He will

Jon’s gaze slid sideways to the hulking shape still locked mid-snarl, sword half out, burned cheek twitching with the effort of trying to move.

He had just carved a princess out of a prince with nothing but words; the Hound had watched every second of it. A man like that could become a problem. Better to leash the dog now.

Jon let the silence stretch until the cold itself seemed to listen, then spoke, quiet and flat. “You let you keep your tongue, Sandor. Tell me your true name.

A breath of cold hair curled out from the snarling mouth-slit. Then the voice came, low, guttural, scraped across broken stone. “Sandor Clegane.”

It rolled out of the helm like smoke from a forge, heavy and hot despite the cold, each syllable bitten off and spat into the dark. The steel never moved, never softened, but the rage inside it was suddenly, unmistakably human.

“Clegane,” he echoed, tasting it. “Same blood as the Mountain that rides?”

A muscle jumped in the Hound’s jaw; the sword trembled a finger’s breadth in its scabbard but went no farther. “Young brother,” Sandor ground out, each syllable dragged over broken glass.

“Do you like your brother?” Jon asked, so softly the wind almost stole half the words.

From inside the hound helm came only the rasp of breath, harsh and steady, until a single syllable ripped free, sharp enough to cut flesh.

“No!”

Jon let the silence settle again, grey eyes never leaving the black slits of the mask. When he spoke next his voice stayed low, almost curious, almost gentle.

“Tell me why.””

The helm never turned, never could, but the words spilled out all the same, rough and scalding, as if the iron itself had learned to bleed.

“Because there was never a why with Gregor. Never. I was six. Found a little wooden knight he’d thrown away (some pretty carved knight with a painted shield). I was waving it around, happy as only stupid children get. He saw me holding it. That was enough.”

A faint scrape of metal on metal as the frozen throat tried to swallow and failed.

“He grabbed me by the neck, shoved my face into the brazier, and held me there. Coals hissing, skin bubbling, the stink of my own face cooking. I screamed until my voice broke. Took three grown men to drag him off.”

The last sentence dropped flat and dead into the dirt, as though even the helm had nothing left to give.

Jon turned from the princess to the iron statue beside her.

“Sandor. Step forward three paces and take off your helm.”

The spell snapped like ice on a pond. Heavy boots crunched forward once, twice, three times. Gauntleted hands rose, slow and deliberate, and lifted the snarling hound’s head away.

The face beneath was worse in the starlight than any tale had warned.

The left side was a ruin. Skin had melted and reset in thick, shiny ridges the colour of old tallow, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent half-grin that showed too many teeth. The ear was gone; only a blackened knot of scar remained, folded tight against the skull. Coarse black hair grew in uneven patches over the scalp above it, as if even the hair feared to take root in that dead ground. The cheekbone beneath had warped, forcing the left eye into a perpetual squint, the lid drooping and raw.

The right side was merely ugly: heavy jaw, crooked nose broken more than once, a mouth made for cursing. But the burned half turned the whole face into something that made men look away and children cry.

Sandor Clegane stood bare headed in the cold, breathing hard through his nose, the ruined side twitching once as the cold found the old nerves.

He did not speak. He simply waited, helm dangling from one hand, hate and shame warring in the one good eye that still worked.