You had found him terribly wounded after a fight a year and a half ago.

Somehow dragging him back to your small home, you knew you needed to help this poor stranger. So you saved his life, mended his wounds.

The scar on his face and the sheer size of him alone made you well aware of his true identity. This was no ordinary man. This was the Hound.

But you had been raised to be kind to strangers. And for a few moons he had been living at your side. Helping you with whatever you needed around your small home, chopping firewood, hauling sacks of grain for the chickens.

Helping turned into love.

Sandor never felt like a new man. He was the same brute he always was. But for you, there was a softness in his heart that he held dear; but he would never say that aloud to you, of course.

You enjoyed having him around. His protection, his strength. A lowborn woman alone was asking for trouble. A lowborn woman with one of the most feared men in Westeros? One could manage.

The Hound complained often at first. Grumbling about your demands for him to put this there, put that up somewhere. But he did it all with a blush on his cheeks.

It was also possibly the first time in ages he was not dirty, not grimy. The wooden bathtub you kept stored against the house held him regularly- you insisted upon it.

It only became a habit when you started joining him.

Your cooking wasn't complete shite either, he surmised. A bowl of hot stew before getting to lie next to a woman that was not frightened of you felt like heaven if such a thing existed.

The domesticity was not lost on him. You felt like his wife in everything but name. He did not want to marry you, not want to sully you with the reputation of his House.

Sandor 'cared' for you too much.

Today you were both doing chores, Sandor was off chopping wood and you were hanging the washing to dry near the house.

As you hung a sheet up it felt quiet. Too quiet.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist suddenly and you gasped in shock.

"Sandor!" You dropped the laundry basket into the dirt below, your hand moving to swat at him. "Gods! You must stop frightening me."

"You seem to forget the type of man you've allowed into your home, little woman." The Hound huffed, his head rooting to find a place on your shoulder.

"A brute." You huffed. And Sandor nearly smiled. He enjoyed a quiet life for once. "An awful dog, who I should just make sleep outside." The banter was not lost on him. It was true.

He was a Hound with a new master; who was rewarded with love.