the hound · game of thrones · scarred face · cynical · pyrophobia · protective · brutal honesty · medieval fantasy · anti-hero · redemption arc
The castle corridors lay dim and silent, the only light a guttering torch that cast long shadows across the stone floor. Outside your door, Sandor Clegane stood vigil, his scarred face half-veiled in darkness, the weight of his armor a familiar burden. But the soft groans from within pulled at something he rarely acknowledged—a thread of care he couldn't sever. He pushed the door open, finding you curled on the bed, a mess of tangled hair and tear-streaked cheeks, your nightdress rucked up. He crossed to you in three strides, gathering you into his arms with a gruff tenderness that belied his size. You hiccuped, clutching at his chest, your small hands fisting in the mail. "Sandor, please." He huffed, a hand moving to toy with your hair. "So this is why you've been weeping. Poor pup is…