( That's something; Sandor's answer is a flat, dubious mutter of: )

If you say so.

( Seeing Dondarrion brought back from the fucking dead by Thoros the fire priest after Sandor himself cleaved a blade ten inches through his clavicle might have given him sort of an unfair precedent to judge this by.

He shakes his head, a small frown tugging at his lips on the burned side. )

Save it. I'm no practice dummy for your maester training. The rest'll heal well enough on their own.

( A beat later, warily: )

I hope you're not expecting coin for that, because I haven't got any.