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Highgarden Estate, Late 1843
Sansa stood tall and proud, her back as straight as it possibly could be as she stared across the plush gardens of the Tyrell estate. While she felt relief in every pore of her body, she was more exhausted than anything and wanted nothing more than to take her leave of the wedding festivities and head home.
’Home,’ she took a deep breath, it was just a house now, empty and dark. Still there was victory to be had in its vacant state. She had been working herself to the bone day and night since her parents’ carriage had overturned and left all of the Stark children orphaned. While Robb was the eldest, he was far from the most responsible and so management of her parents’ estate and the lives of her siblings had fallen to her. She had risen to the occasion with vigor, determined to ensure that her family would not succumb to destitution or disgrace. She had even done the impossible and turned her feral younger sister Arya into a Lady–a proper lady who was now the wedded wife of Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden.
It had been a rocky road, one laced with chaos and pitfalls, but no matter how badly she wanted to, she never gave up. ’Forward, only forward,’ the words of her father’s closest confidant Stannis Baratheon had encouraged her, and she had listened well. With Robb and Arya married, and with Bran and Rickon having taken their commissions in the Army and Navy respectively, she was now alone. Once she had been called the ‘toast of the ton’, a paragon of virtue and accomplishment, she had set that all aside to focus on what must be done. And now it was over, the Starks were safe and settled.
’Except for you,’ a voice echoed in the back of her head. She took a ragged breath, attempting to push the words to the back of her mind. ’What will become of Lady Sansa Stark now?’ Truthfully she did not know. She was, in reality, afraid to know.
A ragged exhale pushed from her chest and she bent over the carved stone balustrade, leaning upon its support for a brief moment. She felt it then, just as she had so many times before, she wasn’t alone. Taking a deep breath she lifted her gaze to catch the stone cold grey eyes of Major General Sandor Clegane.
Terrifyingly large and cutting a fine figure in his crisp black and gold uniform, he was watching her from beside the ornate fountain without an ounce of shame in his features. He was the only man in the ton to unsettle her spine of steel, sending powerful sensations through her that she could not properly identify. Every bit of this man, from the inky black of his well-kept hair and beard, to his broad shoulders and long, muscled frame, all of it called to her in a dark and sinful way. Not even the scarring across his cheek, ear, and jaw could deter her appreciative gaze from drinking him in. No, Sandor Clegane was a man that inspired very unladylike thoughts to dance through her head and it was quite unsettling.
They watched each other for several moments, the world around her falling away until only the two of them remained. She could have watched him forever, but her attention was regrettably pulled away by the insistent attention of Lord Petyr Baelish–a friend of her parents and the wedding festivities at hand. She looked away to address Lord Baelish for only a few short minutes, but when she turned back to the fountain Clegane was gone.
Tyrell Ballroom, King’s Landing. Early 1843
Sandor walked into the ballroom with little fanfare and even less enthusiasm, the cacophony of the gathered crowd immediately overwhelming his senses. How could they all tolerate this let alone enjoy it? He thought to himself as he walked along the edges of the room. It was hot, crowded and loud, and—
Buggering hells, his entire being was suddenly frozen as he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes. He watched as she helped a shorter brunette woman to fix her hairstyle, eyes bright in concetration. She was absolutely stunning, taller than most around her and with her fiery curls piled atop her head she looked like a goddess from the pages of one of those bawdy art books his fellow soldier Podrick used to read. She was speaking to the shorter woman, warmth in her features as she helped to fix whatever issue had arisen and then, with a beaming smile, she entrusted the brunette into the welcoming hands of Lord Willas Tyrell. The brunette was swept away and the beauty was left behind, looking on with bright eyes.
He could not help himself, his feet were moving before he even realized what was happening. His soul would not be denied; not when men went to war for beauty such as this–died for beauty such as this. He crossed the room with ease, his great height making it easy to navigate the chaos; soon he stood before the porcelain beauty, eyes going wide as she looked up, up, up into his eyes.
”Oh,” she fixed that dangerous smile upon him and he nearly forgot his name.
