That almost inspires a laugh out of Wrench. It's as close as anyone seems to have gotten since he's been here, at least. The short burst of air through his nose seems suddenly amused, though his expression barely changes. Maybe there's a little bit more light behind his pale green eyes, but he's not quick to go drawing any parallels that might make Sandor balk. He can already imagine the other man's firm insistence that the two of them are nothing alike, and the pile of evidence he'd no doubt hurl to prove how less Wrench is by comparison.

He'd never, for example, have had the wherewithal to tell Tripoli to fuck off. But living vicariously through Sandor's own story is an unexpected delight. Wrench leans forward even as the other man is leaning back, posting both elbows on the table and falling straight into the tale.

All but dead thanks to the king? Did he send men after you to bring you back?