crippledrose:

He cocked his head at an angle hearing the
term my lord.  Had she been low born of any
  sorts, milord would have been the proper
use.  His brows furrowed briefly and he made
  no mention of it, but now his thoughts were
wondering exactly what his grandmother was
              thinking.  

           However, despite the odd use of words, he grinned at
               the sight of her cheeks flushing red.  Willas had to
           admit to himself that then that it was worth it, to sneak
                               the cake.

                      It was when she mentioned her father that he 
                       nodded his head and his expression turned 
                                        somber.

                           ❝That must have been difficult, 
                                   your father being a sellsword.❞ 
                                            His words were soft as they seemed
                                                to touch lightly on the subject.  
                                            Almost as if he were afraid she would 
                                        turn from him.

                          ❝Did you  o n l y  have stories to   
                 go by, or did you know him?❞ 

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

          It’s so well taught, so constantly
   practiced that Sansa finds herself unable
   to break the habit of properly pronouncing
   my lord. She doesn’t even realize it– and
   maybe later, when Lady Olenna points it out
   she’ll turn red and lose a night’s sleep worrying
   about it but nothing feels wrong now. As far as
   Sansa’s concerned, she’s not doing so bad at
   maintaining her cover.

          Until Lord Willas begins prying. It is
   not his fault, he is being kind, polite, getting to
   know the servants living in his home but it still
   makes the back of her neck prickle unsettlingly.
   Her gaze darts away, teeth biting a groove in
   her bottom lip.

          “I had my brothers. We just– never
   expected him not to come home.” The art of
   lying is to tell the truth as much as possible.
   That way, she doesn’t have to remember
   everything but this truth hurts and she blinks
   quickly. Her hair falls over her shoulders, hiding
   her eyes before she moves to push it back behind
   her ears.

         "He was a good man, my father.
    Truly he was.“ It almost seems like she did not
    hear his question, lost as she is in her memories.
    A beat passes. And then another. She seems to
    snap herself out of it just as suddenly. ”My lord,
    I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to waste your time telling
    you uninteresting stories. Pardon me.“