SANSA

The sky was a drab shade of grey, darkening with every passing second. Sansa sat by the windowsill and looked out over the castle courtyard and the ramparts. On all sides, green banners flapped in the breezy wind like wings of jade.

"I must say that amethysts suit you far better than they have ever suited me," Margaery Tyrell said as she fixed the hairnet in Sansa's hair. Amethysts. She had been surprised to see that, and even more surprised to hear that it was a gift from Lady Olenna, some sort of confirmation that Joffrey's death was indeed on her hands. A better wedding gift than most of those I have received thus far. Lady Merryweather had given her bolts of Myrish cloth and lace and silk; Lady Rowan a spectacular riding cloak in the Tyrell colours and knee-high leather boots; Lady Tarly a stack of beautifully embroidered tapestries that poor Podrick had nearly collapsed under the weight of.

"There," Margaery murmured lightly, "you look positively… resplendent."

"Resplendent," Alla Tyrell echoed.

A fancy word for a fancy thing, Sansa thought. That did not make it any less false. The Tyrells loved their false courtesy and false flamboyancy. She was reminded of how Sweetrobin would tell her repeatedly that the Eyrie was 'impregnable'. That doesn't matter, Lord Petyr had told her, not when the enemy is already inside your walls. As for whom the Lord Protector had been referring to, she was still not quite sure, but she had a hunch. A mockingbird sings so many songs. Lord Baelish had holed up with her cousin behind the walls of Harrenhal and was amassing an army at the castle, from what little she had managed to glean from the courtiers. She did not know who he intended to fight. She did not know anything about Littlefinger, in truth. Keep your enemies confused, and they will never know what to expect.

She did not have much time to think of Littlefinger now, though. For even as the handmaidens bustled around her dressing room, the wedding bells were ringing, and they only meant one thing.

Her gown was an airy confection of ivory samite and pale grey lace, with wide sleeves that covered most of her arms. The cloth was adorned with snowflakes and roses worked in silver thread, so that they glinted whenever the light fell in a certain way. She had worn a similar garment to marry Tyrion in the capital, but the Lannisters had given her gold in place of all this silver. Gold was more of a bold statement, prideful and powerful, but the silver was more understated, less noticeable - but no less false, and no less fickle.

"You look very beautiful, Lady Sansa," Margaery Tyrell said brightly. "I am sure you will put the rest of us ladies to shame…"

"The bride ought put us all to shame," said Mira Forrester with a soft smile. "I remember seeing you at Winterfell, my lady, with all your brothers and sisters… you were by far the most eye-catching of them."

They should be with me, she thought. Rickon should be with me. Timidly, she had asked Lady Olenna and Ser Willas if the wedding could wait until such a time when Rickon was able to reach Highgarden, but her plea had been met with a staunch refusal.

A little bird in a gilded cage.

"Soon," her husband-to-be had promised her, as they had sat in the shade of the old oak tree on the edge of Highgarden's godswood. "Soon, when the war is done, we will ride north and you will see your brother."

The war will never be done, Sansa thought, so long as they continue to play the game of thrones in every corner of this realm, it will never be over. By the time the war is over, I shall be a prisoner, a mother, even a widow. There were times when she could not remember what had come before the war, before King's Landing and all the terrors that had come with it. Still a little bird in a gilded cage.

Sansa cleared her throat quietly, as a lady ought. Today most of all, she must not forget her courtesies. "I thank you for your assistance, my ladies," she said, "but I think there is nothing more to be done."

Lady Alla persisted. "But-

"You heard Lady Sansa," Margaery said. "We have all agreed that she looks as beautiful as it is possible to make her, and I dare say we will do her no further good from all this gossiping and fussing." She urged them towards the door. "Go on."

The others filed out in a neat and nattering column, but Margaery Tyrell was not so keen to be dismissed. She seated herself daintily upon the velvet stool opposite, poured a cup of Arbor gold into a glass goblet, and handed it to Sansa.

She took it gratefully with both hands, careful not to spill any on her wedding gown. "Thank you." She fingered the necklace around her neck; silver, at the centre a wolf's head in pearl with amethysts for eyes.

"You have nothing to thank me for," Margaery said.

"Your family-

"It will be our family very soon." She patted Sansa's hand lightly. "We of House Tyrell understand the worth of family, sweet girl. Unlike some of the other Great Houses I might care to mention. But let us not speak of the Lannisters on your wedding day." Her face creased for a moment. "How are you feeling? Anxious, perhaps… oh… I did not mean to presume –

"Anxious," Sansa confirmed.

Margaery nodded. "Naturally. I have felt the same nerves you are feeling now. But if I can help you in any way… well… I have a fair bit of experience with weddings." She smiled, and for a moment Sansa could not help but feel almost sad for her. She was quite convinced now that despite her constant conniving, Margaery Tyrell was – or at least had the capacity to be – a good person at heart.

