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Sandor was fidgeting, waiting for a flash of warm auburn hair to appear somewhere in his eyeline, as he sat on a wooden bench. He noticed he was bouncing one of his knees up and down, so he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs in a bid to stop the restless tic. Sandor Clegane was a former soldier and mercenary, a tough, old bastard with a fire-melted mess of a face, and he did not get nervous over menial, domestic shit like meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the very first time thank you very bloody much .
A ginger woman appeared in the periphery of his vision and his grip on the bouquet of blue winter roses he was holding tightened reflexively, but a quick glance to his left ascertained that the woman was not Sansa. He took a deep breath in, annoyed at his foolishness, and forced his fingers to loosen around the stems. It would not do to give Sansa’s mother her favourite flowers if they were crushed and battered beyond recognition, would it?
Sansa’s parents were in town and Sansa had told him she was going to spend the morning catching up with her mother while they ‘shopped ‘til they dropped’ before they made their way to her favourite beverage and light bites spot, Hot Pie’s Bakery, where Sandor and her father would then join them for lunch.
Sandor checked his watch. He estimated he had another ten minutes before Sansa and her mother were to cross his path. He was supposed to rendez-vous with everyone at the café, but he had decided to intercept the women on their way there. That way he could meet one parent at a time and implement the age-old, tried and tested divide and conquer strategy. Not that he expected either meeting to go well — he wasn’t exactly the golden boy parents wanted their sweet little girl to bring home to them, was he?
Sandor was trying to figure out just what the fuck he was going to say to Sansa’s mother when a man’s voice, one with a strong Yorkshire accent, broke through his fretting. “Is this seat taken?”
Sandor looked up from the assortment of roses to an older gentleman pointing at the other end of the empty bench. “Nah, go ahead, mate.”
The man sat down and stretched out his legs. After a minute asked, “You waitin’ on a woman, lad?”
Ray Brothers, Sandor’s quasi-father, was the only other person to call Sandor lad. Between Sandor’s rather off-putting personality, his gruesome countenance, and his towering 6’9” height, there weren’t many brave enough - or daft enough, depending on who you asked - to refer to him as such.
Before Ray’s positive influence in his life, Sandor might have ignored the man, glared at him until he moved away, or simply told him to fuck off if he had been in a grouchy enough mood, but these days Sandor was someone that could occasionally entertain idle conversation with a complete stranger.
“Aye,” Sandor replied. “You?”
The man hmmm- ed and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he chuckled. “Everyday for the past thirty-three years. Suppose it’s the same with you and your young wife, ‘ey?”
Sandor was not sure why he chose to answer yet again, why he was willingly to continue the conversation when he could have just nodded and ignored the man, but he supposed talking about Sansa was as good a distraction as any while he waited.
“She does like taking her time,” Sandor agreed, thinking back to how Sansa had kept him waiting for thirty minutes after he had arrived to pick her up for their first date. When she had finally appeared at the top of the stairs after she was finally ready, it had only taken one look at her, standing there looking stunning in that flowy, lemon patterned dress she had had on and twirling a tendril of copper hair around her finger as she had shyly asked him if she looked alright, to make every single second of the wait well worth it. “But we’re not married — well, not yet.”
The man’s eyebrows rose with clear interest. “You’re thinkin’ of it though?”
Sandor let out a deep sigh and leaned back on the bench. It should terrify him that he didn’t have to ponder that question, but it didn’t. He couldn’t remember exactly when he had started to make a mental note of the rings that caught Sansa’s eye when they passed a jewelry store, or when he had began to plan out how he might one day propose, but he knew that one day, probably one day soon, he would be getting down on one knee and praying that she said yes.
“Never thought I was the marrying kind, but my girl, she’s… she’s…” Sandor searched for a word to describe how he felt about Sansa, but everything he came up with was woefully inadequate. The man waited patiently for him to continue, looking intrigued. “She’s the kind of woman you do not let go, not ever.”
“Sometimes love just gets you like that. You do love her, right?”
Sandor didn’t even need to think about that, his reply was instantaneous. “More than anything.”
There was no doubt in his mind that the all consuming feelings he had for the redheaded slip of a woman were love. He had fought the realisation for a long time and roiled against its acceptance for even longer because he had been angry that she had made him feel so deeply for her without his permission, that she had entrenched herself so firmly inside his heart with her gentleness and understanding - so much so that it frightened him - but that had all changed last winter.
Sandor recounted the story to the man next to him, even though he hadn’t asked to hear it. “She got into a car crash last year. She was fine. The car skidded on some black ice and she went into a ditch. She was taken to hospital though as between hitting her head on the window and the airbag, she’d gotten knocked out. Some nurse at the hospital called me and told me that she’d been in a car crash, and my whole world just stopped …” Sandor trailed off again, thinking of those excruciatingly painful seconds between hearing that Sansa had been hospitalised and learning that she was largely unharmed, that she would be fine. It was that heart-stopping moment that had brought his feelings for the love of his life into razor-sharp focus. He had promptly pulled his stupid, stubborn head out of his arse and told Sansa he loved her as soon as he was allowed through A&E to see her.
