As the sky pulled dusk over Winterfell, soft as a blanket, Sandor Clegane entered his daughter's nursery. The room was large and warm, walls hung with tapestries singing woven songs once loved by a little bird. A family of felt wolves lay strewn across the bedding; the softest, matted grey with yellow stitched eyes, had been propped at the head of the bed as if to oversee the adventures of its kin.
Seated by the red-dressed window, the thrice chinned nurse-maid hummed as she folded small clothes from a basket. At the sound of the Lord entering the room she raised her eyes and nodded her respect but did not rise and curtsy and flit about, much to the relief of the gruff man.
"I've come for my girl, Frieda."
The nurse-maid sucked at her cheek and jerked her head towards a curtained door. "You've made good time. The little lass in there has jus' been bathed. She'll be warm an' pink with rosewater for her papa."
Sandor snorted. "I'll take her shit brown and bawling; just put her in my arms woman." Frieda clucked and continued with her folding, knowing full well the bark of a dog worn tired. Half-heartedly Sandor considered walking through the curtain into the alcove that held a privy and basin. He could almost see his wife's lithe arms swaddling her child in her bedclothes. It was the thought of seeing Sansa, no doubt still enraged by their earlier encounter, which led him to instead sprawl back on the child's bed.
"She still washes her, then? Thought that's what we pay the likes of you and that young chit for."
The flabby woman stopped her folding. "Aye, Lady Sansa still tends to her daughter. She's a good mother to your Wren, though she isn't with her now. She asked Lilith to put the babe to bed. Do the young girl good, I think. Your lady wife with all her love doesn't give the young girl the chance to learn how to care for a babe. There'll be trouble when you have another, Lilith will be as good to you as a three-legged horse in a snowdrift."
The bed groaned as Sandor sat up. "Is my wife unwell? You should have sent word to me."
Sandor liked Frieda for her wit and truth, for all her chins and spreading girth. He liked the glint he saw in her weak eyes when he teased her as much as he liked the way her hen's egg chin jutted out when she told it straight. At any other time he would have laughed at the way she heaved herself up and, with her chin out, stared him in the eye.
"She well enough, milord. Dressed for riding – warm, mind, I made sure of that."
Laughing with the small girl in her arms, Lilith pulled back the curtain. "Here she is, Frieda! Spit clean and smilin', too. Oh! What's wrong with you then? You look a fright!"
Frieda stood wobbling on thick legs, staring at the open door which the dog worn tired had near broken off in his haste to find his wife. Oblivious to all, dozy with warmth, Wren smiled.