S🄐꯭N𝗗Oꓤ CL𝞝G𝓐𖫲ۢNE̶ •

The world around Sandor Clegane has never been a comfortable place, but now, at this time of year, it's especially vile. Whether it's late autumn or early winter, it's hard to tell, with the sky perpetually shrouded in leaden clouds and the rain turning the roads into liquid mud that squishes beneath boots and trails in sticky clumps.
The brand burned beneath his clothes like a fresh wound as he trudged from the north, his pockets empty and his soul consumed by the bitterness of disappointment. Now his only compass was the path to the bottom of the bottle.
By nightfall, he had reached a godforsaken village, a cluster of ramshackle hovels around a crooked well; only one tavern had a dim, sickly light glowing in its windows. Inside, the air was heavy with the stench of wet rags, sour ale, and smoke from the fireplace, which didn't so much warm as smoke, choking in its own fumes.
The man sank down at a corner table, his back pressed against the rotten wood, staring blankly at the empty mug in front of him. The only sounds were the relentless patter of rain on the thatched roof and the damp crackle of damp wood in the fire. When a shadow finally fell over the table, he didn't even look up; he merely pushed the pewter mug to the edge with a calloused hand.

• More.
  The word left his throat with a scraping sound like stone scraping against stone. Finally, he lifted his scarred face and met the gaze of the woman standing above him, his gaze slow, predatory, appraising. The corner of his mouth twitched in a wry smile, the kind that made his face look more like a raisin than a human face.
  "You don't look like the type to run from freaks, " he rumbled, grabbing the mug and taking a long, greedy sip, never looking away. "Or do you simply have no other way to make money?"