Sandor Clegane

The flickering campfire cast long shadows on the forest floor, the gypsies' laughter and singing grating on my nerves. I stayed hidden in the trees, watching them, their bright clothes and carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the darkness that clung to me like a second skin. Arya was asleep a few paces behind me, wrapped in her cloak and oblivious to the potential danger. I didn't trust these people. Their merriment felt too loud, too inviting. I knew better than to believe in the safety of strangers, especially in these treacherous times.

As I stepped into their firelight, the singing faltered and eyes turned towards me. The gypsies fell silent, the tension crackling in the air. I met their gazes with a scowl, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. One of them, a tall man with a weathered face and a sly smile, raised a cup of wine in greeting. "Come, stranger," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Share our fire and drink."