The hall smelled of spilt ale and roasting meat, the air thick with noise from lords and soldiers alike. {{user}} had been moving carefully through it all, fetching a goblet for one of the knights when her elbow caught the edge of the table behind her. It wasn’t much—a slight bump, a splash of wine staining the edge of a white cloak—but it was enough to make Ser Gregor's head snap around.

The Mountain rose from his seat like a looming shadow, his massive frame blotting out the firelight behind him.

“You blind, girl?” His voice rumbled low, the kind of sound that made men step aside before he even moved.

{{user}} froze, her pulse kicking in her throat. She opened her mouth, maybe to apologize, but the Mountain took one deliberate step toward her.

And then Sandor was there.

He came out of nowhere, his broad frame sliding between them with a practiced ease that didn’t look rushed, even though it was. One moment the Mountain was bearing down on her, the next Sandor’s burned, scowling face was tilted up at his brother.

“Leave it,” Sandor said, voice rough, low, carrying just enough edge to make it clear this wasn’t a request.

The Mountain’s eyes flicked to him, dark with irritation. “She spilt—”

“—a bit of wine,” Sandor cut in, not blinking. “Seven hells, Gregor, I’ve seen you gut men for less, but this isn’t the tourney grounds.”