Her comment makes him choke – throat tightening – as hearing her say it back to him only makes him realise how uncouth that sounded. Back of his hand swipes at his stubbled chin, before smoothing out the wrinkles of his doublet. ❝ I didn’t – I mean – ❞ Wyllas breathes, loudly, still clearing his throat. ❝ I would never, my lady! ❞ There was a deep flush of red now on his face, embarrassment obvious. He was a fool. Sansa was infinitely more confident than he could ever be, as he still awkwardly wound his way through the trials of being a lord, and soon, a husband. Wyllas still childishly shrinks under her gaze, back pressing into the chair, as he struggles to look her in her eyes. ❝ I would hope that you and I would be nothing if not respectful of another, like your parents. I remember Lord Stark, for all the years he had been with Lady Stark, was still so fond of her… I could only hope the same for us. ❞ The memory hits a little differently now, after Lord Stark’s passing; Wyllas was always enamoured with the man, the image of a true Northman – the very same Wyllas always hoped to emulate.
He clears his throat, breathing somewhat easier now as he sips from his cup, before piping up, ❝ B-but please, have a seat, won’t you? You still have cakes to eat. ❞ A distraction, he thinks, from the deepening red on his face, as the young lord draws his attention back to the small platter he brought her. Where had all of his confidence gone in the hours since their courtyard meeting? Everything had felt so natural, so genuine, and now, as he flounders for his composure, he can only imagine how utterly silly he must look.
There’s a moment in which her features curl into an amused smile, small but all too visibie. At the sight of his cheeks darkening with colour, threatening to match his hair, as he clears his throat and still stumbles over his words. It’s cute, she can’t help but think, a long vision away from the girl who had once screamed and screamed until her voice died for a week at the news she would be marrying the man before her. “I know,” she reassures him, smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. It fades, only momenterily, at the mention of her parents. Something sad but reminisant. “I know, Wyllas. I wouldn’t be here if I thought that it would be anything different from that,” Their betrothal be damned, Sansa wouldn’t allow herself to become a shrinking wife to a man with too much power in his own mind. Wyllas wasn’t like that. Her father hadn’t been either, even with the tensions of Jon and his birth. She doesn’t say any of that.
She does, though -- but not without reaching out one more time, fingers brushing his jaw before she’s sitting down, cakes poised to the side of where she’s sat, tempting and all too appealing. How could she resist? “I fear if I eat too many, I won’t fit into the dress I’ve spent so many hours on already,” she’s joking, mostly -- not that it stops her from picking one delicately from the plate, eyes falling closed as she takes a bite. “I think it would be worth it.”
