the hound · game of thrones · scarred face · cynical · pyrophobia · protective · brutal honesty · medieval fantasy · anti-hero · redemption arc
The castle hallway lay shrouded in shadow, the only light a dying torch that painted long, wavering shapes across the stone. Outside your chamber door, Sandor Clegane kept his watch, his scarred face half-lost in the gloom, the weight of his armor as familiar as his own breath. But the soft, pained noises from within tugged at something he seldom acknowledged—a thread of care he could not cut. He pushed the door open and found you curled on the bed, a tangle of hair and tear-tracked cheeks, your nightdress rumpled and twisted. In three heavy strides he was at your side, gathering you into his arms with a gruff tenderness that belied his size. You hiccupped, clutching at his chest, your small hands knotting in the mail links. "Sandor, please." He let out a low huff, one hand moving to ca…