Blood (of the covenant) thicker than water (of the womb)

by MissMallora

In the northern lands of Scotland, a young boy attends a funeral of the only father he's ever known. HEA, eventually.

All around him, the room was bustling with people. All of them old, far older than he, and all dressed in black or grey or some other dark color, as was appropriate for the occasion. He'd been seated in the corner chair and left with a borrowed iPod to play on while he waited in silence. It was best if he was silent, after all. If he spoke, someone might come back and talk to him and pinch his cheeks and offer condolences like that was what he wanted. No. What he really wanted was for this day to end so he could go home and sleep and wake up and find out that this year was nothing more than a nightmare.

He recognized a few of the people there. Work friends of his uncle's, although friend may have been a stretch. Family members on his aunt's side had shown up to offer her support, intermittently hugging her, then him, then her again.

It wouldn't have been so bad if there wasn't so many of them.

There was Jaime and his wife, Brienne, their next-door neighbors. His aunt liked them. Sometimes they had babysat him, and Jaime would show him how to do backflips and throw a baseball, then Brienne would come and offer to color with him or they would play music and paint with their toes. Sometimes Jaime joined in. Sometimes no. Some days Jaime would just watch him and Brienne and smile funny, the same way his aunt smiled sometimes at him and his cousins.

"Marcus," Jaime said, wearing a fancy black suit. Marcus himself was just wearing a charcoal grey shirt and dress pants, though his hair had been combed back to make it look fancy, too. It was uncomfortable to wear, and he was sure he looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

But his aunt had insisted, and in the end, Marcus couldn't say no to her. Not today.

"Hey Jaime." Jaime was one of the adults Marcus was allowed to address on a first name basis. The handsome blond officer smiled tightly at Marcus; it pinched his brows in an unfamiliar way, like he was frowning but…not, at the same time. Marcus dropped his gaze to his feet, uncomfortable.

"A lot of people here," Jaime said casually, and when Marcus peeked up at him, he saw that the pinched smile-frown was gone, and in its place a surveying look around the room. "Know many of them, buddy?"

Marcus shook his head, but said nothing otherwise.

"Ah, me neither. I hate crowds—oh, here's Brie. Hey gorgeous," the blond lion grinned at his wife, looking utterly rugged despite the setting. Brienne was a strict lady, a police officer like her husband, with twice the professionalism as her partner. Most kids who met her never got to see the fun side to her, not like Marcus did. His aunt said he was special to know her so well. The thought always gave him odd fuzzy feelings in his chest.

"Hello Jaime," Brienne greeted him cordially, frowning briefly at Jaime before directing her attention to Marcus. At once her face became all sympathetic and pitying. Marcus grimaced and looked away once more; he'd dealt with that look all day. It was making him angrier each time.

Don't shout, he told himself sternly.

"Hi, Marcus," Brienne knelt down so she was eye-level with him. Her eyes, normally so wide and blue and sparkling, were still wide and blue but glossy, like she was about to cry. Oh no, she was about to cry. Wiggling in discomfort, Marcus shoved his hands under his bum to keep them from clenching into nervous fists.

His uncle always hated when he let his temper get the best of him.

"Hi, Aunt Brie." He didn't mean to sound so sullen, but Brienne looked like she was going to cry, and Jaime was making that funny, pinched smile-frown and Marcus had no idea why everyone was so upset.

"How are you, Marcus?" So concerned, so sorrowful. Marcus blinked back irrational tears (because there was nothing to cry about, nothing) and smiled bravely at her.

"I'm ok. How are you?"

She blinked at him, looking startled for a minute, before her eyes softened and cleared of their tears all at once. With a quiet hum, Brienne nodded at him thoughtfully.

"I'll be ok. Is your aunt around?" There was only one aunt she could mean. Marcus had several, but the one Brienne was asking for was The One, the woman who had raised Marcus all his life.

"Sure. I dunno where though."

"I'll find her," Jaime murmured mostly to Brienne, and darted off without a word, his handless arm stowed out of sight in his pocket. It was a story Marcus had yet to hear, though he'd asked his aunt several times.

"Looks like everyone is clearing out," Brienne gestured to some of his aunt's closest friends, Loras and Renly, who were walking outside the banquet hall hand in hand. Most of the unfamiliar faces were leaving, too, and for that Marcus was eternally grateful. The only thing worse than family and friends offering their sympathies was strangers offering their sympathies. He didn't know who Bronn or Tyrion or Lollys were—he didn't care for their gentle smiles and quiet words of concern.