"My first wedding," she began. "It was-

Margaery grasped her hand suddenly. "It will not be like that, sweet girl," she said, not unkindly. "Willas would never hurt you."

"Tyrion never hurt me either."

"Mmm…" The Tyrell girl sipped from her own wine-cup. "I daresay we are both in a better position now than we ever were in King's Landing." She raised an eyebrow. "With King Joffrey and-"

"Joffrey." Sansa nodded stiffly. "It doesn't matter now. Now he's gone. I can't really remember him at all, truth be told." Would that it were true.

Margaery's fingers reached up for the necklace at Sansa's throat, brushing against the sparkling surface of the amethyst. "Joffrey's gone. So he is." She glanced around, as though afraid that someone was listening, opened her mouth to speak a secret, then closed it and rose to her feet. "I am afraid that I must leave you sooner than expected, Lady Sansa. After all, the groom's brother has arrived, and I have still not chosen my necklace. What do you think, the emeralds or the pearls?"

"The emeralds," Sansa replied, "they go with your eyes."

Margaery thought about that for a moment. "Perhaps you are right about the emeralds, Sansa. But my eyes are brown."

No, thought Sansa, they're as green and gold as the rest of you. She watched Margaery Tyrell go. Very quickly she was replaced in the doorway by her brother Ser Loras. "My lady," the Knight of the Flowers said, ducking inside almost shyly. He looked very handsome today, his chestnut brown curls freshly combed and laundered with lavender scent. He wore Tyrell colours; a doublet of sea green with golden stitching, a single golden rose in his lapel.

Sansa rose. "Ser Loras," she said. "Are they ready for me?"

"We wait upon the pleasure of the bride," he replied woodenly, almost as though he were reciting vows himself. He sighed. "If it please my lady, I would be happy to reassure you of any qualms you might have of Willas. He is a good man, a better brother, and-"

"No," Sansa said. She was somewhat fond of Willas Tyrell, true, but not so besotted that she wanted to hear an awkward appreciation of his person for what must be the thousandth time in a month. "You may withdraw, Ser Loras. I will be ready in a few minutes, but I would be greatly appreciative if you would send in Lady Brienne and Podrick."

At first the knight looked almost offended and opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it again, visibly relieved as he went out. He returned to guard the door as the lady and her squire came inside. Brienne of Tarth had dressed in knightly raiment specially made for a woman's frame, a waist-length tunic of sober blue velvet with the arms of Tarth emblazoned but lightly upon her breast, and black breeches underneath. She had not been wearing her sword earlier, but she had strapped it to her swordbelt now, in a jewelled leather scabbard. Podrick Payne wore a doublet of wine red, with dark red hose that verged on purple.

"My lady," said Brienne, inclining her head. "You look… beautiful."

"Beautiful," Podrick said mutely. "Exquisite. Wondrous."

Sansa could not help but laugh at the squire's dumbstruck expression. "Thank you," she said. A small breeze flittered through the open window and set the chandelier to swaying. "Well, it seems I am to be wed." Saying the words only confirmed the fact.

Brienne of Tarth looked guilty as she could be, dropping to one knee. "My lady… I am sorry… I said that I would…"

"You promised nothing, Lady Brienne. You promised to protect me, and so I have. I am sure that… I will come to love Ser Willas and Highgarden over time, and maybe… sometime soon… I can be truly happy here." Sansa hoped that if she said it to herself enough times, it would eventually become true. It worked when I was a child. I prayed that a handsome prince would come to marry me, to carry me to the most beautiful castle on earth.

And he did. His name was Joffrey, and he came from King's Landing.

"My lady." Podrick ducked his head shyly. "Lord Tyrion… I am sure he would be proud."

Sansa had vowed not to cry on her wedding day, but that of all things brought a tear to her eye. If Tyrion knows, wherever he is, in King's Landing as they said or elsewhere… then I pray that he is happy too. She smiled. "Thank you, Podrick. That was very sweet."

The squire blushed the same colour as his tunic. Sansa's eyes flitted to the bed, where her maiden's cloak awaited. Brienne followed her gaze at once, and then she knew that there was no-one better. "Would you help me with my cloak, my lady?"

Brienne's big hands were surprisingly gentle as she draped the grey-and-white maiden's cloak across Sansa's shoulders. The trim was neither too long nor too short, the cloak neither too frilly nor too ugly. A direwolf's head was worked across the snow-white fabric in Myrish thread, that danced and changed colour as the sunlight moved, and its scales were inlaid with tiny pieces of jet. White and grey, no other colours. And despite everything else, she could almost forgive the Tyrells for that alone.

"Shall we send for Ser Loras, my lady?" Lady Brienne asked once it was done.

"No," said Sansa Stark. "I'll see myself out."

