SANDOR

The practice yard was filled to the brim. Northerners always loved a good duel at first light.

On one hand, Sandor had just about every advantage there was - reach, height, weight - and he had them by a longshot. But on the other hand, his opponent was lithe and far younger, not to mention the fact that wolf blood ran through their veins.

As did his own.

Half dog, half wolf, that one.

The sword in Sandor's right hand felt as light as a quill, each parry as skilled as it was delicate. Not one person in the crowd was cheering for him, not even his wife who was watching from the ramparts with three of their five children.

Then again, neither was he. Sandor was cheering for his opponent, too.

Sometimes he would cut across too early or pull back too late just to give them a break, though he knew he shouldn't. His opponent needed real practice, a real opportunity to show Winterfell what they had learned from Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark and himself.

His opponent was a natural, undeniably his flesh and blood. And with masters from Braavos and the Westerlands and Dorne, his child knew more ways to fight and kill a man than even he did.

Though Sandor prayed they'd never need to. He prayed to the olds gods and the Lord of Light, and occasionally the Seven, too. Sandor never did see another vision in the flames, but the scar on his torso was proof enough of R'hllor's existence.

Beric and Thoros would be proud.

Every evening just before supper, he would visit the godswood and pray with his wife in the sight of the old gods. Sansa was his closest friend, his better half, and the mother of his five children.

And soon to be six.

A castle full of children. He did not lie.

Sandor was clad in a full suit of steel plate armor, though not by choice. His opponent wanted to wear their own suit of armor, newly forged by the blacksmith of Winterfell, Gendry, before he left to visit King's Landing with the she-wolf; it was only fair. At least it would have been fair had the heat of the summer not drained his aging body of energy within the first few minutes.

After a sequence of clever maneuvers by his opponent, faking going left, then swinging right to aim the point of their blade right at his throat, the crowd cheered out for the royal child. Sandor dropped his feather light sword onto the ground, then said, fully exhausted, "I yield."

His opponent dropped the dull blade from his throat and then removed their helm that was shaped in a sleek snarling wolf's head. A long, dark braid spilled out onto a steel-clad shoulder.

"You're slow, father," said his eldest daughter, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes.

Sandor removed his ancient Hound's helm and tossed it into the dirt. "I've got thirty years on you, little one."

"I won't be a little one much longer," Catelyn felt the need to remind him. "On the morrow, I'll be six-and-ten."

Sandor could have wept. "No matter how old you are, you'll always be my little one."

"And old enough to fight with a sharpened edge?" Cat held out the dull blade and collapsed her lips in a frown. "I'm sick of dueling with tourney swords."

"You've been taught to fight so you can defend yourself, not so you can hack down men across Westeros for sport."

"Across Westeros?" Her big blue eyes lit up, her smile growing as brilliant as the early morning sun. "Does that mean we're finally riding south of the Neck, father?"

Sansa had been planning the trip to King's Landing for five turns of the moon, a secret gift for their eldest children's coming of age.

And Sandor managed to destroy the element of surprise in less than five seconds.

Fuck.

As casually as possible, Sandor tilted his head and took a quick glance at the ramparts. If Sansa had witnessed Cat's sudden glee, she would know for certain what he had done.

That wouldn't be good for him, but it could be for his cock.

His marriage with Sansa was a happy one, much like those in the stories he'd read to his girls before bedtime, though that was not to say it was entirely void of the occasional quarrel. When that happened, Sandor could expect one of two things: Sansa would either distance herself from him before wanting to speak things out at a later time or Sansa would fuck him so viciously that neither of them would remember what they had been arguing about in the first place.

Then again, that's when their quarrels were over trivial matters.

His wife would not find this trivial.

Sansa had reminded him more times than he could count to keep the southern trip a secret. However, luckily for him, Sansa had already left the ramparts with their youngest daughter, Mariah, while his middle daughters, Jeyne and Dany, were giggling at big, old Lord Manderly as he slept in a chair just beside them.

Many of the northern lords and ladies had come to visit in honor of the twins' name day, though the real celebration would take place in King's Landing where a tourney would be held by the southern king himself, Jon Snow (six-and-ten years had gone by but Sandor never did learn to call him Aemon).

Lords and ladies and knights, all chatting to one another as they exited the yard and prepared themselves for the festivities later that day. Despite all the commotion, despite the blazing summer sun leaving him half blind, the absence of the Prince of Winterfell stuck out like a sore thumb.

