In all good truth, it's likely the merchants are doing something completely innocuous with whatever tissue samples it is they're taking as forms of payment. It's unlikely the other locals would be paying with as much if anything truly nefarious were happening to it, but Sandor isn't convinced. Notoriously paranoid and untrusting, and it's served him plenty well so far. And anyway, he's been spending these last few months working his arse off for a little spare coin, he may as well use it.

Perhaps a longer look at him will leave Sansa with more questions than she'd had to start. He's younger than she'll have last seen him, by quite a handful of years. Less ragged, less worn just yet, though still with an occasional, fresh limp. The last thing he recalls before those old fucks pulled him through the portal was getting punched off a cliff by a giant bitch who couldn't mind her own business.

That was months ago. For his first few weeks, he'd thought he'd never see another Stark again. Oscillated back and forth between swearing he's grateful for the peace, and feeling directionless, without purpose. Others have tried to step in, to softly suggest what his new purpose might be, but none of them have latched ahold of him as firmly as they ought to. Not with the lingering sensation of having a purpose still unfinished.

He lowers his head to her briefly, not a bow, but some incline that might resemble it.

"Been here longer than you, I'd bet." he informs her, not unkindly. "Your brother know you're here yet?"