It's midday on a Sunday, just at the tail end of breakfast time, when Sandor stalks into the inn where Wrench occasionally breaks his fast. Pays enough attention to the other man, it seems, that he's learned his habits and the places he frequents. In a display of surprising courtesy, he waits at least until the man's already finished his meal before stomping up to his table and thrusting a blunted blade down on the table. It rattles dishes and knocks his fork to the ground; Sandor does not seem particularly apologetic.

He waits only a moment for the other man to assess what he's looking at, and then cuts in before he can even ask;

COME ON, YOU BIG FUCKER. I'M GOING TO TEACH YOU NOT TO BE USELESS WITH A BLADE.

Like it or not, Wrench is one of the only men here he trusts with the capacity to try and guard his back in a battle, and he can't do it with that shit little toy ax he carries around. To be sure, Sandor's taught lesser, smaller men who were even more hopeless than Wrench how to survive longer than five minutes trading blades. This shouldn't be too hard.