Bronn’s wedding was a nightmare. Sandor wanted nothing more than a strong, stiff drink and everyone to stop looking at him. He’d stepped up as the best man, because Bronn was his best friend and it’s what he deserved, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Weddings were nothing more than an excuse for rich people to flaunt their wealth even more aggressively than usual.
At least there was booze. He just had to find it.
Was it unprofessional to be drinking before 11 am in a suit that cost more than his house while wandering around a god-honest castle? Maybe. But pictures didn’t start for another thirty minutes and then he’d be forced to deal with photographers and the rest of the wedding party awkwardly trying to angle him so that his scars didn’t show. He needed something to take the edge off, no matter what Bronn said about the whole ‘huge facial disfigurement’ not being a big deal.
He’d met Margaery. He’d watched her plan this wedding for the last 14 and a half months. She’d get perfection and nothing less, by sheer strength of will. And he did not qualify for perfection, no matter how one looked at it. So he just needed to find some champagne or whiskey or scotch or - fuck - even a beer. Anything to make him stop grinding his teeth.
This castle was a maze. He was sure he’d seen that painting of a hunting party at least twice now. Grumbling and wishing like hell he was elsewhere, he picked the door to the left. Somehow, he’d get to alcohol. He pushed it open, hoping that he’d find bottles and ice and a glass. Instead, to his baffled surprise, he was met with a flurry of white and blush and a startling amount of shrieking. He blinked in confusion, then finally registering what it was he was looking at.
There was a cluster of girls surrounding Margaery, who was in the middle of pulling on her dress. It was white, sparkly, and only halfway up her ass, exposing the white lace undergarments. Well, Bronn would certainly be a happy man on his wedding night. But that wasn’t what kept his attention - one girl had detached herself from the group and practically flew towards him, yelling, red hair streaming behind her, her floral robe flying open to reveal her own set of nude-colored bra and panties.
“You can’t be here now!” the girl hit his chest with full force, pushing him out the door and slamming it behind her. He gaped at her, truly speechless. She stared up at him with equal shock, apparently registering the height, build, and scar that he came with. He was doing his best not to stare at her bare chest and after a moment, she realized what had happened, blushing and doing her best to cover herself with the flimsy floral robe.
“I…. Uh….” he stammered, words not coming correctly.
“I thought you were Bronn,” she explained, blinking. “I didn’t mean to, um, shove you. I just didn’t want him to see her in her dress.”
“No.” he shook his head, trying to clear any image of a half naked Margaery from his mind. It wasn’t cheating but yet, it oddly felt like cheating. “I’m Sandor. Sandor Clegane. Best man.”
“Oh!” the girl before him brightened. “I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark. Maid of Honor.” she stuck her hand out for him to shake and he did so, a little bewildered. “I wasn’t at the rehearsal last night, I just flew in.”
“Oh, yeah, okay.” he was pretty sure that he’d have remembered her. During the rehearsal, he’d had one of Margaery’s random cousins stand in for his partner. But now, faced with the real person he was going to walk down the aisle, he suddenly went mute.
She was undoubtably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he’d already seen her half naked.
“Oh, I should get back to the bride.” she suddenly seemed to realize where they were and what was happening, another blush overcoming her cheeks. “But, uh, it was great to get to meet you before the ceremony and everything. I will see you in a few minutes for pictures!” with another grin at him, she disappeared back into what was clearly the bridal suite.
Still struck dumb, he decided that there was no need for booze now. He was drunk on the sight of Sansa Stark.
“Isn’t she a vision?” Bronn demanded, clapping Sandor’s back so hard he nearly jolted forward. Sandor, having been staring at the red-headed maid of honor, turning his vision to the bride, who was currently clustered with her bridesmaids around her, beaming. Sandor, Bronn, and the rest of the groomsmen were hiding in the shade, glad for a break from the never-ending photos.
“She is,” he remarked quietly, watching as Margaery bossed the flower girls into position. She was stunning, in a skintight dress covered in sparkled that exploded into a poof at her feet. Her veil was like ten feet long, fluttering in the breeze. She was incredibly beautiful, but Sandor had endured too many screaming matches and temper tantrums in the lead up to the wedding to truly feel fond of her. “Who’s her, uh, maid of honor?”
“Stark?” Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Oh, another rich girl from Marg’s college years. She’s some high powered executive for a real estate company now. She flew in from across the country, that’s why she was late. She’s pretty, but too nice for me,” he explained with a roguish grin and Sandor grimaced back, mind still turning.
