Lady Sansa's bruises have not quite faded by the time Willas arrives at court, but Margaery knows that they will make little difference to her brother - he has a soft heart, and sympathy for Sansa's pain will only make him the more determined to save her from the Lannisters.
He will say that he is concerned primarily with her claim, of course, to please Father, but Margaery knows her brothers inside out, all three of them, and knows that Willas wishes to play the hero just as much as Loras does.
She introduces them away from Joffrey and his mother, in the corner of the gardens that she and Granny have made their own. Sansa's hair - her best feature, in Margaery's opinion, for it alone is unmarked by Joffrey's brutality or Sansa's sorrow - is loose around her shoulders, shining in the sun, and Sansa fiddles at it constantly, twisting the ends about her fingers anxiously as they await Willas' arrival. She looks lovely, even bruised and mourning as she is, all soft lines and swells under the rich purple damask of her gown, and Margaery does not doubt that Willas will be quite taken with her on looks alone, even if there was not such a similar sweetness in both their natures.
Willas has managed to comb his hair, for once, and Margaery's smile is wholly genuine when she rises to meet him. For all his sweetness, he is the most politically minded of her brothers, and she has missed his companionship at her councils with Granny. Doubtless she will set him on what of the small council are not already turning away from the Lannisters, and set Garlan to help him - between Willas' sharpness and Garlan's charm, Granny is fond of saying, they make a single passable politician, which is high praise indeed coming from her.
"Come, brother," she says, looping her arm through his and gesturing toward the table where Sansa sits, lily-pale and clearly afraid, at Granny's side. "There is someone I should greatly like for you to meet."
She watches as Willas bows low over Sansa's hand and they have their first look at one another, each eyeing the other more curiously than anything. Margaery cannot deny that she is disappointed - Willas is a romantic, and falls in love at the drop of a hat, and she can admit that she had hoped for him to be as much a fool for Sansa as he has been for less worthy women in the past.
"Lady Sansa," he says. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
"And you, my lord," Sansa says, not seeming quite so anxious now that Willas is actually here. "I have heard so much."
Seeing them together is both wonderful and nerve-racking.
Wonderful, because when Sansa smiles she seems a whole other person. She smiles often with Willas, for all that they are painfully shy of one another, and sometimes even laughs. They spend hours at a time together, sitting in the gardens and listening to the singers, or in Granny's solar, reading books of the tales Willas would never admit to loving so much as he does. They are both so solemn, so quiet, and so very lovely, and Margaery cannot help but imagine that they could be very happy together in Highgarden. She wishes happiness for Willas more than for her other brothers, not because she loves him more but because he has always been so wary of pursuing it, ever since his accident, and sincerely thinks that Sansa could make him happy.
But it is nerve-racking, because Margaery fears that the Lannisters will ruin their plans, and some part of her worries for that not only for the reasons Granny would tell her to worry, but because she thinks Willas might give up on the whole idea of marriage entirely if this falls through.
She has been working on Joffrey, whispers that it would be best to wed Sansa to a House who can be trusted to keep her and, through her, Winterfell loyal to the crown. She has managed to subdue his taste for japing of wedding Sansa to the Mountain or his ilk, at least, but she worries that his mother, or worse, his grandfather, will have a plan that could oppose hers and win.
He asks her, one day, why she concerns herself so with a traitor's daughter. I am a traitor's daughter, Margaery thinks, and a traitor myself, more to Renly than to you, but you think yourself in love with me.
"She so graciously stepped aside so we might love one another openly, truly," she says, pressing his arm and leaning closer. "If the crown finds her a kind husband, surely she will be even more of a mind to remain loyal? It seems only sensible, Your Grace."
"You have said as much before," he says, and she rejoices, for he is clearly seeing the wisdom in her words. "But why should I not marry her to man who will rule her as much as the North? She is a blind fool, after all, and could be easily lead to rebellion without a husband strong enough to hold her back."
"The North follows the Starks just as much as the Westerlands follow the Lannisters," she points out, wishing he weren't so bloody cruel, for it would make her work all the easier. He is, though, and relishes the thought of lumping sweet Sansa with a husband who will beat her into submission and use her as cruelly as he planned on doing, before the arrival of Margaery and her family in the city. Part of her wonders if Joffrey still thinks to use Sansa so, regardless of who he is to wed now, and the thought turns her stomach. "They will need to know that it is her they are following, not some southron lordling who openly pulls her strings. She must at least appear to be only supported by her husband, not controlled by him. A subtle man who can earn her love, Your Grace. That is the sort of man you ought wed her to."