She met the Knight of the Flowers near the godswood, beneath the twisted fingers of an old springy elm. They walked in silence towards the sept, but Sansa could still hear voices, whispers on the wind, as she walked. We watch, and we listen, the voices said. We remember. The North Remembers.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the old gods did stand with her.

The sun seemed to have come out again just for the ceremony, poking out from behind the fat grey clouds. There was a slight breeze, so the leaves parted like a sea as they walked down the path, beneath great arches crowded with tangles of frosted ivy and winter roses, past choirboys who sung like warbling birds as she walked. She saw the wedding pavilion before her, beside the Great Hall, its towering spires white and gleaming against the haze of blue-grey sky.

All thoughts of serenity faded from her mind as the guards drew open the great bronze doors of the sept and conducted them up the stairs. Highgarden's sept was as large as the Sept of Baelor in the capital, and it was as crowded today as the Great Sept had been on the day of Joffrey and Margaery's wedding, which seemed a thousand years ago now.

She knew most of the faces. Stout, red-faced Lord Orton Merryweather and his wife the Myrish beauty Lady Taena, their son Russell in his finest raiment; Ser Guymon of the red-apple Fossoways and Ser Jon of the green. Lord Rowan and his wife, beside a small, wizened-looking Lady Arwyn Oakheart. Margaery's cousins Alla and Elinor, the latter arm in arm with her new husband Alyn Ambrose. Lady Graceford and little Lady Bulwer, standing proud with all of her eleven years; young Lord Hightower and his twin siblings. Then two lords whose faces she did not recognise, but whose arms she knew as Footly and Cockshaw; Maester Lomys with his clinking maester's chain, and fat Garth the Gross. Every step seemed to last an age with all the eyes on her. Closer to the dais stood Margaery in a sharply cut dress of subdued gold and pale blue fabric, holding the hand of a beaming Lady Olenna Tyrell. Leonette Fossoway stood alone, her babes presumably with some wetnurse or other. Then Lord Mace Tyrell, in quilted green velvet, trailing a ridiculous cape that had a trim nearly longer than the bride's, arm in arm with his wife Lady Alerie, tall and dignified as ever, her silver hair done up exquisitely.

And Garlan Tyrell, one step below the dais, holding the folded marriage cloak in his arms. One step above, Willas Tyrell awaited her in his tunic of cloth-of-gold, smiling and blushing all at once. Loras released her arm gently, and then she was there, with her husband-to-be, his brothers, and the septon.

"My lords," the septon began, squeakily at first then with a voice that carried across the entire sept, echoing off the statues of the Mother and the Father to either side of the altar. "We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever." He turned to Willas. "You may cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection."

He was gentler than she had expected, sweeping the direwolf cloak away in one motion and placing the Tyrell one over her shoulders in its place. This one was heavier, weighed down with real golden roses and precious emeralds, and Sansa almost fell to her knees under the weight of it.

Willas's hand touched against hers and Sansa took it instinctively, worrying that she had grabbed it too hard. Did I hurt his hand? She never found out, because the septon was wrapping the strip of golden ribbon around their linked hands, tying it in a knot that seemed tighter than it had been at her other wedding. They mean for this to last.

"Let it be known that Willas of the House Tyrell and Sansa of the House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." He took the crystal from the altar and lifted it to above his head, so that rainbow light sparkled through the prism, turning the golden ribbon that linked the hands of bride and groom into a shimmering fabric of a thousand colours. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." The ribbon slipped away from her hands, and there they were.

"Look upon each other and say the words," the septon commanded.

And so she did. Because she must. "Father, Smith, Warrior. Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

When she looked up, Willas was smiling at her warmly, his eyes sparkling a little, reflecting the light of the crystal. He smiled at her, turned to the crowd. "With this kiss, I pledge my love!"

And so he did. Because he ought. He smelled of cherries and sandalwood, and tasted the same.

The cheering died down eventually, to be replaced by the jubilant ringing of the great wedding bells high up in the towers of the sept. A minstrel was playing the harp in the gallery, and there were drummers as well, beating a steady bass beat. Sansa gripped Willas's hand tightly as he led her down the dais. You must smile, sweetling, Littlefinger had told her, you look so much fairer when you are smiling.

Smile, she told herself. Smile for Willas Tyrell and his family. Smile because this is your wedding day, and it will not last forever. Smile because this may be your only chance to smile. They led the procession out of the sept, man and wife, bride and groom, up the steps into the courtyard, as the septon shouted seven blessings and ladies and knights wished a fruitful and bounteous marriage for them both. Willas was blushing and grinning like an idiot, laughing at some ribald joke Ser Parmen Crane had told him as they went. "Be happy," he told Sansa, almost shouting over the sound of the crowd, "Lady Tyrell."

Lady Tyrell. I am a Stark no longer. The choirboys from earlier ran back along the procession hand in hand with several young maidens, sprinkling them with golden rose petals and leaves from their wicker baskets. Green and gold. They were giving Sansa her new colours, and she had no choice but to accept them.

