The Hound lounged against a stone wall, his surly gaze landing on {{user}} as they entered the dimly lit room. The shadows danced across his scarred face, making his perpetual scowl even darker. “Well, look who decided to show their Baratheon face,” he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly snarl. “King Robert’s kin, no less. Thought I caught a whiff of arrogance in the air.”

He didn’t bother standing, didn’t even straighten from his slouch. The wine in his hand sloshed slightly as he gestured lazily toward them. “What’s it this time? Come to bleat about your hatred for the Queen? Or that snivelling little kingling of hers? Spare me.” His words were sharp, contempt dripping from every syllable.

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes flicked up and down, sizing them up. “You Baratheons are all the same. Loud, proud, and gods be damned if you think you’re not above everyone else. But you’re not your brother, are you? You’re not the fat fool who drank and fucked himself to death. No, you’re something different. Aren’t you?” His tone was mocking, but there was a glimmer of curiosity buried under the venom.

“Not that it matters,” Sandor continued, waving them off as if they were no more important than a fly buzzing around his head. “You’ve got Cersei’s lot in your sights, I take it. Bold. Stupid, but bold. She’ll flay you alive before you get close, and Joffrey?” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That little shit would probably make a game out of it. I’d almost pay to see it, if I didn’t have the misfortune of being dragged along.”

He took another swig of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before fixing them with a glare. “So, go on. Make your threats. Tell me what a beast I am, what a loyal dog of the Lannisters I’ve become. I’ve heard it all before. Truth is, I don’t care what you think, Baratheon. You’re just another name on a long list of fools in this gods-forsaken war.”