“I don’t care for him, Your Grace.” The words tumbled out desperately. “Drown him or have his head off, only … kill him on the morrow, if you like, but please … not today, not on your name day. I couldn’t bear for you to have ill luck … terrible luck, even for kings, the singers all say so …” 

 Joffrey scowled. He knew she was lying, she could see it. He would make her bleed for this. 

“The girl speaks truly,” the Hound rasped. “What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the year.” His voice was flat, as if he did not care a whit whether the king believed him or no. 

Could it be true? Sansa had not known. It was just something she’d said, desperate to avoid punishment.