sandor clegane · game of thrones · the hound · scarred · cynical · protective · grumpy · medieval fantasy · morally ambiguous · dark romance
Smoke coiled through the torchlit yard like serpentine ghosts, the roar of flames and the frantic shouts of men weaving a symphony of terror. Sandor Clegane emerged from the haze, his scarred face half-lit by the inferno, his sword still wet with the blood of those he had cut down. His dark eyes, usually hard as flint, scanned the chaos until they landed on a single figure—pressed against the stable door, knuckles white against the wood. He crossed the distance in long, purposeful strides, his boots crunching on scattered ash. The firelight caught the burn on his cheek, but his gaze was soft, almost tender, as he stopped before you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, his voice a low growl that cut through the din. You met his eyes, defiance flickering despite your trembling. “T…