Where is that boy?

Sandor returned his attention to his joyful daughter and said, "You didn't hear me say that."

Cat dropped her sword and gave him the biggest of hugs. Or at least she would have had their suits of armor not made it nearly impossible.

"We're going to King's Landing, aren't we? Oh, finally! I cannot think of a better name day gift!"

Sandor bent down and kissed the top of her head. "Don't tell your mother or I'll find myself short of one leg to ride south."

Catelyn squealed. "I love you! When do we leave? Who will be coming with us?"

"Not for another fortnight. Your mother and sisters will be coming along, as will Cregan. And your brother, if he ever decides to bless us with his presence around here." Sandor looked around the yard once more. "Where is Cedric?"

"Probably where he always is these days - the Library Tower."

Sandor took his daughter's arm and walked towards the armory. "Cregan told me your brother didn't want to leave the Last Hearth during his last visit. Do you know why?"

Cat shrugged. "He didn't tell me anything. Maybe the Last Hearth has a better library than we do."

After removing their armor and returning their tourney swords, he and Catelyn made their way towards the Great Hall to break their fast. Somehow he already felt sore from the mock duel. His body never failed to remind him of his age, every pop and ache and cramp. If he had to dig graves on the Quiet Isle now, he'd die.

Inside the Great Hall, his two middle daughters were sitting beside one another on the dais while they broke their fast, their dark hair shining where a ray of sun came in through the large paned windows. Sandor sat down across from them, with Cat sitting to his right, then surveyed the expanse of the buzzing hall.

"Where's your mother and Mariah?"

"Mother's retching in the privy," Dany said casually. At three-and-ten, she had seen her mother pregnant twice before and knew the first couple months were always the worst. "And you know mother. I tried to help her, but she told me to eat my food before it got cold."

"And still no sign of Cedric, I see," he grumbled.

"I saw him two days ago," said his eight-year-old, Jeyne, as if that were normal. "He looked so sad. Like Uncle Jon."

"It's called brooding, my girl," Sandor muttered. "And Cedric puts your uncle to shame. Your brother needs to learn how to run a castle, not lock himself away inside a tower all day."

Cat picked up Dany's cup and took a sip from it, laughing. "Oh father, Cedric probably knows how to run a castle better than even mother after reading every book there is. What does it matter if he's a recluse?"

"What does it matter? Because he's the bloody heir to the North!"

And just like that, in the span of a heartbeat, the Great Hall became as silent as the crypts beneath Winterfell.

Fuck.

"Catie, father said a bad word," Jeyne made sure to inform Catelyn. Out of his four daughters, Jeyne was the one with a peculiar passion for instigating trouble and then watching it unfold from the sidelines.

His eldest daughter set down the now empty cup firmly atop the table. "Why do you think Cedric is the way that he is, father? We're twins - I know how he thinks. And all he thinks about is how he is the heir. He doesn't need to be reminded." Catelyn brushed a stray hair out her face and sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if you know him at all."

That was a punch to the face with a giant iron fist. "Excuse me, young lady? I've raised Cedric the same way I've raised you and your sisters."

"Well, forgive me, then. You're the one who is always preaching to us that it's better to tell a hard truth than a convenient lie." Catelyn arose from the bench with all the grace in the world. She might look like him, she might even fight like him, but she was as poise as her mother. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to visit my 'bloody heir' of a brother now."

Sandor buried his face in his palms.

A castle full of children, a castle full of problems. How did Walder Frey live to be so old?

Several minutes later, after a serving girl brought him a plate full of bacon and sausage and poached eggs (not that he had an appetite any longer), Sansa and their youngest daughter entered the Great Hall hand in hand. While Mariah skipped and tugged on her mother's arm, Sansa was giving him a stern look as she approached the dais.

It was summer outside, but a chill froze him to his spot.

Catelyn...

Mariah ran up to him and crawled into his lap, her dark curly hair tickling his neck as she nuzzled against him.

"How are you feeling, little bird?" he asked his wife, nervously.

Sansa never sat down, but instead stood behind him and combed her fingers through his hair, the tender sensation causing him to quiver. "I've felt...better."

Fuck.

"Father said a naughty word," Jeyne tattled with an insolent smile.

