foolishly headstrong and utterly convinced that they've been right the whole time.
Even Father laughs when Willas' head droops forward and he begins to snore quietly, hanging heavily from their shoulders, and they carry him the rest of the way into his bedchamber.
"He needs new boots," Father huffs as he tugs the offending boots off Willas' feet, holding them up for inspection with a frown. "Softer ones, mayhaps."
Willas snores on, oblivious, as Garlan works him out of his doublet.
"He needs sturdy boots for his ankle, Father," Garlan says firmly. "You know that. You know it's not been as strong since the accident."
"Well, if he's not going to be standing on it, why should he need support for it?"
"Leave the boots be, Father," Garlan says, rolling his eyes as he tugs Willas' shirt over his head and-
"Gods be good," Father says quietly. "When did he get so thin?"
Garlan can't speak, because while Willas has never been near so big as him – always closer to Loras' build, if broader in the shoulders and a bit taller – he's never been like this, ribs and collarbones and elbows sharp under clammy skin.
"He's not been eating properly," Garlan says, "but I didn't think he was this bad. I'll speak with Maester Lomys this afternoon. I… Mayhaps Sansa will know. I will speak with her, too."
Father nods once, sharply, mouth twisted the same way Willas' goes when he's worried, and then he strides from the room, presumably before Garlan is supposed to be able to see that he's upset.
"Fool," Garlan says to Willas, pulling the blankets up and shaking his head. "Both of you, but I think most especially you, big brother."
Uncle Garth is with Father in the outer room – Garlan has never liked the Lord Seneschal, trusts him even less because of the way he behaves towards Leonette (and Sansa, he has no doubt), but he is damned good at his work, and has been invaluable all these years in keeping Father from bending completely to Grandmother's will.
"Scouts have been sent out to look for the Maid of Tarth," Father says once Garlan has closed the door to Willas' chamber. "If she is nearby-"
"I thought we were speaking with Lady Arya?" Garlan asks, folding his arms with a frown. "We owe her Sansa's sister's life-"
"And she took Renly's," Father points out. "Enough, lad, we'll speak of it when we have her. For now, I think we ought find out what the girl was doing all this time – someone must have given her refuge, surely? A child her age could never have survived alone-"
Garlan moves to have something to eat while Father rambles, partially because he's hungry (and because boxes of apples arrived from Cider Hall yesterday, and no matter Highgarden's claims to growing the finest of everything, Garlan has never had anything to rival the apples from Leonette's home), but partially because he thinks Father is wrong. There is something hard about Sansa's sister, something that worries Garlan a little because he doesn't recognise it, doesn't understand it, and he wonders if it might end up causing harm to someone he loves.
He leaves Father and Uncle Garth to their plotting – because it's always plotting, with those two – and climbs the stairs two at a time on his way to Mother's rooms, wondering if Sansa's sister might be able to offer some form of proof as to Lady Brienne's innocence. Garlan saw the way the Maid of Tarth looked at Renly, after all, and he cannot imagine Lady Brienne ever harming Renly – despite her appearance, she has a gentle heart, that he is sure of, and while she is as deadly with blade in hand as any man he knows and more so than most, he cannot imagine any circumstances in which she would turn that blade on Renly.
Garlan has been of the opinion – shared with none save Leonette and Mother – that there truly was an assassin in Renly's pavilion that night, although he doesn't believe this shadow nonsense. Leonette agrees that it was likely some agent of either Stannis Baratheon or the Lannisters, most likely the Lannisters because the killer's efficiency implies the work of a Faceless Man, and they do not come cheap. He would not have thought it of Lady Brienne, but the only reasonable explanation is that she failed in her duty to protect her king, and her pride would not allow her to admit to it – hence the absurd shadow killer tale.
He sets that aside for now, down beside his worries for Willas, and he's smiling when he pushes open the double doors of Mother's solar. He's always loved sitting with her here – mostly because he loves her company, but also because it's such a lovely room to simply sit in, with the high north-facing windows that leave the room cool in the summer heat, and the sweet-smelling clematis creepers on the walls outside.
"Good morning, my ladies," he calls, sweeping a bow and knowing without looking that Leonette is rolling her eyes to the heavens. "Each one of you looking fairer than ever, I must say."
"Oh, stop being silly and sit down," Mother chides, but she's smiling and gesturing to the empty seat to her right. "I had hoped your Father and Willas might…?"
"Father is speaking with Uncle Garth," Garlan tells her, nudging Leonette's shoulder with his hip as he passes, "and Willas has gone back to bed-"
"Is he unwell?"
How Willas can possibly doubt that Sansa is as besotted by him as he is by her escapes Garlan, because everyone else that sees them either with one another or speaking of one another knows full well that they're mad for each other.
