Sansa. The Mother.

Maybe everyone in their GOT Fanfic career has to write a Sansa story and this is mine. What can I say? Inspiration can come from the most unlikely of situations. Venessia, this one is for you…

Lady Sansa Stark, betrothed to the King on the Iron Throne, snuggled further under the blankets, trying to avoid listening to the voices in the room. But she couldn't. These weren't the hushed tones of her maids come to wake and dress her; these were little voices, talking in loud whispers. Talking about her.

"Do you think she's awake?"

"I think we should wake her up."

"Shouldn't you wake a Princess with a kiss?"

"No, stupid, that's only if they've been asleep for a hundred years. She's only been asleep since last night. And anyway, we couldn't wake her up with a kiss, it would need to be a Prince." hissed the girl's voice.

"Could Sandor not do it?"

"No stupid. He's a Knight, not a Prince."

"I'm not stupid!" said the smallest voice "I didn't know a Knight was different than a Prince. Nobody tells me nuthin'."

Sansa smiled. She could tell that little voice everything about Princes and Princesses. She knew all the old tales and could match any Septa in the Kingdom when it came to telling stories about Kings and Queens and Knights in shining armour.

She opened her eyes. Three startled, dirty faces stared back at her. She smiled at them and cheerily greeted them with 'Good Morning!"

"Hullo" The tallest one, a rather ugly boy with shaggy red hair and freckles muttered back.

"Good morning!" The middle one, who looked like a dirty boy with a thin pointy face, long hair and patched clothes gleefully repeated. Only the voice gave her away as a girl.

"Are you a real Princess?" said the smallest voice. His little face still had the appealing chubbiness of his babyhood and big brown eyes stared at her in amazed wonder.

She giggled. They all looked so serious and it was such an absurd situation.

"Well, I wasn't born a Princess. I was born a Lady, but I was going to marry a Prince, who became a King, so I suppose I am sort of a Princess, or I was sort of a Princess." Thinking about Joffrey brought her back down to earth with a thump.

"Where's Sandor?" she asked.

"Daddy's outside. We have to tell him when you wake up." The dirty little cherub said, obviously taking his orders very seriously.

"Is Sandor your Daddy?" Sansa stammered. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She hadn't thought about that. She hadn't thought about anything last night, except escaping King's Landing and Joffrey. Sandor had offered her a chance of escape and she'd seized it. Even as they'd ridden through the night, they hadn't exchanged a word. He had been drunk and too intent on encouraging his destrier to carry them as far and as fast as possible and she had been too shocked to do anything except shiver and hold on as tightly as she could. She had obviously fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep and Sandor had brought her to this place and put her to bed.

Sandor put her to bed. She frantically looked under the bedclothes, but she was still wearing her bodice and petticoats. She hadn't considered his motives for stealing her away last night. She had only thought of herself and getting as far away from Joffrey as possible.

"Sandor's not his Daddy!" the little tomboy chattered, as only little girls can. Sansa smiled again, this time with relief. At least she didn't have to face a disgruntled wife this morning, or at least she hoped not.

"His Daddy was also his Grandfather and his mummy gave him to Sandor so he would take him away and save him. Bad people called him an abomination." the girl declared, pronouncing the last, awful word carefully, beaming with pride at being able to relay such grown up information.

Sansa's mouth fell open in shock and the biggest boy elbowed the dirty girl in the ribs.

"Ouch! You hurt me Mycah!" the tomboy yelped in a most un-tomboy like way.

"Sandor told you not to tell anyone that Weasel!" He hissed at her.

"But she's not anyone! She's a sort of Princess and everyone knows that you can tell Kings and Lords and Princesses anything and they've got to help you. It's the law!" The little girl declared triumphantly.

Sansa thought about the endless claims on her late Father's time, made by small folk with petty concerns and supposed the little girl was right in a kind of a way. A Lord or a King did have a duty to help his small folk. She wasn't sure if it applied to Princesses though. And anyway, she would never been a Princess now. But this didn't seem to be the right time to be arguing about the obligations of Lords or Princesses, so she changed the subject.

"You said that Sandor wanted to know when I woke up. I think we should all go and see him."

