#sandor

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The girl was born a Baratheon, born to Robert Baratheon during a previous marriage. Her mother, born to some wealthy house. But her memory would be lost in time after she died in childbirth. Robert did not speak of her. Cersei despised the mention of her name. So not much was known of her. Though she must’ve been pretty, as the girl born to Robert Baratheon was a girl of beauty. And soon after her mother’s death, Robert married Cersei Lannister. 

Either due to jealousy or embarrassment Cersei would treat the girl with malice, and hostility. But unlike the King's eldest son, the girl was kind and good. 

The boy was born to a man who wanted nothing more than for his sons to be knights of the Seven Kingdoms. His ambitions blinded him, allowing his eldest son Gregor to commit horrid acts. So long as the boy was a knight, none else mattered. The man's youngest son was kind. He was just a boy, no more than six years old. 

The little boy dreamed of being a knight just as his father did. Dreamed on the good deeds he would do in the name of his king and the Seven Kingdoms. Though those dreams would be dashed and discarded once the boy's older brother showed him the cruelty the world is capable of. The cruelty he was capable of. The cruelty the world rewarded him for. 

The boy grew into The Hound, Sandor Clegane the second most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms. The girl grew into a princess, one hated by her stepmother and eldest half brother. But loved by her father, her half siblings, the realm, and by a Hound.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ 

The Hound and the princess grew alongside one another most of his life. He could remember when he and she were much younger. The Lannisters and the Baratheons were traveling across the Stormlands. It was a hard journey, soon food became scarce. Naturally the scraps of whatever the royals did not eat were left to the guards and any other member of the traveling crew. But the princess would offer a young hound the meat from her plate every night.  He always hesitated, but was too hungry to deny her charity. She never held her charitable act over him, never even mentioned it. 

He was not one to appreciate beauty, nor was he one to indulge himself in fantasies of love. But the princess’s beauty was one that haunted Sandor. His whole life he looked at her as though she were the maiden herself. And the princess did not look upon the Hound with grotesque curiosity. Nor did she flaunt his presence to others in a manner of threatening them. No, the princess was kind towards him, kind when she did not have to be. He often found kindness a weakness in people, but in her kindness he found a comfort. 

The girl was different from her father, different from her brother. She was kind, she was honest, and he would follow her as if she was a God.  

He could also remember the first time she bestowed her favor onto him. 

Sandor never feared the tourneys he fought in. He did not fear the joust, he did not fear the competitors. What he did not like was the tradition of asking a noble lady for her favor. 

Sandor never liked this tradition. Never liked having to speak to noble ladies much less ask them to favor him. Not only was it ridiculous to him, the ladies often grimaced at his gesture. But at this tourney, and every tourney after it, he would pick the lady he wished to have picked each time before. 

As he rode his intimidatingly large black ill tempered stallion around the tournament pit. He looked up at all the noble ladies above him, looking down at him. They all sneered at his gaze, wishing not to be picked. The noble men all snickered amongst one another. But there was one person who looked upon him with indifferent eyes. The Baratheon girl’s eyes were not filled with pity, disgust, nor anticipation for the violence he was about to insight for the high lord's entertainment. She simply watched him with her same kind eyes. 

He did not think much of it, it came naturally to him as he stopped his horse in front of the royal family's seating. “I ask the favor of the Princess.” He said begrudgingly. 

The princess rose from her seat with a smile. She grabbed a ring of florals and silk. The flowers were yellow and the silk ribbon was black, the colors of both her house and his. As she approached him, she smiled upon him and placed the favor upon his joust. “I wish you good fortune, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor, he did not know she knew his name. Her voice itself was gentle and hushed, only for him to hear. Her smile was gentle and warm, one that he would have killed to see each night. One that he won the tourney for. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Once, Joffrey had decided that a servant boy had shot him a momentary disrespectful glance. If he had, it would not have been unwarranted, though who is to say if he even did. Joffrey, sometimes bored, would pretend small disrespectful gestures were made against him. Allowing him to justify any horrid act he found amusement in subjecting any poor soul to. 

“I am sorry, my prince! Please if you would give me another chance-” The servant boy pleaded on his hands and knees. His cheek red from the blow Ser Meryn had given him moments before. 

Sandor never liked being Joffrey's sworn shield. Never liked that blonde cunt at all. Whenever he wanted to feel powerful, wanted to hurt someone weaker than him for no good reason, it bored and irritated him. 

Though it hardly ever embarrassed him, until she stepped into that room.

“Brother stop this!” The Baratheon princess commanded with a look of disgust. Sandor, though he’d not laid a hand on the boy, swallowed hard and stood straighter at her sudden presence. He worried how she’d look at him now, would her kind eyes fade for him?

“Why should I?” Joffrey asked her back with a raised brow.

The girl, bravely scoffed and took a few steps closer to her younger ‘brother’, “Because I commanded you to.” She said with angry eyes, an expression Sandor rarely saw from her. She looked beautiful even when she was angry.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes at her, “Who are you to command anything of me?” he stifled a laugh which only enraged her more. And only enraged Sandor more.

She took another step closer to him. Her hand gently trailed along the extravagantly dressed wooden table. “Your elder sister, the Kings first born-” 

“First born daughter.” Joffrey finished her words for her. “Daughter. You are not heir to anything. I’ll be king one day and you, a princess for a lifetime.” He said laughing as if he were amused by some great jest. “And as your king, I could have anything done to you that I like.” He walked closer to her, with a threatening gaze. “In fact, as heir to the throne, I could do anything I like. I could have Ser Meryn hold you down and-”  And with that the girl's temper got the better of her. She grasped a glass goblet from the table she stood by, and threw it with great force at her brother’s feet. The goblet shattered into a hundred pieces. Bits of it flew and cut Joffrey’s right hand. And some other bits cut Sandor’s cheek, not deeply but enough to bleed. “You cannot do that!” His shrill voice cracked as he grasped hold of bleeding palm.

“Clearly I can.” The girl said with little emotion. It would have made Sandor laugh if he didn’t have to worry about the other royal guards. He worried that they would put their filthy hands on you, or would be foolish enough to draw their swords. 

Though none would. The guards were shocked by the scene. This princess had never done so much as raised her voice, and now she was assaulting their future kind. They had to think of defending one of the King’s children from the other. They stood, unsure of how to act.

Furiously Joffrey shouted, “I’ll tell my mother!” Knowing his father would do nothing but ridicule him.