The procession led them twice around the castle, among the smallfolk and the high lords alike, and back to Highgarden's Great Hall, where the rest of them fell away as Willas and Sansa proceeded to the dais. There must have been one or two thousand men on the lower floors in all, maybe more, most of the garrison of Highgarden. The conversation all merged into one endless chattering as she walked between them, men talking about wives and wine, battles and whores, horses and harvests. They ate finely for common soldiers; beef-and-bacon stew with loaves of hot bread, loin of pork with apple sauce, steak-and-kidney pie, cornmeal and oatmeal and cream-of-wheat with orange jam and even a few blackberries, blue smelly cheese and orange nutty cheese and brown smoky cheese, with cheap-smelling summerwine and brown ale to wash it all down. They cheered and clapped as bride and bridegroom made their dignified way along the green velvet carpet up towards the top of the hall.

At the top of the first dais were the musicians and fiddlers. There were about twenty drummers across three bands, with two harps and fifty lutes between them, and they all seemed to be playing different songs: the first group 'the Bear and the Maiden Fair', the second 'Six Maids in a Pool', and the third a strangely joyful renditions of 'Seasons of My Love.' Between them landed knights, Tyrell captains, and smallholders sat eating finer fare than the men below, somehow convinced that they had the finest seats in the feast even as the procession passed them by.

She walked right past them, up the steps and through the carved archway where two twisted roses curled into each other, past the great screen that had been erected to keep the lords from the common folk, and emerged in the greatest of great halls. Murals and tapestries beyond counting hung on the walls, and the stained glass windows telling the stories of Garth Greenhand and King Mern – and Leo Longthorn, the greatest Tyrell lord of recent years. On the walls were Tyrell banners yet again, but they were joined by the sigils of other Reachmen; House Redwyne's thorny grapevine, Lord Cockshaw's tricolored feathers, the smoky castle of House Hightower, the Fossoways of the red-apple and those of the green, Oakheart's fan of three leaves, the huntsman of Horn Hill and the golden tree of House Rowan, Ashford's white sun against orange, the banners of Merryweather and Cordwayner, Dunn and Footly, Leygood and Lowther and Lyberr, Shermer, Peake, Costayne, Meadows, Mullendore, Beesbury, Graceford, Bulwer, Roxton, Risley, Sloane, Osgrey and Norcross. Sansa watched as Lady Tarly and her daughters went to go and sit beneath the huntsman of Horn Hill, while she continued with only Willas for an escort, up to the high table.

She could see her husband wincing as they sat; the walk had been a long way and she felt suddenly guilty for not considering how his leg might fare. I must not forget these things, if I am to be a good and obedient wife. "Are you in pain, ser?" she asked. "Your leg."

Willas shook his head. "Willas, my lady. That is my name." He pulled out her chair and gestured for her to sit. "My lady." He gave a cursory glance to his own chair, at the head of the table, looking out over the gallery of guests below. "I have always wanted to sit here." He sounded almost boyish as he took his place.

And thus it began.

They had spared no expense here. Huge green velvet banners hung from every wall, the rose of Tyrell in gold, against fields of vert and jade and and grass, every sort of green there was. The huge windows of the Great Hall were open, so the scents of lavender and bluebell and the roses from the garden drifted inside to greet them.

Lady Alerie had outdone herself with the festivities, as promised. Sansa recognised Galyeon of Cuy, the tall singer who had sung a song with seventy-seven verses at Joffrey's wedding. Mercifully his tune was not so long this time, but Sansa still found it tedious. Then came a troupe of Volantene jugglers, who tossed flaming balls and rings into the air while Butterbumps ran a raucous course around the hall squawking like a chicken to a merry piper's tune, chasing Lady Oakheart's piebald fool on mock horses. Around them dancers played in green-and-gold motley. The greatest laughter rose when Butterbumps raised a fake tourney lance and struck his companion across the brow with it. They mock the Lannisters in their cups here, Sansa thought. And why should they not? Ever since she had glimpsed the Crown's ledgers in King's Landing, she had realised that the Iron Throne needed all the coin it could muster – and after that Casterly Rock did not seem so fearsome to her.

The feast started out civil enough, but it was a long wait for the first soup course and by then the young knight Oswald Rowan had two serving girls giggling in his lap, Lord and Lady Cockshaw were snogging with a strange impropriety, and from the way Orton Merryweather was licking his lips he looked ready to eat his wife. Mace Tyrell had gone red, from eithr drunkenness, anger, or embarrassment, though Sansa could not tell which.

Willas was saying something about his travels in Dorne, mentioning the Sandship and the history of House Fowler. Sansa merely feigned amusement and laughed at the expected times. "My lady," Willas said eventually, breaking out of his own reverie. "If you would – I can stop, should you wish…"

"Please continue, my lord," she said emptily.

