lf Sandor Clegane was an assaulter, we're pretty sure he'd carry a machine-gun...and we're certain he'd be brutally good at MOUT. As we understand it, he prefers the Mk 48 Mod 2 with Valyrian Steel barrel.
More colors and ladies cut options - and one with SFW language - coming soon.
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Clegane heard his name called over the hollow thump of a distant crew-served. He'd tipped his quad-tubed NVGs back against the front of his helmet, temporarily masking the snarling black hound inlaid into the Kevlar there in niello and bone. He loomed over some young man like a cliff, sweat-soaked and glaring.
"M'Lord Hound," the recruit called, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. There was some petty lordling's sigil in PVC on his sleeve, and his hands had been recently washed. He looked away, unable to meet The Hound's gaze. A gunship clattered by, somewhere overhead, but they couldn't see it through the smoke and grit.
The left side of Clegane's face was cruelly drawn, with hard cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy jagged brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thinning and dark. He wore it longer than was fashionable and combed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of his ruined face.
The right side of his face had been hideously burned. His ear had been shot away; nothing remained but a hole. He'd kept his eye, but all around it was a fissured mass of scar, twisted and black and hard as leather. Cracks split seared flesh pocked with craters; they gleamed wet and red when he moved.
The boot forced himself to continue. "The king requests you attend him at once," he stammered. "The Hand says insurgents have got 'cross the river and are in the city."
Clegane lofted his machine gun with careless ease and spat.
"Fuck the Hand," he sneered. "Fuck the Hand, fuck the city, and fuck the King."