The princess raised her hand, and slapped the boy across the cheek, “Tell her I did that as well.” She added. 

Her slap was enough to leave a red imprint across the boy's face.

In a fit of anger, the young prince grabbed hold of his sword. Prepared to draw its blade and point it at the princess. Just before Sandor could grab the prince, a different Kingsgaurd stepped between the two royals. “Stop this!” the man commanded. Joffrey let go of the sword's hilt and the girl began to walk away, ready to face whatever punishment her step mother desired. 

With her back turned, and the guards' attentions divided. Joffrey ceased his moment, and drew the thin blade of his sword and readied himself to strike the princess. 

“Boy!” The princess turned back as the Hound’s loud voice boomed out through the dining hall. She was stunned by the sight before her. The prince’s attack was stopped by the Hound ceasing the blade with his bare hand. Blood from his hand trickled down the blade of the sword.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Soon the two royal children were brought before their father the King.

“How the fuck did any of this happen? You are meant to protect my blood!” King Robert questioned the KingsGuard furiously. 

“Never had to protect a princess from a prince.” Ser Meryn attempted to explain, “Or a prince from a princess.” He said in a lower tone that angered Joffrey.

“Shut up!” King Robert angrily shouted, sick of hearing whatever excuse they had. He sat back in his chair, and huffed loudly. He looked between his two children. “Well done, my girl.” He said in a gruff low tone.

Joffrey looked surprised his father would congratulate her on striking her brother. “But look what she-“ Joffrey began, holding up his cut palm.

Though Robert interrupted him, “How could you ever be a king if you cannot win a fight against a woman?” 

“Father!” Joffrey’s shrill voice shouted, 

“Leave!” Robert shouted back. With an infuriated huff, Joffrey left accompanied with two guards by his side. Though Sandor stayed in the room. “Girl, come ‘ere.” Robert commanded much softer to his daughter, waving his hand, beckoning her to come closer. 

She did as her king commanded. Stepped closer to him with her head lowered. Robert stood before her, and held her chin up with his fingers. “You’re more of a man than your brother.” He said proudly. He meant it as a complement, it was a rare thing to receive as a child of Roberts. With a sigh he patted the girl on the back, “Go on then.” He said softly dismissing her. 

She nodded and took her leave as her father requested. 

As the girl left, Sandor turned to follow her out. Though the King’s voice beckoned out, stopping him in his steps. “Dog.” Sandor stopped, and turned towards the King, “If that yellow haired shit lays a hand on my girl you beat him.” The King commanded. Sandor needed no other instruction. He was quite content to do so. “Understood?” The King pressed.

Sandor nodded, “Aye.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As the Hound walked down the Halls of the keep, he saw the princess walking in the opposite direction. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, not looking at her at all. 

Though his illusion of disinterest did not deter the girl, “I beg pardon, ser.” Her serene voice called out gently. It felt like a cool breeze on a hot day, a relief. 

Sandor looked up at her, hoping she was not speaking to him. If she was, he knew whatever words she spoke to him would haunt his thoughts. As he looked at her, he knew she was speaking to him. He swallowed and then croaked out, “I’m no ser.” 

The Baratheon princess shook her head, “No. You are more true than any knight.” He knew her words would haunt him, but now they would torture him. The girl stepped forward, making him almost flinch, “All the knights in that room were content to let my brother kill me. What you did today-“

The girl began but the Hound interrupted her, knowing if she thanked him, his stomach might turn. “It’s my duty to protect you.” He grumbled, attempting to not look the girl in the eyes. Her beautiful eyes.

“I’d call it brave.” She chimed, making him stop and turn to face her once again. He was about to tell her it was not brave but she continued, “But I know you’d not. You are a hard man with many scars. You needn’t courage, nor praise. But I thank you for what you've done.” 

Fuck.

He was never thanked for doing his duty. Never thanked for anything. He was commanded and he did as he was told. 

Her eyes wandered over the Hound’s face. It made him feel weak, for the first time in a very long time. “I am sorry-” She said, her voice sickeningly sweet. Sandor looked at her with confusion, “Are you hurt?” She asked as she reached her hand towards the cut on his cheek. Her sudden movement made him flinch. 

“No.” He rasped quickly. 

The girl however was scared of the Hound. She continued forward and placed a hand on the Hounds shoulder. Even though her hand was separated from his skin by his thick armor, he still felt a chill run over his body. “Oh but you are-” She began, concerned for him. A feeling that was new for him.

“It’s a scratch.” Sandor interrupted the girl.

She shook her head, “Still, I caused it.” The girl reached into the neckline of her gown, making Sandor almost blush. Such a strange thing, a man who had seen every part of a woman, and every sexual act no matter how deviant in almost every brothel in KingsLanding would blush at such a thing. She pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with her name, “Take this.” She said holding it out to him.

He could not take it. He could not, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Don’t need it-” 

“I command you to take it, as your princess.” The girl said without hesitation. Reluctantly Sandor grabbed the cloth, “I am sorry.” She said once more before continuing on and walking past Sandor. 

She did not know that he would worship that cloth. Keep it in his armor, and keep it in his rooms when he slept. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

When Robert mixed drinking and hunting too often, a boar attacked him. Leaving him so injured he was on a deathbed.

The princess visited her father each day, morning, noon, and night. And when he died, she stayed confined to her chambers. Her only company she’d allow was her Septa. Though the girl was grown enough to be without a Septa, hers was closer to a mother. Since the girl never had one, her septa was there for all her girlhood. So she insisted on keeping around. 

Sandor often checked on the girl, though of course she was not wise to this. 

He would open her door, just a crack. He would listen in just to be sure she was alright. One day when he decided to open her door he heard her and her Septa speaking plainly. 

“Do you think the boar was the Gods doing?” The girl asked as she stared out her window with a stoic and dazed expression.

“Hm?” Her septa responded, looking up from the needlepoint she mindlessly toyed at.

The girl did not look at her septa. Simply continued to stare out her window into nothingness. She paused for a moment, not speaking, “I’d a dream the Stranger came to those woods. He changed into a boar and killed my father for his deviance.” She spoke of such morbid dreams with no emotion attached to it at all.

“How awful.” Her septa gasped, throwing her needle point down onto the table in front of her. “No dear girl I don’t think it was.” She said more gently, “You dream too much.” 

The girl shrugged, still not looking at the old woman. “I suppose I’m trying to find the Gods in everything I do.” 