He smiled, thinking of how Sansa had thrown herself into his arms as he had stood at her bedside holding her pale hand and pouring his feelings out in stilted, awkward professions of love and devotion.
“Oi, put him down, young lady!” the shift matron had demanded, even though Sansa later told him she was sure she had seen the woman surreptitiously wipe away a tear from her eye after his heart-felt confession. Sandor had eased Sansa back down onto the trolley bed and pressed a gentle kiss to the bandage on her forehead.
The man’s voice broke through Sandor’s thoughts. “I know what you mean. When my wife was in labour with our second, there was a moment where it looked like neither of them were goin’ to make it…” The man paused, and Sandor saw a sombre darkness come over him as he thought back to the time he was describing, even though it had no doubt occurred decades earlier. The man seemed to remember himself after a moment, and in a sober tone confessed, “Life wouldn’t have been worth livin’ without her - without either of them - in my life.”
It was Sandor’s turn to agree with the stranger. There was no life worth living without Sansa Stark in it.
“Those for your girl?” the man asked, nodding at the blue roses.
Sandor was glad the man had chosen to change the topic to something lighter. He did not want to dwell on even the possibility of ever losing Sansa. “For her mum. They’re her favourite.”
“Get along, do you? That’s good. My wife’s mum never liked me.”
“Truth be told, I’m meeting my girlfriend’s parents for the first time today.”
“Ahhhh,” the stranger said knowingly. He grinned. “Nervous?”
Sandor scoffed. That was an understatement if ever he had heard one. “Aye, I already know it ain’t gonna go well.”
“How come?”
Sandor turned to face the man, giving him a good look at his disfigurement. He raised his only eyebrow at the stranger. “Would you want me dating your daughter?” he asked bluntly.
The man took a moment to consider him, before he shrugged and replied jokingly, “Better a West Country lad than a posh southern tosser.”
Sandor barked out a laugh. Sansa had been dating some mouthy, blond Chelsea boy when they had first met who certainly fit that description.
“It would depend if you treated her right, if you made her happy,” the man continued. “Besides, I’ve got two daughters and I have never been able to tell either of them what to do, so it wouldn’t matter what I had to say.”
Worrying doubts that had been gnawing at Sandor since Sansa had first suggested it was time he met her parents resurfaced. “Yeah, but her mum or dad might say something that’ll make her realise what I’ve known all along.”
Sandor dropped his gaze to his hands.
“What’s that then?” the man prodded.
Sandor was normally not this loquacious, certainly not with complete strangers, but the old chap did sort of remind him of Ray.
His shoulders sagged and he admitted the truth he had known since he had first set eyes on Sansa Stark. “That she’s too godsdamn good for the likes of me.”
Perhaps the man would have said something to him, imparted some pearls of wisdom or words of encouragement, but Sandor caught sight of Sansa and an older, redheaded woman who strongly resembled her, coming down the path towards them with a load of shopping bags of various sizes and colours hanging off their arms.
“It was nice chatting with you, but my girl’s here.” He jerked his head towards Sansa. “I hope your wife doesn’t keep you waiting too long.”
He stood up from the bench as Sansa approached and saw out of the corner of his eye that the older man did as well. He watched as Sansa caught sight of him and pointed him out to her mother.
Sandor gulped, feeling severely underprepared for this significant moment.
He saw Sansa’s bag-ladened arms open wide as she rushed towards him and he started to mirror the action to embrace her, but in a move that surprised the Seven Hells out of him, she swerved past him and leapt at the stranger he had been sitting on the bench with.
“Daddy!”
Daddy?
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no…
The man - the stranger Sandor had spoken so honestly and candidly with about his feelings for Sansa, about his desire to put a ring on her finger, about how he wasn’t good enough to be in a relationship with her - was Ned fucking Stark.
Sandor watched in dumbfounded alarm as Sansa let go of her father and slipped her arm around his waist before she reached up on her tiptoes to plant a swift peck on his ruined cheek. His own arm wrapped around her much smaller form and his large hand came to rest on her upper back out of force of habit.
Ned greeted his wife by kissing her on the cheek.
Did he look a bit smug? Sandor thought Ned looked a bit smug as the man’s gaze came to rest on him and his daughter.
“Mum, this is Sandor,” Sansa gushed proudly.
Sansa introduced him to her mother and he managed to fumble through a hello and clumsily thrust the bouquet at Catelyn Stark. He was still reeling from the revelation that the man besides him was his girlfriend’s father .
Oh, those gods Sansa believed in and prayed to hated him. They were laughing at him from their clouds, or trees, or rivers, or wherever the fuck they lived.
“Daddy, I see you have already met Sandor.”
Their eyes met and Ned smirked, giving Sandor a knowing look.
Is this seat taken, huh, pal? Oh, you crafty, old codger, you sought me out.
“Yes, we were just gettin’ to know each other while we were waitin’ on our women,'' Ned replied. Sandor tensed, feeling mighty apprehensive all of a sudden. Ned looked Sandor up and down, quietly contemplating the man he had heard so much about. “He seems like a good lad.”
Sandor saw approval in Ned Stark’s dark grey eyes and he let out a small sigh of relief.