The oldest boy nodded, before walking out of the door. Sansa struggled to get out of the bed as the younger two watched, fascinated. The bedclothes were patchwork and heavy. Someone, long ago by the looks of it, had spent many hours sewing all manner of different materials into a bedspread. It was obviously a labour of love as Sansa's critical eye couldn't help noticing the tiny stitches were perfect, no matter the shape or the texture of the material. Her tight bodice made it difficult to sit up. She couldn't remember ever having slept in her bodice before and, right now, she would dearly have loved to rip it off and sink into a nice, hot bath, but she needed to see Sandor first.

Her dress was lying on the floor where he must have discarded it the night before. It was filthy from the ride and ripped from the assault at the hands of the mob. She couldn't think about that now. She pushed all those thoughts to the back of her mind, knowing she would never be able to look at that dress again without associating it with that awful night. She shuddered. She would have it burnt as soon as possible.

Sandor's dirty King's Guard cloak was lying at the foot of the rough wooden bed. She tried not to notice the splatters of dried blood as she fastened it around her shoulders. It smelled of horse and sweat and fire. Surprisingly such base smells didn't repulse her as she pulled the cloak tightly and, if she didn't think about the blood, she actually enjoying the feeling of the rough wool on her arms and the smell of her escape around her was unexpectedly comforting. Had he slept here with her last night? In the bed or on the floor? Bile rose in her throat as the myriad implications of her night flight began to occur to her. Again she pushed them to the back of her mind and set off to find Sandor. He had been her saviour in the night. What would he be this morning?

A child's hand grabbed each of hers as she made for the door. Oh. They wanted to hold her hands. That was unexpected, but quite welcome. One was deliciously warm and soft, baby fingers not yet big enough to grip her whole hand, instead just holding on tightly to two of her fingers. The other was small but very strong, clasping her hand, claiming it, as if never intending to let it go. How different the two little hands felt, but each adorable in their own way.

She had to avert her eyes as she was led through the rest of the dwelling. The walls were made of pilled logs; the floor was uneven, impacted stone and earth. Everywhere was mess. The table was strewn with half burnt candles and old wax, dirty, dull plates and wooden bowls, crumbs and dollops of congealed food. The chairs were rough, the wood unpolished and sticky fingerprints were evident in the layer of dust that lay everywhere. Sansa would have dismissed the house maid on the spot, then she realised there was likely no servant, hence the mess. She chose to ignore the squalor and continued through without comment.

Outside was even worse. Chickens squawked and flurried away as the little group left the cabin. An enormous dog, sleeping on its side in the sun woke up at the racket and, smelling an intruder, jumped up, snarling and barking, teeth bared. It launched itself at Sansa and would have knocked her to the ground, if it hadn't been chained and the chain too short to allow it near to the cabin. It jerked and yelped in frustration at the chain preventing its attack.

Weasel shouted "Down dog! Bad dog!" and at the sound of her voice the animal stopped fighting the chain and collapsed, whimpering onto its stomach.

"Is that thing safe?" Sansa stammered, still terrified by the ferocity of its attack.

"Of course. He's Sandor's." Weasel replied, as she walked over to the beast. As she approached, it obediently rolled over onto its back, tongue lolling as it wriggling with pleasure as Weasel rubbed its tummy. Sansa shuddered, and was glad when Weasel returned to hold her hand.

The clearing around the cabin was dried, rutted mud. No doubt, when the rains came this would become a moat of mud. Tall trees had been felled for a good distance around the dwelling, but their broken stumps were still sticking out of the ground, some half dug out or sitting on their side, dried, tangled roots reaching desperately skyward.

In addition to the myriad stumps, between the log cabin and the tree line were some half dug, weeded areas, a ramshackle enclosure with a pig and, from the multiple squeals emanating from that direction, piglets too. Geese honked in the distance. She hoped Sandor wasn't too far away. The children led her around one side of the cabin and, off towards the trees, she saw him, swinging a long handled axe, the metal glinting in the sunlight as it rose and swung through the air, to fall violently on the log to be chopped. The older boy – Mycah, was already there, scurrying to pick up the chunks of wood as they flew from the impact of Sandor's axe. As she came closer, she could see sweat glistening on his bare back in the sun and she could hear the grunts of effort as his axe rose and fell, splitting the logs with a satisfying 'thwack'.

The children seemed to know to stop a safe distance was away from the flying chunks of wood and they pulled her back as she tried to walk on.

