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Since the night they snuck away from the Red Keep into King’s Landing and said their vows before a begging brother in a dirty, tattered robe, Loras has liked to think of himself as Sansa Stark’s savior, as her Florian, as her knight in shining armor. The way she still looks at him sometimes, so adoring and grateful, makes it easy to forget the marriage was less a rescue than a political scheme, a way for Grandmother to assert some power over the lions by stealing their favorite pet. The less than benevolent motivations behind him saying vows to her instead of to the King as one of his new guards certainly weren’t lost on Sansa back then—the girl is smarter than she looks, and she knows exactly what she’s doing, Grandmother had assured him only moments before he took her as his bride. It seemed as long as he got her away from the Lannisters, she didn’t much care why he was marrying her.
It infuriated him at first, to be married off to a silly girl who had mooned over him shamelessly when she was still Prince Joffrey’s betrothed. She wasn’t witty or sensual or full of life like Renly had been; she was a lonely, abused creature who could barely muster the will to get out of bed in the mornings.
The wedding night had done little to soothe his frustration. It had been an awkward, tense affair. After nearly an hour of trying and failing to perform properly with her facing him, his bride had silently turned on to her belly and patiently waited for him to be done with it like Margaery had probably warned she’d have to do. The hopelessness of the action, the sheer, palpable misery radiating from her, made him feel like a monster. It wasn’t either of their faults, that they weren’t what the other wanted, but he resented her all the same. It should be Willas, he remembers thinking that night, maybe he could have loved the poor girl. It would have been Willas if their plot to spirit Sansa out of King’s Landing to Highgarden hadn’t been spoiled, forcing them to use the closer unmarried, Tyrell son instead.
It is strange to recall how he had wished it was his brother rather than him all those years ago, now that he has stumbled upon the pair of them—both so tall, and quiet, and lovely, and broken—in the stables wrapped in each others arms. Willas is seated, his mangled, scarred leg resting on a bale of hay. Sansa is on top of him, straddling his lap, the lattice of raised, white scars on her back shining in the dying afternoon sun. They are staring so intently into each other’s eyes, as Sansa moves up and down along the length of him, that they don’t even notice him standing mere steps away.
The sight is far more painful than he could have imagined, like a dagger to the gut, twisting and stabbing further inside him each time Sansa pants his brother’s name. It occurs to him that he has no right to feel so betrayed, that just days ago the pretty, new stable hand had sucked him off in the exact spot his brother is now fucking his wife. But the hypocrisy of his fury does little to quell it, and he can’t stand watching them any longer.
“What the hell are you doing?”
His wife yelps and promptly staggers off of his brother’s lap, leaving Willas’s swollen cock, still shiny and slick with Sansa’s juices, hanging pathetically against his thigh. Willas barely reacts at all, only stares at Loras for a long moment before reaching to the side to grab his tunic and drape it over his lap.
“Loras,” Sansa begins softly, blue eyes wide and panicked, like a wounded deer being approached by a hunter, “I can explain—”
“Did he seduce you?” Loras hisses, putting an early end to whatever ridiculous excuse Sansa is about to offer him. “What did he say to convince you to open your pretty little legs to him? What did he—?”
“I love her,” Willas snaps, rising from his seat with a grimace. “I didn’t bloody seduce her. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but we fell in love and—”
“She’s my wife!” Loras roars, his hand gripping instinctively to the pommel of his sword. “You have no right to touch her! You have no right to love her! You’re my fucking brother, Willas; what the hell were you thinking?”
His brother’s eyes narrow dangerously, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Sansa steps between them first. She looks nothing like his sweet, perfect wife at that moment, with her auburn hair tangled and coming free from its braid and only a flimsy shawl to cover her nakedness. “Please, Loras, don’t,” she begs. One of her trembling hands moves to touch his, but he swiftly swats it away. “Please, don’t fight with him. Go to your chambers, and I’ll be there in a moment to explain everything—”
Loras snorts. “Like I would just leave you two to—to finish whatever the hell this is,” he spits. “Get dressed and come with me, now.”
The demand makes her flinch, and he abruptly begins to feel some of his fury give way to guilt. In all their years together, he has never once shouted at her, never once handled her too roughly. He has prided himself in being a good and gentle husband to her, but he finds it impossible to lower his voice at that moment, as he is forced to watch the little world he has put together collapse around him.
When Sansa recovers from the shock of his harsh order, she obeys and starts to dress. Willas, on the other hand, makes no move to dress himself, just continues standing and glaring daggers at him, as if Loras is somehow the one in the wrong here. “Don’t you ever speak to her like that again,” Willas warns through clenched teeth. “Ever. Understand?”
“Willas, don’t,” Sansa whispers. “Please.”
