Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. "I hate you," she whispered.
King Joffrey's face hardened. "My mother tells me that it isn't fitting that a king should strike his wife. Sir Meryn."
The knight was on her before she could think, yanking back her hand as she tried to shield her face and backhanding her across the ear with a gloved fist. Sansa did not remember failing, yet the next she knew she was sprawled on one knee amongst the rushes. Her head was ringing. Sir Meryn Trant stood over her, with blood on the knuckles of his white silk glove.
Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?
Sansa's ear felt numb. She touched it, and her fingertips came away wet and red. "I... as... as you command, my lord."
Your Grace, Joffrey corrected her. "I shall look for you in court." He turned and left.