"You need to wait here until he stops. It won't be long. Chopping wood is the most tiring thing a man can do." Weasel chattered. "Sandor says when you fight a man, he'll always tire, but when you're chopping wood, the axe never does."

Sansa stood in the clearing in the sunlight listening to the rhythmic grunt as the axe was swung overhead, whoosh as it fell through the air and thwack as it splintered another log. Grunt, whoosh, thwack. She watched his muscles, under sun browned skin, heft the axe then shudder with each impact. Sweat poured from his head into his eyes, to be occasionally wiped away on a forearm corded with muscle and covered in thick, black hair. From a distance and because the side of his face that was turned to her had only a little scarring, he might have been considered almost handsome by some and, as he worked in the sunlight, she was transfixed.

She couldn't stop her self staring at the numerous scars and raised welts that crisscrossed his arms and back and the thick hair on his broad chest. That black hair continued down a hard, flat stomach before disappearing into his breaches. She stared at the strong arms that had carried her off the night before; muscles bulging with effort, veins defined under glistening skin and wondered how men could be so different from women. When birthed there was only one difference, one very obvious difference, and Sansa felt her face flush when she though about that difference and wondered, not for the first time, what the difference there would be between a man and a boy. She thought of her own soft body and the contrast with his, so hard and flat, all angles and thick hair. How could the passing of a few years make the differences so dramatic?

No man that Sansa had been acquainted with before would do anything as menial as chop wood – that was for the peasants. The thought of Joffrey swinging that long shafted axe was so incongruous that she could have burst out giggling, but there was nothing remotely funny about the man working before her. Somehow, his toiling to ensure his children would be kept warm seemed the most noble, most heroic, thing in the world and the Tourneys and swordplay she had thought so gallant, mere games for boys.

She felt, nervous, frightened and excited all at the same time. She had to bite her lip and grip the children's hands to stop herself from turning and running away, to hide herself under the bed clothes. No, she instinctively knew that running to the bed, his bed, was a particularly bad idea. That was the last place she should seek refuge. And anyway, why should she feel this pressing need to run? Run away from what? Surely the removal of one item of clothing couldn't make this much difference? But it wasn't just his near nakedness intimidating her. She knew that, compared to him, she was weak and helpless and that there would be no Knight to come charging into the clearing to rescue her this time. The only kind of Knight for miles around was standing before her and he would deny he was any Knight at all.

Finally Sandor stopped and, wiping his brow, turned towards her. The spell was broken. The red, scared and puckered ruin that was his face made her gasp and involuntarily grip the children's hands tighter.

"What's wrong?" Weasel asked. "You'll get used to his face. You're not scared of him are you?"

The truth was that Sansa was scared. Very scared. Not of what was going to happen right now, in the daylight, in front of the children, but of what was going to happen tonight or tomorrow, perhaps everyday until she got back home to Winterfell. Sandor Clegane was a man of violence and she couldn't rely on his chivalry to protect her maidenhood here, for she already knew he had none. No-one knew where she was and he had her here for as long as wanted to keep her, or until someone found her. She would pray to The Old Gods and The Seven that 'someone' wouldn't be Joffrey.

Sandor leant on his axe to catch his breath, grinning crookedly as he noticed her with the children. It occurred to her that she had never seen him smile before. Although it pulled unpleasantly at the scarring, as if it was an expression unfamiliar to his face, she thought she saw a twinkle in his eyes, or perhaps it was just the sunlight glinting on the sweat on his brow. She tried to return his smile with a nervous one of her own.

The two children pulled at her hands so she would walk nearer to him. Sansa had not seen a man without his shirt on before. Of course she had seen her brothers when they were younger, but Sandor was certainly no mere boy. Men were careful to maintain the proper sense of decorum around Ladies and it was not deemed 'proper' by either sex that men be seen unclothed.

"Have you anything to say for yourself or are you just going to stand there staring all day?" he grunted.

"I…I just wanted to say thank you for last night."

"Is that all?" he snorted and hoisted the axe again.

"And to ask when you're going to take me home!" she blurted out.

"So you want me to take you home?" he rasped as he rested the axe head on the ground again. "Well, I might or I might not."

"What do you mean?" she implored, the seed of hope that had been planted last night suddenly withering.

"It depends on what ransom you'll fetch from The King in the North." He sneered, mocking her brother's title. She already knew from his refusal to take a Knight's vows or be called 'Ser', the contempt in which he held such titles.

