She doesn't see Ser Loras until dinner the next day and there is no apology, no acknowledgement that yesterday he had walked out on her and left her to her tears. He acts instead as if nothing has happened and kisses her on the cheek as he always does at dinner, a gesture of affection that Sansa now realises has never been affectionate.

She's not sure how to look at Ser Loras now, if she should look at him differently or be repelled by his touch as she thinks she ought to be. She's of course heard rumours of such men, those perverse creatures who shun what the Gods intended. The Father was made for the Mother, Sansa has been taught, and the Warrior for the Maiden, and yet since father died, she's not sure what she knows anymore.

She remembers well though Theon teasing Robb when he declined his invitation to accompany him to the nearby brothel, a place whose existence Sansa is sure she would never have known of if Theon had not been her father's ward. He'd called Robb a pansy and other words Sansa wouldn't ever dare repeat, and they'd both laughed before rounding on Jon to tease him instead. She hadn't understood what Theon had meant and despite her protests that ladies ought not to know perhaps, Arya had asked the stable boy, beating him with a stick when he said that little girls ought not to ask such questions.

She sighs as she thinks back to how things used to be and tries not to think about what Theon would become, what he has done. And as she picks at the honeyed apples and glazed lamb in front of her, she does her best to not dwell on poor Bran and Rickon. Instead, she pictures Winterfell as it always was. She's half sure in fact, that if she were to go home, that Father would be standing in the yard, watching Robb and Bran with their wooden swords, merely smiling as mother searched frantically for Arya, hidden somewhere in the castle with Jon as he helped her avoid Septa Mordane.

She pushes all that to the back of her mind as the next course arrives and returns to studying Ser Loras, wondering if she ought to have seen what she now knows. She watches him both with the serving girls who bring the dishes and the squires who pour the wine and yet he seems uninterested in both, ignoring them entirely as he talks to Ser Garlan. She wonders then whether perhaps Ser Loras is as disgusted by himself as other men are, that he doesn't give in to such unnatural desires and does his best to be like other men. She imagines that is what the course of action the septons would advise and yet she supposes that she'll probably never know. She has been his wife for some time now and yet she thinks she doesn't know him any better than she did when he gave her that first red rose.

She can't resist then letting her eyes flick to his eldest brother, sitting quietly opposite from her. Willas, she thinks, is everything Ser Loras is not. He's kind and gentle, with a voice that's soft and yet not disinterested and courteous like his brother's is whenever he speaks to her. Sat at the table like this, Sansa can't even see his twisted leg and she wonders not for the first time if this is the reason Willas has not yet married, if ladies do not want such a crippled husband. She imagines with a little guilt that she too might have been one of those ladies once, and yet now when she looks at him, she sees only WIllas and thinks that when her father used to tell her that one day she would marry a high lord who would be gentle and good to her, that Willas was the sort of man he had in mind.

He stayed with her last night, as she'd asked, sitting with her until she fell asleep. He was there too in the morning, smiling down at her when she woke up, even though she could see that he was exhausted. He'd been very proper, staying in the chair and leaving before she got dressed and yet a part of Sansa wished he hadn't been. She longed for someone to hold her, to stroke her hair, make her forget that she's all alone here and that Ser Loras doesn't want her, that father, and Bran, and Rickon, and Arya are all dead and never coming back.

She goes back to her chambers that night as usual and yet tonight she doesn't undress for Ser Loras and climbs into bed without giving any hint that he should bed her. She's not sure if she imagines it but she's almost sure she sees relief in his eyes when he evidently realises that she merely wants to go to sleep tonight. He does hold her though, slipping his hands around her waist rather awkwardly and mumbling something in her ear that she doesn't quite catch. She thinks it's an apology, an incoherent and rather reluctant one, but an apology none the less.

She doesn't sleep that night. Instead, she sits up and watches her husband. He's beautiful as usual, even in slumber, but that's not what interests her tonight for she finds that when she blurs her eyes slightly and stares hard into the darkness, she can imagine that he's Willas beside her, his leg stretched out awkwardly under the covers and out of her view.

...