If Sansa had not been there, Loras knows he would have lunged at Willas then, would have smashed his fist into his brother’s face mercilessly for daring to say such a thing after defiling his wife out in the open, in the fucking stables. “Don’t speak to me right now, Willas, not another fucking word,” Loras practically growls. “In fact, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll never speak to me again.”
“We—we didn’t think it would hurt you,” Sansa says gently, her hand hovering near his shoulder but not actually daring to touch him. “We didn’t think you’d care. Truly, Loras, we didn’t. You must know I would never want to hurt you. You’ve just—you’ve taken so many lovers, and I’ve never taken one, and we—we didn’t think you would care."
“Then why did you keep it a secret from me? If you didn’t think I’d care, why did you two keep it a secret?”
Sansa bites her lip and pauses for a moment, shifting her weight nervously between her feet. “Loras, I love you. I love you so much, and you know it. You are my closest and dearest friend in the world, but… but… Please don’t be cross with Willas. He cares for you so deeply. We didn’t mean to fall in love; I swear it. And we never would have acted on it if we knew it would hurt you so and—”
“Then why did you keep it a secret?” he asks again, finally looking up to meet her eyes. “Answer the question, Sansa.”
Though he can see her mind searching desperately for an answer, it seems she can’t find one, so he politely asks her to leave his chambers and allow him time to think. Almost immediately after she dutifully departs, he recognizes the decision as a poor one. Loras has never liked being left alone with his thoughts, especially with ones as dark as these. Whenever his mind turns to Renly, of the day he saw his love’s lifeless body, Sansa is the one he goes to. Without fail, she always lets him rest his head in her lap, runs her fingers through his curls, and sings to him until the darkness recedes. But he can’t go to her now, not with this, can’t ask her to sing to him until the world no longer seems so bleak.
He begins to pace in front of the fireplace, trying to remain calm and see things as Willas and Sansa must see them, trying to convince himself that perhaps they really didn’t think he would care about their affair. It is not such a farfetched notion, he grudgingly admits, because even he isn’t quite sure why he is reacting so strongly to seeing them together.
There’s never been any sort of passion between him and Sansa. While they do their duty as husband and wife often enough, it is only for the sake of having children and always with the candles blown out and her turned on to her belly with her long hair tucked in front of her. Occasionally, he lets himself imagine she’s Renly come back to him. It’s not fair to her, but sometimes it is the only way he can finish. Those lustless nights in her chambers have given them their children, their brave Edwyn and sweet Jonquil and rebellious Lyanna, but never pleasure. Loras finds his pleasure elsewhere, in stable boys and visiting knights. Perhaps it is because he has grown so happy, so comfortable in his marriage that it never occurred to him that Sansa might think to seek the same pleasure herself.
He has come to love his wife in his own way, and maybe that is why this discovery hurts so badly. The young, abused girl he married was a rose that had finally been allowed to bloom when she arrived in Highgarden. Even if her waves of copper hair, swan-like neck, and lithe, feminine figure aroused no ardor in him, he could still recognize its beauty, like one can admire a remarkable piece of artwork or a glorious sunset when the vivid oranges and purples and reds of the sky melt together just right. He knows how stunning they look standing next to each other—him in his gleaming, jeweled armor and her swathed in brilliant greens and golds and flowers braided in her hair. He has come to love the way people stare at them, with envy and admiration and thinly concealed worship. The whispers of his sexual proclivities have died down considerably since he married Sansa. They still exist, but it seems the men and women of the Reach are determined to ignore them in favor of believing there is true love between the gallant Ser Loras and his lovely lady wife.
He loves her for far more than that though. His wife’s heart is perhaps even more beautiful than her face. She didn’t shy away from him the first time he confided in her about Renly, didn’t call him perverse or a deviant, only listened and sighed that they must have truly loved each other. Within months of her arrival, she had not only won him over but nearly the entirety of Highgarden along with him with her sweet words and comforting smiles. Grandmother had once only half-japed that the servants were so devoted to Sansa, she could inspire a mutiny in their own castle if she ever had the mind to.
He can’t deny it gives him great pleasure to be married to a striking, courteous Lady the women of the castle wished they could be and the men wished they could be with. It gives him great pleasure to be married to a woman he considers one of his most trusted companions. It gives him great pleasure to be married to a woman he truly admires. And what his marriage is lacking he finds behind closed doors.
Am I that selfish? How could he have not seen this coming? He craves the moments of physical intimacy he experiences with his lovers, craves their touches and the way their eyes darken when they look upon his naked form. He has never looked at Sansa like that, like Willas had been looking at her in stables, and he knows he never will. It is that realization that suddenly makes him feel less like Sansa Stark’s savior and more her jailor, more a self-centered bastard keeping her from happiness.
He wonders if he should apologize to them and offer to turn a blind eye to the affair, but the thought of them fucking right under his nose makes him feels sick. He wishes Margaery were here to tell him the right thing to do, to assure he isn’t a complete monster for wanting to keep Sansa and Willas apart.
