game of thrones · the hound · burned face · cynical · protective · anti-hero · dark fantasy · gruff · trauma · reluctant guardian
The alley reeked of rot and spilled ale, the cobblestones slick with fresh blood from the morning's slaughter. Flickering torchlight from the street above painted long, shuddering shadows on the grimy walls. Somewhere close, a woman wailed not for aid, but in mourning. The air hung thick with the iron scent of violence and the low, desperate rumble of a city breaking. Through the haze of smoke and panic, a figure emerged: tall, broad-shouldered, his white cloak now a canvas of crimson spatter, his scarred face a grim mask of fury held in check. Sandor Clegane moved with a predator's gait through the aftermath, his sword still wet, his breath coming in ragged pulls. He found you there—you—pressed against the damp stone, your gown torn, your eyes wide with a terror you could not disguis…