The king was growing bored. it made Sansa anxious. She lowered her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one of his rages.  “Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish,” cried the herald. “Ser Dontos the Red, of House Hollard. “  The freerider, a small man in dented plate without device, duly appeared at the west end of the yard, but of his opponent there was no sign. Finally a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos was not on it. The knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. His legs were pale and skinny, and his manhood flopped about obscenely as he chased after his horse. The watchers roared and shouted insults. Catching his horse by the bridle, Ser Dontos tried to mount, but the animal would not stand still and the knight was so drunk that his bare foot kept missing the stirrup.  By then the crowd was howling with laughter... all but the king. Joffrey had a look in his eyes that Sansa remembered well, the same look he’d had at the Great Sept of Baelor the day he pronounced death on Lord Eddard Stark. Finally Ser Dontos the Red gave it up for a bad job, sat down in the dirt, and removed his plumed helm. “I lose,” he shouted. “Fetch me some wine.”  The king stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see him drowned in it.”  Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”  Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”  Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say anything, only... Ser Dontos was drunk and silly and useless, but he meant no harm.  “Did you say I can’t? Did you?”  “Please,” Sansa said, “I only meant... it would be ill luck, Your Grace... to, to kill a man on your name day.”  “You’re lying,” Joffrey said. “I ought to drown you with him, if you care for him so much.”  “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 believ............