If you won't rise and dress yourself, my Hound will do it for you, Joffrey said.
I beg of you, my prince...
I'm king now. Dog, get her out of bed.
Sandor Clegane scooped her up around the waist and lifted her off the featherbed as she struggled feebly. Her blanket fell to the floor. Underneath she had only a thin bedgown to cover her nakedness. "Do as you're bid, child," Clegane said. "Dress." He pushed her toward her wardrobe, almost gently.
Sansa backed away from them. "I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you'd be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won't do any treason, I'll be good, I swear it, I don't have traitor's blood, I don't. I only want to go home." Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. "As it please you," she finished weakly.
It does not please me, Joffrey said. "Mother says I'm still to marry you, so you'll stay here, and you'll obey."
I don't want to marry you, Sansa wailed. "You chopped off my father's head!"
He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I'd be merciful, and I was. If he hadn't been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.