A loan, she says, and he snorts. No need for all that, nor to think of it as anything especially significant. It's just a bloody flower, for a woman who's been ripped from her home. It's a trifle, and nothing more.
"Shut up about the coin, girl. You still owe no debts to the South. Come on."
He nods his head westward, and sets off to lead them out of the shop. Yes, he knows of a place. Yes, he'll buy her some food and some mead if she'll have it. No, he'll not be keeping a fucking ledger of it.
The place he takes her isn't far, and perhaps not fit for a highborn lady, but nowhere in Nocwich truly is. It isn't bad, though. The folks who run it are a little rough and a lot hirsute, given that it's overrun by fucking werewolves — maybe that'll feel a little homey to her, though, all things considered.
The pedestrians in the walkways veer away from him and give them a wide berth, but there's something different about it here. It's thoughtless, absent, polite — nobody here seems to fear him, and very few seem all that put off by his scars. It is, if anything, only his size that has them subconsciously moving, probably so they don't get bowled over more than anything. People in both Nocwich and in Solvunn accept the Hound far more than damn near anyone in Westeros ever did. Even the tavern keeper seems strangely taken with him, beaming pleasantly and offering him a wave as they step through the door — to which he does little more than nod mildly in return.
"The usual, San?" Asks the rakish bastard, dropping a carafe off at their table.
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" He snaps.
"Oh, at least once more, I think. And what'll the pretty lady have tonight?"
"Bring her the Torcainse, and keep your hands to yourself if you want them to stay attached," he warns with a growl, though the young man seems completely unfazed by his attitude.
"As you wish, you mean old bear," comes his chipper, adoring retort — and then he skirts off again, back toward the kitchens to set about their order.
Sandor reaches for the carafe, muttering under his breath, "I hate that fucking twat."
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"Shut up about the coin, girl. You still owe no debts to the South. Come on."
He nods his head westward, and sets off to lead them out of the shop. Yes, he knows of a place. Yes, he'll buy her some food and some mead if she'll have it. No, he'll not be keeping a fucking ledger of it.
The place he takes her isn't far, and perhaps not fit for a highborn lady, but nowhere in Nocwich truly is. It isn't bad, though. The folks who run it are a little rough and a lot hirsute, given that it's overrun by fucking werewolves — maybe that'll feel a little homey to her, though, all things considered.
The pedestrians in the walkways veer away from him and give them a wide berth, but there's something different about it here. It's thoughtless, absent, polite — nobody here seems to fear him, and very few seem all that put off by his scars. It is, if anything, only his size that has them subconsciously moving, probably so they don't get bowled over more than anything. People in both Nocwich and in Solvunn accept the Hound far more than damn near anyone in Westeros ever did. Even the tavern keeper seems strangely taken with him, beaming pleasantly and offering him a wave as they step through the door — to which he does little more than nod mildly in return.
"The usual, San?" Asks the rakish bastard, dropping a carafe off at their table.
"How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" He snaps.
"Oh, at least once more, I think. And what'll the pretty lady have tonight?"
"Bring her the Torcainse, and keep your hands to yourself if you want them to stay attached," he warns with a growl, though the young man seems completely unfazed by his attitude.
"As you wish, you mean old bear," comes his chipper, adoring retort — and then he skirts off again, back toward the kitchens to set about their order.
Sandor reaches for the carafe, muttering under his breath, "I hate that fucking twat."