Marcus didn't know how to respond to Brienne's comment other than to say good, and that sounded callous even to his young ears, so he bit his tongue and waited for Uncle Jaime to come back, hopefully with his aunt in tow.

"I hear you're taking a trip up north. North, and west." Brienne continued. He shrugged, aiming for uncaring when nothing was further from the truth. The thought of leaving home with everything…as it was…was unsettling, and made his heart seize with fear whenever he thought about it. His Aunt had promised they wouldn't be doing anything just yet though.

"That'll be exciting. Has your aunt told you about Iceland?"

"It's cold. The cities are hard to spell." Brienne smiled a bit at his words, and nodded again.

"They are. But you'll pick it up. I'm told you're learning your languages very quickly. You're a smart boy, Marcus."

"Thanks," the word was almost grumbled and irritable. If Brienne took offense to it, she didn't say, merely smiled and sat back against the wall.

"Oh look—here they are!"

Jaime emerged from the crowd with a very pretty woman on his arm, her face—usually so happy—was somber and withdrawn. At the sight of Marcus, she perked up a great deal.

"Marcus, baby!" His Aunt knelt down and opened her arms up for him as wide as they would go. Without a second thought as to who was watching or how cool he'd look, he went flying into her arms, latching onto her middle and squeezing tightly. Her fingers began to thread gently through his hair, dark black locks which framed his face, pulling them out of their slicked-back style. What a relief.

"I'm sorry I got caught up with the others," she said softly into his hair. He still heard her clearly; the crowd, despite its relatively large size, was very quiet in their murmurs. "I had to see our guests and thank them for coming."

"Ok." Marcus paused, pulling away to look at her uncertainly. "Do I have to say thanks, too?"

She smiled a bit, a tiny, faint grin that was gone almost as soon as it had come, and she shook her head slowly. "No, honey. We can go now, in fact. Grandma and Grandpa are going to stay until everyone's gone home."

"Really? We can go?"

"Yeah." His aunt reached a hand down for him to take, holding it gently. "Did you say goodbye to Uncle Jaime and Auntie Brie?"

Marcus spun around, already half-marching out of the hall with his aunt's hand in his grasp, and looked up at his neighbours. Jaime knelt down, arms open in a gesture clearly beckoning for a hug of his own. Marcus granted it without a second thought, and again for Brienne.

"You'll be good for your aunt," Brienne whispered, more to herself than anything. "And eat your vegetables even if it's green beans. And don't forget to practice your brush strokes, little Da Vinci."

"You'll see him again tomorrow, wife." Jaime shook his head theatrically at her emotional display, pulling her upright to her feet. "Don't let her toughness fool you, hmm Mark?"

Brienne rolled her eyes and swatted at her husband's arm. "Oh, honestly, Jaime…" But Jaime's words had done as intended, and drew a quiet laugh from the boy.

"Bye, Uncle Jaime." Marcus returned to his aunt's side, reaching wordlessly for her hand. "Bye, Auntie Brie."

"Bye, sport."

"Take care, dear."

And then his aunt was guiding him wordlessly to the parking lot where they'd left the small, plain silver automobile. "I was thinking about getting some takeout and watching the Loony Tunes when we get home." She helped buckle him in, tugging once on the belt to be sure. "What do you think, sweetie?"

Marcus shrugged, then nodded. Dinner and cartoons sounded rather…good, although he also desperately wanted to sleep for a year.

"Hey, first there's something I want to show you. We'll wait til I get us home, ok?" Marcus nodded, and his aunt put the car in drive.

The ride home wasn't long. As promised, they drove through the fast food joint two blocks from their house, and when they got home Marcus changed into his pyjamas under his aunt's orders.

"But it's not even seven!"

She looked at him critically, "You look like you're ready to pass out, baby, and I sure as heck can't carry you." Her smile was brief, and the strangely hollow look on her face afterwards told Marcus she was thinking the same thing he was.

His uncle could have carried him.

When Marcus came back down stairs to eat and watch cartoons, he found his aunt sitting in the dining room, head bent over some paperwork, face serious but not distraught. Rather there was a look of peace and relaxation there, something he'd not seen in a year, ever since his uncle went missing.

"What's that?"

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, but her smile was warm. "It's the surprise I wanted to show you, honey. Come here."

