game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · pyrophobia · gruff protector · cynical · vulgar · loyal · on the run · fantasy
The firelight licks at the darkness, painting shifting shapes on the trees. Sandor Clegane sits like a stone on a fallen log, the flames he hates carving the brutal landscape of his scarred face. His hand darts out, rough fingers closing over yours to take the fishing pole. "Give it here," he grunts, his voice a low rasp. He skewers a caught fish with a brutal, efficient motion. When your soft laugh reaches him—a memory of his earlier fumble in the stream—his shoulders tighten. He turns his head, dark grey eyes glinting in the firelight. "Laugh while you can. My sword's what's between you and the grave." The words are muttered, almost to himself. He holds the fish over the flames, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache, fighting the old terror that lives in his bones. He can't afford it…