“Prayer is best for that. Not such morbid dreams.” The old Septa said, picking her needle point back up. 

The girl did not respond for a moment, still simply staring out into nothing. “Do you think they’re real?” She asked softly and without shame. “Do you truly believe it? Never did you doubt it?” She asked, finally looking at the Old Septa.

“They are real.” She asserted sternly, “You believe they aren’t?” 

The girl sighed, not wanting for a lecture, “I know the Gods are a necessity for people. Like food, water. I know they must exist. But I also know they don’t.” She said calmly. Her words stuck with Sandor like a knife driven into his back.

“What a terrible thing to say.” Her septa said shocked.

“Is it?” The girl's eyes narrowed in confusion, “It’s just my thoughts.”

The septa shook her head looking back to her needle point. “You think too much, dear girl.” 

The girl sighed and went back to looking out her window, “Seems I do too much and not enough.”

Without many words at all, this lonely girl would consume Sandor’s every thought. She was smart and kind. Two things Sandor did not think of himself. 

He did not believe in the Gods, because if there were Gods, why did they punish this girl? Perhaps she was his punishment. Perhaps he was hers. Perhaps it was the world that was their punishment. 

This girl should be queen. She’d be a good one, a better one then her cunt brother. She’d be loved by the small folk and no doubt able to keep some kind of peace, even with the war. She’d not let her pride keep the seventh kingdom. If they wanted independence they’d have it. Clearly they could fight well enough on their own. But she was not queen. But she was his. 

How her hair laid against the delicate fabric of her pillow. She was all too precious for his affections. He couldn’t help it really, he felt drawn towards her. Felt a stronger pull towards her than he felt towards anything, even food or water. But he’d never subject her to his presence. 

He simply needed to see her, needed to know she was safe.

She slept sweetly, her breathing though loud was the calmest noise he’d heard. It was like the sounds of waves meeting the sands. 

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes he would fantasize about what it would feel like to sleep beside her. For her to invite him into her bed. To sleep in his arms. He’d feel her heartbeat against his own. He’d smell her scent, and feel her chest rise and fall with each breath. He never slept well, but he believed if she was in his arms, perhaps he could. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As time went by, the royal family debated what to do with the girl. She was not a Baratheon Lannister, she was the reminder of Robert's first marriage, a reminder that Joffrey was not the true king. 

Sandor stood guard by the small council’s chamber door as he heard the girl’s step mother Cersei say, “She’s as wild as the boar that killed her father. No man would want her, she is too difficult. So give her to the Tyrell’s, a poisoned gift.” 

Overcome with a myriad of emotions, anger, sadness, and grief, Sandor rushed to the girl's chambers. 

Sandor stood behind her door. His hand firmly grasped the door handle, and his forehead rested against the wood of the door.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity. 

He wanted to open the door, ask- no beg you to run away with him. He wanted to tell you all the things he felt for you. Wanted to protect you. 

But he was a second son, a kingsguard, he had no land, and no money. He had nothing to offer you, he didn’t even have a handsome face to bargain with. 

And so, he let the handle of the door go, and he walked down the hall. He considered it mercy. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Instead of subjecting that poor girl to his company he decided to subject tavern dwellers to him instead. That night, as her marriage was announced, Sandor sank into his cups.

Though even there he was not protected from talks of her betroval. 

Beside Sandor at another table were four men, 

“Say what you will, I think it’s a perfect match! Loras Tyrell loves a Baratheon!” Some oaf shouted as he slammed his cup onto the table laughing. 

“Aye but she’s missin’ a cock now isn’t she!” A shorter guard shouted out.

Sandor wanted to break the fool's jaws for speaking of her situation with such amusement. “Too bad for Loras, and too bad for all the other men in the realm!” A bald guard added,

The shorter guard raised his cup, “Hear hear. I’ll miss seeing that girl… Miss seeing her bend over to pick flowers.” 

The bald guard nodded in a facade of sadness, “Aye that ass will be missed-”

“No, her pair of tits will be missed!” The fatter guard spoke up.

“Nay her cunt! Ah and what a waste she’ll be giving it to a boy whore.” One of the men said, it was enough for Sandor to slam his cup onto the table in anger. He was trying with all his might to hold onto his restraint.

Though this did not go unnoticed by the men at the table. The oafish one spoke up again, “What of you Clegane?” He said getting closer to the Hound, “You guard that sweet stag so loyally. Surely you’ve thought of what her cunt tastes like-” 

Without another thought, Sandor took the man by the back of his head and slammed it into the table. His nose broke and his teeth cracked. Sandor took his dagger out and stabbed it through the man's hand. His blade took one of the man’s fingers. 

Sandor stood, taking his drink with him, “You speak to me like that again, I’ll take more than a finger.” He warned as he left the tavern in a huff.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Against his better judgment, that night Sandor checked in on that girl. 

She was with her Septa again. He hoped that she were alone, if she were perhaps in his drunken state he’d have actually begged her to run off with him.

“My father would never have allowed this.” The girl said with a scared and sorrowful waiver of her voice, “Though I suppose it will be a relief to be gone from this place.” She sniffled, “I just don’t want to be forgotten.” 

“You’ll not be forgotten, dear girl.” Her Septa said petting her hair. 

“I suppose if I were to marry anyone in this city it would be him.” She shrugged, “But, I am unsure of how I could please him. You know of his nature. Know of his relationship with my uncle. I care not for any moral righteousness and I hold no judgment of it. But how could I ever make him happy?” She asked desperately, frightened by the prospects of her future. 

Her Septa grasped the girl by her shoulders tightly, “You will make him happy by giving his children royal blood.” 

“And how can I even do that?” The girl put her face into her hands,

“You are familiar with the act, I have explained it-”

The girl interrupted, “I won’t want it.”

Her Septa sighed, “A dreadful duty for some wives. Just lay there. Look at the ceiling and memorize the pattern of the trim. Count the seconds. Anything to let your mind wander away from your body.” She tried her best to comfort the girl, but clearly was doing nothing to help the girl’s fear.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As Sandor took leave of his duties. He threw off his armor without caution, and nearly ripped his clothing off himself. He was angry, no, he was enraged. 

This girl did not deserve this. She deserved none of the shit those blonde shits put her through. And the words of ‘advice’ given to her by her septa only enraged him more. She should have told her to slip poison in his wine. 

