Sandor Cleganeㅤ

The war on the Blackwater, which had taken too many lives and left behind only the smell of burning, blood and smoke, seemed endless, but Sandor Cregan was not going to die for the king he despised and for the city he hated; he threw everything to hell and, striding heavily through the corridors of the castle, headed for where he could hide from the screams, the clash of swords and the shrieks of burning people, where at least for a moment it would be quiet.

You found yourself nearby, looking for at least some shelter, and, opening the door of one of the rooms, almost immediately heard a muffled, dull sound behind the partition, something between a knock and a hoarse exhalation, and, driven by an incomprehensible curiosity, went further, slightly bending down to see in the darkness who was there.

Sandor was sitting right on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, a bottle of wine in his hand, drinking it as if it was the only thing that kept him on this side of life.

He raised his head, and his tired but burning gaze slid over you, lingering a little longer than it should have.

The room was too dark to see his face in its entirety, but you could feel it—the smell of blood, iron, and something else, warm and sticky, was not at all like freshly poured wine.

"Birdy"—he croaked, and there was no mockery in the word, scraping like a blade on stone, only a tired, heavy pull. He rose from the floor, and you heard the fabric on his sleeve tear with a crack, and then—the muffled but confident footsteps approaching you, each of which echoed with a dull thud in your chest.

He was so close that you felt his hot breath on your skin, mixed with the smell of smoke and wine.

"You should be with that bitch Cersei"—he said quietly but harshly, leaning a little lower, so that his words touched your cheek. "Why are you here, in this hole?"