The Riverlands never truly went quiet. Even in the gentlest hours, there was always something—the low rush of water threading past reeds, the creak of old branches bending toward the river, the soft churn of damp earth under restless feet.

It had taken time to learn that kind of peace. The kind that didn’t announce itself.

The cottage stood tucked between willow and oak, its stones uneven, its roof a little crooked where repairs had been made more for function than beauty. Smoke curled steadily from the chimney despite the mild air. Sandor insisted on keeping the fire going.

“Damp gets in your bones,” he’d mutter, like it was a sworn enemy.

Inside, warmth lingered in layers—woodsmoke, fresh bread, and the sharp herbal scent of willow bark you’d brewed earlier for the ache deep in your back. The child you carried had grown heavy these past weeks, shifting slow and deliberate, as if already stubborn about the space it occupied.

Outside, wood cracked against wood.

“Again!” Rory’s voice rang out, bright with determination.

You stood in the doorway, one hand braced at your side, the other resting low against your belly. Seven years old, and Rory already held himself like he had something to prove. Barefoot in the grass, wooden sword clutched tight, chin lifted toward a man who had once been feared across half the realm.

Sandor stood opposite him—solid, immovable, the river wind tugging faintly at his hair. His practice blade rested easy in his hand, though nothing about him was ever truly relaxed.

“Your stance is shit,” he said flatly.

Rory scowled. “It is not.”

“You lean like a drunk trying not to fall over. Fix it.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“No,” Sandor replied, “just sloppy.”

Rory lunged anyway.

Fast. Messy. Earnest.

Sandor sidestepped without effort, tapping Rory’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.

“You’re dead.”

“I wasn’t ready!”

“That’s the point.”

A small voice from the steps cut in. “I could beat him.”

Arya sat with her legs swinging, watching like a general assessing troops. Four years old and already convinced she understood combat better than anyone present.

You glanced down at her, amused. “Could you?”

She nodded seriously. “I would bite him.”

Sandor huffed, almost a laugh. “That’s not fighting.”

“It works.”

Rory groaned. “That’s cheating.”

Arya shrugged. “Papa says winning is winning.”

“Try again,” Sandor urged.

This time, he waited. Let Rory come closer. Let him think he had an opening.

Wood struck wood again—louder now, sharper. Rory’s movements steadied slightly. You could see him thinking, adjusting, refusing to give up even as his arms began to tire.

Sandor disarmed him on the third pass, knocking the sword free and catching it midair before it hit the ground.

Rory stared at his empty hands, breathing hard.

“I almost had you,” he said, stubborn to the end.

Sandor studied him for a moment, something quieter settling behind his eyes.

“Almost,” he agreed.

That was enough. Rory lit up like he’d been handed a victory.

Arya clapped. “My turn tomorrow!”

“No biting,” Rory snapped.

“No promises.”

Sandor turned then, his attention shifting—and softening, in the way only you ever seemed to notice. His gaze found you in the doorway, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You standing too long again?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Before you could answer, Arya had already slipped down from the step and pressed herself against you, cheek resting against your belly like it belonged there.

“Is it kicking?” she asked.

“Not right now.”

“That means it’s listening.”

Rory approached slower, careful now. He leaned in, pressing his ear gently against you.

“Can it hear us?” he whispered.

“Maybe,” you said softly.

Sandor stepped closer, his hand hovering before settling at your lower back, firm and steady. The weight of it grounded you instantly.

“You been resting?” he asked.

“As much as I can.”

His mouth twitched, unconvinced.

Arya pulled back, frowning thoughtfully. “I want a brother.”

“You don’t get to choose,” Rory said.

“I do.”