"Willas, my lady," he told her again, "My name is Willas and I insist that you call me that."

She had been so stupid for forgetting that. "Then you must call me Sansa," she said, for want of something, anything to say. Willas was polite and courteous as she had expected, but it all felt too fake to see direwolf banners mingling among the roses. I am the Stark of Winterfell, she thought, and now not even that.

The cooks at Highgarden certainly had done themselves proud in putting on such a spectacular feast. They started with a sweet pumpkin soup with bread fresh from the ovens, a terrine of duck and goose liver with a sweet orange jelly, a salad with blue cheese, watercress and pine nuts. Then came roasted peacock, the bird's plumage spread elegantly behind it like a fan of a thousand colours, and snails in a creamy white wine soup, spit-roasted suckling pig with applesauce and crackling that stuck between her teeth. She tried Dornish duck with a sticky sauce of lemons, goose and capon stuffed with mulberries and onions, kidney pie with bacon, fingerfish in breadcrumbs. They had rock crabs cooked with saffron and eastern spices, cod cakes and goose livers, served beside sweetcorn on the cob, stewed onions in gravy and a whole dish of buttered neeps. There were game hens baked in a blood sauce, pork pies with egg, a bread-and-honey pudding covered with wine, raisins and nuts, topped by a brandy sauce that caught fire when the cook put a light to it. And lastly they brought out mountains of lemon cakes and gingerbread – her favourites, done at Lady Olenna's request, no doubt, with black cherries in sweet cream, a heavy wintercake with nuts and dried apricots and poached pears to finish.

Sansa only ate a few bites of each dish at first, though, and less as the feast went one. The only reason she ate at all was to seem polite, and so that Willas would not be talking to her all the time. More songs played as they ate, and they were songs of a winter rose, a fair maiden with auburn hair like fire. She pretended not to notice, but Willas kept giving the minstrels coin so that they would play it again. At least he is trying, she thought, but I have been a fool to believe that they would allow me to go as a free maiden.

Growing strong, she thought bitterly, growing far and wide. And thinking on that, she drank all the more.

At the end of the third hour, Margaery was climbing up to the high seat to offer them both her congratulations. "Sansa," she said, beaming a huge wide-toothed smile. "On behalf of the family, welcome to House Tyrell. And to Highgarden. We should get to know each other finally as sisters; mayhaps tomorrow we might go riding beyond the walls, or take a trip down the Mander."

"Do you not think that husband and wife should spend the first day together, at least?" Willas asked.

Margaery giggled a little. It was one of the most irritating sounds Sansa had ever heard, the more she thought on it. "But of course," the other woman said. "I am simply too over-eager to know my new sister. Mayhaps the day after, and the Lady Leonette might come with us also. We Tyrell women stick together, Sansa." She leant and kissed Sansa's cheek without invitation.

Willas still could not dance on account of his bad leg, but Sansa was too melancholic to care. To her surprise, it was Lord Mace Tyrell, of all people, who offered her the first turn on the floor.

"Welcome to House Tyrell, my lady," he said, the thousandth person to say such. "I have gained a new daughter today. Yes, a beautiful Northern daughter."

"Thank you, my lord," she said. He might be oafish and on the wrong side of portly, but Lord Mace was a fair dancer, and the others gave them a wide berth for fear of tripping over his cape. Lady Alerie had told her that Mace had once been handsome and strong-looking in his youth, but he had eaten a few too many pies since then, and his best days were behind him. He reminded Sansa of King Robert at Winterfell, bumbling and drunken, though he was a little more courteous than the old king.

"I am your new good-father, Lady Sansa," he told her, as though it were not blatantly obvious. "We do not need such formalities between us. I must confess that I have never seen a rare Northern beauty like yourself in a while. The last was your aunt Lyanna, at the tourney of Harrenhal. Prince Rhaegar had the right of it, though, for any fool could see that she was among the most beautiful woman there. A maiden worth fighting a tourney for, but not a war."

"Were you a tourney knight once?" she asked. If she were to be Lady of Highgarden someday, she supposed that she ought to learn the history of the place.

Lord Mace chortled. "Once, my lady, but a very long time ago, and I won little of note, save for placing third in the tourney at Bitterbridge in the summer before Robert's Rebellion. But Harrenhal, well, the spectacle was so grand that I could not help but compete. Alas, I was nearing thirty then, too old for most tourney knights."

Sansa had to disagree. Bronze Yohn Royce had to be at least forty, and she had seen him and Lord Jason Mallister at the Hand's tourney in King's Landing, back when her father had still been alive. Lord Jason had a head of white hair, yet he had still unhorsed half a dozen younger knights who had doubtless underestimated the man.