Sansa panicked. Had he sent word of a ransom already? Robb would never pay, never give in to blackmail. He would bring his bannermen and he wouldn't stop until she was free or dead and her death avenged. She knew her brother would kill everyone who stood in his way, to prove to the whole of Westeros that the Starks punished those who wronged them.

She clutched the children's hands tighter; now realising that being rescued might not be as romantic as it sounded in the songs. She remembered the stories of stolen maidens and bloody vengeance and how the children's fate was never mentioned. Surely there would have been children when maidens were stolen, why else were maidens taken but for bedding? She remembered the fate of the Targaryen babes and an image of the log cabin burning with three little bodies, lifeless on the ground came unbidden into her mind. Would that be their fate while she was carried off by her victorious, vengeful brother? The thought of Robb and his army charging to her rescue now scared her, rather than comforted her.

"My mother would pay you a better price than my brother I am sure." She offered enthusiastically. Yes, she was sure he mother would pay anything to have her returned safe and sound and still marriageable.

"Lady Catelyn you say?" he snorted. "We'll see."

He hoisted the axe again.

"What do you mean?" she begged

As he turned to her again, the anger that appeared to consume him at Kings Landing returned to his voice and his eyes.

"Don't question me little bird! I like you caged here well enough for now." He growled, before bringing the axe down suddenly, all his strength behind it, shattering the log at his feet into a dozen pieces. Conversation over.

Sansa ran for the cabin, bad idea or not. She knew she was about to cry and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her do it.

Sandor watched her go, his bloodied Kings Guard cloak billowing behind her, long auburn hair flying in the wind as she ran. Even in flight, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He sighed, put down the axe and sat heavily on the nearest log.

"So what do you think?" he asked the three children. "Should we keep her or sell her back to her Northmen?"

"Oh, keep her! Keep her!" Weasel squealed excitedly.

"Will she be my mummy if she stays?" Baby asked, stumbling over the logs and chunks of wood to cling to Sandor's knee.

"We'll see." The big man chuckled as he ruffled the child's hair.

"What about you Mycah? You're keeping quiet. What do you think?"

The youth grimaced and glared at the man who had been ordered to execute him by Prince Joffrey the year before, while Mycah had only been practicing sword play with Arya Stark. Sandor had instead saved him and brought him here

"If she stays, will you stay and not leave us again to sell your sword to those bloody Lannisters?"

Sandor smiled ruefully. The boy was perceptive and growing fast. He knew that soon Mycah would disappear to make his own way in the world, but had loyalty enough to Sandor and the other children not to leave while he was still needed.

"It's only Lannister gold that's keeping starvation from our door boy. We need more land cleared and crops planted before we can feed ourselves and winter is coming." Sandor snorted at his involuntary use of the Stark motto. But winter surely was coming and he didn't have enough coin or food stored away to ensure their survival if it was a hard one, as everyone said it would be.

"We'll see." Was the only true answer he could give the boy.

Mycah walked away in disgust, shoulders hunched, head down. Sandor knew that was no proper answer, but he didn't know whether he would, or could, make Sansa Stark stay. A tiny flicker of hope, that she might choose to stay with him, wouldn't die, no matter how many times he told himself he was a fool for ever imagining she would choose him over Winterfell, over anything.

-o-

A few hours later Sansa woke again to find two little people in her room, sitting on the bed this time. She had cried herself to sleep and was in no mood for fun and stories about Princesses now.

"What do you two want and don't you ever knock?" She snapped.

The little boy's bottom lip began to quiver, upset by her sharpness. His big sister put her arm protectively around him, while glaring at Sansa.

"Princesses shouldn't speak to little children like that. He's only small and he don't like shouting."

Immediately Sansa felt guilty.

"I'm sorry. I'm hungry and I shouldn't have said that." Sansa muttered, trying to sooth her own guilty conscience.

"I can make you something to eat if you want" Weasel offered, brightening at the prospect of being able to help the Princess.

Sansa sat on the least broken, least dirty chair and watched as the little girl bustled around preparing food. She gave simple orders to Baby (who wasn't even a toddler anymore, but who seemed to have no other name) and he obediently, but clumsily, did everything Weasel told him to.

Sansa sat miserably, hunched in the filthy white cloak, feeling sorry for herself. She was hungry and dirty and stuck in this hovel for the foreseeable future.