Sansa's hands fell away from his head. "Did he?"

His three-year old took a rasher of bacon from his plate and threw it at his face - an apt punishment.

"Does that mean we get an extra lemon cake after supper now?" asked Dany, hopefully. "That's what father said the last time he said a bad word in front of us."

They're ganging up on me. All of them. My daughters.

He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to find Sansa glaring down at him. "Yes, it does."

"Curse again, father!" Jeyne cheered, her Tully blue eyes twinkling. "Say all the curses! Let's eat all the lemon cakes!"

Sansa placed a pretty hand on his shoulder, then squeezed. "Dany, will you watch your sisters while I speak with your father?"

His cock stirred, but all he could think was, Fuck.

Rather than exit through the main entrance of the Great Hall, his fuming wife led him to the rear exit and into the empty, dimly-lit gallery. From there, Sandor closed the door and turned around to find her standing with her arms folded. The shadows were not heavy enough to hide her disappointed expression.

"Why are you cursing in front of the girls?"

A trivial matter, he thought, growing stiffer inside his trousers. "We were talking about Cedric."

She narrowed her eyes. Although Sansa loved all of their children the same, she was fiercely defensive when it came to matters regarding their son.

"What about him?"

"How he keeps himself locked away all day. It's only worsened since he returned from the Last Hearth. He didn't even bother to show up for Cat's duel." Sandor shook his head. "Every last man, woman, and child in Winterfell came out this morning in celebration of her name day, except for her own twin!"

It was so trivial. He prepared to pull out his cock at the sight of Sansa pursing her lips, but, to his surprise, she only stood there.

No, it wasn't trivial at all, he realized. She had more to say.

"Has it ever occurred to you that our son has a lot on his mind?"

"Seven hells, not this again," he sighed, resting his hands on his hips. "He'll be King in the North someday, not on the morrow. We do everything to ensure our children are happy, yet he broods about this castle worse than Jon!"

"Because it's not just that, Sandor! You seem to forget that he's our only son!" Once Sansa's voice finished echoing inside the stone gallery, she inhaled deeply, then took his hands into her own. "And he's the only son of the man once known as the Hound."

To some, I still am, he thought. To some, that's all I'll ever be.

"What difference does that make?" Sandor asked.

"The northmen expect him to behave a certain way. Cedric worries that he's not strong or brave enough to be a king. But more than that, he worries that he's not like you."

"Cedric doesn't think I want him to be like me, does he? And I sure as bloody hell don't want him aspiring to be like the Hound."

Sansa cupped his cheek with her hand. "Tell him that, not me."

The argument didn't end the way he hoped, but it didn't end badly either. Sandor gave her a kiss on the lips and then turned to exit the gallery to find his son.

Just as he made to grab the handle of the door, Sansa said, "We still need to discuss the second matter."

"The second matter?" he said, confused, until he remembered what he foolishly revealed in the yard.

Fuck.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he found his wife leaning seductively against the wall.

"Did you spoil the surprise?" she asked, looking far too pleased with herself.

Why is she happy? Why?

She was terrifying. It made him want to fuck her bloody.

Sandor knew he couldn't lie to her, nor would he.

He turned all the way around to face her. "Cat told you?"

His wife's cheeky smile fell at once. "No." She frowned. "Wait...did you tell her? Truly?"

Feeling trapped, Sandor looked all around, as if the walls were closing in. "What's happening?"

"I was only teasing you. I wanted to play a game," she said, her eyes slowly narrowing into two little slits. His blood rushed south. "You spoiled it?!"

After waiting for the shout to finish reverberating down the stone passage, he said, "...Cedric will be surprised..." Unless Cat tells him, which she will.

But he didn't say that, not when his wife knew how to throw a dagger.

Sansa inhaled sharply but then emptied her lungs just as quick. Rather than speak, she moved her hands to the bodice of her dress.

His jaw fell to the floor. "Here? What about the girls?"

His wife ignored him and continued to loosen the laces of her gown before pulling out her breasts, her swollen breasts, made even more alluring by her darker pink nipples.

More maternal than the Mother herself.

Although Sandor would miss fucking her on her moon blood each month, Sansa being with child did something to him. It sparked a hunger that could only be temporarily sated by tasting the sweetness exuding from her nipples as he buried his cock inside her. Even her cunt would be swollen. And warm. And wet.

