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Sansa arrived in Highgarden on a blustery autumn morning, but it did little to diminish the beauty of the castle. Indeed, it was everything that Margaery had promised it would be. A castle of shining white stone, surrounded by a labyrinth of crimson roses and dark thorns. Like Winterfell, it rested on a hill, but this green hill overlooked the burbling Mander, and unlike Winterfell, it was not currently buried under mountains of snow.
The leaves on the trees were orange and gold, but winter had not yet come to the Reach. Sansa almost wished it had. The silence of the snows might have been a comfort to her; her days had been filled with chaos and noise since the King’s wedding. Joffrey was dead. The daily reminder of this should have delighted her, filled her with relief and joy. This was what she wanted. The Imp was dead, executed for the murder of his nephew, she was a widow, and still a maiden at that, and she was free.
She had tried, every day of her travel west- and it had been a long journey, two months on the Roseroad- to be grateful, to be happy, to find that girlish glee she had once felt at the idea of wedding Willas. She didn’t know him, but he was sure to be as handsome as his brothers, even if he was very old, four-and-twenty. He was sure to be as gentle and kind and clever as Margaery and Lady Alerie and all the others had promised her. So why didn’t she feel relieved? Why didn’t she feel satisfied?
Because everyone I love is dead, she thought. Because I was ruined by my husband, even if he never truly touched me, and before him, Joffrey. The Lannisters had tainted her. When Willas saw the scars on her back from the Kingsguard’s beatings, when he realized she’d been in bed with a man before, even a man who hadn’t taken her maidenhead- he would be disgusted.
Or worse, he would see how stupid she was, how stupid Joffrey and Cersei and all the others had discovered. Even the Tyrells had learned that. She understood they didn’t want her for the sake of saving a helpless maid, or even because she was so beautiful or charming. They wanted her for her claim, for her blood, for Winterfell, just as the Lannisters had. And they had washed their hands of her with no regrets as soon as she’d been claimed by Tyrion Lannister.
Now they were all smiles again- Ser Garlan the Gallant and his sweet lady wife and Margaery’s giggling cousins- but Sansa knew the truth. When she inevitably disappointed the Tyrells again- if Willas disliked her, if she offended or disobeyed him, if she didn’t bear him sons- they would turn away from her. They might not kill her the way Joff would have, but they’d find a way to punish her for it. Lock her away in some tower or send her to the Silent Sisters.
Occasionally, she felt a pang of pity for Margaery, despite it all- to be married to a fat little boy like Tommen was no great glory, and she’d have Cersei breathing down her neck for years to come, even if the Queen had been mollified by the execution of her hated brother- but only once in a while. Margaery was still queen, or at least, she’d truly be queen when Tommen came of age in eight years. And chances were, she and Tommen would have children before then, pretty sons and daughters with soft brown hair and big green eyes.
Sansa wondered what her children would look like. She still dreamed of little boys like her brothers, wrestling in the snow, and even a daughter like Arya, picking wildflowers for her father. But perhaps there would be nothing Stark or Tully about them. Perhaps they’d be Tyrell through and through. That might please Willas. She didn’t know. Garlan spoke so warmly of his brother, but she no longer trusted Garlan.
She met her betrothed in a courtyard with a fountain and a pear tree. Immediately the sinking sense of disappointment consumed her, another predictable wave. Willas was not ugly- he was a beauty compared to Tyrion- but he was no handsome young knight. He resembled his father, Lord Mace, far more than he did his younger brothers.
True, he shared Loras’ brown ringlets and lively eyes, but he walked with a pronounced limp, like an old man, and had to lean on a cane at all times. Walking clearly winded him, and while not tremendously fat, he was thick and soft around the middle, with a pudgy face. At least he didn’t share his plump father’s pointed beard, Sansa thought dully. Nor did he seem delighted to see her. His dark eyes roved over her not with pleasure or lust but something more like exasperation, as if he’d been hoping she wouldn’t arrive after all. He only broke into a genuine grin when he embraced Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette.
“Mother and Father send their love,” Garlan said, “But they are planning Marg’s wedding and could not tear themselves away. They sent Elinor and the Gracefords with us, and Alyn as well.”
“I was not anticipating a large wedding party, fear not,” Willas said dryly. “Septon Hugh is prepared to conduct the ceremony at any time, but I thought tomorrow evening would best, after you’ve all had time to settle in.”
He scarcely looked at Sansa as he spoke. She said nothing; if she began chirping, she feared she would interrupt him and irritate her betrothed.
“That sounds perfect,” Garlan said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. Sansa realized Willas was taller than garlan; only the stooping of his injury made him appear shorter.
Leonette, however, cleared her throat, and said, “Does that sound to your liking, Lady Sansa?”
The question was not meant to be answered with a ‘no’, of course. Sansa knew her duty. She smiled sweetly and nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. She knew her hair was frizzy and dusty from weeks of riding, that her cloak was spattered with mud, and that her shoes were filthy. Perhaps Willas would warm to her once he saw her in proper clothing, bathed and smelling like something other than horseflesh.
