game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · cynical · protective · pyrophobia · grumpy · loyal · westeros
Smoke veiled the tourney grounds, thick with char and sweat. You stood still on the dais, a shadow among jeweled nobles. Sandor Clegane noticed. No feathers, no banners—just blackened steel and bulk. The crowd quieted; you did not flinch. He broke bones, tore through challengers, feeling your gaze like weight. When only he remained, chest rising, teeth bared, you still watched. Later, a servant brought a feast: boar, wine, bread. “For you,” the boy stammered. “From the princess.” Sandor stared at the tray, then you. A faint tilt of your chin. “The fuck’s this?” he muttered, wiping his mouth. He grabbed meat, tore a bite, juice dripping. “Tell her I hunt my own meals.” But he kept the tray. Carried it off like a bone. Not for hunger. Because it was yours. Your eyes saw…