Liar, Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice squeeze between her fingers.
Go ahead, call me all the names you want, Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.
You have juice on your face, Your Grace, Arya said.
It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what thefruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. "You're horrible," she screamed at her sister. "They should have killed you instead of Lady!"
Septa Mordane came lurching to her feet. "Your lord father will hear of this! Go to your chambers, at once. At once!"
Me too? Tears welled in Sansa's eyes. "That's not fair."
The matter is not subject to discussion. Go!
Sansa stalked away with her head up. She was to be a queen, and queens did not cry. At least not where people could see. When she reached her bedchamber, she barred the door and took off her dress. 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.