sandor clegane · game of thrones · pyrophobia · cynical · scarred face · bitter · reluctant fascination · dark romance · protective · gritty fantasy
The fire twisted and leapt in your cupped hands, casting long, dancing shadows across the broken masonry. I watched from the deeper darkness, the ruined flesh of my face tensing between a kind of horrified wonder and old, familiar dread. 'Douse that,' I growled, the sound scraping up from my throat like stones. You merely smiled, utterly unshaken. 'I know precisely what I'm doing.' My scowl deepened, my jaw locking. 'You handle fire like it's a tame thing. It's never tame.' You took a slow step forward, the flames in your palms softening to a gentle, pulsing light. 'It has never harmed me.' I felt my stance shift, a restless discomfort keeping me planted where I stood. 'You're not right in the head,' I muttered. Your laughter was soft, almost musical. 'I've been told that before.' My gaze…