Without warning the cabin door flew open and Sandor's massive frame blocked out the light.

"I smelled something good!" he boomed. He stopped in his tracks as he saw Sansa sitting grasping her knees under the cloak, while the two children busily attended to her.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

"We're making the Princess something to eat." Weasel replied proudly as she spooned dollops of boiled barley and beans into a bowl for Sansa.

"You two are making her food?" he rasped incredulously. Weasel and Baby both nodded enthusiastically.

Sandor stomped over to Weasel and picked up the bowl. In two strides he was standing in front of Sansa. She held out her hands expectantly.

He had intended to dump the contents of the bowl over her spoiled head, but as she raised her arms up, the cloak parted and fell from her shoulders, exposing the creamy globes of her breasts, pushed tightly up and together by her bodice. The unexpectedness and wonder of the sight changed his mind for him. He grabbed the top of the bodice with one hand, jerking her towards him, before tipping the food over her neck and chest with the other.

She cried out in shock.

"You will NEVER ask those children to cook, clean or attend to you EVER again!" he ranted. "Do you think you're better than them? Do you?!"

She didn't move or answer, she just stared at him, stunned.

He dropped the bowl, hearing it clatter on the ground. One hand was still pulling on her bodice. With the other, he smeared the barley and beans across her chest. As the wet mixture oozed down into her bodice, his fingertips inadvertently slipped down between stiffened fabric and skin, grazing her nipple and causing them both to gasp with shock. She looked up at him just as he looked down at her. For an instant their eyes met, before he jerked his hand back as if it had touched a burning coal.

"Never again Sansa." He muttered. "Do I make myself clear?"

She jumped up and ran for the door, leaving a trail of beans and barley as she went, the white cloak abandoned underneath the chair.

"The stream's downhill!" Weasel shouted after her. The young girl turned to Sandor.

"We didn't mind. She's a Princess!" Baby nodded in solemn agreement.

"Was a Princess and even Kings and Queens shit the same as us. You are not her slaves. You are her equals and the equal of any man or woman alive and don't you two ever forget it!"

He grabbed his cloak from the floor, rough soap from the kitchen and stomped off after his fleeing little bird.

The path down to the stream was well worn and he didn't doubt she would have followed it. His suspicion was confirmed by a trail of chickens, pecking at the odd bean or grain of barley. When he walked out of the trees he saw her, sitting at the edge of the stream, arms huddled around her knees, sunlight glinting off that shining auburn hair.

He stopped behind and to the side of her.

"There's a ledge under the waterfall you can stand on to wash. If you clean your clothes and lay them out, they'll dry in the sun. You'll need these." He rasped, dropping the cloak and soap on the grass beside her.

"Swear to me you'll leave me alone and not watch." She pleaded, without looking at him.

"I swear." He grunted, having absolutely no intention of keeping that oath. As he strode off towards the trees, he mentally added 'oath breaker' to his already long list of failings.

Once he was well in the trees and out of Sansa's sight, he doubled back, working diagonally through the trees towards the waterfall, taking care to keep quiet and hidden. When he daren't move any closer for fear of being seen, he stood behind a wide fir tree with a clear view to the water.

She was still standing, watching the trees, making sure he had kept his word. He cursed himself for being too weak to resist this temptation.

It wasn't long before she turned and walked the short distance along the grassy bank to the waterfall. Turning around once more to check she wasn't being watched, she quickly unfastened the laces of her bodice and dropped it on the grass, exposing the milky white skin on her back to the sun and to him. Then layer upon layer of petticoats fell at her feet until only small clothes of the finest silk covered the curves of her buttocks.

Sandor felt his erection straining uncomfortably against the laces of his breeches. He'd imagined her naked over and over again, ever since the day he'd first laid eyes on her. How she would disrobe slowly before him and how he would, finally see if auburn hair covered her cunt as beautifully as it did her head. In his fevered dreams she had been close enough to touch and then to fuck, but he was more than willing to make do with spying on her from this distance. He was behaving as if he was some awe stuck, virgin boy desperate for his first sight of a naked woman. He'd seen every colour, shape and size and fucked most of them, but none of them had excited him as much as his little bird.

In one swift movement her small clothes were down and she stepped daintily out of them and into the pool at the base of the waterfall. He heard her draw her breath in sharply as her toes made contact with the cool liquid. He imagined she might make that same little gasp when he took her raspberry teat in his mouth for the first time.

