Inside the Master of Coin's Tower.
Sansa Stark stood by the window, looking down at the Kingsroad below, already buried beneath flowers.
She had not slept all night.
She simply could not sleep.
Faint dark circles lay beneath her beautiful blue eyes, though she had skillfully concealed them with powder.
She wore a sky-blue gown, her favorite color, the color of the sky over Winterfell.
Delicate direwolf patterns were embroidered in silver thread along its neckline and cuffs.
They were her pride as the eldest daughter of House Stark.
She watched the maids lavishly scatter basket after basket of golden rose petals over the cold paving stones.
Those petals should have been laid for her.
The man about to receive the homage of thousands and marry a princess should have been her husband!
Yet now, she was merely a spectator?
A pitiful spectator dressed in her finest, forced to offer her "heartfelt" blessings at her rival's wedding...
"Lady Sansa, it is time to leave."
A maid's voice sounded behind her.
Sansa did not turn around. She merely murmured her assent.
She took one last look at the golden sea outside the window, then turned and left the room that made her feel as though she were suffocating.
Every step made her cracked heart more fragile.
The atmosphere inside Maegor's Holdfast was entirely different.
Myrcella Baratheon, the undisputed star of the day, sat quietly before her dressing table.
She allowed a dozen maids to bustle around her like bees around their queen, putting the final touches on her appearance.
She wore a gown that would have driven every woman in the Seven Kingdoms wild.
The finest ivory silk from Lys shimmered with a soft luster.
The gown's design was not elaborate, but its perfect tailoring traced the delicate curves just