Work Text:
April 1898
“Really Sandor, please” Sansa pleaded as he moved from room to room, gathering the necessary items that he needed to take with him. “Can’t you stay home? With me?”
“I have to go,” he said without facing her, his focus on the chest of drawers across from their bed. A bed they had shared for only a few moons before he was once again called away by violence. For as long as she’d known him, he was at the beck and call of the United States Government and lately the telegraphs came more and more frequently.
Now she knew why.
“Please” she whispered from the doorway, her stomach rolling with nausea and unease as she watched him. “Stay.”
“I cannot, Little Bird” at last he set his leather bag on the hardwood flooring and faced her. He heaved a sigh and crossed to her, pulling her into his arms. She felt the tension leech from her body, the anxiousness and sadness melting away. Even from the first she had felt such in Sandor’s arms. He had always been her rock, her savior, and the strongest man she knew. Unfortunately, he was also the most stubborn.
“I cannot lose you” she whispered, nestling against the hard angle of his jaw. Once word had come that war was imminent, the ‘Rough Riders’ had their sights set on Sandor Clegane to help lead the charge. So, the well-kept beard he had boasted for years was done away with, leaving his face a lovely array of hard angles.
“You won’t” he promised, though she knew the words were hollow. They both knew, and that is what terrified her.
She had met Captain Sandor Clegane nearly a year ago in town, both of them having donned their Sunday best for the Yule Festival that was held in the Austin area. There was nothing to be had for miles, so of course everyone had turned out to attend. Sansa--a girl unaccustomed to the city since she had grown up on the Bar W Ranch outside of town, stuck close to her Sister’s side as they watched the revelers.
As the evening wore on, Sansa became hyper aware that her bright red hair and pale complexion had made her something of a rarity in Austin, and thus the subject of many gaping stares. They weren’t so bad with Arya there to keep her company, but when Arya found better company in a man with dark hair and blue eyes, it left Sansa alone. The looks and whispers made her feel small--scared even, and when a young man with golden blonde hair approached her and refused to take ‘no’ for an answer, she wanted nothing more to take off running.
Instead, propriety had her frozen in place.
The boy was awful. He was cruel. He was vile, and just as her stomach turned in disgusted, a strong arm banded around her waist with familiar liberty that no one should have taken. Shocked, she looked up, up, up into the soft grey eyes of the largest man she’d ever witnessed. He towered over even her great height, clad in an impressively fitted black suit, his dark hair cut short and beard neat.
Her rescuer was none other than Sandor Clegane, a man well-known in Austin for his participation in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West exhibitions and work with the Texas Rangers. He was an expert horseman, a crack shot, a sharp mind, and while the others with Buffalo Bill ventured into touring Europe, Sandor stayed behind to take care of his ailing Mother. In that time at home he had taken to designing new weapons and modifying existing ones to better serve the military in the United States.
He was, for lacking a better term, a legend. Larger than life--in more ways than one, and from the very first moment, he had captured her attention. Kind, attentive, and impossibly gentle given his size, she fell hard and fast for the man who terrified many. He insisted on courting her properly, offering her lovely gifts and pleasurable outings about town. He was her first kiss--an impossibly gentle kiss shared behind her umbrella in the park. He was her first love--her only love. A whirlwind courtship, a short engagement, and less than a year later, here they were.
“This could go on for years” she nearly sobbed, clinging to his lapels.
“It won’t” he assured her and she had a sneaking suspicion that he knew far more about this war than he had let on.
“You’ve known” she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back enough to look up into the stormy grey eyes that never ceased to capture her so. “You knew this was coming--knew that he would send for you.”
“Aye” Sandor sighed. “When war comes, they come calling. I am so sorry, I couldn’t find the words--”
“To what? To tell me that you were leaving?” she argued. “We’ve only been married a few moons---”
“We always knew this could happen. He’s the President, Sansa, what am I supposed to tell him? No?”
“No!” she glared. “You tell Mr. McKinley ‘NO’!” she said and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“I can’t, it's not that simple” he stumbled back, sinking to sit on the edge of their brass-framed bed. “If there’s anything in the world a Clegane is good at, its violence. Gods know I’ve made a career of it.”
“Then send Gregor,” she reasoned. “He would be more than happy to help, I am certain.”
“He’s too big for a damned horse, Little Bird, you know that---” he abruptly stood in the same instant the bell at the front door rang. Sansa’s entire body flinched at the sound, knowing very well what it meant; the time had come, he was leaving her.
“Please….” she swallowed back a wave of tears. “I cannot do this without you” she struggled to find the words, the news warring within her brain making her frantic. She knew she should tell him--he deserved to know. It might make him stay….
...or it might distract him while he’s gone and put him in danger.