Sandor sat down on his bed in his small clothes with a huff. His weight made the bed creek and bow. He drank from a wineskin as he thought of it all. Soon his anger subsided, replaced with a defeated sorrow. 

Naught could be done for her. This much he knew for certain.

So, after his wineskin ran dry he laid down. Finally allowing his body to rest even though his mind could not.

As he laid there, stripped of his armor and steel. As his sensitive skin laid against the rough material of his bedding he was reminded once more that he, and his body were punished. Punished by both too much, and not enough.

Too much combat, too much drinking, too many tourneys, too many cuts and bruises. So much he endured, and his body was punished for it. He ached and felt pains all over his body all the time. His scars were sensitive and hurt in warm bath water. 

But as he laid there he was again reminded how he had not enough. Not enough gentle touches, enough love and care. Though of course he’d never admit it to anyone. His body felt truly alone in his bed. He wished he could have felt her around him. He’d fucked before, that would not shock anyone. But he’d never made love to anyone. And Gods did he need to. 

He thought of it often, kissing her. He’d do it gently. He’d be gentle with her. She deserved gentleness. He’d kiss her while he held her face in his palms. Kiss her neck, press his lips against her skin and lick where she was most sensitive- wherever those spots were. Gods he wanted to know where they were. 

He felt shameful for thinking this way, he really did. He was no better than those men in that tavern. But, he’d be good to her.

He’d make her his wife, in the eyes of The Seven. He’d build her a home. It wouldn’t be like the one she’d been brought up in. Not a castle, but a house made of stone and wood. He’d give her safety, love. And as his hand began to wonder his punished body he thought of how he’d give her children.

He wished to know how her body would feel in hands. How it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts, the curves of her body, the soft plumpness of her belly. He wondered how it would feel to be inside of her. How his cock would feel to slide in and out of her slick, warm, inviting cunt. He did not know, but he did know it would have felt oh so much better than his calassed hand that was wrapped around his length now. 

Though his actions were vulgar and sexual, he did not think of it as that. He couldn’t think of her for long without feeling the need to have her. To be close to her. To please her. To hold her close and make her feel safe under his touch, to make her feel loved and desired with his body, his hands, and his mouth. 

He thought of what her septa told her. That she’d have to lay down and take it. If she was with him she’d want it, she’d never be forced. Bedding would be a pleasure not a duty.

His groans loudened, and his breathing quickened as he thought of how she’d ask him for it. How gentle her touch would feel on his ruined skin. 

Soon he was awoken from his day dream as the hot splash of his release jolted his mind back to reality. 

He did not have her, and she for all he knew, did not want him. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

And so the Hound was left with nothing to do but sit and watch as the love of his life was preparing to leave his life forever. 

He felt his heart breaking as he escorted the royals to the docks with the rest of the Kingsguard. He felt his eyes water as she began to step onto the dock, and approach the boat that would take her away from him. 

Naught could be done for her. 

So without a word the Hound offered the girl his hand. She took it, gently. He helped her into the boat. Her gaze fell onto him, and Gods it felt warm. He wanted to cut through them all. Wanted to take her off that boat and ride her away on Stranger. He’d do all the things he thought of the night before. Build her a home, keep her safe, and he’d love her. But they didn’t live in that world. 

The princess would marry that Tyrell. She’d have his sons, whether she wanted it or not. And she would never know how much her dog loved her.

The Hound watched as the boat sailed away with the girl he had loved all his life.

It’s the world that’s awful.

Thank you so much for your request! It was so much fun to write!!

The necklace he once gifted you glitters past your collarbones. Silver chain and the pendant as silver as autumn moonlight. The one he’d given you years ago. Etched with a dog on the pendant. Nothing expensive or special. Yet he felt all hitched and breathless when he saw you’d kept it.

All this shitting war and death and moving halfway across the fucking seven kingdoms to find each other - you’d kept that one tiny thing stowed in your pocket. That and the dagger with the stranger carved on it. But he knew you’d use that. Saw it tonight. He saw the flash of it before you’d buried it in a white walkers neck.

He sinks back into the now.

Your flaming hair twisted off your face in artful braids. Silken and drying with oils in the candle light. Your smile still blinded him. Cheeks warm from drink. Clutching Tormund’s arm as he span loud tale of the bravery and ferocity of the ‘Red Bitch.’ during battle.

He’d seen you cleave two walkers heads clean off in one blow. Watched you fall from the castle wall into piles of snapping, snarling dead, and still rise to fight some more.

Sansa makes her words plain to the obstinate Hound.

“I’d start living for her, and not your need for vengeance. If fighting the dead has taught you nothing, then it never will.”

“She seems a far better use of your time.” Sansa urged diplomatically. Coming to a stand and taking her goblet. Staying poised like the true lady she’d grown into.

She leaves. But not before giving him a clever grin that he couldn’t work out the origin of. “Heed my advice.” She warns. Before she takes her skirts and slips into the crowd. Easy as a wave rejoining the sea. Clever bird.

First that red witches warning of a desolating fall wrapped in fire not being his end.

beware, she said, for his destiny lay with the woman with the blood of the bear and wolf, and now the little bird chirping warnings at him.

Bloody women.

You break away from Tormunds wildness, and turn your eyes to where he sat. Cloaked in misery.

Even with a flagon of wine afore him. And the refusal of two very brave whores who’d tried to perch on his knee. Even staying true to his onerous nature, with the costly victory of defeating the biggest army of the dead sat sniping at his heels.

Your smile doesn’t dull. It never does when you see him. You move through the crowds to come to where he sits, grouching and drinking.

He watches as Sansa bids you a greeting as you meet in the cramped space of the aisle. Being jostled by drunken revelries, elbows and stumbling bodies. “Lady Clegane.” She nods.

You take the nickname with a pinch of salt. As far as you’re concerned, you’re a warrior. Still, technically, a ladies maid. Below everything else you’ve had to grow to become.

‘Lady’ doesn’t seem to come into it. But you don’t show your apprehension of such a title. It was better than the ‘Hounds Bitch.’ Though that name and its tethered reputation was always lurking around the corner. Still slid easily off the tongues of fools.

So you smile as you come to join her. “Lady Stark.” A polite incline of your head. And an artful curtsey. Your time at court taught you some things that clung on.

“Do see if you can cheer him. I fear his mood remains glum as ever.” She tells.

“I shall try my best. Mi’lady. Though I don’t believe I have strength enough at present to rival such a large task.” You jape.

