Lunch break. Happy Friday!
Swear you won’t leave me again.
Aye, I swear it.
Finished in the wee hours last night.
“Lord Clegane approaches!” he hears one of the men-at-arms yell, and even after twelve years of marriage to the Warden of the North and his elevation—kicking and screaming, very reminiscent of young Neddy—to the rank of Lord, it’s something he almost rolls his eyes at. He has, however, gentled enough to not frighten some poor servant out of their wits for doing their job.
But he still growls at some impertinent groom for assuming that just because he’s a lord that he won’t brush down his own mount.
The army marches for the Twins in the morning. Winter Town now bustles with soldier’s families, and Sandor is glad of the distraction it will provide Sansa in his absence. Shirking off the man who intends to help him remove his armor—Sansa is just fine at it, and, he thinks with a grin, he much prefers it when she does it, for several reasons—Sandor makes for the children’s rooms, where he knows he will find her at this hour. He passes each of them by in succession—Little Cat, Nella, Jonquil, Robbie, Aryanna, before pausing outside Neddy’s room at the sound of his wife’s soft voice.
He lets the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth soften the tension in his frame, and watches Sansa take a seat next to the cradle. He moves closer, wanting to watch her with their youngest son for a while yet.
“Hello, my darling,” she murmurs, bending to stroke their son’s presumably-powdered cheek. She has always had a way with children—motherhood came as easily to her as politics and ordering executions, although seeing her with one of their babes in arms warms his heart more than seeing her having Littlefinger’s head lopped off, but only just. And now to leave her, with their boy so young… he almost wants to laugh at himself. Some ferocious Hound is now, lingering in doorways and tenderly watching over a wife and child, off to fight a war to protect home and hearth.
“I was talking to you, Sandor,” she says her softly-laughing voice that makes him feel loved, cutting through his thoughts.
“Not tonight, love. Just come tell our son goodnight.”
Sandor moves from the doorway, removing his gauntlets, and hopes that his touch won’t wake the child like Sansa’s doesn’t, wanting nothing more than to feel Neddy’s perfect cheek under his calloused fingers.
Sansa is not looking forward to the meeting of the small council—the day marks fifth month of Northern forces having been sent off to quell a Frey uprising in the Riverlands, Stark men fighting off Black Walder Frey’s attempts to unseat his young niece.
“Lady Stark,” she is announced, and instead of the consternation of her advisers and the lords and ladies of the North, Sansa is greeted by the smiling face of her oldest daughter, holding a bouquet of flowers bound by one of Little Cat’s own hair ribbons.
“Hello Mama,” says her darling girl, advancing. “I picked these for you in the glass gardens.”
Catelyn has been a lady since the age of three, her actions always sweet and courteous; her daughter knows that she and her little brothers and sisters are not the only one missing their Papa.
“Thank you, my sweet girl,” Sansa answers, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and an idea, in her head. She has fretted for so long, of how her summer babe would take the change in her father upon his return. It has been many years since her warrior has been off to fight, and does not know how it will change his countenance upon his return. But she remembers how he was during the Long Night, and needs to prepare her children how to live the aftermath of a battle. Life is not a story.
Besides, Sansa thinks, reaching her hands out for Catelyn. It will keep the small council’s tongues in check.
“Why don’t you stay for the small council? You are eleven now, and old enough, I think.” It will prepare her for the truth. And for her father’s irritation. The stories, and the wounds, from the uprising would be fresh, and perhaps hearing firsthand from the Commanders at the small council table will keep Cat from eagerly asking Sandor for a tale, and spare them both a bit of pain. And Cat, Sansa knows, will not hesitate her siblings to do the same.
Cat’s face lights up with a toothy grin, and she curtsies graciously. “If it please you Mama, I would love to.”
Besides, Sansa thinks, taking the flowers in one hand and Little Cat’s smaller one in the other, it has been far too long since she’s had her eldest sit in her lap.
In the same universe as [x]
forgot to mention that last night i downloaded a sansan fanfiction to my android as a bedtime story
He does not shy away from her touch, not now, the morning the Stark retainers are going off to fight Black Walder Frey’s men, going off to scorch the snake’s nest to keep little Walda Frey on her seat. His intent is to sack the Riverlands again, and with children occupying half the lordships in the Trident, it falls to the little bird, the de facto head of House Tully, to respond.
Which means it is his duty to once again act as her Commander, to help protect her mother’s lands as he had helped her win back her father’s.
(Sansa already gave him her favor the night before. But he does not scoff when she pulls a ribbon from her hair and ties it around the leather strap securing his pauldron, cups the burned half of his face. Calls him ‘love’ in the company of others, when she should not.)
This is the first time they will be parted, as lovers, by the war. His lady is sadder, but wiser, and the Warden of the North; Lady Stark can only show her affections, but not her fear, in the face of any of her men, him most of all.
He will show her the same courtesy.
Serpentine steps…..I’m supposed to be baking cookies right now.
Kiss on the nape of the neck. I couldn’t decide if he’s kissing her goodnight or good morning (aka promiscuous time).
Oh sweet Sansa Stark,
Why you torment me in my dreams?
Sansa my baby, I know that you’re perfect, beautiful, amazing!
But tell me sweetheart, how in the world, that you in my dream were married to Sandor Clegane, and had the most beautiful/adorable baby boy evah, and you lived here in Lisbon, in one of the most fancy places in the capital
And thanks to this beautiful dream, I will be very depressed this Sunday.