"Lady Lyanna was a woman worth fighting a tourney for, aye," continued Lord Mace. "But not worth provoking a war for. Alas, while we did fight on the side of the Targaryens, I fear that… well, Prince Rhaegar had gone as mad as his father in the end. But other than our victory at the Battle of Ashford…" He stopped for a moment to flaunt his success, then coughed and made to continue-

The music changed then and they switched partners for the first time. And Sansa found herself with Podrick Payne of all people. As they met on the floor, the youth blushed bright red. "M-my lady," he stammered. He seemed as awkward as she felt, though that was only a small comfort. Pod kept stepping on her toes, but Sansa kept her smile, so as not to embarrass either of them.

"Are you sitting with Lady Brienne?" she asked.

"No, my lady," he said. "I mean yes. I was. I am. Earlier, but now, no. Because I'm dancing. And she went away to speak with…" He stopped himself. "My lady."

She could not help but smile a little. "You spoke of Lord Tyrion earlier."

"Sorry, my lady. I didn't mean-"

"You caused no offense. I am sure he would be proud of you as well, Podrick. I daresay you have come a long way from the stammering boy I knew in King's Landing."

"W-well, my lady," he said. "I still stammer." And the dance changed. "I wish you and Ser Willas every happiness," he said, departing. He turned into Alla Tyrell, blushing again, whereas Sansa found herself facing Ser Loras. The Knight of the Flowers led her through the steps with a sobered expression. "I am the only one of my brothers who can dance today," he said. "We had hoped that Willas's leg would be sufficiently recovered, but alas, it is not so."

"It was a Dornishman who was the cause of that, was it not? Prince Oberyn?" She remembered the Red Viper from her brief time in King's Landing. He had a trial by combat, Tyrion said. He told everyone that he killed Joffrey. She could not recall how or why that had come about, though.

"Prince Oberyn," Loras affirmed. "Willas bears him no ill will for the incident, mind. It was the horse that threw him, and no fault of Oberyn's. Which is a good thing, I suppose, as tensions between Dorne and the Reach have been on edge for years. Perchance you know the tale of Lord Tyrell and the thousand red scorpions, my lady?"

He might have told her, but by then they had switched partners once more, and Loras was gone. She found herself with young Lord Erron Hightower, Willas's cousin and squire. "I wish you good fortune on your wedding day, Lady Sansa," he said politely.

"Thank you, my lord."

"I-I hope that Willas is able to bring you happiness. I know that my cousin has never been much of a fighter… but there is a lot more to him than that. He taught me how to speak High Valyrian, the names of all the Targaryen kings, the sciences of the body, how to play the lute."

"There have always been good links between Oldtown and Highgarden, have their not?" Sansa said politely.

He nodded in reply. "It was King Uthor of the High Tower who surrendered his crown to King Mern of the Reach, but it was done by peaceful cooperation rather than as a result of war or conquest. Oldtown has thrived because of the ambition of Highgarden, and the same can be said the other way round. Bounty and plentifulness is what makes the Reach thrive." He smiled at her.

"Will you be returning to Oldtown, my lord."

Lord Erron looked confused by that. "Lord Tarly is in Oldtown, my lady. He has… he is caretaker of the city following the battle… he…"

Strange, that. Randyll Tarly's wife and daughters are here, but not the man himself. She was not sure what to make of that.

Next came Edric Ashford and Oswell Rowan, heirs of the Reachman lords she ought to know were she to become lady of Highgarden, and then their fathers themselves. Her next turn around the floor was with Lord Caswell, who inquired after her brother, curiously, not-so-subtly mentioning that he had two daughters of a marriageable age, and then with the Lords Rhysling and Footly, Ser Horas Redwyne and Ser Myles Roxton, gaining her courage all the way, until very soon there were a line of men queuing up to dance with her. But none of them were her lord husband. After a half-hour or so, she left the floor to have her seat next to him, flushed with excitement and a strange sort of happiness, yet knowing that this ecstasy could not last.

"Sansa, dear," a voice called as she was ascending the steps to the dais, "won't you come and keep an old woman company awhile?" Lady Olenna patted the empty seat beside her. "Alerie has gone off fretting, Margaery is dancing, and I'll have no sensible conversation out of Garlan, I fear."

"My lady." She took a seat.

"How are you finding all of this?"

"The wedding?"

The Queen of Thorns snorted. "Of course I'm talking about the wedding, Lady Sansa. Why, were you thinking of something else?"

Home. "No. I… I do beg your pardon, my lady."

For a moment there was quiet. Their eyes went to Margaery Tyrell on the far side of the hall, dancing with her brother Ser Loras. "My grandchildren," Lady Olenna said. "I'd always vowed to marry off the ones that were marriageable…" She smiled, and looked a little sad. "Is it a triumph or a failure that I have succeeded in marrying Margaery to three different kings? What does it say about my granddaughter, my House, when none of them are good enough for her?" She sighed. "If I had the hindsight I might have married her to this Targaryen boy, but the Dornish have already snapped up that match. To be sure, they will see value in an alliance with the Tyrells."