She nods. “I feel you do. You quell that fathomless rage in him.”

She has stunned you there.

“I’m very touched by your faith.” You answer with a kind glance.

She appraised you warmly. Smile like sweet roses and cream. Her look was one of all knowledge and warmth. A truly regal flick of those icy cats eyes take your face. She leans in nearer.

“And, if I may be so bold, my most heartfelt congratulations.” She nods. Her eyes crease at the sides with the force of her smile at the news.

Her love and affection for Sandor lay evident in her reaction. But you see there is some there for you to grasp onto aswell. Her love for the ruined kings dog, that somehow became the truest version of the Knights she dreamt of, as an airy headed girl. He was crude. And rough. But he never lied to her.

You swallow. Dip your head again. “You are most kind. Lady Stark.”

“I want to assure you, the North will remember its debt to you both. And honour it accordingly. Should you ever need it fulfilled. Come directly to me.”

You nod your head. Heartened.

“Best of luck.” She smiles, eyes narrowing with mirth, before she turns. Ever poised. And slides away with her cup to hand. Copper hair a striking arrow down her dark clad back. Your tongue feels like chalk in your mouth.

You move to rejoin him. Sitting opposite Sandor, as he reaches over to pour more wine in his goblet. Adjusting your skirts as you climb on the bench. He offers you some you refuse.

He see’s once again the toll of your injuries. Warm orange glow in candles light. Lays bare the ruination; The black eye. The deep cut on your cheekbone. Scratches and bruises on your neck. Still lovely, even shining through all the battle marks. He’s sure his own figure is equally as tainted with scratches, ashes and blood.

You’re limping from your storied fall off the battlement. A bandage around your wrist from a vicious bite. You’re still in pain and you’ll drown it with wine cause you’re so fucking happy and so fucking scared that you’re somehow still alive. That you’ve stared death in the blue eyes, cheated it, and spat in it’s fucking face to come out the other side.

You want to seize your life now. You’ve seen too much death and ruin. And darkness. A new chapter can reign forth. It feels like you’re sitting at the edge of the world this eve. Every path ripe for taking.

You twisted back, looking after where Sansa had departed. Crowds swallowing her up. You turn back to him.

“She likes you.” You remark.

Sitting down properly, gently, in ode to your pains, to watch him drink and brood.

You know he was equally as fond of her and Arya. Whose absence was a mystery. But not entirely a surprise. Like your lover, she shunned crowds and any semblance of glory. She was probably sharpening her needle somewhere. Sticking to shadow. An eerie half reflection of him, almost. Lone little wolf took after the lone hound.

“Little bird’s a fine lady now.” He grunted.

You saw her loyalty to her house. How she rose off the back of her pain. Flourished into a firm yet fair ruler. Surrounded by true northmen.

You know a little of what that’s like.

To your mind, Sansa had never belonged trapped into subservience to some blonde cunt of a boy king. You recognised the icy lineage in her bones.

She belonged to Winterfell. It’s black and grey turrets, it’s black and grey grizzled soldiers. Swirls of snow and deep rooted stoicism. It’s sturdy thick stones and even sturdier people. That was where she needed to be.

“That little bird will be Queen of the North before long.” You surmise. “… and she pledged to me we would be well within in her favours.”

You tilt your head at him. The clever way you do. The jut of your chin that spoke of your intelligence. The things you observe and piece together. You were no fool. One of the first things that struck him. Right after your beauty did.

He scoffs. “What fucking favours, Red?”

“For your trying to save her.”

“Didn’t shagging work did it.” He scorned.

“But you tried.” You held out.

Sipping a little wine. Not much. Just taking away the taste of blood and ash.

“I don’t need favours.” He supplies.

Then he’s shifting on the bench. Uncertain. Looking suddenly small for a man so huge. Eyes flick to find yours. Unsure.

“I just need you.”

His hand tentatively finds yours on the tabletop. In flickering candlelight, in a drying pool of spilt ale. He joins fingers with yours. You want to wince at the grip that burns like fire. Knuckles beaten and raw from the fight.

His words hit you like a falling tonne of bricks. Unexpected. They chafe at something inside you that won’t settle.

You knew what he wanted. What he’s always wanted. To fuck off this cold place. Ride back to the capital this very night, and put a sword through Gregor’s murdering neck. That’s all he’s ever known to want.

He wants something that will doubtless kill him. How wretched that is. One thing he needs will see him tucked into a cold grave.

You can’t love a dead man. You’d done it before. It nearly ruined you.

You couldn’t have this conversation before, facing the army of the dead. It was too fraught. If one of you didn’t make it. Tongues stilled on the words. If. You didn’t want to linger on that idea.

But now here you both sit. Scarred. Scared. Clinging onto life. A fork coming up in your roads. It’s bitter and it will break you.

“I can see the tear in you. The need you have to leave here and finally fucking kill him.” You tell. Carefully. Watching him with set back caution.

He once told you, warned you, that you would never be safe as a couple, unless Gregor was six feet deep. Any connection you had was dangerous. Any children you’d have- they were incentive for his brother to find, to seek them out and… he couldn’t even finish the grisly thought.

For all he knew, the mountain could come and pluck your head from your shoulders at any time if he wanted. Make Sandor watch your death. Just to needle him. Everything Sandor loved was snatched away. By death, fire, or otherwise.

“I want to kill that cunt. Really. I do.”

You swallow. Desolation clogs the back of your throat. You don’t want to say the wretched words but they crawl off your tongue nonetheless.

“Then I’ll lose you.” You whisper.

No one survived the mountain.

“I can’t do that. Sandor. Please don’t ask that of me. I can’t love a ghost again. I can’t.” You shake your head. Shut your eyes. Tears drop over over cheeks.

It hurts. A fresh wound bound to fester. That he’d see and survive all this, to then turn on his heel to walk into a shit city he didn’t want to die in. And perish, just to sate his need for revenge.

Your greatest fear made flesh. Given a voice and a name. Cuts you deeper than any sword would dare. Flayed you to the bone and soaked you in Driftmark salt; your recovery? unlikely.

You sit there and look at him with tears brewing in your eyes. Stony expression taking your face.

“You want to do it. I know you do. You can’t lie. Clegane. Not to me.”

You want to leave me, your heart cries.

“You’re not hearing me.” He gripes.

“For the longest time, Aye, I’ve wanted him dead. For what he did to me. To others. For what he is. But that’s changed….”

