Sandor is not enjoying this. There is a fairly deep gouge in his shoulder, far too close to an artery for comfort, his fingers are tingling in a weird way though at least his hand still works, as demonstrated by the fact that he keeps trying it, and not only does that hurt, his pride is even worse. Because it's not like the Tyrell boy said anything untrue, and he knows it, but it's still galling hearing it from someone else. Especially a boy like that one.

And it's almost more galling that Phedre had to step in and stop it. Even if reasonably he knows that if she hadn't he probably would have done something reckless and stupid, because the boy was unwholesomely good at baiting him. He hasn't been that angry in a bit, not truly angry, not enough to lose his head, and fighting like that doesn't work very well, especially with a level-headed opponent.

Not to mention the fact that the Kingslayer is here, that's going to complicate things even more. Basically, Sandor's week? Not looking up.

So having a drink it is.

Sandor is oddly quiet today. He's not hacking at things, though he is sitting on the porch with his sword across his knees. Not sharpening it either, though, just leaning back on his hands and watching the sky. He keeps going over the past night in disbelief, wondering if on rethinking some unexpected catch will reveal itself. It hasn't yet.

And while he's not - happy, there are still people here who want him dead, people who know him too well, or think they do - he feels oddly - all right.

There's a coin in his hand he found in his pocket. He turns it over and over, aimlessly. Thoughtfully.