A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

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. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she beganto sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.
    It was midday when Septa Mordane knocked upon her door. “Sansa. Your lord father will see you now.”
    Sansa sat up. “Lady,” she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing. She had been dreaming, she realized. Lady was with her, and they were running together, and … and … trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers. The dream faded, and Lady was dead again.
    â€œSansa.” The rap came again, sharply. “Do you hear me?”
    â€œYes, Septa,” she called out. “Might I have a moment to dress, please?” Her eyes were red from crying, but she did her best to make herself beautiful.
    Lord Eddard was bent over a huge leather-bound book when Septa Mordane marched her into the solar, his plaster-wrapped leg stiff beneath the table. “Come here, Sansa,” he said, not unkindly, when the septa had gone for her sister. “Sit beside me.” He closed the book.
    Septa Mordane returned with Arya squirming in her grasp. Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse, but her sister was still wearing the ratty leathers and roughspun she’d worn at breakfast. “Here is the other one,” the septa announced.
    â€œMy thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my daughters alone, if you would be so kind.” The septa bowed and left.
    â€œArya started it,” Sansa said quickly, anxious to have the first word. “She called me a liar and threw an orange at me and spoiled my dress, the ivory silk, the one Queen Cersei gave me when I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey. She hates that I’m going to marry the prince. She tries to spoil
everything
, Father, she can’t stand for anything to be beautiful or nice or splendid.”
    â€œEnough
, Sansa.” Lord Eddard’s voice was sharp with impatience.
    Arya raised her eyes. “I’m sorry, Father. I was wrong and I beg my sweet sister’s forgiveness.”
    Sansa was so startled that for a moment she wasspeechless. Finally she found her voice. “What about my dress?”
    â€œMaybe … I could wash it,” Arya said doubtfully.
    â€œWashing won’t do any good,” Sansa said. “Not if you scrubbed all day and all night. The silk is
ruined.”
    â€œThen I’ll … make you a new one,” Arya said.
    Sansa threw back her head in disdain.
“You?
You couldn’t sew a dress fit to clean the pigsties.”
    Their father sighed. “I did not call you here to talk of dresses. I’m sending you both back to Winterfell.”
    For the second time Sansa found herself too stunned for words. She felt her eyes grow moist again.
    â€œYou
can’t,”
Arya said.
    â€œPlease, Father,” Sansa managed at last. “Please don’t.”
    Eddard Stark favored his daughters with a tired smile. “At last we’ve found something you agree on.”
    â€œI didn’t do anything wrong,” Sansa pleaded with him. “I don’t want to go back.” She loved King’s Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all. “Send Arya away, she started it, Father, I swear it. I’ll be good, you’ll see, just let me stay and I promise to be as fine and noble and courteous as the queen.”
    Father’s mouth twitched strangely. “Sansa, I’m not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I’m sick of you two squabbling. I want you