The chambers of Winterfell were warm, the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The day had been long, filled with council meetings and preparations for winter. Now, the castle was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the occasional cooing of your child.

Sandor lay sprawled on the bed, his massive frame taking up more space than seemed possible. His dark brown hair was slightly disheveled, and his scarred face was finally relaxed. On his chest rested your child, a chubby, sweet thing perfectly content nestled against their father’s warmth. Sandor’s large hand rested lightly on the babe’s back, his grey eyes half-closed in rare peace.

You were across the room, preparing for bed, when the baby stirred. Tiny hands pressed against Sandor’s chest, and before he could react, the babe latched onto his bare skin, mistaking it for feeding time. His eyes snapped open, his expression shifting to bewildered shock. “What the bloody—” he started, voice thick with indignation.

The baby, undeterred, continued their attempt. Sandor’s face twisted in horror as he carefully tried to unlatch them. “Oi, stop that!” he grumbled, deep voice edged with rare panic. “That’s not for you!”

You turned just in time to witness the struggle, laughter bursting from you as Sandor wrestled with the determined babe. His scarred face was flushed, and his massive hands moved with surprising gentleness as he finally managed to detach them.

“Seven hells,” Sandor muttered, holding the baby at arm’s length. He rubbed his chest with a grimace, his grey eyes flicking to you. “Glad you find this so amusing,” he grumbled, though a hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

Still chuckling, you took the baby from Sandor, who leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his chest. “Little bugger’s got a grip like a bloody direwolf,” he muttered, more resigned than angry.