Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.  “I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey,” the dwarf said.  “What loss?”  “Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black beard; you’ll recall him if you try. He was king before you.”  “Oh, him. Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed him.”  “Is that what ‘they’ say, Your Grace?”  Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, “I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord.”  “A great many people are sorry for that,” Tyrion replied, “and before I am done, some may be a deal sorrier... yet I thank you for the sentiment. Joffrey, where might I find your mother?”  “She’s with my council,” the king answered. “Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles.” He gave Sansa an angry look, as if it were her fault. “He’s been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her stupid brother is calling himself a king.”  The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days.”   Joff did not know what to make of that, though he looked suspicious and out of sorts. “Yes. Well. I am pleased you’re not dead, Uncle. Did you bring me a gift for my name day?”  “I did. My wits.”  “I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,” Joff said with a sly glance at Sansa. “Tommen,............