Sansa cannot decide whether she thinks the old farmhouse is very beautiful or very eerie. It stands in the middle of a wide expanse of field, a thin gravel path leading from wooden gate to wooden door. The sign on the gate; pale blue with amateurish curlicues of white lettering, announces the place as The Eagle's Flight: Quality Hospitality. Do enjoy your stay. Margaery wrinkles her nose at the obviously homemade sign ("What kind of B&B is this? It probably has rats,") and Garlan tells her to lighten up and think of it as part of the adventure.
The last one through the gate, Sansa closes it behind her and follows the others up the little path. Willas walks slowly; haltingly, and Sansa realises that his leg - which he injured playing sports when he was younger - must be giving him trouble.
"You alright?" she comes up beside him, the unabashed concern in her voice belying how easy she has grown around him already in the past few days. Still, he seems a little discomposed by her question, looking at her in narrow-eyed surprise.
His immediate answer is a short, reflexive "Fine," but after a moment, catching the look on her face - apologetic; resigned - he amends in a softer tone, "Don't worry about it."
Sansa gives him an unusually shrewd look; eyebrows raised slightly, lips pursed. "You're admitting there's something to worry about, then?"
This gives him pause. He huffs out a long, quiet sigh. "My leg's a bit stiff. That's all. Nothing to make a fuss about." This last is said not sharply but heavily; wearily, and Sansa, rather than feeling snubbed, feels sorry for him. Then she feels bad for feeling sorry for him - he'd hate that. She's contemplating what to say next when, thankfully, they reach the dark blue front door of The Eagle's Flight and Garlan, who is in front, reaches up to knock.
It is just beginning to be chilly and Sansa stuffs her hands into the pockets of her thin jacket while she waits. The waiting, though, does not go on for too long; within a few moments of Garlan's knock, the door swings open inwards to reveal a girl in jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, her bobbed hair gleaming darkly.
"Hi," she says in a brisk, bright tone that might or might not be affected, "I'm Mya. Are you here about a room? Or, um," she corrects herself, dark grey eyes travelling over the little group, "a few rooms?"
"Four, please," Margaery tells her, and Mya's face clouds. "One second," she says, before turning and disappearing into a wide hallway. "Lysa!" they hear her yelling, "We haven't got four rooms free, have we?"
"You know we haven't," a woman's irritable voice comes back, muffled, through the wall, "We've three rooms - some of them will have to share, or look somewhere else."
Margaery and Sansa exchange glances. "What a cow," says Renly under his breath.
A moment later, Mya re-emerges, looking put-upon. "I suppose you heard that," she says, dryly. "I don't know what you want to do - I wouldn't blame you for trying somewhere else."
"What sort of rooms are they?" Garlan asks after a moment, thoughtfully.
"Two single beds in each," Mya says promptly. Then, arching an eyebrow, "Not that we're stopping you from pushing them together."
Garlan seems satisfied with this. "Marge," he says, turning to his sister, "What do you and Sansa say to top-and-tailing? Then Willas can have the other bed in your room."
Margaery wrinkles her nose irritably. "Why us?"
"The rest of us are coupled up," Leonette reminds her, catching on, "It might be a bit awkward, don't you think?"
Predictably, Sansa feels her face flush, and she lets out a short, high-pitched giggle despite herself.
"All right, then," Mya, who has been watching this exchange with mild amusement, cuts in, "Why don't you all come inside? I'll show you the rooms and you can sort things out in the warmth instead of us all standing there in the doorway like idiots."
That gets a few half-hearted laughs, and then they troop inside - all seven of them - after Mya.
"I'm sure Lysa'll be with you in a bit," she says over her shoulder, leading them all upstairs, "Her son's sick, so she's seeing to him. That might be lucky for you, though, actually," she adds in an undertone, "She is a bit of a ratbag."
The farmhouse, it transpires, isn't the most welcoming of places. Its furnishings are dark, heavy pieces, but there is a sturdiness about them that speaks of warmth and security. Unpainted beams cross-hatch the low ceilings. The walls, grey stone also left unpainted for effect, do have a certain olde-worlde charm. Sort of. Maybe. If you squint.
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Their evening is spent in the room that is to be Garlan and Leonette's. It's a smallish, square room whose wide, high window overlooks a wooded area. There are, as Mya told them, two beds, as well as a small chest of drawers between them, and a little wicker chair beneath the window. Willas sits in this chair, which seems somewhat too small for his long, rather gangly limbs, whilst they all talk and drink cider, their chatter seeming to bounce off the thick, close walls. At one point, Lysa - who turns out to be a plump woman with dark reddish hair drawn back from her face so tightly that her pale eyes bulge a little - comes knocking at the door, demanding that they lower their voices because her son needs his sleep.
"It's only half past six!" says Loras incredulously, and rolls his eyes when Lysa gives him a sharp, quelling look.
But they do all try to be a little quieter after that.
Willas, for his part, mostly listens. Despite the dull, throbbing ache in his leg, he feels better in himself than he's done since this madcap sojourn began. Tonight, the animated nattering of the others is amusing rather than grating. Garlan tells more of his ridiculous anecdotes ("You're making that up!" Leonette insists at one point, between barely suppressed gales of laughter). Willas finds himself pulled into a spirited and awkwardly hilarious discussion about whether Mya fancies him (Margaery is convinced of it; Loras is convinced Marge is seeing things that aren't there).
"Back me up, Sansa," Margaery demands good-naturedly, jogging Sansa's elbow, "She was checking him out, wasn't she?"
Sansa, who, Willas notices suddenly, doesn't seem to be half as entertained by this topic of discussion as everyone else, fiddles with a strand of her hair and gazes determinedly down at the bottle of cider in her hand. "Oh, I don't know," she mumbles noncommittally, "Maybe…"
"You're no help!" Margaery sighs exaggeratedly. "Honestly. Willas, you should just ask her for her number. She obviously likes you. Mya, I mean. Not Sansa. Obviously."
Willas finds he has to stop himself from asking her why it's so obvious that Sansa wouldn't like him.