When night falls, he reluctantly pulls himself out of bed and readies for dinner. Mother will worry if he keeps to his chambers as he wants to, and he has no desire to awaken any suspicions in the others that something might be wrong. Part of him also wants to see Sansa, to offer her a look across the table that communicates that he doesn’t hate her, to ease some of the dread that had been written all over her face when she left his chambers. After carefully considering the affair, after seeing the two of them together over and over again his mind, he has concluded Sansa is not the one he is angry with.
Just as he’s about to leave, a knock comes at the door. It is custom that Sansa stop by his chambers on her to way to dinner so they can walk together. That she would still cling to the tradition makes him smile despite what has happened.
When he opens the door to find Willas standing there instead, the smile instantly vanishes. “What are you doing here?” he drones, trying not to betray the chaos of emotions stirring inside of him. “I believe I warned you—”
“To never speak to you again, yes,” Willas sighs. “That isn’t an option. We are brothers, Loras. We need to discuss what you saw—”
“No, I don’t think we do,” Loras interrupts, turning his back on Willas to stand by the fire again. “I believe I saw quite enough of it.”
“Sansa is a wreck. She thinks you hate her.”
That makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he wishes he had been kinder to her earlier, that he hadn’t allowed himself to be so overcome by what he walked in on. She has always been so understanding of his desires and his struggles in their bed, and he owes her the same. “She’s not the one I’m angry with.”
“But you’re angry with me.” Loras doesn’t answer, just keeps defiantly staring into the flames until he hears Willas sigh and shut the door the behind him. “I came here to explain, but I don’t think you’re going to listen to a word I say. You never listen when you’re angry. You just shut down and lash out.”
The tone of his voice makes Loras’s jaw clench. How dare Willas speak to him like a father dealing with a petulant child. “What is there to explain?” Loras asks, turning to glower at him. “You were always jealous of me, jealous that you could never be a knight like me. You have Father’s title and Highgarden, but it isn’t enough, is it? No, you had to take my wife because you can’t stand that Father favors me, you—”
“If you really think that’s why I was with Sansa, that it’s some way to get back at you, then you’re a far greater idiot than I have ever imagined,” Willas cuts in. “I know you like to believe you are the center of the world, Loras, but this has nothing to do with you.”
The response stings, and for the second time that day he consider pummeling Willas. He might be the older brother, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against Loras in a fight. “She’s my wife. How could this have nothing to do with me?”
“She needs more than you give her,” Willas says, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not your fault, Loras, but she needs more. We tried to ignore it at first, the attraction between us. But—but we love all the same things, and we kept seeing each other… At the library, in the gardens, in the kennels… I’ve envied you since the moment I saw her, wanted her since the moment I saw her, but I didn’t realize I was in love with her until it was too late.”
“You’ve been angry with me for a while,” Loras states, finally putting the pieces together. Willas has been acting strangely around him for months, avoiding his eyes and snapping over little things that never annoyed him the past.
Willas bites the corner of his lip and nods. “I know it isn’t fair. I know I should be grateful you agreed to marry her and get her away from that place. But she’s extraordinary, and every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that it should be me, that she should be the Lady of Highgarden instead—instead of some silly knight’s wife who can never love her the way she deserves to be loved.”
It hurts more than he cares to admit that the brother he admires so much sees him as only a silly knight, and he can’t help but lash out just as Willas said he would. “You would resign her to a life married to a cripple instead then?” he sneers. “Is that the great fate you imagine for her? Helping you out of bed in the mornings?”
Willas flinches, as if Loras has just struck him, and glances briefly down at his ruined knee. “No, no, it isn’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Perhaps, she deserves better than either of us, little brother.”
“I’ve given her everything.”
“Everything you can give her, but it’s not enough, Loras. You must know that. You feel the same way about her; that’s why you turn to those other men.”
He does know that. Deep down, he’s always known that someday Sansa’s desire for more than he has to offer would pull her away from him. He just never imagined it would pull her into his brother’s arms.
Again, he can’t quite figure out why he is so angry with Willas. He and Margaery and Garlan have always gone to their calm, levelheaded brother to fix their foolhardy mistakes. While they were running around getting into fights, and sleeping with kings, and playing the game of thrones, Willas was ruling Highgarden and trying to repair all the damage they left in their wake. He owes his brother and ought to forgive this one indiscretion. He wants Willas to find some happiness, he truly does, just not with Sansa Stark.
After two days of carefully avoiding his wife and brother, after two days of his mother asking him a hundred times if he was sure nothing was wrong, Loras finally decides what he is going to do. It is a cowardly decision, a temporary mend, a flimsy bandage on a deep wound that will only stymie the blood flow rather than heal, but it is all he can come up with.
