She simply desired to be Queen Sansa. She anxiously donned the finest attire she had brought from Winterfell, yet remained uncertain if her appearance was sufficiently proper. After all, Margaery Tyrell had invited her to visit her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns. Ser Loras had also entered King's Landing with the host of Highgarden, and even from a distance, his presence filled Sansa with delight.
Jeyne Poole had received an invitation as well, while Arya, wild as a boy, seemed utterly indifferent to hers.
"Let her go," Sansa scoffed. "You'll just be off to marry that stableboy."
Arya shot her a glare. "And you'll be off to marry your precious prince. At least my stableboy wouldn't bore me to tears with talk of embroidery."
Under the escort of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant, the three girls climbed into the carriage. In an effort to quiet Arya, Sansa recounted the legendary tale of the Queen of Thorns. However, upon hearing the story of Luthor Tyrell riding off a cliff, Arya's face contorted in displeasure.
"Wasn't it merely a matter of his not looking where he was going? Why make a song of it? Father says gossip is unbecoming of a lady."
Sansa found herself at a loss for words. She recognized her error; one must never speak of romanticized tales in front of Arya. Septa Mordane once said that politeness was the armor of a noblewoman, but it was certainly not Arya's.
"Politeness is a shield for stupid people," Arya declared, making a face. But upon seeing Sansa's lovely face fall, her heart softened. "Very well, I shall strive to maintain decorum. For you."
When they arrived at the Tyrell manse and were introduced by Ser Garlan, Sansa felt her heart race anew. Arya cast her a disdainful glance. "Could you not aspire to something greater than a fluttering heart?"
Margaery, equally charming and poised, elicited Arya's complete disinterest. She yearned solely to traverse the seas in search of Jon. The prospect of adventurous escapades was utterly enticing. Yet, Prince Renly had refused to let her depart alone, insisting he must inform her parents first.
Upon meeting the Queen of Thorns, Arya's disappointment peaked. The frail old woman bore no resemblance to the formidable figure of her imagination.
The Queen of Thorns initiated the conversation. "Ladies of House Stark, might you have an interest in visiting the Arbor?"
Arya furrowed her brow. "Are there water dancers from Braavos there?"
Sansa gently admonished her sister, then donned a poised and graceful smile. "I believe our parents would not object, though it would be best to inform them."
The Queen of Thorns displayed a dry smile, her wrinkles shifting. "Indeed. Such a lady, such a wild child." There was no error in her words; Arya was attempting to make herself more uncomfortable.
"What precisely is your purpose in inviting us?" Arya asked bluntly. "If we are to visit the Arbor, must you entertain us? It seems a thankless task."
Margaery offered a sweet, forgiving smile. "Not at all. I have longed for the companionship of girls my own age. Is Margaery the only girl in the Arbor?" Though Arya refrained from voicing her skepticism, it was evident on her face.
Sansa, however, was elated. "That is splendid. I have heard the Arbor is adorned with flowers, exceptionally beautiful."
Ser Garlan chuckled. "That is what others say. If you wish to go, then by all means."
"Are you not coming?" Arya quipped, spearing a piece of lemon cake with her fork.
"I prefer my adventures on the sea," Arya continued. "I wish to sail in search of Jon. If that fails, I shall return to the North to practice swordplay with Robb."
It was then that Sansa remembered Robb. Strangely, she had only recently arrived in King's Landing, yet she had nearly forgotten her own brother. She contemplated that it would not be impossible for Arya to return North.
"What a pity indeed!" Margaery sighed softly, though her every gesture remained that of a true lady. She took Sansa's hand and confessed, "In truth, Sansa, I have long been envious of you." Margaery rarely blushed, yet now, two rosy hues graced her cheeks. "I have always admired Prince Renly. You cannot imagine how delighted I was to learn of my impending marriage to him."
Sansa was taken aback. No one had ever mentioned such a betrothal to her. Arya rolled her eyes discreetly, convinced this rose was spinning tales.
"You do not truly love him," Arya said, the words slipping out. "You merely desire to be the queen sung of by minstrels."
The Queen of Thorns smiled once more. "You are quite the amusing child."
Sansa, frightened, hastened to defend her sister. "Margaery, Arya did not mean it that way. She is simply blunt."
Margaery gently shook her head. "Oh, I am well aware. Do not worry. I shall not take offense." Her smile was understanding, and Sansa missed the sharp look that passed between Margaery and her grandmother.
Later, in the carriage, Arya chattered incessantly. "Be cautious, Sansa, just as Renly warned. That old woman doesn't envision your fairy tale. She may well seek to wed you to her crippled grandson."
Sansa retorted, "That cannot be true! Father would never allow it."
Arya fell silent, gazing quietly at the passing city, feeling that it was time for her to depart. If she did not leave soon, this gilded cage would completely engulf her sister