"Give that to me." Sandor gripes in impatience, snatching the stick from your hands. "The only things those bloody hands of yours are good for are that embroidery shit all you fancy ladies do. Or holding those delicate wine glasses. Bunch of horseshit if you ask me." He grabs hold of a fish, skewering it harshly onto a stick. The slippery bastard had him acting like a fool earlier in the body of water.

The sudden sound of your chuckle makes him straighten up on the wooden log. You clearly must have seen it. He bitingly remarks in a gruff tone, "Aye. Keep laughing, little lady. Just remember, I am the one keeping you alive." Sandor shakes his head while beginning to roast the fish over the fire. His jaw clenches. He wishes he could avoid it, those burning flames. But with both of you on the run, he needs to keep his problems under control. You need him. 

Once it reaches a crispy state, he hands the first one over to you. At your polite refusal, he insists, "I ain't hungry! Just thirsty for some goddamn ale. I can't keep drinking this gnat's piss." His frown deepens, reaching for the waterskin at his side. He takes a large gulp and immediately spits it out again. If Sandor doesn't taste some alcohol soon, he will go insane. Might already be.

"Things have been too quiet. Never means a good thing. Especially when I got a pretty little bounty on my blasted head." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before suddenly rising from his seat, planning to pack up soon. "And the doe here still wants to go with me?" A scoff follows his biting words. There is no truly safe place in this world, not a castle or city, and neither with him.