”Sandor Clegane, if I may be so forward,” he bowed before her, gritting his teeth against the absurd procedure of society. She gave a polite curtsy, as was expected and his eyes couldn’t help but fall to the slender column of her throat for a brief moment before she rose and her eyes returned to his.
”Lady Sansa Stark,” she smiled, her eyes not lingering on his scars for a second. “Your reputation precedes you, Major General, it is an honor to meet you.”
”The honor would truly be mine,” he began. “If you would join me for this dance?”
”But it is the Waltz,” she said softly as if that changed anything for him.
”Aye,” he extended his hand to hers and after only the slightest of hesitation she placed her gloved hand into his, following him to join the other couples on the dance floor. He made sure to stand tall, carefully guiding her in the steps that his mother had insisted he learn. Together they moved with ease, twirling around the room without a care in the world as she clung to him. It was, to him, a singular moment. He did not feel an ogre, he did not feel a beast; for the first time in a long time he felt like a man. A man worthy of a Lady’s time.
Risking a glance at the woman in his arms, Sandor was pleased to find a smile upon her full lips and a serene beauty in her crystalline eyes. ‘Yes,’ he told himself. ‘She was absolute perfection.’
King’s Landing, Stark Townhouse. Late 1843
Sansa had been so absorbed in her task, packing the last of her books and diaries, that she had missed the bell at the door entirely and she only became aware that she had a caller when a large figure filled the doorway to the study.
“Oh,” a small gasp of surprise slipped free as she looked up at him, her heart jumping in her chest. “Major General Clegane,” she greeted him with a curtsey.
“Lady Sansa,” he nodded his head in return. He did not wear his uniform today, but instead had chosen a wardrobe of all black paired with polished hessians. He looked positively imposing.
“Please come in,” she set the books in her hands aside and motioned to the settee and chair near the fireplace. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked, as they both sat in plush velvet chairs across from each other. It was an odd thing to watch such a large man fold himself into the tiny chair, but he did so with surprising grace.
“You are leaving?” he asked, shadowed eyes lingering on the chests littered about the study floor.
“I will return to the North, to Winterfell,” she replied. “My brother and his wife have decided to extend their travels and have graciously offered me residence on the estate.”
“I see,” he nodded, shifting slightly in the chair.
“My duty here in the city is done. My siblings have found their paths and have settled,” she continued, for some reason feeling the need to explain her circumstances. They had only spoken a dozen or so times before this, short conversations or witty exchanges at a party or dinner, and while she had greatly enjoyed speaking with him, she was surprised that he had come to call upon her now.
“And what of your path, Lady Sansa?” he prompted. “Are you resigned now to a life of solitude in the great white North?” His words struck something within her that she had been desperate to escape for some time, her hackles raising as she did her best to school her expression.
“Major General–”
“Please, call me Sandor,” he interjected. “I’m not a soldier, not anymore.”
“San…Sandor, what becomes of my life is a private matter,” she said weakly.
“You have given up everything,” he spoke quietly, his voice soft and deep. “Everything. And now you would ride quietly into the North to vanish forever?”
“There is no one for me,” she admitted. “I had my chance, my season. I did not find a husband and then any future seasons were set aside so I could see to my siblings’ happiness. You know that, please do not be cruel.”
“Cruel?” his bark of laughter was ice cold as he shook his head. “Cruel is that you gave up everything for them and it has now left you alone with no help in return from them.”
“Robb has offered residence at Winterfell–”
“Until when? Until they return? Will they keep you around when they have children so that you can raise them and ‘see to them’ too?”
“I asked you not to be cruel,” she stood, tears rushing to her eyes as his words struck her heart. He wasn’t wrong, she had already suspected as much from Robb and Claire. But to hear the words from another made them hurt a hundred times worse.
“Damn it all,” he stood and paced to the fireplace, bracing his hands on the wooden mantle. “In this ‘cruelty’ is just an honesty that no one wants to hear, most of all me.”
“You?” she whispered, quite confused by all of this. “How could my situation possibly have any affect on you?”
“I thought you’d noticed,” he turned away from the fire to face her. “A few moons back, at the Tyrell engagement ball after the garden party I believe, I thought you’d realized that I was hopelessly in love with you, but instead you blithely continued on planning your sister’s wedding.”