Beautiful, with a smile like angels singing. And she was nice.
“Alright, groomsmen, come back!” yelled the harried wedding planner, motioning for them. “Groom to your bride! Groomsmen to your bridesmaids please!”
“Hello you!” Sansa greeted her with one of those bright smiles that made him a little weak in the knees. “Don’t I look lovely now?” she gave him a knowing look and did a little spin, her blush dress flaring out slightly. It was a beautiful, pleated thing, the neckline dipping down tantalizingly, a single pearl nestled in the hollow of her throat.
“Hello.” it was suddenly hard to swallow. It got downright impossible when Sansa slipped her hand into his elbow and pressed her shoulder against his. It was apparently the chosen pose, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to breathe.
“How are you doing with all the photos?” Sansa affixed a smile on her face, adjusting her bundle of peonies in front of her. “I’m ready to drop on my feet. These heels are killing me.”
“Oh.” he had no idea what to say to her. He cursed him, trying to be witty and clever, while also not moving his face as the photographer clicked like mad. “I’m sorry.”
“As you should be,” Sansa said stoutly. “Over there, in a big, comfy, warm jacket and sensible footwear. I hate weddings. I’d only do this for Margaery.”
“I’m only doing it for Bronn,” he revealed, hoping that was an acceptable response. Sansa, when the photographer stopped to yell at one of the ring bearers to get back into position, looked up and smiled at him.
“Well then, we’ll just have to stick together,” she said stoutly, giving his arm a squeeze.
“Groomsmen, to the side of the bride!” the wedding planner called. “And bridesmaids to the side of the groom, please!”
“See you later!” with a wink, Sansa breezed away from him.
“What’s gotten into you?” Bronn asked him, when Sandor appeared at his side. “You look like you got a kick to the balls, Clegane.”
“Not quite,” he grumbled, turning so his scar didn’t show.
“Thank god for chairs.” Sansa collapsed into one beside him, her curls spilling over the back. “Who invented chairs? I’m going to go back in time and kiss them.”
“That’s a long way back,” he responded, watching as she sighed and reached down, unbuckling the stilettos she wore. He saw the angry red indentations at her ankle and toes. It occurred to him what it would be like to rub them away and he stared down into his lap, scared to open his mouth again. Thankfully, Sansa was chatty enough for both of them.
“I am so sick of standing. I have never been so excited to be locked in a literal dungeon until this thing starts.” Sansa took a sip from a bottle with a straw. The entire bridal party was waiting underground while the guests arrived; Margaery would risk no one seeing them before the ceremony. “I cannot believe she insisted on a full, Catholic mass. I’m going to be standing in these things for over an hour and I am going to die.”
“Can I help?” he asked, feeling rather awkward. Sansa gave a sweet, tinkling laugh, setting her bouquet aside.
“Beside derailing this whole thing?” she mused. “I don’t think so. I will have to suffer and survive. But if you carry me to the reception, I wouldn’t be mad. The second we sit down for dinner, I am kicking them off and I am not putting them back on.”
“I’ll bring you a drink,” he ventured and Sansa glanced at him, grinning.
“You’re too kind.” she arranged her skirts. “I’ll hold you to that. Are you ready for the wedding of the century?”
“As much as I can be, I suppose.” he watched as Bronn patiently held Margarery’s veil while she attempted to lower herself into a chair in her tight dress. “Just glad I’ll stop having to hear about it from him.”
“Oh, we could commiserate about that for hours,” she remarked. “If I’m ever asked my opinion about the difference between blush and rose ever again, I will physically fight someone.”
“Could you?” he looked at her arm; Sansa made an impressive showing of flexing her muscles.
“Tougher than I look,” she promised with a smile. “Hence the heels.”
He didn’t know what else to say to her. She was so beautiful. And funny. And kind - he’d seen the way she’d knelt down to help comfort one of the flower girls who was suddenly camera-shy. He wasn’t looking for a relationship. He never had been. And the best man hooking up with the maid of honor. Wasn’t that a terrible cliche? But when he looked at her, he suddenly wished that all those fantasies would come true.
“Ten minutes!” the wedding planner called, looking more and more stressed. He could imagine the pressure she was under, dealing with Margaery.
“That’s probably our cue.” with a sigh, Sansa leaned down to put her heels back on. “And champagne.”
