The cottage smelled of rosemary, wet wool, and bread when you woke.

Rain had fallen sometime before dawn, soft enough that the river now ran fuller beyond the window, carrying silver ribbons of morning light over the current. The shutters were cracked open just enough for cool air to slip through. Somewhere outside, chickens fussed. One of the goats bleated like it had personally suffered a great injustice.

And beneath all of it came the steady sound of Sandor moving through the house.

Heavy steps. Careful ones.

You lay in bed with your daughter against your chest, still wrapped in the soft linen cloths you’d prepared weeks ago. Gilly was impossibly small after the long labor—warm, pink-faced, and milk-drunk already, her tiny mouth opening now and again in sleepy little motions. A shock of dark hair crowned her head. Sandor had stared at it for nearly an hour after she’d been born.

“She’s got more hair than a bloody lamb,” he’d muttered hoarsely.

He’d cried too.

Quietly. Furiously denying it all the while.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Sandor entered sideways first, broad shoulders nearly clipping the frame despite years in this house. He carried a wooden tray in both scarred hands with the sort of concentration one reserved for carrying wildfire. Steam curled from a clay mug.

“You’re awake,” he said.

His voice remained rough as gravel, but softer here than it had ever been in King’s Landing. Softer than anyone besides you and the children would believe possible.

You smiled faintly. “Barely.”

“Hnh.”

He crossed the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat carefully beside you. On the tray sat honey cakes still warm from the hearth, butter melting into their tops. Roasted apples with cinnamon. Tea steeped with mint and lemon balm from the garden.

“You made all this?”

“You pushed a bloody child out yesterday. Thought I might feed you.”

You laughed quietly, and his good eye flicked toward you for only a second before settling immediately on Gilly again.

Gods.

That look.

The Hound had once stared at the world like he wanted to burn it down. Now he looked at his daughters as if they were made of spun glass and sunlight.

He extended one finger toward the baby. Gilly’s tiny hand curled around it instantly.

Sandor went utterly still.

“There,” you whispered. “You’ve been claimed.”

“Poor thing’s got no choice.”

But he didn’t pull away.

Outside the room came pounding footsteps.

A moment later the door burst open hard enough to bang the wall.

“Da!”

Rhory stormed in barefoot and wild-haired, clutching the wooden sword Sandor had carved him two winters ago. Arya followed right behind him with dirt somehow already on her face despite the early hour.

“You said we could see her when she woke!” Rhory announced.

“I said if your mother was awake,” Sandor corrected.

Arya ignored everyone entirely and marched straight to the bed, climbing up beside you with all the confidence of a tiny invading army.

“Is she ugly?” she asked.

Sandor barked a startled laugh.

“No,” you told her solemnly. “Though she does wrinkle like an old turnip.”

Arya considered this carefully before nodding. “Good.”

Rhory leaned in so far you worried he might topple directly onto the babe. His face softened instantly.

“She’s tiny.”

“That’s how babies come,” Sandor said dryly.

Arya poked Gilly’s foot.

“She can’t even bite yet.”

“She was born yesterday,” you reminded her.

Arya frowned suspiciously, as though Gilly ought to work harder at improving herself.

Rhory glanced toward Sandor. “Can I teach her swords when she’s bigger?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s a baby.”

“When she’s not a baby.”

Sandor opened his mouth, likely to refuse again, but paused. You watched the exact moment he realized every child in this house already adored him beyond reason.

Even Arya, who bit him twice last week.

“Maybe,” he grumbled at last.

Rhory beamed like he’d been handed a knighthood.

Arya curled against your side while Gilly slept between you all, the river whispering outside the cottage windows. Warmth filled every corner.