"He's fine," he promises her, taking his seat and immediately reaching for one of the slices of apple on Mother's plate. "The dreamwine – it always struck him harder than most. Maester Lomys offered him some last night because his leg was paining him, and he fell asleep in the middle of speaking with Father at table."
"He's always been soft for it," Mother clucks, thwacking him over the knuckles with the flat of her knife when he reaches for more apple. "But poppy makes him queasy – Garlan, there are plenty of apples on the table, please refrain from stealing mine!"
"But they are all the sweeter for being yours, Mother," he teases, ducking when she swipes at his head. "If it bothers you so, I will impose upon my lady wife-"
"You will have an apple of your own and be happy with it," Leonette says firmly, tossing one – glossy deep red, his favourite – across the table to him. "Now, tell us whatever it was that drove you to seek out our company."
"I cannot simply enjoy spending time with my favourite ladies-"
"Do stop, Garlan," Mother advises him, pouring tea for him from her little silver pot. "Did your father send you to us?"
"I come bearing information," he says, sniffing the tea and adding honey before even considering sipping it. "Uncle Garth has sent out scouts to search for the Lady Brienne – do you think, Lady Arya, that it is likely they will find her easily?"
"No," Sansa's sister says, and Garlan can see the same exasperation he and Willas always felt when Loras spoke out of turn making Sansa frown. "Because she's already on her way here – I sent Gendry to fetch her before I went to Sansa."
"She must know that my father intends to execute her for Lord Renly's murder," Garlan says thoughtfully, looking Lady Arya square in the eye. "Her loyalty to you is admirable."
"She swore a vow to our mother than she would see us safe," Lady Arya says, and there is a definite challenge in the way she leans forward over the table – Garlan wonders if she knows how to use that little sword she was wearing last night – but Sansa's hand on her arm seems to soothe her. "She is a good and honourable woman – better than most knights."
"Well that your goodbrother and I are lords, then," Garlan says mildly. "And that Brienne of Tarth is no ser, either. I imagine she will fit right in, here at Highgarden – we value knightly virtues above knightly vows, you see. They seem more useful, after all."
Mother very firmly sets a peach on his plate and he ducks his head, smiling just a little, and says no more.
Brienne of Tarth is the tallest woman Sansa has ever seen, and even through the dirt and filth on her face it is plain that she is not pretty, but she looks at Sansa with such astonishment that Sansa hardly notices her crooked teeth.
"This is my sister," Arya says, and Lady Brienne simply nods and bows at the waist like a man. "Sansa, this is Brienne."
"It is an honour, my lady," Sansa says, dipping a curtsy – not as deep as Lady Brienne's bow, of course, but deeper than she might otherwise have given to someone of Lady Brienne's rank, because the woman before her is the one who returned Arya to her – and smiling. "My sister speaks very highly of you. She says you knew our mother?"
And it is hard, so impossibly hard to speak of Mother with a smile on her face, and when Lady Brienne's face twists with grief Sansa can hardly force away the urge to slap her. Who is she to mourn their mother? What did she lose when Lady Catelyn Stark was slaughtered at the Twins?
But Sansa knows her courtesies, so her smile remains and she even goes as far as to offer her hands to Lady Brienne, who takes them and clasps them tight.
"You are her image, my lady," she says uncertainly. "She was a great lady. It was my honour to serve her."
The moment is ruined by Lord Mace's emergence from the castle, flanked by guardsmen and trailed not only by Garlan and Lady Alerie, but also by a slightly dazed looking Willas on his crutches.
"Arrest-"
"She didn't kill him!" Arya explodes, jumping in front of Lady Brienne and spreading her arms. "She is innocent-"
"Father, listen to reason," Garlan insists, stepping forward and standing beside Arya. "Why would Lady Brienne have sworn herself to Renly only to murder him? Why would she do so while Lady Stark was present as a witness? It makes no sense!"
"My mother would not have taken a vow of fealty from a murderer, my lord," Sansa offers, folding her hands together nervously. "She wouldn't, I swear it to you."
"I don't know that there was a shadow in Renly's pavilion," Garlan says firmly, holding out a hand when Lord Mace moves forward, "but I cannot see that Lady Brienne would raise a hand against him – you know it to be true, Father. Her devotion to him was equal even to Loras'."
Lord Mace hesitates just long enough for Garlan to turn and bow to Lady Brienne, motioning for her to follow him when he walks back towards the keep.
"You will be a guest here," he says, ignoring Lord Mace's protests and guiding Lady Brienne inside. "We have you to thank for Lady Arya's safe arrival, I am told?"
Sansa looks away from them only when Willas arrives at her side, biting his lip to keep from laughing and looking slightly less dazed but still very, very sleepy.
"You should not have risen," she says softly, reaching up to brush sleep-dust from his eyes, blushing when he leans into her hand.