She was allowed to dine alone that night, mercifully. The rooms she had been given were gorgeous; the walls were covered in pink and green silks, and a tapestry full of unicorns and maidens hung over the bed. Yet she’d had luxurious rooms in the Red Keep, too, and servants to wait on her. That had not changed her misery, nor had it protected her from knights’ armored fists or the flats of their blades.
The Tyrells are different, she told herself. They may be cold and calculating, but they would never have me beaten the way Joffrey did. They would think that savage and uncouth. But perhaps she was wrong, as she’d been about Joffrey. And there were ways to hurt a girl without having her stripped and beaten in public. There were ways to hurt a girl behind closed doors, if you liked.
That night, she dreamed of her wedding night to Tyrion Lannister, only instead of the Imp in bed beside her, it was Willas Tyrell. He put his hand on her breast, like her late husband had, and squeezed. The pain was unbearable; when she looked down, thorns poked out of his meaty fingers, and pricked inside her skin, until everything inside her was sharp and jagged, like broken glass or shards of ice.
The next morning, she woke shaky and sick. For a little while, she prayed she had her moonblood or a fever- any reason to delay the ceremony for a few days. But by the time her maid entered, it had passed, and she was able to calmly dress and eat her breakfast. She had bathed the night before, and her auburn hair fell once more luxurious and gleaming to her waist. She had worn ivory and silver when she’d wed Tyrion, but she was a widow now, not a new fresh bride, and besides that, traitor and murderer or not, she was meant to still be in mourning.
She wore black satin to wed Willas, though it was trimmed with white lace. The bodice was cut to reveal the tops of her breasts, to show that despite her age, she was not a child anymore. She knew she was as tall as some grown women already, and perhaps that would make it easier for Willas to forget, if her youth was what disturbed him. But Sansa doubted that. She was thirteen now, and knew that men adored inexperience and helplessness. She didn’t doubt she had those qualities in excess. The problem was that they also loved innocence, and Sansa knew she was no longer an innocent. She had not been for a very long time.
“You look lovely,” everyone told her that day. Sansa smiled and nodded. She was glad she was not fighting back tears and beet-red, as she had been when she married Tyrion. She put up a front of frigid calm instead, and found it helped to simply allow things to happen around and to her. When the sunlight grew thin, they brought her to the castle’s grand sept. It was far more spacious and lovely than the one at Winterfell, but Sansa felt no solace there, no more than she had in the sept of the Red Keep.
It was so strange; the sept of Highgarden could easily have sat well over a hundred worshippers, but only a dozen or so nobles gathered to watch Sansa become Willas’ wife. Septon Hugh’s words echoed drearily in the massive space, and when Willas took the Lannister cloak from her shoulders and replaced it with the golden rose of House Tyrell, Sansa felt absolutely nothing. She had not belonged to Tyrion, not truly, and she doubted she would ever truly belong to this man.
The feast afterwards was far less lavish, a dinner, really, compared to the weddings Sansa had attended at the Red Keep, but as she had no appetite, she didn’t care. There was no dancing, as Willas could no longer dance, and only two singers, who carefully chose sedate, sweet ballads, nothing raucous or lusty. She wondered if Willas or perhaps Garlan had warned them to keep things light and calm. Did they fear she might fly into a hysterical tantrum? Try to flee? Break down and beg, as she had once begged Cersei Lannister?
She drank as much wine as she could. She hadn’t been drunk enough for her wedding night with the Imp. She intended to ensure she didn’t remember this tomorrow. Willas frowned and eventually put a hand over her cup, preventing her from refilling it, but by then she was too tipsy to feel real fear at having already displeased him. What did it matter? He’d make his feelings known as soon as he ordered her to disrobe, just as all men did.
There was no bedding ceremony, either. Instead, Garlan and Leonette led a toast to the newlyweds, and Sansa left the hall with her husband, just as she had with Tyrion, what seemed like years ago, though it was really only six months. She couldn’t read Willas’ face in the dark, and she didn’t try to.
When she looked for men in the dark, she thought of the Hound, of his burning body pressed against hers and the blade at her throat. She wished he had taken more than a kiss; she wished he’d raped her so she wouldn’t have to endure this wretched dance yet again. How many husbands would she have? Was Willas in good health? He didn’t seem frail, despite his stilted gait. Would he want her after she’d had his children? She tried to picture lying under him, under any man. Did it hurt dreadfully? More than a beating? More than her moonblood?
When they finally reached his chamber, he limped to the bed, then sat down with a groan. She watched him take off his shoes, so slowly, how hesitant he was with his bad leg, wary of provoking the pain.
“Shall I disrobe, my lord?” she asked, after a few moments.
“No,” he said, immediately. “You’re drunk. I did not think I was so sorry a sight that you’d feel the need to drink us both under the table, yet here we are, my lady.”
It took her a little while to process his flat words.
“I’m sorry, I was nervous,” she murmured, ducking her head. “Please forgive me, Ser.”
