The cottage was quiet.
Outside, the Riverlands slept beneath a blanket of darkness, the first hints of dawn still hours away. Somewhere beyond the little vegetable garden, crickets sang their endless song. The hearth had burned low, leaving the room warm and dim.
Sandor lay on his back, one arm draped heavily around your waist.
You were tucked against his side beneath the blankets, your cheek resting on his chest. The steady thump of his heart echoed beneath your ear.
Three years.
Three years of marriage.
Three years of shared meals, muddy boots by the door, winter storms, honey cakes cooling on the windowsill, and countless nights curled together in this very bed.
And now…
Well.
Now there was something else.
You traced a finger over the rough skin of his forearm.
“Sandor?”
A grunt.
Not asleep then.
“Mm?”
You smiled faintly.
“I’ve been thinking.”
His arm tightened slightly.
“Dangerous habit.”
“Very funny.”
“Hm.”
You could hear the smile hidden in his voice.
The silence settled again.
For a moment you almost lost your nerve.
Not because you were frightened.
Just because it still felt unreal.
After so long.
After months of quietly wondering.
Wondering if perhaps it simply wasn’t meant to happen.
Wondering if something was wrong.
Wondering if you’d never see a child with his stubborn jaw or his dark eyes.
You swallowed.
“I think I’m with child.”
The room went still.
Not dramatically.
Not with shock.
Just… still.
The sort of stillness that came when Sandor Clegane was thinking very carefully.
His chest rose beneath your cheek.
Fell.
Rose again.
Then finally:
“Think?”
You huffed.
“I know.”
Another pause.
“How long?”
“Few weeks, maybe.”
His fingers flexed against your hip.
Not pulling away.
Not tensing.
Just… absorbing it.
You tilted your head to look at him.
His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
“Say something.”
“What d’you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” You laughed softly. “Perhaps that you’re surprised.”
That finally made him look down at you.
One eyebrow lifted.
“Surprised?”
“Well—”
“Woman.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“We’ve spent the last several months carrying on like newlyweds.”
You buried your face against his shoulder, laughing.
“That’s not the point.”
“Seems exactly the point.”
“It took three years.”
His expression softened.
A rare thing.
Rarer still when no one else was there to see it.
“Aye.”
The single word carried more understanding than a speech ever could.
Three years.
He knew.
Even though you’d never spoken much about it.
He knew about the moments you lingered over other people’s babies.
The way your smile sometimes faded after visiting families you’d helped deliver children for.
The way your hand occasionally rested against your own stomach when you thought no one was looking.
His thumb brushed gently across your side.
“You thought there might be something wrong.”
It wasn’t a question.
You looked down.
“A little.”
A long silence followed.
Then his large hand slid over yours.
Guiding it.
Carefully.
Until both your hands rested over your belly.
Still flat.
Still unchanged.
And yet somehow already different.
Sandor stared there for a long moment.
His scarred face unreadable.
Then he exhaled.
Slowly.
“No.”
Your eyes lifted.
“No what?”
“No, there wasn’t anything wrong.”
His voice was rougher than usual.
Almost uncertain.
“As far as I’m concerned, the little bastard was just taking their time.”
You laughed so hard your shoulders shook.
“Sandor!”
“What?”
“You cannot call our child a bastard.”
“Can if they’re still in there.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“Hm.”
You looked up at him.
Really looked.
And found something you’d only seen a handful of times.
Wonder.
Not fear.
Not annoyance.
Not caution.
Wonder.
As though he couldn’t quite believe he’d been handed something so precious.
His hand remained over yours.
Large.
Warm.
Protective.
“You’re happy?” you asked quietly.
His gaze snapped to yours.
The look he gave you suggested the question itself was ridiculous.
Then he leaned down —