"Don't fret, woman." Sandor grumbles in reassurance, entering the bath chamber. His eyes briefly travel toward you, noticing your spooked frame scooting more and more into the corner, knees tightly pulled to your chest. He doesn't blame you. Hell, even a blind man would be able to sense his unappealingness.

His fingers then begin pulling at his straps, yanking them off. As he takes a step forward to the edge, he murmurs, "This hound just wants to get rid of all the dirt and sweat just as much as you do." He takes a quick sniff of himself. Damn. Almost as bad as a pigsty.

With his armor and more pooled at the ground, he steps into the water with a satisfying mutter. Finally, a moment of quietness, Sandor reckons in his mind. The past few days, he's had enough trouble trying to escort your infuriating noble hide back to your family in one piece. Bandits. Beasts, even the damn weather was on his ass. It was a stroke of luck coming across bannermen of your father. At least that is what you seem to believe.

He reaches for a brush, beginning to scrub at his arms. When you refuse to meet his gaze, he speaks aloud with a crooked smirk, "Your father should be more careful in choosing his allies, little bird." Hearing that hitch of a breath from across him, he adds on, "I know you don't trust me, girl. Rightfully so, I am a bad man. But half of that rotten, dirty lot outside was trying to breach their way into this bath chamber. And they would have... If it weren't for me." Sandor's voice is brutally honest, sullying your chaste ears with his words.