“I will be back before you know it” he assured her, stepping closer to pull her back into his embrace. “I cannot bear to be away from you long, I never could Little Bird.”
“And yet you are leaving me” she swallowed back another wave of tears.
“I will return.”
“You’d better, Sandor Clegane” she steeled her shoulders, looking up into his soft grey eyes. “You’d better come back to me, because if you do not--”
“I will. ”
“If you do not, I will hunt down the Stranger himself to bring you back” she vowed, drinking in the affection that warmed his eyes and the small smirk upon his lips.
“I love you, Little Bird. And I will return,” he repeated, leaning down to kiss her softly--an achingly sweet kiss that held the promise of a lifetime together.
“I love you too,” she closed her eyes to savour their kiss but by the time she opened them again, he was gone. Sobbing wildly she ran to the front windows, watching with wide eyes as her husband flippantly tossed his bag to a groom and climbed inside a buggy that boasted a very presidential looking seal.
She could not take her eyes away, not as the valet climbed into the driver’s seat, not as it pulled onto the cobblestone street, not as it vanished from sight. When, at last, it had disappeared on the horizon, she burst into tears--allowing her emotions to break free.
Gone.
He was gone and she was here alone--without him.
She sat on the window seat, her face pressed to the glass until darkness settled into the city. She watched as the men came out to tend the lamps, bringing an eerie glow to the street below.
“Please” she sent her prayers to the Gods--old and new alike. “Please keep him safe, bring him back to me” she pleaded, lapsing into silence once more.
July 1898
“All this for a fucking hill” Sandor scoffed so loudly that his horse shifted beneath him, protesting against the sound.
“I’ve never heard so many cannon blasts in all my days” Bronn replied, shaking his head.
He’d met Bronn Blackwater when he’d arrived in Spain. Bronn had been on the first ship that had departed from New York and had already settled in. He was a man of Irish and Apache blood and wasn’t afraid to own up to it anytime someone tried to use it to insult him. Bronn had, for some odd reason, decided that they were going to be friends--he’d already heard many stories about Sandor’s achievements and was anxious to pick his brain for more. Sandor had relented, figuring the man would make a good distraction if nothing else, but he had to admit the salty man had grown on him.
Both men were now watching the sunset over the fields that just a sennight ago had been covered in the bodies of fallen men, American and Spanish alike. When the echoes of the final shots had faded, it was to see an ocean of their fallen comrades on the grass. They’d been hard at work taking inventory of what the Spanish entrenchment had in terms of supplies, tending to the wounded, and burying the dead.
“Aye,” Sandor shook his head; war, what a disgusting way to make a living.
“We’ve gotten damned good at surviving” Bronn added, absently touching the bandage on his forearm.
“Too good, mayhaps” Sandor said, doing his best to ignore the throbbing of his cheek and jaw. He’d never been a handsome man--Gods know what Sansa saw in him, but now his face would boast a winding, awful scar--a forever reminder of this Gods-forsaken hill and this hotter than the Seven Hells sun. It was a piece of shrapnel, best he could guess--and it had come damned close to taking his eye out. He'd gotten lucky--very lucky, and he just may survive this Hell yet.
“How’s your face?” Bronn asked.
“It’ll heal.”
“Aye, but will it fester?” Bronn countered.
“It’ll heal” he repeated. “I am sure my wife will have some choice words to share about it.”
“You don’t talk about her much--well, you don’t talk much in general, but you don’t talk about your wife much” Bronn noted, shifting in his saddle to look at him. It was true, he didn’t talk much about her because it was, quite frankly, hard to do so.
He’d sent her a letter when he’d arrived and another as he’d ridden across Cuba, but who knows how long it would take for them to reach her--if they ever did. He wrote about the landscapes and the weather, he wrote about the other Rough Riders and the larger-than-life Theodore Roosevelt who was working hard to lead them. He told her how much he missed her, how sorry he was that he had to go. He told her that his chest ached without her near and most importantly he promised her that he would be home soon.
He’d give anything to see her--or even just hear her voice right now.
“You talk enough for both of us,” Sandor replied drolly.
“Fair enough.”
“What’s there to say?” Sandor reasoned. “She didn’t want me to go, I should’ve stayed.”
“When the President of the United States calls you to action, you can hardly refuse,” Bronn replied. “Maybe he’ll reward you with a castle” he smirked and Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Aye, a castle would make my groveling easier” Sandor said, watching the horizon for several moments. “Truth is, she’s too damned good for me. Her family is old money, and there’s lots of it. The Cleganes are soldiers--grunts, always have been. I had nothing to offer but a few wars won, some trick shots, and a surly attitude. She could have any man in the world, but for some reason she chose me and I wasn’t stupid enough to let her get away. ”
“Clubbed her over the head, did you?” Bronn laughed.
