They're not friends, and if Sandor has anything to say about it they never will be (but then again, he'd had the same thoughts about Arya Stark and, later, Dondarrion and Thoros, and look how that turned out). Even so, they don't need to be friends for Sandor to have at least some interest in keeping the curly haired cunt from dying to wayward boar. For one, he's the only man here Sandor's found he can tolerate drinking near. Maybe just because he doesn't fucking talk, but still.
He would like to emphasize, none of this means he likes the fucker. Just for the record.
OF COURSE I CAN SKIN A FUCKING BOAR.
It's accompanied by an eye roll of ever so faint annoyance, and he hoists one of the massive beasts up onto one shoulder, carrying it away from the treeline and closer toward the encampment, just in case any last minute stragglers decide to burst forth and avenge their fallen brethren.
He starts the butchering process with one of the knives he swipes from the dining tables. After a few minutes of working in companionable silence, he finally breaks it with an unexpected spike of curiosity.
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He would like to emphasize, none of this means he likes the fucker. Just for the record.
It's accompanied by an eye roll of ever so faint annoyance, and he hoists one of the massive beasts up onto one shoulder, carrying it away from the treeline and closer toward the encampment, just in case any last minute stragglers decide to burst forth and avenge their fallen brethren.
He starts the butchering process with one of the knives he swipes from the dining tables. After a few minutes of working in companionable silence, he finally breaks it with an unexpected spike of curiosity.