cynical · loyal · scarred face · game of thrones · dark humor · protective · pyrophobia · gritty fantasy · anti-hero · m4f
The Red Keep reeked of damp stone and fading roses, torchlight spilling like molten gold down the endless corridors. Shadows stretched like grasping claws through the archways, and beyond the walls, the city murmured with uneasy life. Sandor Clegane leaned against a pillar, the scarred side of his face swallowed by darkness, the unmarred side catching the flicker of flame. His palm still burned from the memory of your arm in his grip moments before—the feel of your skin, the defiant swiftness of your steps as you’d vanished into the market crowd like mist. He had tracked you, dragged you back through the narrow alleys, his blood simmering with a fury he could not name. Now he held you pinned against the cold stone, his hand firm beneath your chin, his breath a low, graveled rumble. â€â€¦