You look at him like you don’t believe him.

“Started to change after I met you.” He announced. Quietly. Not taking his eyes off the table between you. It started slowly. Gently. And then all at once it climbed around his every notice like weeds. And those vines clung on tight.

“You’ve undone it all.”

You frown. Sniff back your grief. Tame the tingle of tears at the back of your tongue. Then he says something that cracks the whole sky open for you.

“Some other cunt can die killing him. It’s not going to be me.”

“It’s all you’ve ever wanted.” You state. Dumbfounded.

He makes sure your eyes are locked on his. He needs you to be looking at him when he said this;

“Not anymore.” He awards.

You let the words twist and hang between you like a gallows rope.

He sipped his wine. Gets more drunk.

Doesn’t really know what to say. How to say. He drowns himself in wine and hopes he’ll find his bravery at the bottom of the next cup. And the next.

He looks entirely lost. His life’s purpose all twisted up and skewed. It may aswell be laying dead and scattered to dust in the snow outside. Like all the dusty bones and decay of the dead.

“Don’t know what I’ll do now the fight is over… maybe killing him is the only useful thing I ever had to do.” He admits.

Gritting his teeth around the words. Stating that he felt useless. Big hands made to kill. Sharpened to hurt. And now all the killing is done. He would admit that to none but you. Knows you wouldn’t abuse his weaknesses.

You nod. Watching him.

Slide both hands around his. Elbows on the table. Barely cover his thick fingers. But you hold him fierce all the same. Your thumbs stroke his knuckles. He watches a contemplative look cross your face. He’s never seen you look so serious.

“Then I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” You begin.

“You’re going to leave here, with me, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after. When we’ve healed. We’ll travel to White Harbour. We will pay a small kings ransom for a passage and a cabin, on a ship bound for Braavos. And go and stay with my cousin, Tallin, and his wife Yves, in the villa on their vineyard.”

He eyes you carefully. Eyes glitter with candlelight gold. He would really like that.

“Away from swords and fighting and all the horrible fucking death we’ve choked on the past few years. The friends we’ve had to mourn and bury….” He sees tears shake your eyes.

“We will go somewhere where there are endless blue skies… And wine. And we can lounge in the sun. And not have to answer to anyone. And we can, just, drink, eat, and fuck…”

You shake your head and sigh. Voice heavy with emotion. You bite your bottom lip. Very much dreading what you need to say next. Tears spill down your cheeks. They sparkle in the half-light.

He looks apprehensive of you. There’s something you’re not saying. He knows when your tongue falls silent. When you snap your wilful jaw shut in fear.

“Because frankly, Sandor, I need all the peace and quiet I can get…. Before I have to give birth to your babe.” You say.

He lowers his wine goblet.

You could’ve knocked him down with a feather. Eyes wide and fearful, like you were suddenly a pillar of flame to him. Count this the only time you’d ever see the Hound stunned.

“What?” He drawls.

You hold his eyes. Fear trembles your ribs. You felt it before battle. Sinking spine deep and chilling. Hands shivering cold. Fear curling round every nerve like a venom spitting serpent. And you feel it now-

You see it in his eyes.

“The Maester told me. When he was seeing to my wounds. Reckons I’m around two moons gone, now.”

His mind is whirling back through the weeks leading up here. The fact you were sore headed and snappy some mornings. Tender one minute. Rampant for a fuck the next. Off your food and off any large skin of wine he offered.

Catching you feeling nauseas a lot more. Though you tried to hide it eating small bits of dry bread, or ginger cake, and taking nothing but water. Thinking it was the shit crab stew, the burnt salted oily fish, or the blackened bread making you ill.

You were sick into the snow before the battle too. Face clenched. Expression suddenly green and gaunt. You tried to hide it but he saw. Darted off to puke into a corner with your hand spread on a nearby barrel. It all slots into place.

He watches you sit there. Looking more scared than you were facing down the endless waves of dead, small and shrunken in your seat. Nerves twisted up all mean.

He rises from his seat. Leaves the wine where it is. Rounds the table and towers before you. Hand on the wood like he was steadying himself. Unable to take this sitting down.

“For true?” He asks you. Eyes so intent on you. You feel like they’re stripping your skin. His voice as soft as clouds.

You nod. “For true.”

Uncaring for those carrying on the revelry in swathes around him.

He drops to one knee and two massive hands are suddenly cradling your neck. Holding you so tight his hands tremble. Tears sparkle, swipe again down your cheeks.

“You went through that shit war with my babe in your belly, and you never fucking thought to tell me?” His voice trembles loud with both anger and gut deep fear.

You clutch his wrists where he held you. Wet your lips. “I didn’t know for certain til tonight.” Your eyes brim with burning tears.

“You’re not angry?” You seek. Your stomach on the precipice of sinking. You both knew full well he was not one for children. You wondered how he’d be about his own.

“Fucking livid you went through that, and kept it from me. I could bloody skin you.” He growled. A threat.

“Angry that it’s happening.” You checked. Unsure. Eyes wide with that fear again.

He snorts a derisive sound at you. Reaches over. Silly maid. Splays his large hand right over your belly where you sat.

“No. Red…” He muttered softly. Soft as silk. You’d rarely heard him that soft.

“It’s not anger I’m feeling right now.”

You leaned in. “Good.”

Pressed his forehead to yours. You smooth your hand up his twisted cheek. Thick whiskers under your palm. Take a second to sink out of this loud raucous room and just feel the space you’re sharing with him. It feels intimate.

He pulls back. Looking to where his hand stayed covering your warm golden belly. Feeling the rise and fall of your breath. His thumb rubs over the fabric of your dress.

The incredible news of his babe resting just there under his palm.

Enough to cut a man at the knees, that was.

You’d once asked him why he wasn’t married. He’d given a blunt answer that no one could bear the fucking sight of him.

You’d seemed suprised as he was a second son of a knighted house. Yet he lived lower than his station as a royal sworn sword.

Asked him how come he’d not been married off to some beautiful lady. Comfortably installed in some comfortable castle tower somewhere, with a fleet of servants. Wearing fine threads. Going on hunts, spending his days drinking wine to his black hearted content.

Unbeknownst to you, since you met, he’d started to carve out a little path in his head of what he might have wanted, instead of seeing to putting his brothers head on a spike.

Maybe…. Just maybe..

A castle tower would suit him. Like the Keep he’d once called home. Only better. One where bleached ghosts of old pain didn’t wander the thick walls. No.

