The wedding feast began.
King Robert's roars, the nobles' hollow laughter, and the bright clinking of goblets mingled together.
Sansa Stark held a goblet of untouched Golden Wine from the Arbor.
She stood quietly in the shadows of the hall, utterly listless.
She watched the man surrounded by the crowd.
Her Lynn.
He was smiling, exchanging pleasantries with the nobles who came to toast him.
His smile was courteous, impeccable.
Yet that smile pierced Sansa straight through the heart.
He was Myrcella Baratheon's husband now.
Every breath burned with that knowledge.
That kiss in the sept.
That kiss, so full of possession and proclamation.
Like an indelible brand, it replayed over and over in her mind.
Myrcella had won.
She had won this silent war in a way that bordered on humiliation.
Sansa felt her throat tighten.
The stale air in the hall, thick with roast meat, perfume, and sweat, nearly made her retch.
She could not bear to stay another moment.
She set down her goblet, lifted her skirts, and slipped silently through the noisy crowd toward the terrace overlooking the garden.
The cool night breeze carried a faint, crisp scent of roses across her burning cheeks.
It cleared her tangled thoughts a little.
She rested her hands on the cold stone balustrade and gazed down at the brightly lit King's Landing.
I only lost once.
It doesn't matter.
But I can't fall.
I'm Sansa Stark.
A Direwolf from the North!
And the Master of Coin Lord Lynn personally trained!
I still have my power, my intelligence.
As long as I hold this position, I still have a chance to turn things around!
She firmly believed that!
"The night breeze is rather chilly, Miss Stark."
A sweet, clear voice, carrying a hint of coldness, sounded a short distance behind