"You're… you're abandoning the Lannisters?"

Lady Olenna laid a speckled hand across Sansa's. "We're abandoning the Lannisters, Sansa. We're family now, and we do not need to keep secrets from each other. I have half a mind to send Loras as an envoy to Highgarden, but I fear that his wilfulness may get the better of him. I may have to make one last journey to King's Landing before the war – and my life, most like – is over. Willas is needed to stay here, so you and he will remain."

"Happiness and peace," the Queen of Thorns said. For a moment she did not look like the conniving shrew that Sansa knew her to be, rather just someone's favourite grandmother. My favourite grandmother, Sansa thought. Both Lyarra Stark and Minisa Tully had died before her parents had married; odd as it was, Olenna Tyrell was the closest thing she had ever had to a grandmother. "You wouldn't believe it, but happiness and peace is all I ever wanted," the old woman said. "Do you remember what I said to you once, Sansa, when we first met?"

"Once the cow's been milked, there's no squirting the cream back up her udder."

Lady Olenna gave a small mirthless laugh. "Quite right, child. But I also said this: here we are to see things through. We cannot stop halfway with this war. From the moment we swore ourselves to Renly's kingdom we were in it for the long run. Renly, Joffrey, Tommen… what harm can a fourth king do?"

Sansa rose, smoothing her gown down, and left her there. She crossed the dais and returned to her lord husband's side.

"Mother is rather stressed, I fear," Willas told her, as she poured a cup of wine for herself, "the bards she sent for from Lord Costayne never appeared." He bit his lip. "I think that we should move to the ceremony quickly, to take her mind away from that."

"The ceremony? – oh, the bedding, you mean." Nervousness fluttered in her tummy. She had known that it was coming, but…

Sansa took her wine cup and drained the goblet in one gulp. "We need not waste time, Willas."

Even he looked shocked at that. "Now? Already?" He coughed and tipped his head. "As my lady commands."

But not as your lady wants. Willas put a hand on hers. "Are you quite sure, my lady? I daresay we could dispense with the bedding ceremony if you so wish it and sneak off somewhere."

She ought to take his offer, she knew… but the bedding was one of the last true Northern traditions she could remember, one of the last few memories she had of her family. I must be brave, like Robb and Father and Mother. Oh, old gods, let me be brave.

Afterward, she did not remember how or when it had started. Perhaps Willas had sent up the call himself, or conveyed it through his father. But the next thing she knew the sea of men were rushing towards her, and then she was hoisted into the air, carried high above the tables. Some of them were simply laughing hysterically as they threw her clothes away into the crowd. Sansa was beginning to feel some of her bravado begin to wear off as she and her husband were gradually stripped down.

She was thankful for the first time for Willas's bad leg; it made a long climb up a winding staircase impossible, so their bedding chambers were mercifully close by. When they had reached the place they tossed her inside playfully in naught save for her shift, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. "Come now," she heard Ser Loras Tyrell saying, "let us give them a little privacy, I think."

Willas came in a moment later, breathless and red-faced. They had taken off everything but his smallclothes, and through them she could see the outline of his hard manhood. "Well," he said embarrassedly. "We have a duty, Lady Sansa."

"Yes," she said, and curiously she found herself thinking of her mother then, and of House Tully's words. Family, duty, honour.

I must do my duty to House Tyrell… but my family is House Stark. Always. Always.

Only when the shouting had died down outside in its entirely, and only when the two of them were quite alone, did Willas approach her, unsteadily on his wounded leg. He gestured towards the bed. "May-

Sansa nodded. The marriage bed was big enough for four, but for the longest time they sat there at opposite ends, pulling the quilts up over themselves. It only occurred to her then, in that moment, that Willas might be as unwilling in the whole matter as she. Did they ask him if he would like to marry me, or did they make him?

In the end it was she who made the first move, hesitant at first, yet curiously more and more assured with every passing second. "We… we must do our duty."

"Yes," Willas said softly. "Duty." And slowly, so slowly, they began to move back across the bed towards the middle, closer and closer together.

"There's wine," Willas said in a small voice, as they made themselves comfortable. He cleared his throat and swallowed. "Are you really ready, my lady?" he asked, "I wouldn't want to rush you, not at all."

Sansa sat proudly. I will be brave. I can be brave. I must be brave. "I'm ready," she said, though the words were not really her own.

"Well," said Willas. "My lady. May I… may I kiss you?"

"You may," she replied. Their lips met in a chaste kiss, the same kiss that they had shared before gods and men in the sept hours earlier. "You… the rest of it, if…" Her words would not come out properly. "I feel a terrible fool," she confided.

