Winterfell

She watched her burly husband sparring with her good-brother. It was always good for her love to find practice, and it was always a thrill to see him in his paces. Gendry, however, was just a blacksmith and though he wielded his axe well enough now, the blacksmith is where he was more properly suited.

Not that Arya minded.

Arya was watching the two men too further down the balcony with a smile on her face. For the moment she was... indisposed from fighting, it being too much of a risk for the still-growing babe in her belly. But thankfully Ayra still got pleasure from watching, though not as much as she would have for fighting.

Gendry and Sandor never defeated each other, only looking for practice only. "No need to upset the balance we have going" Gendry had explained.

And it was true. No need to injure each other just to satisfy their egos, only to find themselves unable to fight if the North were to be attacked.

Shelooked to her husband now. He moved slower than he did in the days of Kings-Landing, his injury causing a small but mainly imperceptible limp when he walked. He admitted he didn't understand why she loved him, when he now (in his opinion) had two ugly scars instead of the one.

But it seemed impossible to him that even after three children that she actually loved him. On their wedding night, after they lay panting and sated on top of one another, he confessed that she had been his world from the moment he had first seen her.

She was brought out of her thoughts as the two men bowed to each other and then moved to clap each other on the back, both grinning. It had been a good spar.


Sandor grinned at Gendry, panting from the affect of their spar, when a sweet little body came crashing into (thankfully) his good leg. "Papa, papa!" the little girl giggled, raising her arms for him to lift her into the air, which he did so. Flavia is seven, and as beautiful as her mother. He spins around with her in his arms, stopping to press a sweaty kiss to her smooth cheek. She giggles and pats his arm, signalling for him to put him back on the ground. When he does she lifts her skirts and goes running off to gods knows where, just as her little baby brother comes running around the corner towards his father.

Eddard is nearing three, and still trips sometimes. His chubby little legs sometimes catch up in each other, causing him to crash head-first into the ground. But he never cries, just sits there, as though in shock, assessing his injuries. As he has just done.

Sandor bolts towards his son, as does his wife. They are always there when their son falls, just in case.

But, there seems to be nothing wrong this time and Eddard heaves himself off the ground and goes back to chasing his sister through the grounds.


Sandor looks to her, before pulling her to his sweaty chest. He kisses her deeply before mumbling against her. All that she can make out is "my beloved wife" and feels his joy, and especially his need which is starting to rise against her thigh. It has been five months since they last shared a bed, which for the first two months was not her idea, but rather he husband's who did not want to risk harm to their child.

But the last three months he has, understandably, been barred from anything in the aftermath of the birth of their second son. So it is to her surprise that after three months she finally feels his desire rising within her too.

They are lucky that it is nearing sunset and that the children would now be readying for supper, and that the stable is near.


He takes her up against one of the stalls of the stable, and he knows that later they will both regret it, but for now they both glow with happiness.

He suckles at her breasts, large and full with milk for their son. He belly is near back to it's pre-pregnancy size, and he will not be sad to see it go, because he knows that soon enough he will will it with another child.

And he looks forward to it.


She watches her husband eat.

He has always been a heavy drinker, and it seems that his years of inebriation have finally caught up to him, or at least to his belly. He is still fit, and his chest and arms as strong as they ever were, but it is true that his belly is no longer as flat as it once was. But neither of them truly mind. He is fast approaching his forties and was expected to happen one day, though not quite as quickly as it has.

She, on the other hand, has changed little from the days they first met. She now reaches his brow, and her breasts are fuller and hips wider than they were in kings landing. She is wiser and she no longer tweets like she used to, passing that love for pretty things onto their daughter.

But she is still his Little Bird and is as she ever was, and he loves her.

And that is enough.