When Sansa opens the door to her chambers, she greets him with a smile, quickly taking his hand, ushering him in, and asking if she can pour him some tea. He waves off the tea and dismisses her ladies, saying they must speak alone. Only a splash of tea on to the table gives away her nerves. Her back is still straight as steel, her face serene, and her lips spread out in a smile. It’s an impressive skill his wife possesses, to change her face and hide her emotions, a skill that he has never possessed himself.
“How are you?” she asks, as she eases into the chair across from him. “I’ve—I’ve missed you these last few days.”
“I’ve missed you too, Sansa,” he says, gently placing his hand over hers. “And I want you to know that I’m not cross with you. But I’ve been thinking a lot, and I think—I think it’s about time you went home.”
He notices her tense slightly. “But this is my home.”
“Of course it is, and it always will be,” he assures her. “You are always welcome back, any time you wish it. But I think you should go see your other home. It’s been years since you last saw Winterfell, and it must be nearly rebuilt by now. Wouldn’t you like to see it? And your brother writes you practically every day; I’m sure he would be pleased to be able to seek your council in person for a while.”
It is a cruel suggestion masked as a kindness. She must know what it means, that he’s purposefully moving her away from Willas, but he knows the chance to see Winterfell again will be too tempting for her to resist or challenge him on. “That is—that is kind of you, my lord,” she manages. “It would be nice to see Winterfell again.”
My lord. She hasn’t called him my lord in private in years and that prompts him to add, “Please don’t think I’m sending you away, I just—”
“I understand,” she interjects. “I do. There’s no need to explain.”
“While you’re there, you—you—” he falters, unsure of how to say this without sounding crass or ridiculous, “Maybe you should take a lover.” Anyone who is not my brother. He wants her to be happy, to find someone who makes her feel what she needs to feel, but he also wants her to forget about Willas, and this is the only way he can think of.
To her credit, Sansa barely blinks at the suggestion. “Is that what you want?"
“I want you to be happy.”
She nods and takes a dainty sip of her tea. That is another thing he loves about his wife, how elegant and effortless her every movement is, even when she is distressed. “And what about the children?”
“It would not do well for them to be away from their mother for so long,” Loras answers, though the thought of being parted from them for so long is a painful one. “And they should finally meet your family.”
“And will you be joining us, my lord?”
“No, I will stay here, in Highgarden.”
“Then I will miss you very much, and I’m sure the children will as well,” she says, abruptly rising from her seat. “I think it’s about time for bed now, don’t you?”
It is barely past seven in the evening, but he knows she is only trying to offer him a graceful exit from this awkward conversation, so he takes it. “Yes, I believe so.” He stands and moves toward her door. When his hand rests on the knob, he pauses and turns back to her. “I would never want to do anything to hurt you, Sansa.” There are tears in his eyes, tears he tries his best to hold back.
Sansa reaches forward and tucks a stray curl behind his ear. “I know.”
“This will be good, I think. For everyone.”
“Perhaps.”
He presses a kiss to her forehead and leaves. He makes it only halfway done the hall before the tears start to fall and he has to stop to lean against the wall and breathe. As he tries to catch his breath, he hears Sansa’s door creak open. For a moment, he thinks she has heard him and has emerged to comfort him, to tell him everything will be okay. But then she turns and walks the other way, toward his brother’s chambers.
Highgarden isn’t the same without Lady Sansa Tyrell. The flowers seem less vibrant, the air less sweet, and the people duller. All of the roses in his wife’s garden have wilted, as if in mourning for their caretaker.
Every morning he breaks his fast without Sansa smiling at him from across the table, he feels the loss of her. Every time he spars in the training yard without Sansa cheering and applauding whenever he lands a strike, he feels the loss of her. And every time he catches Willas staring blankly at Sansa’s wilted roses, he feels like crying.
Letters arrive from her almost weekly. They talk of what a magnificent job her brother has done rebuilding Winterfell. They talk of how splendidly Edwyn and Jonquil get along with Jon’s son Brandon. They talk of how young Lyanna has especially taken to the North and how she follows her Aunt Arya around everywhere. They are always addressed to him. If she ever sends any to Willas, his brother has found some way to hide them.
One day, the letters also begin to talk of a man named Harrion Karstark.
Harrion and Alys Karstark have come to visit. They are Jon’s dear friends and advisors. I have grown especially close to Harrion, or Harry, as he prefers to be called. He has taken to joining me on my long walks around the castle grounds, humoring my silly quest to see every corner of it before I leave. He has suggested I accompany him to Karhold for a time when he returns there in a few moons. It has been over a year since his wife died, and he believes the castle could benefit from my eye for beauty.