He took two strides forward and picked her up in his arms.

"Oh!" she gasped.

It was a risky place to fuck, but they'd done it in riskier places. With five kids, two of whom still shared their bed, one must needs learn to improvise.

Sandor carried her over to the darkest corner of the gallery, heart racing, blood pumping, eyes fixated on her teats, then pressed her back against the stone. She wrapped her legs around his waist, so eagerly.

"Someday you'll learn that fucking me isn't a punishment, little bird," he rasped.

Sansa initiated a kiss that was all tongue and tasted of mint, while trailing her hands down the front of his chest. "Someday you'll learn it was never meant to be."

"No?" Without setting her down onto her feet, Sandor reached in with one hand and pulled out his cock, stroking it as it became rigid with blood. "Then why do you lift your skirts for me when I make you angry?"

Sandor's hand fell to that haven between her legs and discovered that she was not wearing small clothes. He growled, his fingers sliding up and down her smooth, wet slit. A high-pitched moan escaped her, its echo making it sound as if there were ten of her being fucked by his hand.

Sansa grabbed a handful of his hair in each hand, then whispered, "Because even when I hate you, I love you."

They kissed like feral beasts in the corner of the gallery, messy and breathy, a wicked sight for the shadows, both entirely unable to control themselves.

And control himself, he would not.

Sandor removed his hand and licked his wife's juices off his fingers before guiding the head of his cock to her sopping wet opening. He thought about teasing her, making her beg for it, making her cry for him to fill her, but the heat escaping her entrance stole what little remained of his patience. He united their bodies with a push of his hips and then their echoes of pleasure danced along the stone together.

His thrusts came quick and hard, as if she had been the one deserving of a punishment. He needed her, desperately. He wanted her as badly then as he had the first time he had her all those years ago. No matter how much they changed over the years, the intimacy did not. The opportunities came less frequently now that they were parents of five, but when the opportunities did arise, each took him back to when they were young again. Young and fucking in the throes of the turmoil that consumed Westeros nigh on two decades ago.

When her bronze and iron crown fell off and clanked noisily against the ground, Sansa begged him to fuck her harder. He found himself becoming extremely irate with the lack of light inside the windowless passageway. He wanted to see the desperation in her eyes, the desperation for him. Sandor never failed to wonder, How? Why me?, after all that time. Sixteen years later and it still didn't make a lick of sense. None at all.

It never would.

At the very least, he could see two blurs the color of ivory as her breasts bounced upon every beating. He suckled on one while fondling the other, never slowing his pace.

She loved that. Her nipples were sensitive, he knew.

When Sansa was pregnant, playing with her nipples was as efficient in getting her to climax as was flicking his tongue over her little pink bud. As he licked and groped above while pumping savagely below, Sansa tossed her head back against the wall. Her curses were sweet to the ear, nothing short of harmonious, and grew louder and louder until they were no more than wordless moans that tumbled down the corridor. Once he felt the resistance build, her cunt pushing him out one moment and then refusing to let go the next, Sandor removed his mouth from her breast with a loud popping sound and pressed his lips to hers.

That was his favorite way to lose himself - kissing her, tasting her, feeling each of her breaths along the inside of his throat. He had timed it perfectly, filling her with his seed as she rocked her hips and rode out her peak. Tighter and tighter she squeezed. Warmer and wetter she became. And all the while, that moment of clarity following each climax dawned on him once again.

When he kissed her, sweating worse than he had out in the practice yard an hour ago, she bit his lip until it bled.

Innocent and pure, he thought. And mine, forever.

Perhaps he was becoming a northman after all. Sandor would sooner suffer the winds of winter before struggling with the heat of another summer.

As he ascended the stonework staircase outside the Library Tower underneath the late morning sun, he gathered his thoughts. His knees made an awful grating noise each time he took a step, bone grinding against bone. His arms were sore from the practice duel, despite his blunt sword weighing less than Mariah, and his legs were already becoming stiff after fucking his wife while standing up.

Sandor looked (and felt) every day of his almost fifty years.

The library was larger than he remembered it; Sandor scarcely ever came by. He found his son sitting at a table furthest away from the door beside a large diamond-paned window with a quill in his hand. He was writing quickly, brooding at the parchment as he did it, with a stack of books at his feet.

Cedric Stark, his firstborn, the prince of Winterfell, and someday, the King in the North.