“What?” he looked back at her in confusion.
“Champagne.” Sansa raised her head, smiling. “I’d like a big, big glass of champagne after this is over.”
“Alright.” he resisted the urge to smile. “Champagne it is.”
“….to have and to hold, to love and to cherish,” the priest droned on and Sandor did his best to not shuffle his feet and look around in boredom. For the millionth time since the ceremony began, he found his eyes sliding past Bronn, past Margaery, and landing on Sansa. She was holding up remarkably well, with nothing more than a slightly strained smile to reveal what had to be a lot of pain. He was just noting the way her hair was curled and bunched softly at the back of her neck when she looked up and caught him staring.
To his surprise, she grinned and gave him a wink.
Several times, they caught each other’s eye and both grinned, rather sheepishly. Bronn and Margaery made their vows, promised forever and always, and then finally, finally, finally, were announced as man and wife and shared a wild kiss to an outbreak of cheers. With the pounding of the organ, they marched back down the aisle. Sandor, heart beating just a bit too quickly, met Sansa before the alter and took her arm.
“How are the feet?” he muttered, as they walked back down the aisle.
“Killing me.” Sansa’s smile didn’t once waver. “The champagne?”
“On it’s way,” he promised. “You get the shoes off and I’ll meet you in the middle.”
“A regular knight in shining armor,” she quipped before they reach the end and Sansa was off to congratulate the newlywed couple.
The reception was held in the castle as well, which meant that Sandor didn’t have too far to travel to hit the bar. It did mean that when he turned back around with two glasses of champagne and hope he hadn’t felt in years, he found his path blocked by the rest of the guests. Usually he’d shoulder and force his way through them, one of the perks of his too-large frame. But this was Bronn’s wedding and he resolved to stay on his best behavior. So he carefully moved between the little old ladies and the three hundred cousins of Margaery that kept multiplying every time he looked.
Sansa was nowhere to be found. He’d thought the red hair would give it away, but he couldn’t see her at all. His optimism about her waning slightly, he attempted to make a circuit of the room, sticking to the outside in an attempt to avoid the crush of people. The cocktail hour was meant for Bronn and Margaery to have time to mingle with their guests, but neither of them could be found either. Sandor’s bet would be sex in a closet somewhere. Semi-public was their usual style.
“Excuse me,” he muttered to a man that had two glasses of scotch and looked to be nodding off against the wall.
“Sandor!” Sansa appeared from seemingly nowhere at his elbow. He turned, trying not to appear too surprised or happy at her. He wordlessly offered her the flute of champagne and she took it, downing the whole thing in one go. “A miracle worker, you are.”
“Shoes gone?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Sansa beamed, lifting her dress’s hem to show her bare feet.
“I dipped out to go throw them in my bag before I forgot where they were. Annoying as they are, they’re Jimmy Choo and I cannot lose them.” she took his glass and polished that off too. “Then I had the distinct pleasure of helping Margaery get her veil off so that she can fuck Bronn. The fun of being the maid of honor!”
“Need another?” he asked in amusement, as she set the two empty glasses on the tray of a passing waiter.
“No.” she pressed a hand to her forehead. “Or I’ll get fizzy. This is just to forget my feet.”
“Fizzy?” he asked and she looked up, grinning at him.
“Fizzy. And fizzy Sansa gets handsy.” with a wink, she pulled him into the crowd so that they could greet the guest who wanted to coo over the loveliness that was Sansa.
“-and that’s how I got her to get out of the hot tub completely naked without a soul seeing,” she said proudly, leaning her head against his shoulder. He snorted, handing her another glass filled with champagne.
“How come that didn’t make its way into your maid of honor speech?” he asked her with a grin and she laughed.
“Somehow I thought that bringing up all our drunken 22 year old nonsense would not appreciated at a wedding that costs more than my yearly salary twice over,” she muttered and he raised an eyebrow.
“And here I heard you were some rich businesswoman.”
“It was a really expensive wedding,” she demurred with a giggle and he rolled his eyes.
They were tucked away in a corner, just the two of them, watching as the reception devolved from a lovely, stately event to wild debauchery. The open bar had been flowing for a few hours now and everyone that had been partaking, Sansa and Sandor included, was drunk. Sansa had spent a good portion of the night dancing with the girls, attending to Margaery, and fulfilling maid of honor duties, but now she was here with him, drinking and laughing and at one point, brushing her fingers over his wrist.