“Sandor,” she gasped, collapsing back into her chair. He spoke so forcefully and with such conviction that it had to be true–had to be. But how had she not noticed…
“My brother is the Duke, I am just the scarred second son that nearly didn’t come back from the war. There is nothing for me in society events, but I attended them all the same for a chance to see you,” he continued. “Were I to have more to offer you I would have been more obvious in my admiration. As it is, I have little to offer you aside from myself.”
“You never…we spoke dozens of times, we danced together, yet you never said a word.”
“I am a hard man, flirtation is not something I am skilled in,” he reluctantly admitted. “For me, dancing with you–-holding you for that brief moment was enough, at least I told myself it was enough. And yet here I stand, reaching for the stars far above me.”
“I do not understand,” she frowned. He said he loves me…
“You have said before that you value honesty. So, at the risk of humiliation and rejection I offer you an alternative to returning to Winterfell,” he stepped closer and sank down onto his knees before her. “I offer you myself, heart in hand. If you were to marry me, I would do everything in my power to ensure your happiness–a state of being that you have long since set aside. We would not be terribly rich in coin, but we would be rich in every other way. I would love you every day without fail. I would protect you and take care of you,” he paused, swallowing thickly. “And I would do the same for each of our children, should you wish to honor me with any.”
“Sandor,” she paused, tears running down her cheeks. “You wish to marry me?”
“I do,” he nodded. “I know that it is not right to ask you to surrender your title as Lady Sansa Stark only to offer you Mrs. Clegane in return–”
“I accept,” she finally found the words she’d been searching for. “I don’t want the title, it means nothing to me. But marriage with you, oh Sandor, that would be lovely.”
“Truly?” his grey eyes lit up with a boyish hope she had never seen in them before and she burst into tears. She could only nod and in the next instant Sandor was on his feet, offering his hands to help her stand. Slipping her hands into his much larger ones, she stood and looked up at his great height with a smile. “You have made me the happiest man in Westeros.”
“Mrs. Stone?” Sansa called out and the housekeeper appeared in the doorway a moment later.
“Yes, My Lady?”
“There has been a change of plans,” Sansa smiled. “We will not be returning to Winterfell, but instead moving to…” she looked at Sandor.
“My private residence on the Clegane Estate,” he provided.
“The Clegane Estate, please,” Sansa relayed.
“Oh miss,” the housekeeper beamed. “Are you to be married at last?”
“I am,” Sansa said with a watery laugh. The housekeeper let out a squeal of joy before vanishing into the hall, calling out to the staff about the change of plans and impending wedding. Alone once again Sansa looked back up at Sandor.
“You’re going to be my wife…” he whispered.
“I am.”
“Gods,” he exhaled, lowering his forehead to hers. “I am afraid to move or speak, for any sudden movement could cause me to wake up and learn that this is only a dream.”
“This is not a dream, I am here with you,” she reached up to cup his bearded jaw, resting over the scars on his cheek and chin. In a sudden movement his arms wrapped around her and pulled her body tightly against his. He was so much larger than her he seemed to curl around her, burrowing her into his very core. In his embrace she instantly felt safe and protected….cherished even. She melted into him, letting his warmth sink into her, thawing something long frozen. Her future, one that had seemed so empty a quarter of an hour ago suddenly beamed bright and hopeful; no longer a spinster or burden, she was to be a wife and perhaps one day a mother. There was nothing more that she could ask for than to be so cared for by such a fierce man.
Highgarden, South of The Reach. Mid 1843
Sandor once again found himself observing the gathered crowd, this time at a garden party at the Tyrell Estate of Highgarden. Unwilling to attend such a gathering, Gregor had sent Sandor in his place, much to his chagrin. He was grateful, however, when he saw that Lady Sansa Stark was also in attendance, once again standing beside the shorter brunette he’d learned was her younger sister Miss. Arya Stark. This was, for all intents and purposes, an engagement announcement party for the youngest Stark daughter who was soon to wed the young Willas Tyrell. Tonight there was to be a grand ball in celebration.
