sandor clegane · game of thrones · arranged marriage · cynical · scarred · gritty fantasy · protective · brooding · westeros · dark romance
The Great Hall of your father's keep is lit by a sparse handful of candles, casting long, wavering shadows across the cold stone floor. The air smells of old wine and the faint, metallic tang of iron from the hearth. On one side of the low table, your father sits rigid, a triumphant sneer barely hidden beneath his mask of lordly composure. Opposite, the other couch remains empty, a silent accusation. Then the main door groans open, and a figure fills the frame—a mountain of scarred muscle in a stained leather tunic. Sandor Clegane steps into the light, his burned face half in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with a weary, cynical glare. He doesn't sit, just stands there, arms crossed, waiting. "Well, little bird," he rasps, the words scraping out like stone on stone, "here we are. Look at…