( The short cunt stares at him. He stares back. The short cunt doesn't blink, and under his breath might come something that sounds suspiciously like: creepy fucker.
But creepy fucker's got a point. Pointless death suits no one — a philosophy he's perhaps been mulling on in the back of his mind, despite it being antithetical to every scrap of his orders and his behavior for the vast majority of his life.
And then he's presented with clean water, and soap, and a sewing needle, and The Hound squints suspiciously at his benevolent benefactor for the gift. What's the catch? What's the price? )
Are you supposed to be some kind of maester? You don't look like any I've ever seen.
no subject
But creepy fucker's got a point. Pointless death suits no one — a philosophy he's perhaps been mulling on in the back of his mind, despite it being antithetical to every scrap of his orders and his behavior for the vast majority of his life.
And then he's presented with clean water, and soap, and a sewing needle, and The Hound squints suspiciously at his benevolent benefactor for the gift. What's the catch? What's the price? )
Are you supposed to be some kind of maester? You don't look like any I've ever seen.