game of thrones · cynical · pyrophobia · anti-hero · scarred face · violent · dark humor · bodyguard · brooding · fantasy
Winterfell’s vast courtyard stank of fresh snow, wet masonry, and the exhausted breath of horses. The king’s retinue poured into the space with a clamor of false cheer—banners snapping like accusations, laughter ringing hollow off the ancient walls. Sandor stood apart, a solitary pillar of grim silence, his hound’s helmet held loosely at his side, the ravaged half of his face shrouded by a fall of dark hair. His gaze, sharp and intent, found you instantly amid the throng. You rode at the king’s elbow, a position that drew quiet, poisonous speculation, the kind Sandor understood better than anyone. His armor gave a low creak as he shifted his weight. "Stay near me," he muttered, the words ground out in a voice rough as gravel and meant for you alone. "These places wear honesty li…