She is rather surprised when life seems to carry on as normal despite Willas' revelation. It is evident that Willas has not told Ser Loras that she is now aware of his lack of interest in women and yet she is grateful. She knows Ser Loras well enough to know that he is proud beyond belief, and she doesn't think he would take well to being talked about behind his back.

She wonders though whether she ought to speak more with Willas with it, if he would be willing to tell her more. A week passes though without him making any reference to what he has told her and Sansa thinks perhaps that he is more comfortable not speaking of it.

Instead, she speaks to him of anything and everything else and slowly the mornings that they spent together in the stables turn into afternoons too, and Sansa begins to wonder whether he too looks at her as she looks at him. He certainly doesn't look at her the way the hound did that night when the Blackwater burned and yet Sansa wonders perhaps whether Willas is not capable of looking at anyone like that, that the composed eldest Tyrell would never show such raw and terrifying desire as the hound did.

She is rather grateful for that. She is hopeful that neither he nor Ser Loras will ever find out about her shameful desires. Her mother is not here to teach her and yet she doesn't need anyone to tell her that a wife must be loyal to her husband, stand by his side no matter what he does or what he is.

She tries to remember that one morning, when she wakes to Ser Loras sitting at the foot of the bed and she imagines that he shall want to try for an heir despite the fact that both of them do not enjoy it. She is all prepared to turn over for him and yet she stills when she looks a little closer and sees that her husband is already fully dressed. He looks exhausted too and there's an expression on his face that she doesn't know what to make of. He frowns as she sits up and comes to sit beside her, unusually affectionate as he brushes the hair from her face.

"You should get dressed." He whispers and he takes her hand and guides her to her feet. Something's wrong, Sansa can feel it. Ser Loras has always been gentle enough when he touches her and yet this morning, he is treating her like a porcelain doll.

"What's going on?" She asks, pulling on the nearest dress she can find, and not caring for once which one she has chosen. "Is something wrong?" She knows it is wrong of her to ask such direct questions of her husband and yet she can't shake the dread in the pit of her stomach.

Ser Loras bites his lip but remains silent. He seems to deliberate for a long time but then he sighs, bending to kiss her head. "I'll be in the gardens if you need me."

He shuts the door behind him and yet it's evident he's not gone yet. She can hear whispers outside, hushed urgent whispers that do little to ease her fears. Her heart stops when she hears that one of the other voices is Willas'. Fearfully, she wonders if Ser Loras somehow knows that she cannot stop thinking about his brother, or worse that Willas knows.

She presses her ear to the door just as Arya used to do when Mother and Father would step outside to talk without them.

"I can't." Ser Loras is whispering. "I just can't. I don't know what to say Willas."

"And you think I do." Willas' voice sounds uncharacteristically shaky.

Another voice speaks then and Sansa relaxes when she realises it's Garlan, his low voice incomprehensible through the thick wooden door. She doesn't think that he would be here if Loras and Willas had somehow found her out. She thinks too that Ser Loras would sound angry rather than nervous.

She holds her breath as Loras speaks again, the thumping of her heart almost obscuring his words. "Obviously Garlan." He pauses and Sansa holds her breath. "But you're better with this sort of thing Willas. And she's fond of you, she trusts you." She begins to panic at what he's going to say next and yet when Loras does speak again, it's nothing to do with her. "You were always the one me and Margaery went to Willas."

There's a long pause and eventually she hears a muffled "Please?" and is rather confused as she doesn't think she's ever heard Ser Loras ask for something so.

There's a deep sigh then, followed by footsteps and the door beginning to creak open. She hurls herself across the room, wishing she'd sat nicely at her dressing table as she ought to have done, as any lady ought to have done. She's managed to sit down by the time the door opens and she can't help but smile when she sees that is indeed Willas who has come.

His face is as pained as Ser Loras' was though and now she knows that something is seriously wrong. Willas is always so reasonable, so calm. He wouldn't look so distressed without good reason. She just looks at him desperately as he comes to sit beside her, willing for him to tell her what is going on.

"Sansa," He says and she can see the effort behind every word. "I told you last week that your brother was marching north, going home." He pauses and he takes both of her hands in his as his voice breaks a little.

The next words that come out of his mouth make her blood freeze in her veins and she doesn't even feel Willas' hands clutching her or his arms holding her tight as what's left of her world collapses around her.