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“Nothing but the best, Lord and Lady Stark,” Mace attests, smiling at the couple walking next to him. “Our wealth more than rivals that of the Lannisters. Your daughter will never want, not even for fineries.”

Ned doesn’t explicitly oppose him, but Sansa still sees his wariness. It was the third proposal of a marriage alliance on her name, after all.

It’s not as though Sansa isn’t jaded, as though she doesn’t wake in the middle of most nights still fearing all the things Joffrey and Ramsay had threatened, but she’s desperate for Father to agree this time.

Of course, she can’t plead with him, and certainly not for her truest reasons. She can’t tell him or Mother about many of the fineries and gifts she’s already received, let alone the blissful nights spent upon the slick silk on the bed in Margaery’s chambers.

No, they know only of the shimmering emerald necklace with which Loras had graciously endowed her upon her arrival, whispering in her ear what must have seemed sweet nothings but had been his informing her that he knew her greatest secret, and that he shared it.

“And in a house known for its people’s beauty, none could deny Lady Sansa will be quite at home,” Margaery adds cheerfully, sneaking her hand into Sansa’s from where she stands at her brother’s side.

Barely a fortnight later, she falls asleep with her bare skin against Margaery’s silken linens, a Tyrell in name, and feels quite at home indeed.