“I’m not a Ser, I was never knighted,” he snorted.
None of her men were ever knights, were they?
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you terribly,” she said, without looking up. At the very least, with that crippled leg, he could not easily get to his feet and grab her, hurt her. She’d have to come to him.
“I was embarrassed the moment you arrived,” he said shortly. “My father described you as a woman grown. You’re a little girl. I thought you’d at least be of age with my sister.”
Sansa finally looked up. His face was not mottled with rage, but it was flushed pink, and she realized now he was a little drunk, too. She felt a stab of anger. How many times must she stand here and be condescended to, lectured, disparaged? She was never enough for anyone. Once, she had been. Her mother and father had loved and cherished her. Her siblings had liked her, save for Arya and Jon Snow. She’d had friends at Winterfell. Then she’d come south and everything had gone to ruin. And the ruin would never end.
“I am not a little girl,” she said, her hands in loose fists by her sides. She strode over to the bed and sat boldly in his lap, on his good leg. She placed a hand on his chest, another on his arm. He felt nice. Not bloated or grotesque, and up close, his eyes were striking, the same gold flecks in them as the rest of his siblings’. “I am a widow, and now a wife again, a woman grown,” she told him.
She could smell the wine on his breath, or was it hers? He was breathing fast now. Was he excited? Nervous? Mayhaps he’d never even had a woman before, being a cripple. But she knew that was absurd; look how many whores the Imp had, whenever he pleased. Any man with money could have a woman every hour of the day, if he so desired.
She knew she had to be brave, to prove herself to him. He was testing her, as every Tyrell did. She took his limp hand and placed it on one of her breasts. She braced herself.
He removed his hand, put both hands around her waist, and lifted her out of his lap and set her roughly down on the bed. He reached for his cane and she scrambled away from him in a tipsy panic and a whisper of satin. By the time he got himself to his feet, she was huddled on the far side of the enormous bed.
“You thought I was going to strike you with it,” he said incredulously.
Sansa shook her head, but now the tears began to roll down her hot face. The pity on his face made her feel far worse than if he had simply beaten her. She could have accepted the pain of a wooden cane bashing hard against her spine or the backs of her legs or her buttocks. It couldn’t hurt more than an iron sword or gauntlet, and pain was always preferable to pity. She understood, finally, how Tyrion had felt on their wedding night. She realized the look on her face when she beheld him naked must have been something like this.
“You need to rest,” her husband told her. “I will sleep somewhere else tonight.”
No, she thought. No, no, no. If they didn’t consummate the marriage, if he was finished with her already, they’d send her back to the Red Keep, back to Cersei. The Queen would find some awful Lannister for her to marry and send her to Casterly Rock. She would die under that mountain. She’d never see the sun again.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so forward, my lord. I apologize, truly, you’re right, I drank too much and lost my senses. But I feel better now, much better.” She tucked her knees under her, smoothed down her rumpled skirt, her disheveled hair.
“I can be a good wife to you, I swear it. I know I am young, but I am a true maiden, and I know you can- I know we can be happy, Willas, please. I’ll do whatever you desire, whatever you’d like.” She swallowed, and made herself smile. Smile, always smile, she reminded herself. No man wants to see you pursing your lips or glowering at him. “Would you like to remove my gown? Or unbraid my hair?”
“Sansa,” he said. “You are three-and-ten. I am not going to touch you.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“But I am to give you sons, I promised your lord father I would,” she babbled. “I know my duty, Lady Alerie told me, your sister too, I am to be a good wife to you-,”
“My parents will be in King’s Landing for the rest of the year, if not longer,” Willas said shortly. “Let me make you aware of something very important, Sansa. I am Lord Tyrell in my father’s absence. He does not command me from afar. And he certainly cannot command me to deflower a girl of your years. I know I am not the first cripple you’ve wed, but unlike the Imp, I can be fairly sure my sire will not put me to the sword for disobeying him.”
“My husband was executed for murder, not disobedience,” she said in a small voice.
“Is that what they told you?” he asked, and his tone seemed to dance between mockery and deep sadness. He looked like he might say more for a moment, but then he turned and slowly left the room, his cane scraping on the floor.
She slept deeply that night, for the first time in weeks, aided by the wine. She quite enjoyed it, despite the headache that greeted her in the morning. She’d have to drink more often. A tray of breakfast had been brought in for her, but she was more interested in the note left on the bedside table. Her new husband had such neat, small handwriting, it was almost womanly.
Lady Sansa, it read. I apologize for my harsh words last night. We both overindulged, and said things I am sure we both regret. You are not a disappointment to me. I merely wish to get to know you better.
He had left her a flower from the gardens in a crystal vase. To her surprise, it was not a rose. It was a forget-me-not, in the palest shade of blue. Sansa touched the petals with her finger, then folded up the note until it was a tiny square. She had no idea what he meant when he said he wished to get to know her. But she wasn’t a disappointment, if he was telling the truth. And at the very least, he’d been more honest with her than any Tyrell thus far.