Not that he gave a buggering fuck. He was here for one reason and one reason alone, to see Lady Sansa again.
“Clegane,” the rough and uncultured voice of Ser Bronn Black broke into his observations and he turned to shake the man’s hand. They had fought together, side by side they’d fought in the rebellion that had turned out to be a massive waste of time, resources, and lives. Had they known that they were fighting to put a wastrel and a whoreson on the throne, they’d have probably just gone home instead. But alas…
“Surprised they let you in here,” Sandor smirked at the shorter man.
“Trust me, at first they didn’t want to,” Bronn shook his head. “But I went and did something stupid.”
“What’s that?”
“I fell in love,” Bronn nodded to the side of the garden near the pond where a petite honey haired woman in a lavender walking dress stood talking to some other young woman he didn’t know. He did know that the lady in question was Lady Margaery Tyrell and certainly far above Bronn’s grasp. He was surprised then when the woman in question turned around, eyes fixing immediately on Bronn to send him a private smile.
“She’s a Lady,” Sandor frowned.
“Aye,” Bronn agreed. “With the alliance to the Starks secured with Willas’ engagement to Miss. Arya Stark, the Dowager Duchess Olenna, deigned to smile favorably on a rich man with a knighthood. We're to be married once the banns are read.”
“Bloody hells,” Sandor laughed, shaking his head. “Congratulations then, I suppose, cheeky bastard.”
“What about you? Your older brother has yet to marry, what about you? Any prospects?”
“We sound like a bunch of gossiping women,” Sandor attempted to change the subject, but Bronn–the ever observant bastard that he was, noticed when Sandor’s eyes landed on Sansa Stark across the lawn.
“Seems I’m not the only soldier punching above his weight category,” he clapped Sandor on the shoulder. “She’s a good Lady, sacrificed a lot for her siblings when their parents died.”
“What do you mean?” Sandor found himself frowning again.
“She was on the marriage market when the Duke and Duchess died in a carriage accident,” Bronn explained. “As Margaery explains it, Sansa went into mourning as propriety demanded and then when she finally returned to the city she was nearly twenty and focused entirely upon finding her elder brother a bride. After he married the very wealthy Lady Claire Stevenson, Robb was able to purchase very good commissions in the Army and Navy for his younger brothers. That left Miss. Arya Stark and now that she is settled, Lady Sansa is two and twenty, firmly on the shelf.”
“I find that highly irregular,” Sandor’s heart ached for all that Sansa had sacrificed for her siblings, for what she now faced once the wedding was over. She was far from a spinster in his eyes; not only was she twelve years younger than his own near-35, but she was absolutely gorgeous and lovely to speak with. How in the Seven buggering Hells had these poncy cunts not realized the diamond that was sitting right in front of them?
“The ton is a fickle beast,” Bronn agreed. “If you want her, then go after her. The worst she can say is ‘no’.”
“Worst,” Sandor scoffed. “Imagine having your heart ripped out of your chest by such delicate hands.”
“Imagine,” Bronn laughed. Their conversation turned to reminiscing on the ‘old days’ for a short while before Lady Margaery beckoned Bronn back to her side. They shook hands and parted ways with an agreement to meet for a meal soon, and then Sandor was alone once more. His eyes returned to the spot near the rose garden where Sansa had been standing, only to find that she was no longer there. Scanning the crowd quickly, looking for her wide-brimmed hat he could not find her. A panic settled in his chest that had him whirling towards the maze and there she was, the goddess herself.
Sitting on a stone bench in the shade of a great tree, she had discarded her hat and set it beside her, her fiery curls on full display. She was watching over the crowd with an aloof sort of look, as if she were looking but not seeing. Taking a deep breath to conjure courage, Sandor walked along the stone pathway towards her.
“Major General Clegane,” Sansa greeted as he approached, smiling up at him. “Oh please, there is no need for that,” she assured him when he went to bow. “Would you care to sit? I find this a rather awkward angle for my neck, given that you are so tall.”
“With pleasure, thank you,” he couldn’t help but chuckle at her candour, sinking to the bench beside her–a reasonable distance away, of course. “I trust that you are well?”
