Braavos? His expression seems to read, skeptical. The fuck's in Braavos?
However he'd expected that sentence to end, training with the Faceless Men was not it. She did favor her water dancing, he remembers that. Had been enamored with 'the greatest swordsman who ever lived', he supposes he shouldn't be so surprised she went off to chase after his memory there. Fucking Hells, that girl...
He shakes his head slowly. Jon Snow will be happy to hear she's still alive, assuming he and Sansa haven't already discussed her. Surely they have. It'd been one of the first things he'd brought up when he found Sandor all those weeks ago.
"Don't thank me," he rumbles, irritation lurking in the folds and ruffles of his voice. Annoyance, disappointment — in himself. He reaches for his goblet again, gripping it tightly, scowling into it. "I didn't protect her, did I? I fell to a woman. I failed her. And you. Save your thanks for somebody that's earned it."
Which is, of course, perfect timing for the tavern worker to come merrily bounding back, carrying a plate in either hand. He sets in front of Sansa what is not, technically, roast pork — but may as well be, close enough. Some horned, ridiculous equivalent that lurks in the magical hunting grounds of this fucking batshit world they're on now. In any case, it's meat, and vegetables, and approximately a third of the portion size of what he sets down in front of Sandor, because of course it is.
"Need anything else, my loves?" He asks flamboyantly, earning a dead stare from Sandor and a very, very flat retort.
"I need you to learn how to shut the fuck up for five minutes, can you do that?"
"Oh, San, honey, not for all the coin or pleasure in Abraxas. Scarier men than you have tried. But you two enjoy your supper!" He bounds off again, and Sandor sighs with such extreme fatigue, it's nearly tangible.
no subject
However he'd expected that sentence to end, training with the Faceless Men was not it. She did favor her water dancing, he remembers that. Had been enamored with 'the greatest swordsman who ever lived', he supposes he shouldn't be so surprised she went off to chase after his memory there. Fucking Hells, that girl...
He shakes his head slowly. Jon Snow will be happy to hear she's still alive, assuming he and Sansa haven't already discussed her. Surely they have. It'd been one of the first things he'd brought up when he found Sandor all those weeks ago.
"Don't thank me," he rumbles, irritation lurking in the folds and ruffles of his voice. Annoyance, disappointment — in himself. He reaches for his goblet again, gripping it tightly, scowling into it. "I didn't protect her, did I? I fell to a woman. I failed her. And you. Save your thanks for somebody that's earned it."
Which is, of course, perfect timing for the tavern worker to come merrily bounding back, carrying a plate in either hand. He sets in front of Sansa what is not, technically, roast pork — but may as well be, close enough. Some horned, ridiculous equivalent that lurks in the magical hunting grounds of this fucking batshit world they're on now. In any case, it's meat, and vegetables, and approximately a third of the portion size of what he sets down in front of Sandor, because of course it is.
"Need anything else, my loves?" He asks flamboyantly, earning a dead stare from Sandor and a very, very flat retort.
"I need you to learn how to shut the fuck up for five minutes, can you do that?"
"Oh, San, honey, not for all the coin or pleasure in Abraxas. Scarier men than you have tried. But you two enjoy your supper!" He bounds off again, and Sandor sighs with such extreme fatigue, it's nearly tangible.