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Sandor lay on his side as he was being kicked in the back, relentlessly. He tried to shift; tried to curl away from his attacker’s feet, but to no avail – mercilessly, the kicks hammered against his spine and shoulders.
Then there was another one. This one came from the other side and started slapping his face, and Sandor could feel fingers trying to poke into his eyes. He grunted in pain and turned his head down, protecting his face; but the second attacker now grabbed chunks of his hair and yanked it hard, causing Sandor to let out an undignified howl.
He tried to fight, but he couldn’t – it was as though he lay paralysed, his limbs leaden and heavy, and he was unable to move or even open his eyes. He knew it was dark, and he knew he should try to sleep, try to ignore this; but even as he curled his body up a bit more, the assault on him continued.
Suddenly, there was a third. That one had snuck up on him, only to jump on him from above, kneeing him in the torso.
Sandor jolted awake, finally able to shake the lethargy out of his body and mind. “RIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” he shouted in a voice thick with sleep. He sat upright in bed, and glowered at the two little boys in front of him, who stared back half petrified, half shaking with laughter. “What are you doing in here, anyway,” Sandor growled at them, “Go back to your chambers!”
“But I waked up and was thirsty,” the little sod sitting on his chest told him accusingly, as if that was his fault.
“Yes, so he came to me and I said we could ask you, Father,” his older brother, who had been tormenting Sandor’s face, explained.
“Great,” Sandor muttered. He sighed, then peeled himself out of the nice, cosy furs to get out of bed. “Come on then, boys,” he said hoarsely, plucking his younger son off the bed. The boys giggled and ran towards the door. Where do they get the energy from, Sandor thought blearily. It’s the middle of the night, and they’re bouncing around like spring lambs.
He ushered his sons through the corridor, wishing he’d taken something to cover himself, as Winterfell was cold in the nights, even with its heated walls.
“I want go wiv Torrhen, pwease?” His younger son looked up at him with those big blue eyes, just like his mother’s. “But you’ve got your own chamber. Wouldn’t you sleep better in your own bed?” Sandor tried to argue. “No!” was the resolute answer. “It’s alright, Father, I don’t mind him being with me,” his sensible older son told him. Sandor looked at Torrhen’s earnest little face, so like his own, but so much more comely without the burns, his skin smooth and perfect. He nodded. “Alright, you win,” he conceded, and they all marched into Torrhen’s chamber. Sandor poured some water into a cup and handed it to his younger son. “There you are, Rickard. Don’t drink too much, I won’t have you wetting your brother’s bed,” he grumbled. “I not!” Rickard protested, but he heeded his father’s advice and only took a few sips.
Sandor tucked both boys into the furs, and kissed their foreheads lightly. Before he left the chamber, he turned back and looked at his sons, snuggled up together, back against back, and miraculously already asleep again. He allowed himself a moment to wonder what his life would have been like, if he had had a brother like this. Then he shook his head, and left the room. What’s done is done. I wouldn’t be the man I am now, and wouldn’t have the life I have now; so who am I to complain!
He crept back into his marital chamber, trying not to wake his wife. She looked fast asleep, beautiful as ever, with the hint of a smile on her lips.
Two down, one to go, Sandor thought grimly as he considered how to approach this last task. “Just come back into bed, my love,” Sansa whispered with her eyes still closed. Sandor sighed. “Yes, but how? Why does he have to lie sideways? Why is he in our bed anyway? He’s been kicking me in the back for half the night,” he complained to his wife. Sansa looked at him, irritatingly sweet and good-tempered. “He woke up,” she simply said, “So I took him in with us. He just needed some touch. He’s only a baby.”
“Why didn’t you ask Brynda to take him?” Sandor asked, half-heartedly, because he already knew what the answer would be.
“You know that I don’t want a wet-nurse in the first months! He’s our baby. He belongs with us.” Sansa placed a kiss on the baby’s chubby cheek, which was right next to her face.
Grumbling under his breath, Sandor accepted his fate. He got back under the furs, and proceeded to move the baby’s fat legs out of the way as gently as he could. His wife smiled at him and pursed her lips. He willingly obeyed, and gave Sansa a tender kiss. “I love you, Sandor,” she whispered. “You are the best husband and father anyone could wish for. We are so lucky to have you.”
“Some luck for me that is, being assaulted in the night, and having to share my bed with this fat worm,” Sandor whispered hoarsely, and he could see his wife giggle in reply before she shut her eyes again and snuggled into the pillows.
She knows me too well, Sandor thought, as he put his big arm around them both and lay down to sleep again, his heart warm with love even as he could feel tiny feet treading on his stomach.