How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn't the gods who'd been cruel, it was Joffrey. Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. 'We share that view, sweet child.' Tyrion turned to Sansa. 'I'm glad you're not dead,' said Princess Myrcella. 'I was speaking to the king, not to his cur.' One of his eyes was green, one was black, and both were cool. 'They said you were dead,' the Hound said. 'Me,' the Imp agreed, 'although a more courteous greeting might be in order, for an uncle and an elder.' The dwarf went to one knee before the king. Two of his men followed close behind him a black-haired black-eyed sellsword who moved like a stalking cat, and a gaunt youth with an empty socket where one eye should have been. When he lowered her back to the ground, the little man kissed her lightly on the brow and came waddling across the yard toward Joffrey. Myrcella came running after her brother, and the dwarf picked her up by the waist and spun her in a circle, squealing. Tommen's breathless laughter echoed off the walls as Tyrion clapped him on the backplate, and Sansa was startled to see that the two were of a height. One of the savages, a huge shambling man so hairy that his face was all but lost beneath his whiskers, scooped the boy out of his saddle, armor and all, and deposited him on the ground beside his uncle.

Yet Tommen put his spurs into his pony and galloped headlong across the yard, shouting with glee.

A clash of kings companions