The marriage between Sandor and you, a Stark, was not planned solely as a political union. The war had left scars, and many houses sought strategic alliances, but between you there was something quieter, something born of small tests of patience and understanding. He, with his restrained fury and intimidating appearance, found in you a calm strength that would not be shaken. You, even though you were of noble birth, were not intimidated by his presence or his temper, and little by little, Sandor learned to value your intelligence, cunning, and kindness. The formal pact united your houses, but the moments that followed built a true, almost secret affection between the two of you.

Now, at Winterfell, the castle routine seemed lighter. The snow fell slowly, and the fireplace in the main hall crackled with comforting warmth. Sandor sat beside you, his large, firm body against yours, while your younger brothers played on the nearby rug, shy but curious about their sister's brother, who still impressed them.

"Be careful with the torches" Sandor said, watching one of his younger brothers try to imitate the way he adjusted his armor. "If you burn yourselves, don't come running to me expecting me to heal everything."

You laughed softly, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling the safe warmth he always brought. "I think they just want to impress you."

"Impress me?" He snorted, but his tone was light. "Let them try. But the only one I care about impressing is right here beside me." He lowered his hand, holding yours, squeezing gently.

As the Stark siblings watched, Sandor offered discreet and protective advice, a little harsh but full of care, like when he corrected your posture or showed you how to hold a toy sword without hurting yourself.