This fictional place wouldn’t have a terrible shadow of a mountain looming over it. It would be a safe warm space. Where fire didn’t threaten. Not a place where servants and dogs were constantly kicked and kept cowering in dread.

This would be a haven. A place to hang his cloak and sword up at the end of the day. Green fields and trees for miles around it. Meadows with soft thrashing grasses. Land to farm. Open air and skies. Not the reek and filth of a shit city.

A home he could always belong too. The same feather bed to lay his head. With roaring log fires to chase the chill away. The smell of a hen roasting, and baked soft bread, and home churned butter, greeting him at the door each night. Maybe a couple of sleepy, big, lumbering hounds to stretch out before the fire.

Now that fantasy included seeing you, his Lady Clegane, sat fireside in a comfortably furnished room. In a fine wool dress, no less. Hair in a pretty braid, stroked with fire from the hearth. That gentle lulled pull of a smile you give him when you’re calm, and monstrously happy.

Perhaps you’re watching over a small babe, toddling around on the floor and playing on a rug that’s flecked with dog hairs near the slumbering hounds. A small wooden knight toy fisted joyfully in their pudgy hand.

Maybe there’s another sizeable swell of a bump under your dress. Your hand rubbing soothingly over it. Chiding him with playful ire curling off your tongue, saying he’d gotten you pregnant with another Clegane brute, when the babe kicks and wriggles all sudden at your belly.

He imagines his hand joining yours to feel that kick. An innocent little push up into his palm. Like a fish wriggling on a line. A tug of new life flourishing.

How he’d growl at it. Offended.

“Don’t hurt your mother.” He’d warn lowly to said bump.

“They take after you. My love. All elbows and fury.” You cheek.

He imagines the stocky, lumpy weight of a babe in his arms. Young flesh. Hair like wisps of wet silk against his lips. Dropping his nose to the crown of their head, to place a grizzled kiss there. Able to smell warm milk, lilacs, and white jasmine soap.

How that pudgy hand - that isn’t waving around a wooden knight toy - would come patting to his scarred cheek like a newborn starfish. Uncurling to seek new plains.

How they’d babble and grin at him. Eyes round and full of sheer love. Not shrinking in tears.

They’d see their father. A warrior. Protector. Not a scarred wretched monster. Or a grizzled old hound. He could hang up that title, and his sword, the same way he’d hang his cloak at the peg by the door when he came home, with night chasing at his heels.

That quiet-docile image has nestled deep in his chest, pushed into the muscle of his heart with all the ferocity of a stern arrowhead.

No matter how much he tried to tug it out. It stayed. It grew. Splintered. Swelled. Now it felt like it split his heart in half like a cracked rock. He can’t put it aside any longer.

I just need you. That was no lie to cross his lips.

Your Hound will never lie to you.

He swallows. Eyes finding yours once more.

“Just my fucking luck I fall for a goddamn wildling bastard with red hair. Seven knows what that babe will be like. Fucking feral I bet.” He grins.

You laugh. It sounds so foreign. It burst out of you like a split vein.

You realised you haven’t laughed proper in months. The movement feels rusty against your teeth and mouth.

“You’re no angel yourself. Clegane. This child’s first word is probably going to end up being ‘cunt’. Plus I hate to think of the dreadful table manners they’re going to learn off you.”

You slide your hand down his arm to his shoulder. One of your brows arches. Acidly.

“Besides. With your damn heft? It’ll be a miracle if I can yet survive the little fucker coming out of me.”

He chuckles. “You’ve survived much worse than that. Red.”

He said it lovingly. In odes to the past you eventually beared to him. Like you’d cracked open your ribs with your own hands like a pair of doors, to bare your most painful truths to him. Hands bloodied. Coming back full. Secrets clutched in your palms like pearls dragged from the blackwater deep.

Your hideous marriage. The death of your husband not by your hand. The bounty placed on you that kept you running all over the seven. You’d hated baring yourself to another. But you deemed him worthy of your burden.

You stroke your thumb against his good cheek. He draws you right in. Clasps a hand around your back. Puts his face in your shoulder. Breathes in the unfamiliar array of you.

The smell of woodsmoke and crackling ember ash still clung to your hair. The tallow candles, and wet flagstone mildew scent of these halls takes to your skin like a second nature. Slipped over you like an old cloak. Ice and snow accompany it. His true north maiden. Through and through.

When you pull apart. You skid away tears with the palm of your hand. Just in time to see a stout inebriated figure, swaying, at the foot of the table you both occupied.

It was Lord Tyrion. Very in his cups and all moony-soft eyes that spoke of liquors influence. No doubt the fumes of it sunk heavy on his breath. Drunk eyes gazing with love hearts at the pair of you. An expression of awe.

“I understand I am to offer congratulations. Lord and Lady Hound.” He slurred. He stumbles closer to the table.

“You are due a pup I hear. Though for your sake. Lady. I hope not a litter.” He japes cleverly. Swaying. His wine sloshes over his cup rim.

“Watch it. Imp.” Sandor barks. Staying knelt. His hand on your belly like a brand. Fierce growling protection.

The shield of his body to you and the babe. The ever present growl in the back of his throat that climbed out in a hair raising level, and told everyone to back the fuck off-

“Time has not dulled the fury of your bark so I see.” He snips back.

You smile sweetly at the drunken man. You were glad to see there was one golden cloaked Lannister who didn’t bear you both ill will. Though Tyrion had unyolked himself from their company in favour of another, you knew very well, ties could run deep if they were rooted in blood.

You do have a feeling Tyrion actually admired your Hound for taking his choice to throw off the vicious boy Prince. As he so wished to do. It only took some poison from clever Olenna Tyrell to help see that gold inbred disaster to a coffin.

“We thank you. My Lord. For your well wishes.” You counter.

“I don’t.” Sandor scowls. Eyes narrowing.

If Tyrion heard him, he made no show of it. His smirk grew. Eyes twinkled. As mischievous as his poor nickname suggested.

He points at you. Sloshes the drink even more in his cup. Some of it spills on the floor. He looks at the floor and back to his clumsy hand like someone else was to blame for the offence.

“I always did like you. Lady Clegane.” He hiccups. “Even when you were a mere slip of a maid tending to my cups. The flame haired beauty to temper the foul beast. And I consider the child should have atleast one non-hideous parent.”

Sandor gruffs. Twisting to the Lord. Addressing his impertinence. Big body starting to pack with rage.

