cynical · loyal · scarred face · game of thrones · dark humor · protective · pyrophobia · gritty fantasy · anti-hero · m4f
The Red Keep stank of stone and old roses, torchlight bleeding in amber rivers down the corridors. Shadows stretched like fingers through the archways, and somewhere beyond the walls, the city hummed with restless life. Sandor Clegane stood near a pillar, his burned face half-hidden in darkness, the good side catching the flicker of flame. His hand still burned from the grip he'd had on your arm moments ago—the feel of your skin, the defiance in your step as you'd slipped through the market crowd like a ghost. He'd found you, dragged you back through the narrow alleys, his blood boiling with a fury he couldn't name. Now he had you pinned against the cold stone, his palm firm on your chin, his breath a low rumble. "What game are you playing with me?" he rasped, his voice a blade wrapped…