Obediently, Marcus stepped quickly to her side, and scrambled onto her knee so he could see better. She hadn't changed out of the black dress she wore that day, but she'd taken her nylons off and let her hair down. The curtain of silky locks tickled his head as she leaned over him, one long manicured finger reaching out to point at certain words.

Marcus couldn't understand most of it, couldn't understand the majority of it really. But there were several names he recognized.

IN THE CASE OF MARCUS RICHARD CLEGANE

There was legal jargon, interspersed sporadically with dates and things like TESTIMONY and CUSTODY and HEARING. Marcus' eyes followed down the page to a name he knew very well.

UPON THE DEATH OF SANDOR RICHARD CLEGANE, CUSTODY OVER THE CHILD IN QUESTION (MARCUS R. CLEGANE) WILL BE GIVEN IN FULL TO SANSA CATELYN STARK CLEGANE, WIFE OF THE PRIMARY GUARDIAN.

"What is this?" Marcus whispered, touching the paper with shaking fingers. The words didn't seem real. He almost didn't want them to be real… The death of Sandor… His heart clenched in terror and grief, far tighter than it had done all day.

His aunt sighed softly. "Remember the wedding? I married your uncle before…" she coughed and cleared her throat. "Before he left. And he put through the documents then, just in case…" Just in case… The words echoed in his head, and Marcus felt suddenly tired and weepy.

"But why?"

His aunt swallowed at his soft question. "Marcus… I wouldn't have had a claim on you otherwise. People here, they care too much about blood, and not about love or family." She pressed him close to her chest, tucked his head under her chin and hummed gently to him, rocking back and forth like he was a baby again. "They would have tried to take you from me. Your uncle made it so that they couldn't do that. Not ever."

If he had been scared before, he was downright terrified now. "Take me from you?" he yelped, and clutched at her tightly. "Who? I don't wanna leave you!"

"Shh," she soothed him still, gentle and soft in the way she held him. "No one is taking you from me. Never."

"Promise?"

She sniffled, and squeezed him tight. "Yeah, honey. I promise."

His aunt paused, and faltered for half a second as though she didn't want to discuss this next part. Marcus leaned back again to look her in the eyes. Normally a watery blue, her eyes were red-rimmed and sore to look at. Her lip quivered as she took his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. Though he felt rather like a baby, snifflinf and being coddled, the need for affection was so strong that it didn't matter. Seeing his uncle's name—seeing that awful word penned in before it, death—was like a blow to his tummy. Marcus wiped his nose with the back of his hand and tried to focus on his aunt's words.

"Marcus, sweetie… These papers…. Well, they don't have to mean anything if you don't want them to. Nothing has to change, not unless you'd like it…" she trailed off, unusually uncertain and stilted in her language.

"What changes?" Marcus asked, brow furrowed. "I thought you said I was living with you!"

"And you are," she was quick to reassure. "You will. It's only…well, they make me your legal guardian. More than that, they make me your…your sole parent. Do you understand what I'm saying, Marcus?"

"I…I think so…" It was his turn to be uncertain, watching her with a guarded expression. "You're like…my mom now, right?"

She looked winded all of the sudden. Exhaling loudly, her head bobbed up and down fervently, making her hair sway. "Yeah. Marcus. Marcus, you can call me mom if…if you want to. Only if you want to," she added sternly, but he could see the tears pooling in her eyes once more. "I know it's a lot to take in, and you don't have to decide right this minute, but—"

"Now?" Marcus half-shouted eagerly, flinging his arms around her neck. "Can I call you mom now?"

"Oh!" Sudden joy filled the lines of her face, and she looked younger in that instant than she had done for the past thirteen months. "Oh, of course you can! Of course!" And then she started to cry, laughing this time, and she hugged him with a gusto he met with ease.

"I love you, Marcus," said his aunt—his mom—into his dark curls. Marcus smiled into her neck, giddy and sad all at once.

"I love you too, mom."

Marcus leaned into her face without warning, eyes wide with urgency. "Can I…Can I call Sandor my dad?" Marcus blushed a bit. "When people… When they ask?"

His mom looked like she might say no, her teeth chewed her bottom lip. Doubt and grief mingled in her face in the way they'd done for so long, before acceptance passed through her gaze.

"Oh. I think he'd like that very much, Marcus." He nodded to himself, pleased.

"Ok. I can't wait to tell him!"

It was as though someone had punched his mother in the stomach. "Oh honey…we've discussed this… Sandor…your dad, he's gone. He's not coming back."

