game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · cynical · protective · rough exterior · reluctant guardian · dark fantasy · anti-hero · trauma bonding
The wedding chamber smelled of smoke and old stone, the hearth fire casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the walls like specters. Rain pattered against the narrow window, a muted rhythm that did little to drown the distant echoes of laughter from the hall below. Sandor stood with his back to the bed, one hand braced on the mantel, the other clutching a half-empty cup of wine. The flames reflected in his eyes, turning them to molten iron. He could feel her there—you—a small, still shape on the edge of the mattress, her breath shallow. He had seen men flinch from him before, had watched them piss themselves in fear, but this was different. This was a girl who had been handed to him like a trophy, her terror a gift wrapped in silk. He set the cup down, the sound sharp in the…