“In the end, I didn’t have to,” he replied. “I can’t wait to get out of this fucking sun and back to her. It’s fortunate she’s beautiful enough for the both of us” his mouth twitched and pulled at his stitches, reminding him that he would look much different upon his return home.
“Captain Sandor Clegane, secret romantic” Bronn heaved a dramatic sigh that came across more amusing than annoying. Sandor reached into his breast pocket and pulled the worn tintype free. He stared at it for several seconds, running a thumb over the image before extending it to Bronn.
“You’re an ache in my balls, you know that?” Sandor smirked as Bronn took the photograph.
“Aye,” Bronn whistled. “You’re lying, she’s too beautiful to be your wife” he deadpanned and Sandor laughed hard enough that the stitches in his face pulled, causing him to wince.
“Give it back, you cunt” Sandor smiled, stealing one last look at Sansa’s serene beauty before tucking it safely away.
“Does she have a Sister?”
“Aye--she’d bust your balls more than I do” Sandor scoffed, knowing that if Arya and Bronn had ever met, it would be a miracle if they didn’t try to kill each other in the first ten minutes.
“Maybe I’d enjoy it,” Bronn said as the calls for supper echoed behind them. Wordlessly the two men turned back to the camp proper, slowly making their way to the sea of tents and horses that had become their home. Bronn whistled a somber tune, which was perfectly fitting as Sandor’s mind wandered back to his true home and the wife he longed to see more than anything.
Soon he promised himself. I’ll see her soon.
August 1898
Sansa had read and reread Sandor’s letters a hundred times. She had sent him a reply but she had no way to know if he had received it. She’d followed any updates of the war that she could find, devouring any and all news articles and community announcements.
For the most part, life had gone on as normal--as normal as it could be with her husband away.
She only went into town if she had to, hardly able to bear the pitiful looks and hollow reminders that “it will be alright’ from near strangers. So instead she spent more time with her family, their company serving to keep her sane and from wallowing in worry and grief. She prayed every night, begging the Gods to keep her husband safe and to end this war quickly.
As the moons passed, she began to stay at home more and more, especially as the swell of her stomach grew more pronounced. When she was no longer able to hide her condition, she told her Mother the news, sobbing in her arms because she was terrified that her child would never know his Father. Her Mother held her tight, lamenting that she wasn’t able to give Sandor a swift kick for upsetting her so.
However, if Sansa was being honest with herself, she was proud of her husband. While he did not want to go, he did his duty to their country and the people in it. Were she in a condition to boast in town, she would tell any who listened that their looks of pity were wasted--Sandor Clegane was a Rough Rider, and she was damned proud of him.
Taking a sip of her now cool tea, she set the cup back on its saucer to resume her work. While her lap didn’t have as much space as it used to, she was still able to use it to balance the fabric she was working on.
She had suspected she was with child before Sandor departed, but she couldn’t conjure the words to tell him. She was afraid--so very afraid, and the last thing she wanted was to give him news that could distract him while he was away. She should have told him, her Mother had gently chided her, saying that a man deserved to know when he was to be a Father.
She would tell him--or he would discover it, the moment he returned. Already her mind was whirling with thoughts, questions, and hopes for the future. Would it be a son? A daughter? Would they favor Sandor’s dark hair and light eyes? Or her own auburn hair? Would she survive the birth? So many in the surrounding territory had not, and the idea of never seeing Sandor again was too much to bear.
Would he be mad that she hadn’t told him? Would he be happy? They had only been married a short time and they were still learning how to be ‘husband and wife’, now they would have to learn how to be parents as well.
A soft flutter had her hand settling on her stomach and eyes softly closing. She loved these moments, ones where she could feel their child and remind herself that she wasn’t dreaming. It continued for several seconds, then faded away and she imagined the babe had lapsed into slumber once more.
“Soon, little one” she whispered the promise. “Soon.”
September 1898
Sandor didn’t waste time lingering in New York after he’d been dismissed from his duty. They’d turned everything over to the American Government, the Rough Riders were disbanded, and they were free to return home. He walked into the train station less than an quarter-hour later, buying a ticket home.
He was not alone, much to his surprise. Behind him in line was Bronn who purchased the same ticket to Austin, answering Sandor’s questioning gaze with a shrug.
“Always wanted to see Texas” Bronn had reasoned with a shrug and Sandor had the sudden realization that he had formed a life-long friendship with this man while they were in Cuba. And so the former Rough Riders became traveling companions, racing across the open plains and rocky terrain southward. The closer they got to Texas, the more anxious Sandor was to see his wife and by the time the train slowed to a stop in Austin, he was acting like a caged bull--Bronn’s words.
