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Highgarden was as beautiful as she'd imagined, and Willas Tyrell was as kind and gentle as his sister had claimed. He was handsome too, with the same soft brown hair and warm brown eyes as Ser Loras, though his features were more like Ser Garlan's. It didn't matter that he needed to use a cane to walk when he could ride like the wind. Once upon a time being betrothed to him would have made Sansa the happiest woman in the realm.

But it had been years since Margaery and the Queen of Thorns had conspired to whisk her away from King's Landing to wed Willas. Sansa was no longer that naïve little girl and the prospect of marrying the young Lord of Highgarden no longer seemed like a dream coming true. Betrayal after betrayal had made her wary and she wondered how Willas would hurt her.

He spoke softly and kissed her hand when they strolled together in the perfectly manicured gardens, and Sansa wondered whether he would shout at her behind closed doors. Maybe he would even beat her. She felt a ghostly pain in her belly as she remembered Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard punching her on Joffrey's command.

At dinner she was seated in the place of honor beside him and he personally served her the finest morsels of food. His eyes stayed on her face even when a buxom serving woman leaned across the table to refill their wine cups. But she was not wed to him yet; he had not yet taken what he wanted of her body. When they were married, would he tire of her? Would she have to watch the serving wenches' bellies grow big with his bastards?

Although it was ungracious, Sansa was glad that Lady Olenna had died during the winter. She could not have lived with her day after day, knowing the part the old woman had played in murdering Joffrey and how she'd used Sansa as an unwitting catspaw. She was glad that Margaery was dead too. She would have been expected to embrace her as her own beloved sister after she wed Willas, and doing so would have made Sansa's skin crawl. Margaery had pretended to be her friend and then let them put a price on Sansa's head for the murder she'd committed.

Willas was gentle on their wedding night, even though he knew she was a widow, and Sansa did not have to pretend he was another man to enjoy it. Her new husband was just as kind the following morning. Still, Sansa waited for the inevitable disappointment. Willas cut fresh roses for her each day, but it only served to remind her that roses had thorns.

A month passed and then another. The tension of waiting and worrying frayed Sansa's courtesies. She grew impatient and sharp-tongued with the servants, and then with the multitude of lesser Tyrells who dwelled at Highgarden on their lord's generosity. Even Willas's good nature began to bother her and when she spoke to him, she was not quite as docile as it was said a wife ought to be.

She was enjoying the sun outside one day when she overheard two servants talking on the other side of the hedge. They jested about the Queen of Thorns and wagered on how long Willas would last before he rode off a cliff. Sansa was confused at first; Olenna Tyrell was dead. Then she understood: ishe/i was Willas's thorn.