“I am,” she shifted in her seat slightly to face him. “I am not a very big fan of garden parties, so I am being anti-social, I’m afraid.”
“I would imagine that with your fair complexion, spending time in the sun is not your first choice,” he ventured, hoping that he was not overstepping his bounds.
“Yes, exactly!” she laughed, the sound honest and lovely. He could not look away, watching her cheeks flush with amusement. “Red hair was fashionable a few years ago, but we’ve gone out of favor, I believe.”
“I find your hair most singularly beautiful, Lady Sansa,” he said the words before he could stop himself, his stomach falling when her smile faded and she regarded him intently for several long moments.
“Were it any other man, I would say that you were merely being polite,” she said softly. “But given that it is you, I am inclined to believe you. Thank you, Ser Clegane, for the kind words.” From there the conversation flowed naturally between them. They learned that they shared a love of mystery novels and sneaking into the library at any given time, and Sandor greatly enjoyed the mental image of Sansa curled up beside the fire, her hair down and feet bare. He was not surprised that the library he imagined was the one at the Clegane Estate, with all its grand shelves and collections. Nearly a half an hour had passed before Sansa’s attention was called away by her sister. He looked on as she neatly paced the hat atop her head, sliding the pin into place with a smile.
”Thank you for the lovely conversation, Major General,” she pushed to her feet and sank into a curtsey. He stood as well, giving a small bow.
“The pleasure was all mine, Lady Sansa. I look forward to our next opportunity to speak,” he said, desperately wondering when that opportunity would come. She departed with a smile, seeming to float back to her Sister’s side leaving him in the cool shade alone, more enamoured with her than ever.
Clegane Estate, outside Lannisport. Late 1843
They were married that Friday, just the two of them with Sandor’s much older brother Gregor, the Duke of Clegane, as their witness. Like Sandor the Duke was a large and imposing man, but where Sandor had only black hair and grey eyes, Gregor had lighter, thinner hair and no beard. It served, perhaps, to make him look softer.
Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off of Sandor as they spoke their vows, his eyes suspiciously bright as he placed a simple golden band onto her left ring finger. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she’d ever owned, and easily the most meaningful. When the septon declared them husband and wife, Sandor brushed an achingly gentle kiss across her lips, soft and brief.
From there they travelled to the Clegane Estate, dropping Gregor at the manor house before they went on to the well-appointed three level house nestled against the tree line overlooking the creek.
“Oh it’s perfect,” Sansa said in awe as she stepped out of the carriage.
“Gregor helped me to restore it,” Sandor said. “I wanted it to be perfect, should you…that is…”
“You did this for me?”
“I’d do anything for you,” he said without hesitation.
“Then perhaps you’d show me around our home then, husband.”
“With pleasure,” he agreed but instead of offering her his arm as she expected, Sandor scooped her into his arms, one at her knees and the others at her back as he carried her up the steps and into the house.
Clegane Estate, outside Lannisport. Early 1844
Sansa came awake slowly, a delicious warmth spreading through her and settling between her thighs. A smile curled on her lips as she realized the warmth was radiating from the featherlight kisses being trailed across her bare shoulder. She sighed as she let her mind trail over where she was and who she was with.
“Husband,” she sighed, arching back against him. She felt the hard length of him against her ass, a growl rumbling from his chest as he gently nipped her shoulder. It was one of her favorite things about her husband, the dark and dangerous animal lurking within his being. The unique dichotomy of the possessive, demanding lover and the gentle, loving husband. As a young girl she’d tried to picture her husband and how married life would be and she’d always imagined the quiet and aloof sort of life that came with arranged marriages and beneficial matches made by overbearing fathers. Perhaps if she had married a titled man in her first season she would’ve had that type of marriage; but she had not married a titled, boring gentleman…no, she’d married a broad shouldered soldier, an imposing man with a powerful phsyique who made no secret of his affection and desire for her. Free from the chains of the ton and its expectations, they were at liberty to freely enjoy their marriage. And their marriage bed. It was quite intoxicating.