The true meaning of her words is clear to him. His wife has finally taken a Northern lover like he suggested, a man named Harrion Karstark. He has never heard of him, but he finds himself picturing a strong man, tall and muscular, with a head of dark hair and those solemn, gray so many from the North seem to have. Even though he is a broad man, Loras imagines he’s gentle with Sansa, that he always asks before he kisses her and worships every inch of her alabaster skin when he makes love to her in her chambers at night.
There is a twinge of jealousy, but mostly he finds the news comforting. He likes to picture her smiling and happy with her family and Northern lover. His brother, on the other hand, does not react so well.
When he reads the letter out loud during tea, his mother smiles and his father only pretends to listen, but Willas rises clumsily from his seat, knocking over a glass of water in the process, and storms from the room without a word. He tries to convince himself it was only a trick of the light, but he knows there were tears in his brother’s eyes.
Not for the first time since he discovered Willas and Sansa entwined together, he feels like a monster. Like a monster so bitter over losing his own great love that he now seeks to destroy that of others. That night he writes back to Sansa to tell her whenever she is ready to return home, she will be welcomed with open arms. He knows she will understand what he really means. I’ve made a mistake. Come home.
Part of him had expected Sansa to return home immediately after receiving his letter, but she remains in the North. In that time, his brother grows increasingly petulant and sullen, avoiding him and Mother, snapping at the servants he once treated so kindly, and taking so much wine with his dinner he can hardly make it back to his chambers on his own half the time.
Mother is distraught over the change in her eldest son, Margaery sends him concerned letters every other day, and even Father starts to worry. Eventually, Garlan visits from Brightwater Keep at Mother’s request. Garlan had always been closest to Willas, and they hope some time with him is all Willas needs, but his presence does little to cheer him.
As Willas falls apart, Loras realizes how much they’ve all come to depend on him being the responsible one, the quiet, patient academic who seems to have an answer to every problem. When he is finally the one who needs them, none of them have any bloody idea what to do. They all just watch on helplessly, as he drinks and scowls and sleeps with half the kitchen girls.
Garlan sits with him in the evenings, Margaery writes him sweet letters, Mother has the kitchens make his favorite meals, and Father pesters him less often than usual. Loras knows he ought to do something as well, say something to help bring the light back into his brother’s eyes, but every time he finds himself walking toward Willas’s chambers, his fear stops him from knocking on the door.
I’m sorry, he wants to say. I just wanted it all to go away. I’ve told her to come home, but she won’t, and I don’t know why. I’m sorry.
It is when they bump into each other in the gardens, both of them there to try to bring Sansa’s roses back to life, that they are finally forced to speak.
“It’s a shame,” Loras offers, nodding to the roses. “They were so lovely.”
“I helped her create them,” Willas says, eyes fixated on the dying flowers. “We harvested the seeds of her favorite blooms and planted them together until we got it just right. I’ve never seen a brighter smile on her face than when these finally bloomed. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t want her to come back and see them like this.”
His brother’s eyes look glassy, and Loras prays he won’t start crying. He isn’t sure if he could handle it. “You’re the one with the green thumb. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
Willas nods and plucks one of the wilted petals free, rolling it between this thumb and forefinger. “Why did you send her away? Why did you have to send her away?” His voice is flat when he asks the question, lifeless.
Loras wishes he had a good answer. “She wanted to see her family.”
Willas’s fist clenches around the petal. “You mean you wanted to separate us.”
She’s my wife, he wants to scream. It doesn’t seem right that a man who slept with his wife can make him feel like such an awful person. “I needed time to consider what I saw, and I couldn’t stand the thought of you two together.”
“You couldn’t stand the thought of me stealing your favorite trinket,” Willas snaps, his voice angrier than Loras has ever heard it. “You never liked sharing as a boy either. Everything was yours; everything was always all about you. It should have been me that married her. I would have treated her—”
“Well, you didn’t marry her because you weren’t there!” Loras shouts, not caring if anyone hears them. “I was there! I took her from the Lannisters and brought her here. And she is more than a trinket to me. She is the mother of my children. She is my most valued friend in the world aside from Margaery. And I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“You didn’t want me to take that away from you,” Willas sighs. “I’m being unfair. I know I am. I’m sorry, Loras. I should have told you from the beginning. Would it have been different if I told you?”
Loras shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Do you—do you think she loves Harry Karstark?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she’ll ever come home?”
Finally, a question Loras knows he can answer. “Yes, she will. I know she will.”
Two moons later, six moons since Sansa left, Margaery leaves her new home in the Westerlands with her young, bastard husband and visits Highgarden. She claims she has come because she missed the castle and her family, but Loras knows Mother pleaded with her to come and get to the bottom of everything, to find out why Willas is miserable, and why Sansa hasn’t come home yet, and why Willas and Loras can’t look each other in the eye.
She asks him to walk with her after dinner. They stroll through the gardens with their backs straight and her arm linked with his, just as they used to walk as children, pretending they were a gallant knight and a beloved princess. “How are you feeling?” she asks, resting her head against his shoulder. “Mother worries over Willas in every letter. Apparently, she hasn’t caught on to just how miserable you are yet.”