“Thinking of one of your own?” he’d refrained from asking her about her relationship status, for fear that she’d ruin the night by telling him she was deeply in love with some nameless, faceless boyfriend.
“Have to find the right partner.” she looked up at him with a lopsided smile. “Hasn’t been a high priority of mine lately.”
“But?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Sansa looked down, blushing to match her dress.
“But maybe it should,” she muttered, biting her lip.
“That’s the champagne talking.” he was proud that his voice didn’t sound too strangled. Sansa gave a little shrug, a smile still on her voice.
“Perhaps. But champagne Sansa is the most honest Sansa.” her fingers were walking up his arm, slowly but surely.
“Isn’t this a cliche?” he found himself asking and she gave a tiny little exhale, half a snort, half a sigh.
“Probably. But when I showed up at this wedding expecting a weekend of foot pain and endless annoyance and was instead greeted with the hottest best man imaginable, I prefer to think of it as fate instead of a cliche,” she whispered, her lips getting closer to his.
“You found me hot?” he questioned and she did laugh this time, her one hand tangling into his hair while the other hand pulled him closer by his tie.
“I’ve been flirted with you all day, but thanks for noticing.” and then she closed the gap to press her lips to his and Sandor forgot the wedding, forgot his name, forgot everything he’d ever learned because kissing Sansa when she tasted like champagne was all that mattered. He kissed her, losing himself in the way that she pressed herself to him and she smelled like the flowers she’d been carrying around all day and he couldn’t breathe.
“Sansa,” he sighed, when she wrapped her arm around his neck and about pulled herself into his lap.
“Is it, uh, too forward for us to find a quiet place?” she muttered in his ear, laughing lightly. His body had a physical reaction to her words and he gave a little grunt, doing his best not to grab her and carry her away.
“You sure it’s not the champagne?” he asked her hoarsely and she nibbled on his earlobe, laughing lightly.
“Absolutely not.” she scrambled to her feet, just a bit unsteady then offered her hand to him, hauling him up. “I have a good feeling about you, Sandor Clegane.”
“How can I tell such a beautiful woman no?” he replied and Sansa stretched up on her tippy toes to give him another kiss. It was the sound of loud cheering that drew them apart and they both turned, frowning slightly, to see what was going on. There was a crowd of jostling ladies, fighting for a good place as Margaery readied to toss a bouquet. He turned to look at Sansa with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, I’m not getting involved with that,” she reassured him, flushing and grinning. “We’re going to use the distraction to slip away. C’mon!” her hand found his and she was tugging him away, into the maze of hallways that made up the castle. Apparently Sansa had a better sense of direction than he did, since her steps were purposeful. He only knew where he was going when he saw the painting again, and then Sansa dragged him into the room where he’d first saw her, pushing him towards one of the many couches that he imagined they’d been reclining on before the wedding.
“You sure?” he asked her one more time. She gave him another kiss, scraping her teeth on his lip in a way that made him shiver.
“Are you?” she whispered, leaning back to get a better look at his face.
“Fuck yes.” he grabbed her and lifted her up so that her arms went around his neck and her legs went around his waist. He carried her to the biggest, most squashy couch he could see and then set her down. Sansa had short work of his jacket and his tie, undoing his collar with quick, nimble fingers. He was able to run his hands up her legs under her skirt, breath catching, but the dress didn’t seem to have a zipper or any other sort of release. He ran his hands uselessly over the back until Sansa took pity on him, giggling.
“There’s a zipper, here,” she explained, showing him one tucked down her side. “I’m practically sewn in.”
“Christ.” he managed to get it down and after some slightly awkward maneuvering, Sansa was free of the soft pink garment, now before him in nothing but the same nude lace set he’d seen earlier this morning. For a second, she seemed nervous, like she was worried what he was going to say. Instead, he just leaned forward to catch her mouth into another kiss.
“Your turn,” she muttered, attacking his shirt with renewed vigor, then turning her attention to his belt and pants. His hands were trying to get her free of the bra she was wearing until finally they were both panting and in various states of undress - Sansa in only a thong and Sandor in his boxers and socks, feeling a bit foolish and very drunk. But Sansa was still kissing him, her fingers tangling up in his hair and his skimming her sides and hips.
