He did not even know whether he should be angry with his wife – his wife, whom his family had bought for him no differently from the way men bought horses here and now. Was her blood tainted, as mad soothsayers always claimed of traitors’ children? He’d assumed these months there was something beneath the polite smiles and the courtesy.

As Margaery had said, she was a perfect wife for a lord: her grace and conduct in all things were spotless. Willas disliked perfection. He had a powerful desire to see beneath Sansa’s mask. [winter rose]