The last word halts Ned in his steps, and he pivots on his heel to regard the tiny figure trotting along in his wake. Sansa stands still, her posture flawless, her hands clasped in front of her. Wispy red curls perfectly in place, woolen dress without a single wrinkle, wide blue eyes calm and patient.
Gods, barely three years old, and she has better manners than most of the young women in Robert’s court.
The Lord of Winterfell approaches his little daughter and kneels on the ground to look her in the eye. “‘Father’, is it?” he inquires gently. A tiny twinge of sadness- almost of loss- pricks at his heart when she nods. He draws his thumb over the slope of her rosy cheek and quietly asks, “Whatever happened to ‘Papa’?”
Sansa frowns, her composure ruffled ever so slightly. “Septa Mordane says that it’s common. She says that proper ladies always call their fathers “Father” and their mothers “Mother”. Only peasants say “Papa”.”
For a moment, Ned deeply regrets acquiescing to Catelyn’s request for a septa in the house. Southerners have such strange ideas, such peculiar rules...
The stinging in his chest grows as he continues to look at the little lady, the little woman-child- in no time at all, she’ll be properly grown, and if she’s half as pretty as he imagines, he’ll be drowning in offers for her hand.
But right now she has a baby’s softness in her cheeks, a baby’s chubby fingers, and he’ll be damned if he lets her stop being a baby quite yet.
“I suppose that your septa knows such things well, far better than I,” he begins. But then he leans in and whispers with a smile, “But when it’s just you and me, you can call me what you like. What do you think?”
Sansa takes a moment to consider, and Ned feels a ridiculous pull of anxiety in his stomach. But then her doll-like face splits into a wide grin, and she hugs her father tight around his neck. “Yes, Papa.”
And as Ned folds her into his arms, his sweet summer baby, he lets himself dream for a moment that he might keep her here forever.
FILL: Ned, Sansa, lady at three; "Papa"; G
“May I go and watch Jon and Robb ride, Father?”
The last word halts Ned in his steps, and he pivots on his heel to regard the tiny figure trotting along in his wake. Sansa stands still, her posture flawless, her hands clasped in front of her. Wispy red curls perfectly in place, woolen dress without a single wrinkle, wide blue eyes calm and patient.
Gods, barely three years old, and she has better manners than most of the young women in Robert’s court.
The Lord of Winterfell approaches his little daughter and kneels on the ground to look her in the eye. “‘Father’, is it?” he inquires gently. A tiny twinge of sadness- almost of loss- pricks at his heart when she nods. He draws his thumb over the slope of her rosy cheek and quietly asks, “Whatever happened to ‘Papa’?”
Sansa frowns, her composure ruffled ever so slightly. “Septa Mordane says that it’s common. She says that proper ladies always call their fathers “Father” and their mothers “Mother”. Only peasants say “Papa”.”
For a moment, Ned deeply regrets acquiescing to Catelyn’s request for a septa in the house. Southerners have such strange ideas, such peculiar rules...
The stinging in his chest grows as he continues to look at the little lady, the little woman-child- in no time at all, she’ll be properly grown, and if she’s half as pretty as he imagines, he’ll be drowning in offers for her hand.
But right now she has a baby’s softness in her cheeks, a baby’s chubby fingers, and he’ll be damned if he lets her stop being a baby quite yet.
“I suppose that your septa knows such things well, far better than I,” he begins. But then he leans in and whispers with a smile, “But when it’s just you and me, you can call me what you like. What do you think?”
Sansa takes a moment to consider, and Ned feels a ridiculous pull of anxiety in his stomach. But then her doll-like face splits into a wide grin, and she hugs her father tight around his neck. “Yes, Papa.”
And as Ned folds her into his arms, his sweet summer baby, he lets himself dream for a moment that he might keep her here forever.