“Little Bird,” the term of endearment whispered against the column of her throat sent shivers of desire down her spine. They lay together in their massive bed, Sandor’s large frame fitted against her back with her head pillowed on his large bicep. It was how they usually slept in the past four moons since they’d married, often after devouring each other until they collapsed into exhaustion. “Gods, it’s been mere hours since I’ve had you and I’m already desperate for you again.”
“Desperate,” her smile turned to a gasp as a large hand cupped her breast, rolling and plucking her nipple between strong fingers. Her body reacted instantly, charging to life at his skilled touch.
“Always desperate,” his hand abandoned her breast to travel down her stomach and between her legs, deftly finding the sensitive nub that had her mewling with pleasure. With a deft movement he hooked her top leg over his, opening her up to his ministrations. “Please,” he pleaded. “Will you let me love you…”
“Always,” she shifted her hips and rocked back against him. “Make love to me, husband.” He did not hesitate, instead he aligned the swollen head of his cock with her opening and eased himself inside of her. He always went slow at first, mindful of his manhood’s size and how much larger he was than her. She, however, loved the stretch and the burn, the feeling of being joined completely with her husband. Once inside fully, he wrapped his arm around her front, forearm between her breasts and his hand settling on the front of her throat, holding her back pinned against his front.
“So fucking good,” he groaned against her ear as he withdrew and then surged back home. “You take me so well, Little Bird. Your pussy loves to stretch around my cock.”
“Yes,” she whimpered as his hips snapped now with a steady, deep rhythm. The room was filled with the sound of their love making, her soft pleas and his filthy litany of praise, whispered in the deep, gruff voice she’d come to love.
“My beautiful wife, all mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”
“Yours.”
His hand moved back to her folds, after pausing briefly at her breasts, rolling and flicking her ‘clit’ as he called it. Her pleasure skyrocketed, her entire body trembling as it buzzed through her. She was lost to the rising sensation, the sounds he was pulling from her were feral and mindless, she would have been embarrassed at making such sounds if she could string a coherent thought together.
“Fuck I’m close, so close,” he continued. “I’m going to fill you, wife. Come for me and I’ll give you my cum, I’ll give you the babe you so desperately want. Come for me…please.”
It was the broken, uttered plea that pushed her over the edge, a sharp cry tearing from her as she rode through her climax. Sandor’s hips stuttered and then surged deep as he roared through his own pleasure. Sansa felt every twitch and pulse, shaking in his embrace as she tried to catch her breath.
“Little Bird,” he used a gentle hand on her chin to guide her mouth to his, the angle was awkward and the kiss sloppy but still incredible as they came down from their highs, his body slipping from hers in a sticky mess. “Gods how I love you. Four moons married and I can still hardly believe you’re mine.”
“Sandor,” she smiled. “My darling husband.”
“I am,” he caressed her hip, careful squeezing the flesh there.
“And soon, a loving father,” she moved his hand to her lower stomach, pressing his palm over her womb. He did not react for a brief moment and then she felt his body stiffen, his breath catching. “I have not bled since the week before we wed.”
“Oh Gods,” he deflated, lowering his forehead to her shoulder, his body trembling and breathing ragged. “Little Bird,” his fingers flexed against her stomach, arms tightening around her.
“I can think of nothing so incredible as a baby made with love,” she said softly, rotating in his tight embrace to cup his cheek. “So much love.”
“There are no words,” he whispered, still not meeting her gaze. “Nothing to describe the overwhelming feelings…” his voice broke.
“Sandor, look at me,” she ran a thumb over his cheekbone and he finally raised his eyes to hers. They were suspiciously bright and filled with so much love that it made her own throat tighten with emotion. “I love you so very much. You saw me when no one else did. You have saved me from a life of solitude and cold duty, gifted me a loving marriage and asked for nothing in return. You have made me a wife, you have made me a mother, something I cried endlessly over when I thought the chance was lost to me forever. You are my miracle, Sandor Clegane.”
“You…” he swallowed thickly, doing his damndest not to cry. He hadn’t cried since he was a wee boy and Gregor had accidentally pushed him down the stairs when they were roughhousing. He refused to cry now, even if he really wanted to weep with joy. “You love me, Little Bird?”