His son was larger than Sandor was at six-and-ten, six feet now and heavily muscled, despite his tendency to skip practice in the training yard. His hair was the same auburn shade as Sansa's, bright copper hues coming to life each time the sunlight fell in his hair; he was the only one of their children who took Sansa's hair color, and the only one who took his grey eyes. Much like Cregan Umber, Cedric looked older than he was, not only due to his size, but even in his face, his strong jaw, his heavy brow.

Almost a giant.

Once, just once, someone had made a sly comment on Cedric's parentage. Cregan had been the one to overhear it when the twins were no older than two years old. When word of it reached Sandor, he wondered if the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, had truly been so wrong to tear out Ser Ilyn's tongue after uttering a shrewd comment.

According to Cregan, when a group of guardsmen were talking about how the prince and princess, though twins, looked nothing alike, one man had said, "That's because the girl is the dog's, and the boy is Gareth's."

It had taken Cregan plus three of his men to prevent him from beating the man to a bloody pulp. Rather than cut out his tongue or execute him like other monarchs were wont to do, Sansa had sent him to serve House Cerwyn instead.

But if Sandor ever saw him again, he'd tear out his tongue, Elder Brother and the gods, be damned.

While many likely could not see the resemblance, Sandor could. He could see the Clegane in his son. Too much of it. And sometimes, every now and then, he could even see a bit of Gregor.

Sandor cleared his throat as he approached. "Cedric."

"Father," he responded, never looking away from the letter. He dipped the quill into the ink, let it drip the once into the jar, then placed it onto the parchment to scribble down more words.

"Did Cat speak with you?"

"She did," Cedric said, terse enough to imply that Catelyn had informed him about the 'bloody heir' incident.

Sandor sat in the chair across from him. Not once did his son look up. "What are you doing?"

"Writing."

"I'm not that blind, boy," Sandor scoffed. "Who's the letter for?" When his son's hand instantly became still, he added, "And don't sit there and make something up. Even your sister knows better than to lie to me."

Cedric sighed, set the quill into the ink pot, then slid the parchment forward.

Sandor leaned forward and squinted at the name. Perhaps he was that blind. "Lynesse?"

"Lynara."

He slid back the letter. "Name isn't ringing any bells."

Cedric drew in a long breath, still avoiding his gaze. "Lynara...Umber."

"Umber?"

"Cregan's niece. When he renounced his lordship of the Last Hearth, his sister's husband took the Umber name, like you took the Stark's. So that makes their daughter Lynara Umber."

The explanation had been unnecessary, but Sandor was too taken aback to stop his son from uttering the words.

Not only was Cregan Umber practically his brother, but he'd been Hand to the Queen going on seventeen years. Sandor knew all about Cregan renouncing his lordship. He'd done that three years ago to end the incessant matchmaking by every northern lord who had a daughter. Now that he held no lands, the requests for betrothal came to halt, allowing Cregan to focus on his duties as Hand to the Queen while his sister became Lady of the Last Hearth.

"Lynara Umber," Sandor repeated.

No matter his close relationship with Cregan, hearing the name never failed to stir up dark, suppressed memories of that one Umber. He thought about that Umber every day, every time he saw the scar on his torso from where the giant lord's steel had sliced him half. There were times he'd dream about him - dueling him, killing him, slicing off his head. Sandor would wake up drenched in sweat each time.

But Gareth Umber was dead. He had sliced open his skull and watched him turn into ash. Even so, some monsters continue to haunt, even after they're dead.

"I met her when I visited the Last Hearth," Cedric said, saving him from his bleak thoughts. For the first time since he sat down, his son looked him in the eye. "I miss her."

Another Umber? Is this family going to infiltrate my life forever? Cregan may be different, but the others, Gareth's own flesh and blood…

No.

"How old is this Umber girl?" Sandor asked.

His son shifted in his seat. "The same age as me. Well, two months younger."

"Not yet a woman, then," he noted.

Cedric's head drooped forward, but that did not prevent Sandor from seeing his son's fair skin blushing as conspicuously as his mother's.

No.

"Well," Cedric began, rapidly tapping his fingers on top of the table, as he brooded at the parchment. "Lynara and I...we..."

"Bloody hell." Sandor leaned back in his chair and dragged his hands down his face. "Did I not raise you to respect women?"