It is vital that she convince him not to wed Sansa to some Lannister or other - the North would rebel against overt Lannister control, she's sure of it and so is Granny, but Granny had pointed out that Tywin blasted Lannister would want one of his blood in Winterfell if he could manage it. Like as not, he has some nephew in mind for Sansa, and some niece for Willas, she thinks, and refuses to admit how the idea worries her.
So much of all this worries her, and she cannot admit it, because to do so would be a breath from admitting failure.
As their wedding draws near, Margaery begins to press harder - he is so easy to manipulate in all thing that do not concern Sansa, with whom he remains oddly fascinated, almost obsessed. Margaery is not unintelligent, and understands what that fascination might mean for Sansa should Joffrey continue to run unchecked as he does, so she tries a different approach.
"My brother Willas," she says one day, twirling a long stem of baby's breath between her fingers. "I should so like to see him wed, Your Grace. Is it not a shame that he remains alone? He is such a kind-hearted man, and a good match, regardless of his leg, I think."
Joffrey does not seem to know what to do with any of her brothers - Loras he seems jealous of, because Loras is famous, Loras is adored, and Garlan is easily forgotten, set to be tucked away at Brightwater after the wedding. She thinks he dislikes Willas, though, because Willas is often seen in the company of the members of the small council, Margaery knows, and offers them quiet advice in that measured way of his, advice that often goes against the desires of the King.
"If he were wed," she goes on, "I should be happier to see him returned to Highgarden."
And yes, she can see that she has his interest - he wants Willas gone, just as she sometimes suspects he desires his mother gone from the city, but does not know how to go about removing either of them. She lets the idea settle in his mind, let's him consider that if she would be willing to send her brother away, well, surely it would not be ill thought of for the King to wish him well on his journey home?
"Of course, our lord father would only accept the most highborn of brides," she says on a sigh, leaning back against one of the trees and tilting her face to the sky. She has seen him staring at her throat, and while she has a dark feeling that he imagines choking her more than kissing her, she knows that a distraction will only aid her quest. "There are so few about, too."
"My mother-"
"Is still grieving your lord father, Your Grace," she inserts gently, affecting as convincing an air of understanding sorrow as she can manage. "We could not expect her to wed again, at least, not so soon after his death. That leaves us with so few worthy choices, though - Princess Arianne Martell, mayhaps, or Lady Asha Greyjoy, but no. They are too far away, I think, and one is a Dornishwoman, the other Ironborn - a savage."
"Who, then?" he asks, and she wonders if she need hit him over the head with a mallet engraved with Sansa's bloody name.
"It would be good for both our Houses, yours and mine, to consider a match between my brother and the Lady Sansa," she says, sweeping forward to catch his arm. "Consider it, my love - your very own goodbrother, a man who could not possibly be more loyal to your cause, tying the last of House Stark to you forever more. Your own nephew one day as Lord of Winterfell."
One of Granny's little roses comes for her then, but she can see the way he thinks on it, see the way he muses - he seeks to please her, she thinks, to see her happy in the days before they wed, and she has made her love for Willas as plain as she can without drawing undue attention to her eldest brother. If Joffrey thinks that to see Willas wed would make Margaery happy, well...
"It would please my lady and I both to see this union take place," Joffrey calls, and Margaery near squirms with pleasure in her place near the foot of the throne. She feels flush with triumph - Lord Tywin and the Queen Dowager alike are red-faced with anger, frustration, and Granny is somewhere nearby, Margaery knows, likely smiling like a cat over a bowl of cream. She hopes Father is pleased - he has long been in the business of denying enquiries after Willas, if only because they are only ever on behalf of younger daughters or ugly girls or girls so lowborn as to be without a chance, but he can have no objections to Willas marrying Sansa.
Mother's smile is warm, warmer than it has been since they came to King's Landing, when she catches Margaery's eye over Willas' shoulder. Willas offers the loveliest of thank yous to Joffrey, and Sansa kneels before the throne and thanks her beloved King profusely for making such an enviable match for her, and it is Willas' hand she takes when she rises, Willas at whom she smiles shyly with pink in her cheeks.
Of course, Lord Tywin cannot let such an act of independence on Joffrey's part pass without some objection. Some rather strident objection.
