Sandor Clegane Fluff - Blog Posts

Ughhhh your Hound is always so delicious, makes me want to rewatch GoT just for him. Anyway...would you ever consider writing some fluffy domestic stuff with him spending time with his woman and their kids? 🥺🙏🏻 Pretty please with sprinkles on top? 🩷

you should definitely rewatch it! i actually have a oneshot for husband!sandor with his children in my drafts, but i thought this up on the spot specially for you, dear anon 🌷

table of contents; just fluff and strong language :)

the sweet smell of lamb over goose fat-fried potatoes sings to him as he approaches the front door to your house, joints groaning amongst the clinking of his armour. beyond the small square window to your kitchen he can hear the giggling of his children, and that firm little voice of yours telling them not to run when the stove is lit.

“what have i told you about running near hot pots?!” you scold.

“sorry, mama!” his two oldest respond.

the door groans like a maester on its hinges and he ducks his head to fit through the frame. “i hope you gremlins haven’t been too much trouble for mummy.” he says, unbuckling his sword and placing it out of a child’s reach.

your shoulders relax and you smile. “you’re home, finally.”

he chuckles and cranes your head back by the neck to kiss you. “something smells nice.” then he lets out a winded grunt when two tiny humans crash into his legs.

your daughter makes grabby hands and your husband rolls his eyes in jest, then bends down to pick her up. your son still clings to his leg as sandor walks to the table, still able to do so as if the boy weighs nothing.

“i made this for you!” your daughter chirps, pulling something from her pocket. she’s proud as she presents it to him and you watch on fondly from the stove.

sandor gasps and plucks it from her chubby little fingers. “for me?” he turns it in his hand, studying it. it’s a stick, with four smaller twigs tied to it and a piece of yellow string stuck to the top with mud. “it’s. . . what the fu—” he stops himself, just as you arch a brow. “—what on earth is it?”

“a princess!” she tells him, fidgeting excitedly in his arms. “someday, i’m going to be a princess, you’ll see!”

“fucking hope not!” your son chimes. sandor’s hair and eyes aren’t all he’s inherited.

for a moment your husband seems proud, until he catches a glimpse of your unimpressed expression. so he reaches down and smacks the boy lightly upside the head. “boy, watch your mouth. . . around your mother.”

you place your hands on your hips. “sandor.”

“what?” he smirks. “i fucking hope she doesn’t become a princess too.”

you sigh and turn back to your cooking, shaking your head as your children giggle.

“and i did this!” your son runs past you toward the stairs, his footsteps frantic as he hurries to his room. the ceiling creaks as he does, then you hear a loud thud followed by a groan. you look up at the spot where he fell and it’s quiet for a second, then you hear him get back up and sprint for the stairs.

“that is why i tell you not to run.” you chastise, eyeing him as he jogs back into the kitchen.

“what is it?” sandor squints at the piece of paper his son handed him.

“it’s us!” your son climbs onto his father lap, pointing at his painting. “that’s me, that’s « daughter’s name », that’s mummy, and that’s you!”

“why am i so bloody round?” sandor asks, glaring at the artwork. you chuckle to yourself as you plate up the food.

“because you are.” your son tells him, pointedly poking the man’s stomach through his chainmail.

“little shit.” you hear your husband mumble. “where’d you get this paint, anyway?”

“what paint?” you frown, turning to peer at the paper. “i thought you used all of your paint.”

your son falls silent, fiddling with his hands.

“he stole some from the stall in flea bottom!” your daughter dimes him out and he gasps, hitting her on the arm. “liar!”

“flea bottom? what in seven hells were you doing down there?!” you snap, leaning against the table to glare at him. “and don’t you hit your sister!”

“without expecting her to hit you back.” sandor adds, and motions for your daughter to hit him. she does, harder than he did her.

“sandor.” you hiss.

“did you get caught?” he asks your son, ignoring you.

your son pouts as he rubs where your daughter smacked him. “no, father.”

“good lad.”

“sandor!”