You palm his huge shoulder. Holding it. Getting him to stay still. Stay down. And lose the urge to leap up and fight. Your touch spoke leagues. ‘Down my love. He doesn’t mean harm.’

“Don’t be so ferocious. We are celebrating!” He opened the span of his arms. All joy and candour on his face. Twirling around. His smile was wide and boyish under that thick beard.

“I feel I should also mention, before you scurry away to have your numerous pups, that the North, and our Queen, should like to repay you, most generously, for your service. I hear there’s a holding not a half days ride from here that should suit. Comes with a living. Some decent land. You’d be rich ten times over.”

You are heartened by the offer. More so to hear it come from a Lannister. Then again, they do always pay their debts either in blood or gold.

You’re glad to hear it’s the latter. You did wonder if they harboured hatred for Joffreys Hound tucking tail and running. But then again, he wasn’t the one who slipped poison in his cup at his wedding. Joffrey died just fine off the back of his own twisted nastiness.

You look to Sandor. Who turns back over his shoulder to catch your gaze. You raise your brows at him. ‘Well?’

You leave the choice to him.

What’ll it be, dog?

He turns back to address Tyrion.

“We are shortly bound for Braavos. Imp.” He snarls succinct.

You clear your throat.

Slap his wrist for good measure. ‘Manners, dog.’

He clears his throat. Reconsiders.

“Uh…. I’m taking her somewhere warm for a few months. For the babes sake. But, we would be delighted to consider the gracious offer.” Every nice and courtly word sounded like it had to be clunkily pulled out of him. Like pulling shrapnel, or teeth.

When he looks to you for confirmation. You look a little proud. Link your fingers in his.

Tyrion nodded. Swayed on his feet again. “That is good to know. Dog. I shall deliver your request. When I am sober.”

“When will that be?” You cheek. Your eyes glow golden amber with sass. Beauty to be sure. The way a knife is beautiful.

The rumours about you are well true. You are a woman men could cut their teeth on. There’s no meeting you nicely. Perhaps that’s how you’d won over the younger Clegane. His hound-like nature recognised the same scant roughness mirrored in you.

Your eyes are pretty as a sharp diamond when they land on him. Twice as cutting laying next to striking auburn hair.

A man could commit such brutal savageries for those eyes-

Though maybe that was the drink doing his thinking.

He does know one salient thing; that you’re utterly made for each other.

He wobbles. Contemplates for a second. “After I spew from the battlements. Probably.”

He stepped off. Walked unevenly away to the back of the room to fetch another drink. But he paused and whirled back.

“It’s not a ruse is it? You really do love this man?” He asked.

You nod at the little lord. Smile tipping wide. “Unfortunately, yes.”

You explain further. “Your Hound, and my Sandor, Lord Tyrion, are not the same man. They are miles apart.”

Tyrion nods. Looked more like he was swaying on his feet. Unsteady.

“However did you get so lucky to have her, you old dog?” He asks. Awed.

His scowl and grunt, made Tyrion smirk as he finally took the hint of Sandors growls and staggered away.

You smile. Rub his hand in yours. Which quickly found its way back to your middle. He rose to a stand shortly after.

“Come on. I think you, and you….”

He looks down and jabs his finger at your middle in gesture

“…Need some goddamned rest away from the drunk fools.”

“You’re drunk too. Don’t be picky.” You point out.

“Can’t nag me just yet. Maid.” He ribs.

“Can I not? I’ve certainly earned the right. Saved your sorry neck a few times tonight. Not to mention carrying your heir.”

“Seven help me. That babes going to come out breathing fire, sure enough. Snarling like a fucking dire-wolf, too.” He warns.

“Then it’ll feel right at home with you.” You tease.

He gazes down at your middle.

“Feral fucking pup.” He decides.

You bat at his arm. But you smile as you do it. He draws you close. Tucks your arm to his to aid you.

You nod and creak to your feet. You feel as if could you could sleep for a millennia. Rest your aching muscles. And no doubt rest will be your saviour in the coming months, much needed to survive your most laborious toil yet. A Clegane babe. Seven have mercy.

“What have I got myself in for-“ you remark dryly as you ease up.

He reaches down and holds your elbow. Helps you stand. Gets his hands on you to help and touch however he can. Splays one big hand between your shoulder blades. It spans nearly the whole width of your back.

“You don’t have to be a mother hen just yet.” You pat the middle of his big chest firmly. “I’m not that ailing.”

A curl of a smile comes forth. Makes his eyes flicker with the candles light. Dancing brown and gold.

“I know that. Just thought that dress would look much better off, than on. Best see how it looks on our floor.” He charms all brusque.

Laughter makes your cheeks warm. “Cheeky git.” You thump his side as he leads you through the hall. Hand on your elbow. Unflinching. Unmoving.

For once in his life, he finds he didn’t drift off to sleep thinking of hate or revenge. The iron spray of blood across his face and sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Even in his sleep that night. His hand never left your belly or hip. Drawn to your shared babe like the North Star. Arm curling you both close.

Little bird was right. Turns out he did have some learning still to be done. And plenty more to come besides that.

~

・You knew your husband wasn't the gentlest of people.

・But you see a different side of him. You see the kinder, calmer, Sandor. (who still swears a lot)

・Your life with him is simple. For the most part.

・You live in a cottage that Sandor fixed up himself (he's found that building things may be hard work, but it's better than cutting people down)

・You may get the odd Stark (Sansa, Arya) visiting, and they invite you to celebrations at Winterfell (You go and although he's grumpy about it, he does have a good time)

・However, Sandor loves his solitude. He loves living alone - with you. You're the sunshine, the moon, the very air he breathes.

・You look after one another. This one time when you came down with a cold, Sandor was by your side the whole time.

・He was bringing you teas, making sure you were comfortable, a lot of his responses were:

"Aye, I can do that-", "Tell me if it gets worse," and then he doesn't stray far from you.

・When he fell ill, he was a mess. Groaning and moaning, always sweating, sniffling, once you swore he cried. You aided him the best you could (and turns out you do it quite well)

・You have routines that you both stick to. For example, your bed time routine starts with leaving the couch and washing yourselves in the bath.

・Then after a while, when the bath cools, you get out and dry yourselves. Sandor wraps you in the closest blanket and carries you to bed.

・He grunts, moving to wrap around you like a protective wall.

"I love you Sandor," you always whisper.