"Garlan thought Father was going to be more difficult," he says, eyes drifting shut when she runs her hand back into his hair. "I was supposed to be reinforcements, if I could stay awake long enough."
"You should return to bed," she suggests. "Lady Alerie said-"
"That I'm soft for dreamwine?" he guesses, but instead of being annoyed as she thought he might be, he smiles and shakes his head. "I suppose I am, really. I rather think that this is as much the past month catching me up as the dreamwine, though – I'm just so tired, Sansa. Tired right through."
It's not until someone clears their throat – Lord Mace, as it turns out – that Sansa remembers that they are not alone. Arya is looking at them in a way that makes Sansa's cheeks flush hot, but Willas just smiles a little and shakes his head.
"Would you accompany me, my lady?" he asks, turning back for the doors. "I think it might be best that I have someone with me lest I fall asleep standing again-"
"Not just yet, my lad," Lord Mace says, and Sansa drops her hand from Willas' face, pursing her lips when he huffs in disapproval. "I'd like at least one of you boys with me when we meet this other companion of your goodsister's."
"Father, I'm only in my shirtsleeves," Willas protests. "At least have him brought before you inside somewhere – it's quite cool out, you know."
As if to emphasise his point, Willas shivers, and Lord Mace frowns before swinging off his light cloak and draping it around Willas' shoulders.
"There," he says, "now come along – I had Garth find the lad earlier, he's waiting for us."
Willas just about manages to keep his balance as he follows Father, is just about aware of Sansa to his right and Mother to his left and Lady Arya behind him, but he manages, and the cold is just sharp enough to clear his head somewhat.
"Are you liking Highgarden, Lady Arya?" he asks back over his shoulder, blinking rapidly when his vision spots as his balance shifts. "Have you need of anything?"
"It's very nice," she says, and there is a careful diplomacy in her tone that Willas thinks he recognises from the early days of his and Sansa's marriage, something he mislikes very much.
"We are at your disposal," he assures her. "Our hospitality is famed, and you are after all next to family, now-"
"I have everything I need," she says sharply, and Willas doesn't miss the way Sansa flinches at her sister's harsh tone. "I will let my sister know if I need anything else."
They go the rest of the way in silence, but Willas can see that Sansa is bothered by something – if she fears that her sister's sharpness offended him, she needn't worry, but he suspects it's more to do with this young man they're about to meet, who-
"Gods," Willas breathes after an awkwardly protracted silence. "It's uncanny."
"It is a he," Lady Alerie says sternly, "What did you say your name was, my boy?"
"I didn't," says Renly-but-not in an accent so rough Renly would have mocked it. "It's Gendry, though," he grumps, scuffing his worn boots on the flagstones under his feet. "Gendry Waters."
"You are speaking to the Lady of Highgarden," Father snaps. "Show her some respect, boy."
Comprehension dawns, and pity with it – given the late King Robert's reputation, how much Lady Arya's friend looks like Renly, and that name, he can only be a bastard. A royal bastard, true, but a bastard nonetheless, of no real account because he is unacknowledged, unclaimed. As far as Willas is aware, Robert Baratheon only ever claimed one bastard, the one he had by the foolish Florent woman, Delena, and that boy was raised at Storm's End.
"You have our sincerest thanks," Sansa says earnestly, stepping forward. "Arya is my sister, the only blood kin left to me – I owe you a great debt."
"Was just doing what was right," he grumbles, and Willas frowns slightly – who is he to speak to Sansa, the future Lady of Highgarden, in such a way? Sansa herself seems unperturbed, and Lady Arya is standing halfway between her sister and the bastard, as if her loyalties are torn – as if she expects Sansa to behave in a way she won't like, or as if she expects the bastard to harm Sansa, he's not sure which.
"Arya says that you were a smith's apprentice, in King's Landing – are you any good?"
"I apprenticed with Master Mott," the bastard says, standing up straight and proud. Willas is surprised by both – Tobho Mott is the finest smith in King's Landing, so Loras always said, and for a bastard boy to have been given an apprenticeship must be a mark of truly unusual skill. "I'm better than good."
Willas isn't sure he likes that arrogance, but he's unsurprised when Sansa suggests to Father that mayhaps a place can be found with their smith for the bastard, even less surprised when Father agrees – it's a neat solution, tidily rewards the bastard without having to actually interact with him to any great deal, and there is future gain for House Tyrell in having him there.
He is surprised by the way the bastard glances to Sansa's sister before accepting, just as Brienne of Tarth had looked worried while Garlan was leading her inside until Lady Arya nodded. There is something not quite right about the whole thing, and Willas intends on speaking to his goodsister to find out just what that is.
First, he thinks as he lets Father under one arm and Uncle Garth under the other when he loses his balance, he'll go back to bed. Maybe after a few more hours sleep, he'll be able to think straight and stand up at the same time.