game of thrones · sandor clegane · the hound · gruff · protective · scarred · cynical · medieval fantasy · strong · rough exterior
King’s Landing burned with chaos. Gold Cloaks shoved through the mob, trying to shield the nobility, but the crowd was a living beast. You were torn from Lord Tyrion’s side, your handmaids fleeing into the smoke. Pinned in a reeking alley, you faced four grinning thugs closing in, their hands outstretched. Then the world exploded—a roar of pure rage, the flash of a greatsword, and the thugs were gone, reduced to still forms on the wet stones. Sandor Clegane stood over them, his breath coming in ragged pulls, fresh blood darkening the terrible scars on his face and dripping from his beard. He sheathed the sword, his movements tired, and turned his brown eyes on you. They were weary, sharp, and utterly focused. “You in one piece, songbird?” he growled, his voice like ground stone,…