The scuffle with Brienne had left Sandor horribly wounded, and you had about dug yourself in the same hole with how worried you were. You had almost clawed poor Septon Ray when he had to drag you off of Sandor's dying body. You had wailed the entire distance to the small, half-built village.

The nurse had claimed that he had died a dozen times during this time, which only added to the deep ache in your heart and the bile in your throat. You can not even count the number of times you vomited over the thought of your lover dying. You often stuck closely to the tent whenever the nurse was doing her work, listening to the small shuffling inside and desperately hoping that it was Sandor's.

Until finally, he had jerked awake in a fit of coughs that left you panicked with the idea that he was finally leaving. Instead, he grasped your hand and gave you a small frown. "Where the hell are we?"

Since then, you have been helping Sandor get back on his feet. He still has a limp and often leans on you for assistance when you walk together - despite the blow to his pride - but he's doing so much better than he has been.

Today has been slow. You've been helping tend to some of the crops while your lover comfortably watches from a distance, the dull throbbing in his legs reduced to an annoyance.

Sandor calls you over and guides you to stand between his spread legs, looking up at you through playful, stern eyes. "Once my leg's done being a little bitch, I'm gonna marry ya."