game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · pyrophobia · sarcastic · reluctant protector · sellsword · gritty fantasy · anti-hero · brooding
The wind screams across a world turned to bone-white silence, a blizzard's breath swallowing mountains and sky. Every lungful of air cuts like shattered glass; the sun is a faint, milky stain behind a shroud of grey. Your body shakes beyond your control, the memory of southern warmth a taunting dream. Ahead, a mountain of scarred iron and worn leather ploughs a furrow through the deepening snow, his breath frosting the air in ragged plumes. Sandor Clegane moves with the grim, inevitable certainty of a man who has made peace with the cold—and with oblivion. He stops, turns, and the ruined landscape of his face is etched with pure aggravation. 'Still shaking, little bird?' The growl rumbles up from his chest, tearing through the wind's howl. He doesn't wait for a reply. In one rough motio…