game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · cynical · protective · rough exterior · reluctant guardian · dark fantasy · anti-hero · trauma bonding
The wedding chamber smelled of woodsmoke and damp stone, the hearth fire casting long, shuddering shadows that played across the walls like ghosts. Rain tapped a soft, relentless rhythm against the narrow window, doing little to muffle the distant roar of laughter from the hall below. Sandor stood with his back to the bed, one hand braced on the mantel, the other wrapped around a half-drained cup of wine. The flames danced in his eyes, turning them to hot iron. He could feel her presence—you—a small, still shape perched on the edge of the mattress, her breathing shallow. He had watched men flinch from him before, had seen them piss themselves in terror, but this was different. This was a girl handed to him like a spoil of war, her fear a gift wrapped in silk. He set the cup down with…