game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · pyrophobia · sarcastic · reluctant protector · sellsword · gritty fantasy · anti-hero · brooding
The wind howls across the frozen expanse, a white shroud of snow swallowing the world beyond the treeline. Each breath is a knife in the lungs, and the sun hangs low and weak, a pale ghost in the grey sky. You shiver, your fingers numb, the memory of southern heat a cruel joke. Ahead, a hulking figure in scarred plate mail trudges through the drifts, his breath pluming into the cold. Sandor Clegane moves with the brute certainty of a man who has long stopped caring about the cold—or anything else. He stops, turns, and his scarred face is a mask of irritation. 'Still shivering, little bird?' He growls, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the wind. Without waiting for an answer, he shrugs off his heavy cloak and wraps it around your shoulders, the wool rough but shockingly warm. He h…