She gingerly moved towards the cascading, sparkling water. When she was within touching distance, she held out first one hand, then the other, letting them break the curtain of water, before pushing a shoulder forward. She gave a series of high little cries as her shoulder and then her breasts, her legs and body were all under the waterfall. In his dreams he had heard those cries as his fingers strummed her clit for the first time. He willed her to turn around so he could see her glorious cunt.

She didn't oblige, soaping herself as she faced the waterfall. He strained forward to get a better view, his cock straining against his laces, also eager for more. She turned slightly, enabling him to see the curved globe of her breast, as she worked the soap in a circle over her glistening skin. He imagined her tugging on her teats with soapy fingers, making those red berries poke out from the suds. He felt the tip of his cock ooze and his breath saw with desperate lust.

When the soap slipped out of her hands and she bent over to try and retrieve it, exposing the wondrous, mysterious crack of her arse, knew there was no option but to seek relief. He reached into his breaches and drew out his rampant cock, pumping it hard and fast and when she, unexpectedly straightened up in front of him, confirming his fevered imaginings of her auburn cunt, he had to bite on his free hand to stop himself roaring her name as he came in great wracking convulsions, cum arcing into the air, before splattered uselessly on the grass below.

Ashamed by the violence of his lust, he quickly sorted himself and, after one final, long look, he stalked back up the hill to the cabin.

-o-

Sansa was in bed, almost asleep, her bodice and petticoats washed, dried and folded tidily on the one large wooded chest in the room. She had managed to convince herself that he wouldn't come to her now and sleep was beckoning, the blankets pulled up to her chin when the door swung open and Sandor barged in, swaying in the door frame.

Sansa was instantly wide awake, terror making her heart race. She pulled the bed clothes tighter around her chin.

"I'm sleeping in my own bed!" He rasped, staggering as he tried to remove his outer leather jerkin in the near dark. He dropped it on the floor and started pulling on the laces of his shirt. Sansa shivered at the memory of his powerful, naked torso earlier that day.

Fear emboldened Sansa. She knew she had only minutes to save herself from the man who, the night before, had been her saviour. Speaking as boldly as she could manage with her heart racing and her throat dry, she imagined she was Queen Cersie and tried to mimic her condescending supremacy of tone. Trying to keep her voice calm and authoritative, Sansa proclaimed

"My mother will not pay nearly so much for me if I am not a maiden when I am returned!"

"And who said I was going to return you?" He leered, "I might enjoy keeping you here and clipping those pretty wings little bird."

"Then my brother will have his vengeance!" – another desperate throw of the dice.

"King in the North!" he spat "Let him try!"

"Well if you have no fear for yourself, then what about…the children?" she played her last ace.

He stopped undressing and scowled at her, swaying slightly. She knew she had found his weakness; the children. She felt guilty for using them as her defence, but the alternative was too awful to contemplate.

"If you don't get out of here now, I'll scream and scream and scream." She vowed, trying to keep her voice from faltering. "Is that how you're going to teach Mycah to treat a woman? Do you want Weasel and Baby to hear how their Daddy treats a Princess?"

Sandor didn't answer. She knew she was helpless now and if chose to climb on top of her, no amount of screaming would prevent him taking what he wanted. Eventually he cursed her under his breath and stormed out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Weasel dropped her head over the side of the loft sleeping area Sandor had made for them in the roof of the cabin and asked

"Do you want to sleep up here? We can make room."

"No" Sandor snapped. "The barn will do me tonight. She'll try and run when she thinks we're sleeping, but the geese will give her game away. Wake me after she's gone in case I sleep too soundly."

"You're not going to let her leave are you?" Weasel asked anxiously, knowing that 'sleeping soundly' only happened when Sandor was well into his cups.

"She won't get far. Mycah, you come and get me. I'll need your help."

Mycah dropped his red head over the side.

"Yes Ser!"

Sandor drew him a filthy look and the two children giggled. They were too high up for him to reach. He would need to climb the narrow ladder and he was too big and too drunk to manage that without a lot of effort and cursing. They were safe, for now, from his wrath at their use of his most hated word -'Ser'.

Sandor stomped off to the barn, slamming another door behind him as he went. Damn woman. He needed more sour wine to sooth his hurt.

Next chapter: The Fayre