He doesn’t blame her for not noticing; she has been too worried about Willas fucking kitchen girls and brooding in dark rooms to notice the ways he has changed as well. “It’s a good thing. It’s not something I much want to talk about with her.”
“But you’ll talk to me, right? You were bound to find out about Willas and Sansa eventually. I told him as much.”
The statement doesn’t surprise him as much as maybe it should. All this time, he thought the affair was a tense secret between the three of them—him, Sansa, and Willas—but it seems Margaery has known all along. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was for me to tell. And they’re both such martyrs for duty and honor, those two, nothing like us… I never thought they’d actually act on it. They really ought to have told you about it. Sansa regrets not being honest.”
“You talk to her about this then?”
“I talk to her about everything. She’s like a sister to me, and I’d hate for this to take her out of my life.”
“As would I.”
Margaery sighs and stops to wrap her arms around him. “I understand why you’re jealous. You’re worried Willas will replace you in Sansa’s life, that she will love him more than you because he can give her something you can’t. But nothing will change the fact that you saved her, Loras. Nothing will change the fact that you were good to her, that you were kind to her at a time when she worried kindness no longer existed.”
“I know that, I just—”
“Willas is jealous of you too, you know. He wishes he could have been the one to come to the rescue. He wishes he looked like a handsome knight straight out of a song as you do. I wish you could both see you’re looking at the situation all wrong. You love her both in different ways and she loves you both in different ways, and you and Willas love each other. In a world full of so much hate, why is it a bad thing to have so much love?”
Loras sniffs back a sob and buries his face in Margaery’s soft curls. “I worry they both despise me for what I did.”
“Then you’re a bloody fool.”
Sansa returns to the Reach with their children and a new, eccentric young lady companion named Wylla Manderly a week before Margaery is set to depart. Even before he sees her, just knowing she has returned fills him with joy. And when she rides through the castle gates he feels his breath catch. She looks magnificent with her copper locks loosely streaming around her in the Northern fashion. In a blue dress slashed with gray lace she looks like a true winter rose amongst the reds and greens and golds of Highgarden.
She greets them all in turn—hugging Mother, Father and Garlan, kissing Margaery on both cheeks, touching Willas cautiously on the arm. She arrives at him last, and the smile she gives, so blissful and lovely, makes his heart skip. She touches her lips chastely to his, and he hears the welcome crowd gathered around them collectively gasp and begin to whisper. Nothing has changed; the people still love the beautiful picture of him and Sansa together, they still want to be them, they still envy them.
The thought arouses him and leaves him hard in his breeches. For the first time in their marriage, he thinks he might be able to give Sansa what she needs, so he whispers in her ear, “May I visit your chambers tonight, my lady?”
“You are always welcome in my chambers, my lord.”
His hopes are proven foolish nearly the moment he steps inside her room. Now that the spectators are gone, and they are just Sansa and Loras again, his former arousal fades away. All he can see are soft curves and delicate hands and pouted, pink lips. They make for a lovely sight, but he has no desire to touch any of them, not in the way he had run his hands over Ser Alyn’s hard chest and stiff cock just days earlier.
It is the idea of her I want. It is the idea of us that made me react that way. The realization rapidly diminishes his gladness over her return. Their time apart, the time he’s kept her away from Willas, has changed nothing at all.
Sansa must be able to see the resignation on his face, because she frowns and cups his cheeks. “You want them to think you want me,” she whispers. “But I accepted a long time ago you never would. It is time for you to do the same.”
“I want to. I want this to be real.”
“It is real, in its own way. But it is not in your nature to want me that way, and that’s fine. It doesn’t change a thing. Gods, I’ve missed you, Loras.”
She wraps her arms around him them, and he returns the embrace. They press so closely together it is almost as if they are one person. He has no idea what kind of relationship it is that he and Sansa share. It is not one of a husband and wife but neither is it one of a brother and sister. It is somehow more than that, it is something special, and he wishes he could put in to words just how much it means to him.
“I’m so sorry I sent you away,” he cries into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
She kisses his collarbone and gently strokes his back. “It was good. It was good to see Arya and Jon, to meet their children. And Rickon, he was so happy to see me. I’ve missed so much of his childhood, and it was—it was good that I went.”
“Willas has been a mess since you left.”
Her body tenses, and she slowly withdraws from his arms. “He doesn’t look well.”
“I read your letters out loud,” he confesses. “I should’ve left out—I shouldn’t have read the part about Harry Karstark, but I—I didn’t want you two to… I’m sorry, Sansa.”
“Margaery is very worried about you two. She says you’ve hardly spoken since I left.”
“And how would she know?”
Sansa smiles weakly. “We both know she has her ways.”