"You did," Cedric stammered, "but-"

"A lady, a highborn lady of five-and-ten?"

Sandor knew that he was being enormously hypocritical, recalling how he had first had Sansa inside that cave in the Neck when she was a highborn lady of six-and-ten. And that had not been the first time he wanted her, nor the hundredth. Not even the thousandth.

But, as a father, he wanted better for his son, and he expected better of him, hypocrisy be damned.

He leaned forward so that his face was only inches away from his son's. "What did I tell you when you turned three-and-ten, boy?" His proximity and harsh tone forced Cedric to lift his eyes. "When you have those urges, you go to the brothel in Winter Town. You don't start collecting the maidenheads of every highborn lady in the North."

Cedric was as still as ice. "Well, Lynara was...I was..."

While his son attempted and failed to explain, Sandor felt as if he were losing his mind.

Not my son, he thought, while thinking of Gregor and Gareth and all the rest. It had been his biggest fear having a son, a fear Sandor didn't know he had until he became a father. Boys could be destructive and mean and abusive, and some of those boys would never grow out of it. It was much like his fear of a man as cruel as Gregor or Gareth coming after one of his own daughters. Sandor had never told Cat the reason why he'd trained her with a sword, but that had been the reason why, not simply because she wanted to be like her Aunt Arya.

In due time, all of his daughters would be taught defensive skills, if not with a sword, then with a dagger. And his son...his son...

Not my son.

"I'll not allow you to be like them," Sandor found himself saying with a clenched jaw. "I've known too many knights and lords and princes and kings who took what they wanted because they could. Your mother and I raised you better than that. I taught you to respect women, didn't I?"

Rather than stay still, Cedric nodded quickly. "Y-you did. I do, father. I swear it."

"Every woman? I'm not just talking about highborn women, boy. The serving girls? The whores?"

His son was by far the most reserved of his children. Some even said he had the exact same temperament as Eddard Stark. But even quiet wolves know when to bark, even shy dogs know when it was time to defend.

"I've never disrespected a serving girl and I've never been to a brothel!" Cedric snapped. "I've only been with Lynara!"

Most men would have hit their son for raising his voice in such a manner, but not him. On the contrary, Sandor felt deeply proud in that moment, even relishing in the sight of his firstborn acting as headstrong as his twin sister. As irritating as it could be, Sandor wanted his children to have a strong will, to never be afraid to stand up for themselves when necessary. That was not a quality that demanded a punishment.

Sandor slowly sat back in his chair, taking a moment to collect himself. "Does Cregan know you tumbled his niece?"

Cedric nodded once. "He does."

The irony of his son getting into a girl's small clothes for the first time while under the supervision of Cregan was almost enough to make him laugh aloud, but the fact it was with an Umber kept him from doing so. "So, you told Cregan. Why didn't you tell me or your mother?"

"I was going to tell mother, but when I learned that she is with child, I didn't want to worry her."

That was the truth, Sandor could tell. "Very well, but that doesn't explain why you decided not to tell me."

Cedric started to tap his fingers on the table again. "Well...you're always busy with the girls...and with Cregan...I don't know. I didn't think you'd care."

The words sent a dagger through his heart. "You're my son."

"Unfortunately."

The dagger twisted. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I hope mother's next child is a boy."

"Why?"

Cedric's fingers stilled. "So you can have a son you're proud of. A son like Cat. A son like Cregan." He glanced out the window, then took in a deep, shaky breath. "A son like you."

The dagger that had been sent and twisted through his heart now felt as if it had been lit aflame by dragonfire. The blue dragonfire. Or laced with poison. A terrible poison.

Sandor could not say how sixteen years had gone by without ever having had this discussion with his son. How did it never occur to him to express to Cedric what he meant to him? When his son was younger, Sandor had been more affectionate. Each morning, the two of them would go for a walk throughout the castle while Sansa washed and braided Cat's hair. Sandor had even been the one to teach him how to ride a horse and fight with a sword. Why did that change as he became older? Why was it easier for Sandor to express his love to his daughters? He was closest with Catelyn, that was true, but he loved his children all the same, just like Sansa.

As Sandor looked at the profile of the young man before him, a man who looked to be aged twenty rather than sixteen, he no longer focused on the likeness of himself or Gregor, the likeness that unconsciously triggered him, but instead saw him as he had that day he had been born. Small and innocent and pure. Like Sansa. Like his girls. So was his son.