It hadn't been permitted that Margaery be present for the small council meeting immediately following Joffrey's announcement before all of court that Sansa and Willas are to wed, but Father and Willas told her all she needs to know. Lord Tywin, it seems, had plans to wed Sansa to the Imp, who will not as vile and disreputable as Margaery was led to believe remains both a Lannister and an imp.
Willas might well be a cripple, but at least that is because of an accident, not an act of displeasure on the god's part.
But of course, there is no way for Lord Tywin to break Sansa and Willas' betrothal now, not without causing grave insult to House Tyrell, and that is something he cannot afford to do. The Reach is fielding the better part of the crown's armies, and feeding the whole lot of them, and the Reach loves Willas. No, Margaery is confident that the cloak she and Mother are sewing will hang from Sansa's narrow shoulders in just a few days, and that Sansa will look even lovelier in green-and-gold than she does in the neutral purples and mauves and lavenders she currently wears.
Joffrey is the one to give Sansa away on the morning of her wedding, and he promises her that it matters not that she'll soon be wed to another man, that he will have her anyways. I'll get a bastard in your belly and your husband will cast you aside like the filthy traitorous whore you are, he whispers, and when the time comes to remove her maiden's cloak, his dirty hands sullying the soft Stark white, he makes certain to grope at her, squeezing her breasts before releasing her.
Willas sees, though, with his sharp golden-hazel-green eyes, and he frowns at the King, using the motion of swinging the heavy green velvet cloak sewn all over with Tyrell roses to draw her closer, so close that there is barely a breath of room between her chest and their clasped hands.
She finds she does not mind his closeness, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she is surprised at that. For now, though, there are his defences of her against Joffrey, subtle as they are, and his sweet smile, and the light shattering through the crystal windows onto his thick, curly hair. She settles for those for now, and promises to think on the rest later.
Later, though, there is him finding a way to excuse them both from the indignity and danger of the bedding ceremony. Later, there is the taste of Arbor gold on his tongue and the heat of his hands and mouth on her skin. Later, there is a tiny moment of pain, and seeming endless pleasure.
Later, there is a whispered promise of safety, one so tangible and sincere that she cannot help but believe it, and in that promise is hope.
Sansa has not had hope in such a long time that she savours it, and lets the dark thoughts rest for another day.
Cersei loathes that she is being forced south to Highgarden because her uncle does not trust her at the Rock. It is mine, she fumes, mine by blood and right and law.
Highgarden is nothing of hers - she will be alone among the foul roses, and there is little chance of Kevan welcoming her back to King's Landing in the near future, not with the ignominy of her trial still hanging over her, not with the promise by Fat Mace's cripple son that he will keep her safe and, more importantly, faithful.
She thinks little of Highgarden's supposed beauty - even if winter were not on its way, she does not think that endless fields of roses would be much to boast about, and there is naught intimidating about the castle itself. It is limestone, garish and white, and sits on an unimpressive hill nearby the Mander. No, Cersei would not consider it much, not as compared with Casterly Rock, nor even Storm's End. She does not know what the Tyrells are so proud of, particularly not when she is brought through defences so poor even sweet Tommen could command their overthrow.
She steps out of her wheelhouse every inch the lioness she is, pausing only to adjust her headscarf slightly to protect against the cool breeze, and only once she is satisfied that her affects are close behind her does she deign to look at her gracious hosts.
She is caught up short by the couple who greets her. The crippled boy's hair is no longer the foppish mop he had in common with his brother, but shorn short save for a fringe of curls, and the difference is marked - he seems older, more dignified, and she cannot help but be surprised at how intelligent he looks. She had classed him as one of his brother's ilk, impetuous and brattish and not half so clever as he thought himself, but there is a smugness in the horrible bastard's face now that reminds her strongly that the Tyrells are and ever will be her enemies.
Sansa, silly, singing Sansa, gives her even greater pause, for she is heavy with child and positively glowing with it.
"Your Grace," Sansa says, in her soft voice. "You will forgive us both for not offering you greater courtesy, but the proper forms are somewhat beyond us both at present - please, though, do come inside. You are most welcome to Highgarden, my lady."
Cersei had imagined the marriage to the cripple would be near as great a punishment for Sansa as marriage to the Imp might have been, had Cersei's father had his way, but clearly it is not so. How Sansa, a girl who had longed for a prince, a hero, can be satisfied with a boring, pious bookworm who can hardly walk his own lands escapes Cersei, but their evident happiness in one another only ensures all the more that Cersei loathes Highgarden.