“I do,” she promised, her crystalline eyes swimming with emotion of their own. He turned to kiss her palm, his eyes losing as he did his best to contain his emotions. He had loved her for so long, and had been so certain that he would never be able to wed her let alone earn her love. And now… now she had come to love him and he felt as if his heart would burst free from his chest. “I love you and our baby very, very much.”
“A babe,” his hand over her womb flexed, cupping the flesh gentle. Now that he was focused upon it, he could see the soft rounding there, feel the new firmness of her stomach. Gods. For all his faults, for all his misdeeds and his violence during the rebellion, he thought that the Gods had punished him by ruining half of his face, but instead they have given him the most precious gift he could have ever asked for. “I cannot wait, Little Bird. I cannot wait to watch you grow heavy with my child, I cannot wait to hold them in my arms. I cannot…” he braced himself against another wave of emotion, and as if she had read his mind, she leaned closer and took his lips with hers, pulling him into a soft, soothing kiss. He did not hesitate, but instead wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, desperately so, as they lost themselves in their blissful celebration.
Clegane Estate, outside Lannisport. Many years later…
Sandor crested the hill and was met with his favorite sight in the world; sitting on the grass atop a large blanket in the shade was his lovely Little Bird, even more beautiful today than she was when they married just over five years ago. Beside her on the blanket their two four year old sons, Eddard and Brynden were fast asleep, clearly having worn themselves out running around the yard. Both boys were little copies of himself and he doted on them unapologetically.
Drawing his horse Stranger, to a stop, he allowed himself several moments to admire his wife as she read her book, her hand absently smoothing her rounded stomach as he watched. She would give birth again soon and Gods willing it would be just one babe this time. The twins had been very difficult for her slender frame, he’d been worried sick the entire birth, terrified he’d lose her. He wouldn’t have been able to go on if he did…
Gods did he love her. In truth, he’d fallen in love with her the first moment he laid eyes on her; the stunning and vibrant beauty who had put her siblings before herself had unknowingly captured his heart before he had a chance to resist. He’d gone to her house that day more terrified than he’d ever been—even going to war hadn’t scared him as much as asking Lady Sansa Stark to marry him. He’d fully expected rejection but instead she’d entrusted herself to his care and become his lawfully wedded wife, his closest confidant, and his passionate lover. He did not mind that she was not in love with him when they married, other marriages were built on far less and he was confident that he loved her more than enough for both of them; he had been patient and loving and now she was as in love with him as he was with her.
Which was a very good thing, he took a deep breath, as everything was about to change. As if sensing his anxiety, Sansa looked up and smiled at him, beckoning him over. Dismounting Stranger he walked the stallion to the nearby fence and looped his reins over the top board, letting his mount nibble on the grass.
“All is well?” She asked as he sank to the blanket beside her.
“I’ve just come from a very long conversation with my brother,” he began. “Gregor has put into motion the legalities of naming me as his heir.”
“What?” Sansa gasped, eyes going wide.
“He has no inclination to marry,” Sandor continued. “I’m nearly fifteen years younger than he is, I have already married and have two sons; as he sees it, the line of succession should logically bring the title to me and then on to Eddard. Then he would not even need to burden himself with the marriage mart and its chaos.”
“Oh my,” Sansa set her book aside with a trembling hand. “Have you accepted?”
“He did not give me the choice but I would have said yes if asked,” he said. “I never had a desire to be a Duke or Lord, but I would not pass up the opportunity to give you the title of ‘Duchess’.”
“Sandor..”
“You were born a Lady, you gave that up to marry me.”
“And I’d do it again, I would rather have you than any title, my love.”
“Now it seems you will have both,” he took her hands in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips.
“I am truly the most spoiled wife in all of Westeros.”
“Because you are the most beloved,” he assured her.
“I am, I cannot pretend to be otherwise,” she shifted closer, snuggling to his side. Sandor wrapped an arm around her without hesitation, keeping her flush against him. This was his favorite place to be, at Sansa’s side, and Gods willing he would be here for the rest of his life.