Disembarking, his large frame and long legs ate up the distance to home. Bag over one shoulder, Bronn whistling an Irish tune at his side, Sandor walked the familiar side streets of the city he’d missed so much.
When the large white house came into view, he could have sobbed in relief. Home. He was home. He climbed the steps without pause and opened the front door, Sansa’s rose and lemon scent immediately flooding his nostrils.
“Gods be good” a soft voice whispered from the kitchen and he looked over to see Catelyn Stark staring at him with wide eyes. Bronn wasted no time in making himself comfortable, setting his bag by the settee and plopping his dusty ass onto the burgundy velvet.
“Cat” Sandor replied softly, setting his bag down beside Bronn’s.
“I could slap the taste from your mouth,” Catelyn whispered as she approached, and judging by the ice in her eyes, he believed she would. “But I’m just so glad you’re home” her eyes lingering on the pink, puckered scar that bisected his left eyebrow and cheek.
“What is it Mother?” his Little Birds voice washed over his soul like a balm and a moment later she appeared in the doorway.
“Fuck” the air rushed from his lungs, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded in a way the Cuban sun never had. “Little Bird…” he choked out. He wanted to run to her, to hold her but his legs wouldn’t move, they were frozen to the floor.
“Oh Gods” Sansa sobbed, closing the distance between them until she was finally, blessedly, at last in his arms. “I wanted to tell you, I promise I did” she cried, burrowing her face beneath his chin. If he had not been able to believe his eyes, then the press of her stomach against his own would have proven that he was not hallucinating; pregnant, his Little Bird was pregnant.
“I missed you” the lame words did nothing to tell her how he felt, but he was hardly able to think, let alone speak.
“I missed you” she sobbed, holding tightly to his uniform coat. “My Sandor, thank the Gods you’re finally home.”
“I’m home, Little Bird” he promised. “And I’m not going anywhere,” he added. At this she pulled back enough to look up at his face, sadness filtering into her eyes.
“Oh, my love” she gently traced the new scar. “I almost lost you,” her voice was quiet, watery.
“I’m a hard man to kill” he ran his hands over her back, belatedly realizing that she only wore a dressing gown. “Many have tried, but somehow I always bounce back.”
“Sandor…”
“Look at you” he marvelled, trailing a hand to her stomach to trace the curve. “You’re perfect.”
“I feel like I get bigger every day” she covered his hand with one of hers, both of them cupping the swell. “None of my dresses fit anymore.”
“The Cleganes aren’t a small lot” he chuckled, blinking back his own wave of emotion. “When?”
“Around the new year,” she replied. “Mother and I have been working hard to prepare. I wasn’t sure when…if….”
“I’m here now,” he assured her.
“I am so happy that you’re home” she said and a shuffle behind him had her eyes darting to the man on the couch. Her eyes went wide, surely she wasn’t expecting Sandor to bring someone home, let alone a scrappy little Irishman with the dark, braided hair of a Native American. “Sandor, there’s a man on our couch.”
“Aye, bit of baggage I picked up in Cuba” Sandor scoffed.
“Oh” Sansa nodded slightly, finally pulling her eyes from Bronn. “Then can you tell your baggage to get his dusty uniform off of my settee before he stains it?” she quipped. Sandor laughed, his body shaking with amusement as he turned to glare at bronn.
“You heard the lady” Sandor jerked a thumb to the stairs. “Get your dirty ass off the furniture. Washrooms that way” he instructed as Bronn stood.
“Come, I will show you” Catelyn finally managed to gather her wits, guiding Bronn towards the stairs.
“And there’s an empty bedroom at the end of the hall” Sansa added and Bronn tipped his head in thanks before quitting the room. “I have so much to tell you” Sansa wrapped her arms around his shoulders and Sandor leaned down to steal a kiss.
“I can’t wait to hear all of it” he rested his forehead against hers. “I love you so much, Little Bird.”
“I love you too” she bumped her nose against his.
“I’m sorry about my face--”
“There is no need” she cut in. “I think it's rather dashing once I set aside the knowledge of how close I came to losing you.”
“Dashing, eh?” he pulled her closer, keeping her flush against him.
“My Mother is here” Sansa smirked. “And your friend is upstairs.”
“Send her home, I’ll send him to the pub” he whispered. “I have a lot of time to make up for, and you have new curves for me to discover.”
“There is the Sandor Clegane I know and love so much” her laughter soaked into his bloodstream, bringing a feeling of utter peace with it. Finally he was home, his wife was in his arms and by some miracle their child safely tucked between them. This, he decided, was worth every moment of war.
The feeling only multiplied when Elinor Marie Clegane joined them on a cold, foggy January morning.