Willas softly placed a hand on her cheek. "We are both fools here, Sansa," he told her quietly. "Do you..." He picked up a goblet from the sideboard and took a careful sip. "Should we…"

"We should." She was unsure whether the fact that she sounded more confident than she felt was a curse or a blessing. Her mother had told her about this back in Winterfell, as she'd prepared to head south to marry Joffrey, the rudimentary basics of the marriage bed and all that was concerned. And that led to one of the thoughts that kept Sansa going. Better him than Joff. Better anyone than Joff. And so when Willas Tyrell laid her down onto the bed gently and put his hands around her waist with a careful, nervous precision, she smiled nervously back at him.

He hesitated a moment, as his lips pressed close to hers. "If you- if you want me to stop-

"Go on," she said gently. Please.

At first it was kissing, nothing that she had never known before, but then lips gave way to tongues and more than that, and slowly, so, so, slowly, they began to unravel into each other, to relax into one another's grasp, to entwine. I hereby seal these two souls, the septon had said, sealing them as one, but those were words, and words were wind. It was this act that mattered, that bound two souls as one more surely than anything else. His kisses were soft against her lips and her neck and her body, her hands warm caresses on his wherever they touched. I am yours, and you are mine.

And she hoped that it was true.

"I want you there with me, Sansa," he said as they lay there together in the lengthening night when it was done, as owls chirped a cacophony outside the tall windows, as the sounds of the revellers below faded and returned. "I do, really I do. Every step of the way. I want you to be my lady of Highgarden."

Sansa spoke softly, her voice a summer breeze. "Am I a Tyrell now, then?" she asked. "I-I suppose I shall have to find myself some green silk or velvet."

"My lady, you will look beautiful to me no matter what colour you wear," he told her.

They lay there for a moment, and Willas sat up in bed, reaching over to his right to pour her another cup of Arbor gold. He gasped a little as he did so.

"Does your leg pain you, s- Willas?"

He grimaced at her. "Only on some mornings when I wake up, and if I do too much strenuous exercise. So not all that often. I have a lot more movement now since they reset it, enough to walk a short ways without my cane and to ride. It… it never stops me travelling, though."

"Would you like to visit Riverrun?" she asked him hopefully. "Or Winterfell?"

He bit his lip. "Perhaps. Of course. Though probably not now, my lady. We could go to the Citadel in Oldtown, or to Lys or Myr, or see the Titan of Braavos and the Wall. Lomas Longstrider says there are nine wonders of Man, and I intend to see them all before this place is mine. And perhaps you-" He exhaled. "We could go together, mayhaps." His finger traced the line of her lips. "You look tired," he observed. "Just as I feel." His fingers closed on hers. "My lady… if I may… should we…"

She was not sure why, but she leaned back into his embrace. His fingers were playing with her hair, gentle and tender as a mother's touch, but with a different kind of tenderness. And Sansa found that she did not really mind that either.

She dreamed an unfamiliar dream. She dreamed that she was back in Winterfell, standing in the godswood. The faces of the weirwood trees looked down upon her from all sides, tears of sap trailing paths down their cheeks. Never forget what you are, they said, a Stark of Winterfell. And you need to wake up, sister. You need to wake up.

When she turned, she could see the shadows of the trees against the ground, lengthening, growing wider and darker and clearer. Father? she thought, watching. She could not see his face, but she knew that it was him. Winter is coming, child, he said, and she could almost taste the snowflakes in the air, feel the chill Northern breeze against her lips. Winter is coming, child, and you need to wake up.

She woke all at once, every nerve atingle. And in that instant, that very first moment, Sansa knew that she and her husband were not alone in the room. Willas was fast asleep, having rolled to the other side of the bed, peaceful in his slumber. His chestnut-coloured curls sprawled beneath his head like a pillow, and his chest was rising and falling in an even, slow rhythm… but something did not quite seem right. Sansa reached over tiredly and stretched out a finger, not quite knowing what she was doing.

A hand grabbed her wrist suddenly, and another clamped down over her face, strangling her startled gasp. A shiver went through her all at once, and she did not know, could not know, what in the seven Hells was going on. The shadow turned, throwing a dark grey cloak back over his shoulder. Sansa struggled a moment, kicked, then realised how little good this was doing.

Her attacker lifted her up almost gently, holding her thick auburn hair with one hand and her back with another. "Stay quiet, little bird," Sandor Clegane told her, his voice a soft growl in the darkness. "You're safe with me now. You're safe with me, and going home."

Author's Note: The longest chapter since 'Blackwater' back in A Coat of Gold. And I have to say, I loved writing this. Some of you will doubtless be angry at me for 500 word descriptions of a feast and clothes, but I think for spectacles of such grandeur you really do have to be exact. I still don't entirely know what samite is, and I'm immensely grateful to the blog at for suggesting so many feast dishes to help with this one. Next chapter will pick up right where the previous one left off. Highgarden, wedding, et cetera.

Reviews on this behemoth would be appreciated massively.