“You are….” he was at lost for words. He’d never felt like this with anyone else ever before. Bronn, when he was very drunk, liked to wax poetic about Margaery. He’d talk about how he had never had sex so good, had a woman who made him laugh so hard, or ever felt as at home as he did with her. Sandor had dismissed him as nothing more than a drunken sap.
But now he understood.
Sansa made him feel more alive than anything. It was like there was a little sun shining down just on them, warming him all over. He was drunk, sure, but there was something more there. He felt like he was trembling, from nerves or excitement or sheer exposure to her, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that when he was touching her, kissing her, loving her, he’d never felt anything like it.
He was trying to be respectful to her, go slow and gentle, but that was directly at odds with every nerve in his body, which was singing for more and more and more, never enough of her, who wanted to rush right to the point without a second thought of anything. He fought this instinct, his fingers lightly ghosting up her inner thigh, smirking when he heard her little gasp of surprise and arousal.
Then, he hissed when her hands pulled his boxers away, grasping him firmly at his base. She laughed in-between kisses, giggles that ended when he finally made it up to her lace thong and pushed it aside, so that he could feel and spread her wetness. The mood turned from giggling and teasing to suddenly a bit more serious and a lot more charged. Sansa gave him a squeeze, pumping slowly.
He was determined to make sure she came first. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to feel it. He wanted her so badly it almost made him scream with frustration but still, he was patient and slow. He brought his thumb up, rubbing while one finger slipped into her, then two. Sansa whimpered, her pumping growing more sporadic as she lost herself in her own pleasure. He didn’t mind her losing focus, not when she was so lovely in his arms.
“Fuck,” she moaned as he sped up slightly. “Fuck, Sandor, fuck, please — fuck!” all the sudden she was trembling, then he felt her pulsing around his fingers, climaxing with a wordless cry of delight. He slowed his ministrations as she slowly came down, eyes hazy and a satisfied smile on his face.
“Yeah?” he rumbled, proud of himself. She gave a nod, cheeks pink, then pushed him back with one hand so that he was reclined against the armrest. Before he could be sad at the distance between them, she crawled up to straddle him, hand between them on his dick.
“You are the best lay I have ever had,” she revealed to him, still rubbing him. He felt his control slipping, barely anchored to the moment by the sound of her sweet voice. “I want to blow your mind.”
“Well then,” he said roughly, grabbing her hips, bringing her directly above him. “I’m never going to deny you anything, Sansa Stark.”
“Good.” eyes sparkling, Sansa lowered herself down, guiding him inside of her. He leaned forward to bury his head in her neck, trying not to groan too loudly. Sansa held herself very still for a moment and he wanted to panic, wondering if she’d changed her mind. He drew back, trying desperately to see her face. After a second she cracked one eye, smiling at him.
“You good?” he asked her worriedly and she nodding, biting her lip.
“Just… Big,” she muttered and he flushed with pride again. She gave an experimental roll of her hips and he gritted his teeth, trying not to lose it all right then. Sansa did not make it easy; with every grind and thrust, he felt him getting closer and closer, hanging on by a thread. He wanted to impressive her, he wanted to show her that he was a man, but it was impossible.
“I… I…” he felt his nails dig into her ribs, probably too hard for her pale skin.
“Just… Just…” Sansa panted, tilting her hips slightly. He heard her moan as he hit something deep within her and then she was coming again and that absolutely ended him. He pushed himself as deeply as he could within her, gasping as his release flooded through his body. In the after, they simply held each other, sweat mingling.
“Well,” he said, in a voice that shook, “that was amazing.”
“Yeah.” Sansa was trying, to no avail, to return her hair to the updo it’d been in before. He batted her hands away so that he could pull more down, grinning. He had a feeling he was really going to like her hair. “Now what?”
“I ask you if you have a hotel room,” he started carefully, “and then I ask if I can come back with you and do that about, oh, ten more times before the sun comes up.”
“Ten?” Sansa asked, with a laugh. “But we’ll miss the sparkler sendoff that’s scheduled for 3 am!”
“I’ll give you a sparkler sendoff,” he growled, pulling her close again and she shrieked with glee.
“Alright, but how about first I sneak back down to the bar and steal us some more champagne?” she suggested, kissing him again before rolling off and going to pull down the robe he’d first seen her in. He watched her go, in astonishment. He wasn’t going to question such a gift in his life. He was just wondering how the hell he was going to keep it.
