Summary: "This is my son Eddor. He will be one-and ten on his next nameday. And Willas is not his father." Sansa's stare had something defiant in it, as if she expected him to challenge her. Sandor glared at her. If her husband was not the boy's father, who was? Then he realised what she had just said. One-and-ten on his next nameday.

Sandor

Sandor looked about him with alarm. What was he supposed to do? He had been right; he shouldn't have shown himself to the little bird. The commander with whom Sansa had just conversed came running, hand on his sword hilt, shouting.

"What did you do to our lady?" He knelt beside Sansa, gesturing for the guards to seize Sandor, who still stood on the spot, as bewildered as the others.

"My lady! My lady, are you well?" The commander patted Sansa's hands and lifted her to a half-seated position. Sandor saw Sansa's eyelids flutter as she started to regain consciousness. Others came running to the site and soon they were surrounded by worried servants and men-at-arms, fussing about their lady. A maid brought her a jug of water, another dipped a piece of cloth in it and wiped Sansa's forehead. All the while Sandor stared at her, hating himself for causing her yet another moment of distress.

Eventually Sansa opened her eyes and, despite her weakness, seemed to gather her wits.

"I am…fine, it is all well now. I was just overtaken by the heat…" People glanced at each other, confused. It was not a particularly warm day and Sansa wore only a light dress, not even a cloak over it.

She saw Sandor and looked as if she was about to faint again – but she held her composure.

"I am sorry that you had to witness this incident. Rest assured I am perfectly fine now." She gestured for the maids to help her get up, and slowly got to her feet. The others, seeing that everything seemed to be in order, started to gradually drift away, leaving only Sansa, the commander, two guards and Sandor.

Sansa straightened herself and looked at Sandor again, her gaze serious.

"I still would like to exchange a few words with you, if I may. Maybe we could sit down for a moment?" She pointed at the very bench Sandor had been sitting on. He obeyed reluctantly, and saw Sansa gesturing to others to leave them. She sat down next to him, smoothing her dress with her hands. Sandor noticed they were shaking slightly.

Once they were alone, neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually Sansa whispered, "Where have you been? All these years…"

"Across the Narrow Sea; in the Free Cities, Slaver's Bay, Lhazar and Asshai. Fought in the sellsword companies."

Sansa looked at him with a level of intensity that unnerved Sandor. The eyes that had been so bright before were dark as sapphires, piercing through to his core.

"How long have you been back in Westeros?"

"Not long. Only the time it took to reach Winterfell from White Harbour."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the inn in Wintertown. Arrived just yesterday."

They fell silent again. Sandor felt his heart thumping loud in his ear, so loud he wondered if she could hear it too. He hadn't prepared any speeches or words; all that time it had taken for him to get there, and he hadn't even thought of what to say to her. Finally he thought of a question.

"They tell that one of the Stark ladies is married. Might that be you?"

Sansa winced, but replied to him in a steady voice. "That is so, I am married to Willas Tyrell and have been these last seven years."

Sandor nodded. Of course, a noble lady like her would not stay unmarried for long. He wondered fleetingly about the choice. When he had left, Willas Tyrell had not been considered a prime candidate for an outstanding marriage. Maybe things had indeed changed while he had been gone.

Sandor opened his mouth to say that he had only wanted to see she was safe, when they heard commotion from the other end of the yard. A group of youngsters arrived, apparently from training, as they all looked dishevelled and sweaty. Four boys and two soldiers, all carrying swords and teasing one another, still high on the thrill of a good sparring. One of them broke away from the group and ran towards Sansa.

"Mother, I defeated Joren today, the first time I have ever done it! And he swears to me he didn't feign it." The boy smiled at one of the soldiers, who grinned back at him.

"That is good news indeed!" Sansa smiled at him, extending her arms to embrace the boy. Sandor looked at him, alarmed. Of course, she must have children by now. Probably a brood of them with her lordly husband. He looked away.

Sansa turned back to Sandor, still holding the boy in her arms. He looked strong, with black hair and grey eyes, and he stared at Sandor curiously. There was something familiar in him that Sandor couldn't quite place.

"Well done, boy. It looks like you know how to swing your sword. Your father must be proud of you," he growled.

"This is my son Eddor. He will be one-and ten on his next nameday. And Willas is not his father." Sansa's stare had something defiant in it, as if she expected him to challenge her. Sandor glared at her. If her husband was not the boy's father, who was? Then he realised what she had just said. One-and-ten on his next nameday.

Sandor gulped, feeling it was his turn to faint. The appearance of the boy made sense now. It can't be. It is impossible. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He saw that Sansa's expression had changed from defiant to something else. Understanding? Concerned?

He stared at the boy, then at Sansa, then at the boy again. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Sansa stood up, pointing her son in the direction of the keep. Before they left, however, she spoke to him in a low voice.

"I will come to see you tonight. Will you wait for me?"

Sandor looked up at her and nodded. She continued, "Say the words. Will you be there tonight?"

He stared at her and remembered the last time she had asked him to promise something. Then he had not replied. Now he had to.

"Aye, I will be waiting for you at the inn."

She nodded and moved away. As they left, Sandor heard the boy. "Who is that, mother?"

"He is a friend from many years ago, my love. A good friend whom I haven't seen for a long time," Sansa replied as they walked away.

Sandor couldn't have said how he found his way back to the inn and into his room. All he knew was that he reached it, threw himself on the bed and spent the rest of the day trying to still his racing heart and the thoughts swirling in his head.

My son. Our son.

He grimaced when he thought of the condition he had left her in; carrying a bastard with an extremely suspicious paternity. He cursed himself once again for his crimes against her. It had been the darkest deed of his whole miserable life, but also the brightest moment in a lifetime otherwise so devoid of happiness or joy. Blackened ash after a flash of fire… and he had left her to bear the consequences.

Soon he realised that something didn't add up. Despite all the posturing, it was known that every now and then a maiden daughter of a noble house found herself with a bastard in her belly. What usually happened was that the babe was killed in the womb with herblore, or if born it was fostered out to a discreet family. If the lady in question achieved a less prestigious marriage than expected, nobody was usually any wiser as to why.

For Sansa to carry her son to term and keep him by her side all these years, have him growing up alongside the legitimate heirs of Winterfell, and loving him as much as was clear even from that morning's short encounter, was something extraordinary. Sandor wondered what was behind it, before his thoughts turned back to the one thing dominating his mind.

A son. I have a son.

Never in his wildest dreams had Sandor considered that he would have children of his own flesh and blood. Whores didn't want to disturb their trade with babes, he had never kept company with a camp-follower of his own as some other men did, and the thought of actually marrying… Even before the Kingsguard the idea had been ridiculous. Who would have wanted to marry him? Why would he have wanted to marry some girl who surely would have been wedded to him against her will?

He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, until shadows started to creep into his small room. It was just after nightfall when he heard a soft scratch against his door. He stood up, combing his hand through his hair. Why had Sansa wanted to come and see him? Did she plan to tell him to leave and never come back, choosing a place where nobody could see or hear them together? He was prepared to do just that, already resigned to his fate. He knew he would do whatever she wanted. He owed her that, and more.

Sandor straightened the rumpled sheets on his bed and went to the door. He opened it, seeing Sansa in a tattered cloak that was pulled above her head, making her look like any other woman in Wintertown going about her business.

She pulled the hood down and stared at Sandor with her amazing eyes.

"Sandor." That was all she said, but it felt like a caress, a slap. He cursed silently in his mind. How could he have ever imagined that seeing her would be simple and straightforward? That he could just stroll back into her life, make sure that she was well and didn't need his services, before leaving her again?