The gates of Arundel Hall opened to the soft clatter of hooves on cobblestone, and the banners of your house — a white apple tree on blue silk — fluttered in the breeze. Beyond the walls, the orchards stretched low and sprawling toward the river, buds just waking in early spring. Birds darted between the branches, unsettled by the arrival of two strangers, but your gaze was fixed on the taller, broader figure beside you.

Sandor Clegane.

The Hound.

Even from afar, he seemed too large for this place — too sharp-edged, too darkened by fire, too out of step with the gentle green of the Riverlands. You pulled your shoulders back and gripped the reins tighter. Today, you were expected to be both the hostess and the bride, though your wedding had not yet been solemnized. Your pulse thudded against your ribs.

The great wooden doors of the hall swung open as your family waited at the top of the shallow steps. They had been preparing for hours, the hearths warm, the floors polished, the air heavy with bread and baked apples. You took a deep breath and nodded to your father.

“Daughter.”

Lord Edmund Arundel stepped forward, tall and solid despite the years that had thinned him. His eyes flicked to Sandor Clegane and lingered too long, as if measuring the weight of the man against your house. “And… Ser Clegane,” he added, his tone careful, as if naming a wolf in the orchard.

Sandor did not bow. He dismounted heavily, leather boots striking stone with a sound that carried across the courtyard. Your mother, Lady Margaret Arundel, followed your father’s lead, her sharp eyes sizing him up as she adjusted the folds of her blue silk gown. She inclined her head slightly. “We welcome you both to Arundel Hall,” she said. Measured. Neither warmth nor disdain, only a weight of expectation.

Your elder brother, Rowan Arundel, stepped forward next, hand resting lightly on the small of his wife’s back. Lysa Arundel, round and with the soft swell of pregnancy, kept her gaze firmly on Sandor. Her mouth was a thin line. You could see the calculations behind her calm — protect the child, protect the house.

Your sister, Elinor, barely sixteen but sharp as a knife, studied him with wide, suspicious eyes. There was a story in her expression: curiosity, fear, disbelief. And then your youngest, Tommen Arundel, sprinted forward before Rowan could stop him, a spark of awe in his wide green eyes. Nine years old, too young to fully understand the danger, and yet drawn to the presence of someone so formidable.

“Is that him?” Tommen asked, voice tight with excitement. “Did you really kill men? Are your scars real? Did—”

“Tommen,” Lady Margaret’s voice cut, sharp and precise, like pruning shears through spring growth.

Sandor glanced down at the boy, one eye narrowing slightly. “Aye,” he said flatly. “I’ve killed men.” His tone carried no pride. No regret. Only fact. Silence followed, stretching across the courtyard like a held breath.

Your father cleared his throat and gestured toward the hall. “We’ve prepared chambers. Supper is laid. It seems wise the wedding take place here first, under our roof, before vows are spoken beneath the heart tree.”

The reminder sat in the air like a weight. This was Riverlands soil, not King’s Landing. Here, power was not announced by gold, but by the care of the hearth, the harvest, and the protection of one’s own.

Sandor’s gaze drifted past your family, to the orchards beyond the walls. Apple branches, bare and pale in the spring sun, waiting to bloom. You could see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened, as though he did not know how to belong in a place that grew rather than burned.

Elinor whispered under her breath to you, “He’s not what I imagined.”

Rowan stepped forward then, extending his hand — not to Sandor, but to you. “You’re home,” he said quietly, weight of both relief and responsibility threading his words. The sound hit harder than any drum.

Lysa finally spoke, low but firm. “Any man who stands beneath this roof stands as our guest. We will treat him as such.”