“Sansa?” he called, knocking on the bathroom door in concern. Sansa had locked herself in there some ten minutes ago and he was wondering what it was. They’d only been together two months, ever since the wedding, which didn’t seemed like long enough for him to barge in while she was doing whatever girls did in the bathroom. But ten minutes was a long time, and she had been feeling queasy lately. If she had the stomach bug that was making the rounds, he wanted to help her.
“You can’t be here now!” she cried from inside and he rolled his eyes, going to the junk drawer to find a bobby pin.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” he muttered, pulling the bobby pin apart and using it to pick the lock. “Sansa, listen. I’m not going to come in if you don’t want me to. But if something is really wrong, you have to tell me.”
“Fine.” she sounded like she was weeping. “You… You can come in then.”
“What the hell is wrong?” he asked, pushing the door open and preparing himself for some terrible sight. Instead, he froze. Sansa was sitting on the toilet, tears streaming down her cheeks, holding something in her hand and avoiding his eyes. It looked like a pregnancy test. And when he stared at it, everything in the margin of his vision fading away, the single word in the little window was abruptly clear.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Sansa whispered, bringing him back to reality. “We weren’t… We weren’t safe at the wedding. And I thought we would be okay, because we were so good after that, but…”
“Champagne,” he said, through numb lips. She gave a miserably little nod.
“I don’t know how you feel about kids.” she finally looked up at him, eyes rimmed red. “We’ve only been together two months, it doesn’t usually come up so fast. But I love them. And I’ve always wanted a boatload. So… I’m keeping it. But you had to know.”
“Well.” there were a hundred thoughts running through his head, thoughts of how he’d never learned how to be a dad from his own father, how he’d never dreamed of this moment, how he never thought it would be with someone like Sansa. But only one thing mattered. “It’s a good thing I’m madly, madly, madly in love with you then, Sansa Stark.”
Something between a laugh and a sob came from Sansa and she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He held her close, running his hands over her hair, her back, kissing her cheeks and nose and forehead, muttering promises about rings and weddings and everything she’d ever want. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. First he’d show her how much he wanted her. Then they’d talk about how this was going to work.
“Absolutely not!” Sansa hissed, poking him hard in the chest. “You can’t be here now!”
“Why not?” he asked in amusement, catching her hand so he could kiss her fingers.
“You always rile him up before bedtime. I just got him to sleep,” she told him, gently shutting the door to their son’s bedroom with a soft click. “You’ll go in there, he’ll see your face, and then it’ll be another hour before he’s settled down again. And personally, I’d like some time with us the two of us.” she gave a suggestive raise of her eyebrows, leading him to the living room.
“Yeah?” he followed, admiring her form in front of him. “Should I pour you a glass of champagne?”
“Absolutely not,” she laughed, pushing him towards the couch. “I’ll get you a scotch and I’ll have a glass of wine. He’s not even six months old yet Sandor. You cannot be thinking about another one.”
“You’re the one who always said a bakers dozen of kids,” he reminded her, collapsing down on the couch.
“That was before one was expelled from my body,” she reminded him dryly, pouring them both a glass and bringing it to him. She curled into his side with a contented smile and he brushed her hair back, kissing her temple. “Beside, wedding first. Then siblings for Champ.”
“You do get rowdy at weddings,” he told her and she smiled.
“Only one, and look where it got me. A baby and a house and two dogs and a lovely big ring on my finger.” she stretched her arm out so that the diamond on her left hand sparkled in the light. “Not a bad deal, all things considered.”
“I’d sure hope not.” he shifted, getting more comfortable. He closed his eyes, utterly content. His beautiful, smart, tenacious, and very sexy soon-to-be wife was beside him in the house they’d bought to raise kids and grow old in. Two dogs slept on beds in the corner. And his son, his pride and joy, Rickard Clegane, slept in the nursery not ten feet from them. Affectionately nicknamed Champ for the circumstance surrounding his conception, Sandor had never known such love.
“As much as I hate to give them any credit, we should really thank Bronn and Margaery for all this,” Sansa stated, giving a mighty yawn. She’d just gone back to work since giving birth and while he knew she was happy to be back and challenged, she was still nursing their son. He tugged a blanket up over her, hoping she got some rest before Champ awoke again and needed her.
“We have. Several times,” he assured her and Sansa snuggled into him, humming contentedly.
“Them, and expensive champagne,” she muttered. He smiled, stroking her hair.
“A wedding and some expensive champagne,” he agreed, never happier than he was in this moment. “And me going places I shouldn’t.”