Sandor felt like the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He had a truly sweet wife, and sometimes he couldn't help but feel undeserving of you. Just being near you felt like a blessing, and holding you close and kissing you was like receiving a gift from heaven. He didn't care one bit that you were just the daughter of some minor lord; the main thing is having you close by, not the size of the castle. He idolises you so much and can't bear to be apart from you for a minute; he's no longer The Hound but a clingy pup, who becomes so obedient under the gentle touches of his wife's hands.

He never complained when your honeyed voice rose, because your mood got so volatile during pregnancy. Sandor wasn't trying to rudely shut you up; on the contrary, he'd sooner cut out his own tongue than try that. Oh, you were his queen; he worshipped you because you weren't afraid of him. How was that possible?

The thud of an axe hitting trees echoes in the yard, sending wood chips flying. Sandor is soaked in sweat, his shirt sticking to his back as he steadily chops wood. He doesn't dodge the hard work, especially after your complaint about the chilly bedroom last night. With every swing, his muscles tense as he tirelessly works to make sure you're comfortable.

But Sandor stops dead⎯ God forbid he injures you⎯ when you come out to him, holding a small jug of fresh milk. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, a small smile breaking across his face as he gratefully accepts the jug from you.

Your gentle, tinkling laughter is like the chirping of a little bird. He's not much for believing, but, by the Lord of Light, how could he not believe when he was blessed with such a treasure?

He pulls you close, his arm wrapping around your waist, pressing you against his broad chest. “Thank you, birdie,” the man murmurs softly, his voice filled with affection. His hand, warm, settles on your pregnant belly. With a crooked smile, he starts to stroke your rounded bump through your clothes; his touches are reverent.