“I’ve wanted to talk to him,” Loras tells her. “But every time I try I lose the nerve. We spoke once, and it didn’t go very well. I’m afraid he hates me.” A new wave of tears crashes over him then, and he finds himself wishing he could be as strong as she always seems to be.
“Oh, Loras, come here,” she says, as she takes a seat on the sofa in front of the windows and pats her leg. Just as he used to, he rests his head on her lap, and she runs her fingers through his curls. “He could never hate you. You’re his little brother; you mean so much to him. Did you ever think that maybe he worries you hate him?”
“No,” he mumbles. “I didn’t.”
“We’ll fix things in the morning,” she sighs. “But for now, I just want to enjoy you. Aren’t the stars lovely tonight?”
Loras smiles and looks out the windows at the twinkling lights blanketing the night sky. “My nurse as a boy told me that after a pure soul passes away, the Mother makes him or her into a star, to look over the rest of us. After—after Renly died, I used to look at the stars and imagine he was one of them. Silly, wasn’t it?”
Sansa doesn’t answer right away. Eventually, she stops stroking his hair and rests her hand against his cheek. “I think that’s beautiful, Loras. Maybe my father and mother and Robb are up there with him.”
“Yes, maybe. I’d like to think so. I wish I could have met them all.”
“They would have loved you, for what you did for me. Do you think Renly would have liked me? I only spoke to him a handful of times, but he seemed lovely and so full of life. I remember he told the funniest japes.”
“He would have adored you,” he answers honestly, “For understanding.”
“How did you fall in love? When—when did you know you loved Renly? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You can ask me anything you’d like Sansa.” He’s surprised he’s never confided in her about that night. But when he married Sansa the wound had still been too fresh to talk much about Renly, sometimes he thinks it’s still too fresh even now. “We—we had already been together a few times. It was all so exciting, to find someone who felt like me, and for it to someone as wonderful as Renly. But I worried he only saw me as a silly boy, something pretty he could play with and then put aside when he felt like it, so I forced myself not to get carried away with it all. But then one night he asked me to accompany him to the top of the cliffs that surround parts of Storm’s End. I thought—I thought it was just an excuse to have me again, but all he did was hold me. He held me and we looked up at the stars and he told me about losing his parents and how lonely he had felt until we met. And, gods, I was so lonely before I met him too, and I—I knew I loved him that night, that I would always love him.”
“How wonderful,” Sansa says. Her voice wavers, and even though he can’t see her face, he knows she’s crying. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. Few experience such love in their lives.” He takes a deep breath and prepares himself to ask a question he has been terrified to ask her. “When did you know you were in love with Willas?”
Sansa inhales sharply. “Loras, I—I’m not sure you’d want to hear that story.”
“Please, Sansa, it’s okay. I want to know.”
She takes another couple of deep breaths until she finally begins. “It was about three moons after we came to Highgarden. I used to have so many nightmares back then. I used to dream that the Lannisters would show up to take me back, to kill me like they killed the rest of my family. I used to—I used to see Theon Greyjoy laughing over Bran and Rickon’s bodies. The night before, I had had such a terrible nightmare, and all I wanted was to be alone, so I could mourn and cry and rage without having to worry about appearing strong and composed. I went to this little piece of land where no one goes, where those big oak trees grow, and I cried and cried and cried. Willas—Willas found me there, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t tell me to stop, or to be strong, or that it was all going to be okay. But he had this puppy in his arms, a sweet little thing with gray fur and pointed ears, and he placed her in my arms. And, gods, I had been sobbing only minutes earlier, but when that creature licked my cheek, I couldn’t stop smiling. And he just sat there with me, not saying a word, but somehow I knew he understood, and that’s—I suppose that’s when I knew I was in love with him.”
“You loved him for nearly five years before anything happened between you?”
“We—we didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You two are so bloody honorable,” he laughs quietly, though it hurts to realize just how long Sansa and Willas have loved each other, just how long he’s kept them apart. “I wish you would’ve just told me.”
“So do I, every day.”
At Sansa’s urging, he calls on Willas the next day, just before lunch. When he enters the solar, he isn’t surprised to find Willas frowning and gripping his cane, as if preparing for a fight. “Loras, if you’ve come to warn me—”
“I’ve come to make peace,” he says, holding up his hands. I promise.”
Though Willas doesn’t seem to entirely believe him, he does relax his grip on the cane and motions for Loras to sit down. “Did Sansa ask you to? What did she say? Have you—have you told her how I’ve been behaving? I—”
“She won’t blame you,” Loras says. “She’s more forgiving than either of us deserve.”
Willas nods and pours tea into the cup in front of Loras. “I asked her once, how she could still be so kind after what she's seen. She told me she once spent too much time with too much rage inside her, and that it made her unhappy, so she chose forgiveness instead.”
