"Let me beat her!" Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering.
He was armed with a "morningstar" whose head was a melon. My Florian.
She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all.
He trotted his broomstick around her, shouting "Traitor, traitor" and whacking her over the head with the melon.
Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky by the second blow.
People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces.
Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.
Joffrey did not so much as snigger. "Boros. Meryn."
Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely away.
The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and all.
Ser Boros seized Sansa.
"Leave her face," Joffrey commanded. "I like her pretty."
Boros slammed a fist into Sansa's belly, driving the air out of her.
When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat.
As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the blow.
Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes.
It will be over soon.
She soon lost count of the blows.
"Enough," she heard the Hound rasp.
"No it isn't," the king replied. "Boros, make her naked."
Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa's bodice and gave a hard yank.
The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist.
Sansa covered her breasts with her hands.
She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel.
"Beat her bloody," Joffrey said, "we'll see how her brother fancies—"
"What is the meaning of this?"
The Imp's voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa was free.
She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest, her breath ragged.