My Lady Hound
Hound x Handmaiden reader
Summary: based on an old req; after all things, you and Sandor find yourself at the end of the world in snow, fire and blood. The battle is won. The dead turned to dust. What will become of the futures you’ve entwined?
Please come chat to me or my inbox with any sandor reqs. I’m very thirsty. Reblogs or comments are very welcome my lords, ladies, they’s and gays-
“If I may interject on your fucking business…” Sansa elucidated. Elegantly throwing his earlier words back in his face. Standing with her hands splayed on the table.
Her sharp eyes. Blue and almond shaped. Clever as a cats. Peered across to where Tormund was spinning you in a circle. Eyes wild as he span a tale. Furs flapping around him, twitching as he moved and jerked his arms around. Slung it round your neck. Hooked you right close.
His eyes followed hers. Found you at the other end of them.
They’d outfitted you in a warm dress. He’d not seen you in a dress in so long. Rich gold wool it was. The colour of his sigil - he felt that was a purposeful dig on their part. His Lady in his house colours.
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.
~
Tag list: some hound babes from my old tag lust I am sorry my brain is small I can’t remember all of you but I’ll try my best- @konigslittleliebling @auxmodi @hauerhoetime @yeyinde @asnackdriver @poisonousrain222 @catsteeth @novaursa @slut4thehound @a-hound-will-die-for-you @oopsiebo @pamurpamur @slowlikehoney-stronglikemusic @terry2227 @slut4acotar
