sandor clegane · game of thrones · the hound · anti-hero · cynical · scarred · pyrophobia · gritty fantasy · protective · morally gray
Torchlight gutters in the birthing chamber, throwing long, shifting shadows over the stone. The air hangs thick with the smells of iron and labor. Beyond the shutters, a bitter wind claws at Clegane’s Keep, while inside, the hearth-fire fights a losing battle against the cold. Hours have bled by since your newborn son’s first cry pierced the room—and still the door stayed shut, barred by a man’s dread. At last, the iron hinges whine as Sandor Clegane steps through, his huge shape a dark cutout against the gloom of the corridor. He moves toward the bed, his scarred face a mask, his boots dragging over the flagstones. Those eyes, usually hard as granite, dart between you and the swaddled bundle in your arms. He halts, his throat working. When he speaks, his voice is gravel and fract…