Ramsay let the door slam behind him as he entered the kennels. He stomped to get the snow off his boots and hung the deer he'd caught on a meat hook. His ten year old son was shaking the snow from his coat, laughing as the hounds licked at the antlers clutched in his hands.

"Gabriel," he said gruffly, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Go fetch your mother. Dinner should be ready." Although the words were firm, a clear threat that he would be beyond pissed if his wife didn't have dinner ready, there was still a fatherly undertone. The Dreadfort bastard was softening.

Gabriel handed the antlers to his father and eagerly ran to the kitchen. He spotted you setting plates of roasted boar on the table. You had his six month old sister swaddled against your chest in a cotton sling.

"Mama! Mama we're back!" he said cheerfully, wrapping his arms around your waist. You smiled down at your growing boy. He looked so much like his grandfather, the late Ned Stark.