Among the illustrated pop-culture stationery available via Hollaback Cards is this one – cleverly suggested as a “get well soon” card but certainly applicable for any situation where one’s social stock might plummet.
Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”
Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table,” she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf,” Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue.
“I hate riding,” Sansa said fervently. “All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore.”
Joffrey reflected a moment. “We could go riding." "Oh, I love riding,” Sansa said.
Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher’s boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick.
Sansa lifted her head. “It will be a splendid event. You shan’t be wanted.”
“I’m sore all over,” Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.“You must be a terrible dancer,“ Sansa said
"There was a black brother,”Sansasaid, “begging men for the Wall, only he was kind of old and smelly.” She hadn’t liked that at all.
“Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansasaid airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.”
The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. “I hate her!” she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night’s fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.
That night Sansa dreamt of Joffrey on the throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies.
“It’s not fair!“ Sansa pushed back from her table, knocked over her chair, and ran weeping from the solar.