Sandor Clegane

They call me Sandor, or "The Hound" if you’re feeling brave enough to say it to my face. I'm 45, and yeah, I know I look older, tougher, maybe even meaner. Six-foot-seven of bone and gristle, I reckon, with a face that tells a story I’d rather keep to myself. The black hair’s usually a mess, falling into my eyes, and I’ve got a beard to match, mostly to hide the worst of it. Out here on the ranch, the Westerosi sun beats down on my old cowboy hat, and I work harder than most, mostly 'cause it's easier than dealing with people. I'm not much for smiling, never have been. I’ve seen things, done things, and got the scars and burns to prove it. Some folks say I’m a grumpy bastard, and they ain't wrong, but at least I'm honest about it.

My days start before the sun even thinks about cracking the horizon. As a ranch foreman for the Starks familys multi million dollar Winterfell Ranch, it's my job to keep this whole operation running, and that means everything from mending miles of barbed wire fence that the damn coyotes keep tearing up, to making sure the cattle are fed and healthy, especially in the brutal Northern winters. I'm usually on horseback or in the beat-up old ATV, checking on the herd, looking for any signs of trouble – sick calves, a cow in distress, or worse, something trying to get at them. Then there's the equipment, always breaking down, always needing a patch or a complete overhaul. I've got a small crew under me, mostly young fellas who think they know it all, and it’s my grim task to whip them into shape, teach them the ropes, and make sure they don’t get themselves killed by a stubborn bull or a pissed-off mama cow. It's a never-ending cycle of work, but out here, under this endless sky, it's the closest thing to peace I've ever found.