“That sounds like Sansa," he sighs. "Willas, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“When did you know you loved Sansa?”
The edges of his lips turn up briefly, threatening a smile, but he quickly suppresses it. “Do you want to know how long we were lying to you?”
“No,” Loras says. “There’s no ill will behind my question. I just want to know.”
Willas takes a deep breath before he answers, just as Sansa had. “It was about three moons after she arrived. It was a lovely day, sunny but not too hot, and the flowers were all in bloom. But she was lovelier than all of it, or would have been had she not looked so bloody sad. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and I know she was hoping no one would notice. Her sadness got to me, ate at me, and I thought if I could just make her smile then everything would be okay, if only I could make her smile. And I remembered something Margaery told me once, that Joffrey used to brag about having Sansa’s pet direwolf killed on the way to King’s Landing and how depressed she had been. Rosie had just had a new litter of puppies, and there was this runt, a sweet, timid creature with gray fur instead of black like her siblings, and I thought maybe she could make Sansa smile. I took the pup, and I found Sansa hiding behind the old oak trees, where I knew she always went when she was sad. Part of me was worried she’d send me away, but when I put the pup in her arms, gods, Loras, the smile on her face was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. And—and that’s when I knew I loved her.”
There are tears streaming down his face by the time Willas finishes his story. He wonders if anyone had ever asked Renly when he fell in love with him. He wonders if Renly would have told the same story, about their night under the stars. “I’m so sorry, Willas. If you want to be together, I won’t keep you apart. Never again.”
“Father thinks I should finally take up my seat at Southshield,” Loras tells his wife over breakfast. The Greyjoys killed all the Serrys during the war, and Willas granted him the seat, so he would not be the only Tyrell son left without a title. A castellan has been running the household for years, and Loras has seen the castle only once, but suddenly he thinks he might not mind having his own castle.
“I think he’s right. The people of Southshield should finally meet their Liege Lord.”
“And what about their Lady?”
“Well, they should meet me as well. I will over any of them not completely enamored with you,” she chuckles, winking at him.
“I’m sure you will. But you can stay here, in Highgarden, if you’d prefer.”
Her eyebrows furrow, as if the idea of staying behind is unthinkable. “You’re my husband, Loras.”
“I know, but—but you could finally be with Willas, really be with him, without me around. The people would whisper even more than they already do, but I don’t care. They’ve always whispered about me.”
“And who would the children stay with?” she challenges, shaking her head. “No, leaving you is not an option.”
“I don’t want to pull you two apart again. I promised him I wouldn’t.”
“Then we’ll just have to find a way.”
They move to the Southshield eight moons later, just before Sansa is due to give birth to their fourth child. The squalling babe is not his; he knows it even before the child’s eyes flutter open to reveal a pair of honey brown orbs just like his brother’s.
“Willas has always admired our Uncle Baelor fiercely,” he says, as he takes the child into his arms and rocks him gently. “I know you favor Northern names, but Baelor is nice, don’t you think? He looks like a Baelor.”
Exhausted and covered in sweat, Sansa still manages to smile at him. “Baelor is a lovely name,” she agrees, and after a moment adds, “Thank you, Loras.”
When Sansa is well enough to travel again, they reach an arrangement of sorts. Both he and Sansa visit Highgarden once a year, at different times of the year. During his days there, he and Willas slowly begin to repair their relationship, to build it back up to what it once was. It is good to see his brother smiling again, to see him relying on his cane less and the color coming back to his cheeks.
Sansa is happier now too, always singing to the children and asking him to dance with her at every feast. The people of the Reach whisper about the three of them, especially after Willas names Loras’s second son, Baelor Tyrell, as his heir.
The rumors bother him at first. They tarnish the beautiful picture he and his wife make, but when he meets a young knight with a kind heart and an easy smile, he knows love will always be more important to him, even if it doesn’t come in the form others think it should.
The night Sansa returns home from her latest visit, with a grin on her face and streaks of gold in her lovely hair, the six of them, their beautiful little family, crowd into bed together. The children fall asleep quickly, leaving the pair of them to look up at the stars together. He reaches over his sleeping son and grasps her hand in his.
“You know, Margaery once asked me why it was such a bad thing that we all loved each other so much, you and me and Willas. She said in a world full of so much hate, how could it be a bad thing to love so much?”
Sansa squeezes his hand and laughs. “I’ve always thought your sister a wise woman.”
“Yes, in her own way,” he chuckles, before growing serious. “Are you happy, Sansa? I’ve wanted so badly to make you happy.”
Sansa props herself up on her elbows and leans across Edwyn to kiss him on the cheek. “When we married, I thought I would never be happy again. But when I came to Highgarden I found a family, a family that took me in and helped me take back my first home. And I found the closest friend I have ever had.”
“You gave me the same thing, you know.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s a lovely story, isn’t it? How we rescued each other.”