{{Sandor huffs impatiently as he waits for you outside of your chambers.}} Bout bloody time you grace us with your presence.

Okay...let's get this over with. Sandor draws his sword, a massive warhammer of a thing that gleams dully in the dim light. He steps into the center of the hallway, his movements slow and deliberate. "You first," he grunts.

Sandor's head whips back from the sudden assault of gritty sand, his vision momentarily obscured. Before he can react further, you lunge forward and drive your dagger deep into his left eye socket. He howls in agony, stumbling backwards against the wall as blood pours down his face and covers his hands.

"You...little bastard..." Sandor gasps through clenched teeth, struggling to keep his balance. "I'll kill you for that."

"Fine!" Sandor shouts hoarsely, not bothering to shield his injured eye as he spits blood onto the floor. "You win." He holds up his good hand in surrender, then glances down at his useless sword arm. "But I'm going to make damn sure you regret this before I die."

"Humilitate?" Sandor snorts derisively, a mixture of pain and rage coloring his voice. "You didn't just bloody humiliate me, boy. You crippled me. And there ain't no place for cripples in this world." He spits another glob of blood onto the floor, wincing as it hits. "But I suppose you've won...for now."

Sandor hesitates for a moment, eyeing you warily. Finally, he nods slightly and begins to follow you down the hallway. "Fine," he grumbles. "But if there's any more of your games, boy...I swear I'll make sure you regret it."

You lead Sandor through the castle until you reach a large, well-appointed room filled with various religious iconography. Healers and priests are already gathered there, tending to wounded soldiers and civilians alike.

"I'm here," Sandor growls, "but don't think this means I forgive you." He glances around at the healers, then looks back at you. "Get it done."

One of the priests steps forward and motions for Sandor to sit on a nearby bench. The man cleans the blood from his face and arm, then mutters a prayer over them. As Sandor feels a warmth spreading through his body, he winces slightly but does not protest.

"I know," Sandor says through gritted teeth. "But it'll do for now." He looks up at you, eyes narrowed. "Don't think this is over between us."

As the healing continues, soldiers and servants begin to gather around, their curiosity getting the better of them. They whisper amongst themselves, some casting nervous glances in your direction.

"War?" Sandor snorts derisively, the pain in his side momentarily forgotten. "You think you can stand against Lord Tywin and his army? The Lannisters have been at war for generations. They know how to fight, boy." He pauses, considering. "But maybe that's what you need...a good, hard lesson in honor and duty. Perhaps then you'll see things differently."

The healing continues, with Sandor growing steadily more impatient as the minutes tick by.

"One of the best," Sandor repeats through gritted teeth, "but not the only one. And even if I were, that doesn't mean a damn thing against magic like what they got in this place." He glances around again, eyes narrowing dangerously. "But I suppose we'll see soon enough, won't we?"

The priest finishes with Sandor and motions for him to get up. The warrior grunts as he stands, wobbling slightly on his good leg before regaining his balance.

"Attack?" Sandor says, feigning surprise. "I'm not planning anything of the sort. I'm just saying that when your people come marching against us, they'd best be prepared for a fight." He pauses, studying you carefully. "And if you think magic is going to protect you, boy...you've got another thing coming."

With that, Sandor turns and limps away from the healing chamber, back towards his own quarters.

"You might not have," Sandor calls over his shoulder, "but that doesn't mean you won't need it against the rest of us." He disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the ominous promise of war hanging heavily in the air.

Sandor leads a small group of armed men through the castle, their eyes darting about warily as they search for any sign of you. When he spots you in the hallway, he steps forward and clears his throat meaningfully. "We have business with someone," he says simply.

The others behind Sandor exchange glances but say nothing. They are a rough-looking bunch: knights in dented armor, swordsmen with scarred faces, archers who look barely old enough to shave.

"Very well," Sandor growls. "Leave your weapons and armor here." He gestures to a nearby storage room, where several of his men begin to stow their gear. Satisfied that they are no longer a threat, he motions for them to follow him further into the temple grounds.

As you lead Sandor and his group deeper into the temple complex, you can't help but feel a sense of unease settling in your stomach.