He could give Sansa a castle full of children, but if he failed one of them, what sort of father would he be?

No different than his own.

Sandor sat up taller, his muscles aching, and said, "Look at me, boy."

Cedric did, slowly and gradually, his grey eyes glazed with tears as they met his own.

There was a hard knot constricting his throat, one which was impossible to swallow and made it difficult to breathe, but Sandor would sooner be dead than not say what he wanted to let out.

It would have been a great time for the former bastard of Winterfell to have been there. He always had a poetic way with words.

Sandor forced a cough to clear his throat, then began. "I never told you or your sister this, but when your mother was with child for the first time, I saw Cat in the flames just after Beric Dondarrion brought me back after the duel with Gareth Umber. I only saw her that one time. I saw your mother, too, and myself, but not you.

"Now, your Uncle Brandon saw you, but not Cat. I didn't know what to think. You know your uncle - when has he ever been wrong? But I knew what I saw, so the entire time your mother was pregnant, I spoke of one child - Catelyn. I wanted that little girl I saw in the flames. I wanted to be her father.

"But then you came. A boy. My boy." Sandor's voice broke. "Not a little girl. And do you know what? It was the happiest moment of my life. Don't shake your head at me, it was. I love your mother and your sisters with all that I have, I'll kill for them, I'll die for them, but my love for you as my son, my firstborn, is different. It's special. So no, I don't want a son like Cregan or Cat or me. I want a son like you."

Cedric hastily wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hands. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Torrhen says men shouldn't cry. A prince especially."

Sandor snorted, though he was on the brink of crying too. "Torrhen is Tormund Giantsbane's bastard. He wouldn't be here had his father not squirted his seed inside one of your mother's former chambermaids." Out of the few wildlings left in Winterfell, Torrhen was his least favorite. But he was a decent builder and worth keeping around. "Bugger what he says."

Cedric laughed, then sniffled. "Thank you, father."

While his son took a moment to collect himself, Sandor's eyes returned to the parchment.

Another Umber.

Trusting his son's judgment, he said, "This Umber girl, tell me about her."

He had not seen his son so animated since he was a toddler. When Cedric smiled, he looked like Sansa. "Lynara is brilliant, truly, and kind and courteous. Her maester told me she has been good with numbers since she was three. Well, I've never been fond of working with numbers. I've always preferred reading over counting, but she was able to teach me a few things."

Sandor leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. "So you decided to return the favor with your cock?"

That made him blush again. "Father, it just...happened."

He could no longer suppress his chuckle. "I was five-and-ten once, son. I know."

His son's face became solemn, as still as one of the statues in Winterfell's crypt. "I want to marry her."

"Because you took her maidenhead?"

"Because I love her."

Sandor looked out the window. An entire world existed beyond the glass, and his son had yet to see anything besides the North. "You're six-and-ten, boy."

"Was mother not six-and-ten when she married you?" Cedric challenged.

There was nothing he could say.

Sandor looked away from the window and then at his son, and then at the tallow candle that was lit on the table behind him. Not one window was open inside the Library Tower, but the fire was twisting, its flame sentient and alive.

'You're to wed an Umber', Sandor remembered the words he uttered in the cave.

You were right, Beric and Thoros. A Stark will be wedding an Umber after all.

He returned his gaze to Cedric. "Are you finished with your letter?"

"Almost, why?"

Sandor knew he should consult with Sansa beforehand, but this was trivial. And trivial fights, well, they were his favorite.

So he spoke. "Tell her I'm sending you and Cregan to the Last Hearth. From there, the three of you will return to Winterfell before we leave. If this girl is to be your queen someday, best that she know a world outside of the Last Hearth."

Cedric was ecstatic, smiling openly and freely, until he suddenly knitted his brow. "Did you say leave? Where are we going?"

He expected Catelyn to have told her brother about the spoiled surprise; there was no point in keeping it a secret now. Sansa knew and he already paid the price inside the gallery. His lips turned up in a smile at the memory, at all of them. But his favorite memory, the one that changed his life, made him beam from ear to ear.

That day in the Riverlands, a tranquil snow drifting all around…

'There she is, Clegane - Sansa Stark.'

"Your name day gift." Sandor picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, then handed it to the future King in the North. "We're southbound, son."