"You don't know that!" Marcus was all to quick to fire back. Scrambling down from her lap, he backed away from her, glaring. "You said so yourself—you don't know that!"

"He's gone, Marcus. That's what today was for—to bury him and try to…to move on. We can start again now, baby, you and me." Sansa offered her his hand, patient as ever.

"No! I want Sandor to be here!" He didn't want to start anew. Nothing sounded as bad as that idea did, to Marcus' ears. "I don't want to forget him!"

"Forget him?" His mom knelt down in front of him, eyes wide. "Baby, I never said we would forget him. He's always going to be a part of us. Inside," she explained, reaching out to touch his chest, where his little heart was beating like a constant hum. "Your daddy loved you, Marcus. And I love you both."

"He loved you, too," Marcus said feebly, because if he knew anything, it was that. Some of his memories of Sandor were going blurry—he slept with a photo of him under his pillow after he'd mentioned it to Sansa—but he knew that much at the very least. His uncle had loved her with all his heart.

"I know," his mom said very quietly. She tried smiling. "I'm gonna miss him too, baby."

Marcus felt the tears drip onto the floor in a quiet pitter patter. With a chin tucked into his chest, he stared at the linoleum floor until his mom drew her gaze up to her eyes with the tip of her finger.

"But you know what, honey?"

"What?" Marcus choked, spit bubbles popping with his silent tears. Sansa wiped his face with her hands, smoothing out the pained expression on his face with care. The kind of care only a mother could have.

"We're gonna be ok."

It was quite early in the morning, but Marcus had woken up due to the chill in his room and gone searching for spare blankets—or better yet, a few warm bodies to snuggle up to—down the hall. They were in their house in Scotland, the one with the wrap-around porch and the weathered rooftops with thick green grass sweeping the outskirts. It was home, and the only one Marcus had ever known as a boy.

Dawn was by no means his favorite time of day. Frequently his uncle teased him for being more like an owl than a little boy, who liked to doze until well past sun-up. Marcus tucked the corners of his comforters around his body until he closely resembled a well-stuffed human-burrito, and shuffled out under the quiet cover of daybreak.

Their house had become the place of an odd assortment of knick knacks over the years. The French painting from Toulouse, the Greek statues from Delphi, the thick plush carpet from China. And a myriad of souvenirs in between.

Most were from his uncle's years in the army. He'd done some traveling between posts—which was how he met Marcus' aunt in the first place, although they didn't date until later—and he and Sansa had done plenty of traveling before Marcus had come to their custody.

But some of it was memorable to Marcus. The painting was one he had picked out himself, a fact he cherished with pride. Of course, he had only been two at the time, and hadn't the faintest clue why he was attracted to it in the first place four years later. But the fact at hand remained that it was Marcus who had picked it out.

Some of their collection were additions from Sansa. She had a prettier taste than his uncle did, that was for sure, but Sandor never complained. At least, Marcus didn't think it was ever meant seriously. Sansa always laughed and swatted his chest when he grumbled about whichever flowers she had arranged in their vase, or the new lace curtains in the kitchen.

Marcus tread the footsteps between his bedroom and his caretakers' room in silence, tiptoeing as he was best. Like a cat, Sansa teased, stroking his hair. The quietest six year old I've ever known.

And well, if he had learned that, it was entirely thanks to Sansa's sister.

He paused when he heard voices in their room. Not angry, and nor frantic or sad. His uncle's quiet rumble was interspersed with the soft questioning tone of his aunt's.

Marcus crept to the doorway and stopped, out of sight of the tiny crack in the open door.

"…think it will really come to that?" That was Sansa, her voice unmistakeable even to his young ears.

His uncle spoke slowly, considering. "…possibility….won't let you and the kid be blind to the world…while I'm away…"

"You can't tell Marcus everything," Sansa argued at once. Marcus felt indignation swell in his chest. Can't tell me what?

"I won't lie to him, little bird…let it be for now…time yet to be silent…"

Sansa was silent for a long time. Marcus wondered if she had whispered something so softly he hadn't heard, but her next words were quite audible. "How long until you go?"

Sandor paused. "Twelve weeks."

"…have to, Sandor?"

"You know…not my…rather stay…inside your sweet, wet…"

Sansa gave a loud squeal, and the sound of the bed creaking had Marcus taking a step back. He reversed his step with bravado, and pushed at the door, still wrapped in his blankets.

"…Sandor?"

His uncle was draped atop the blankets, under which was Sansa. She was covered up to her neck, and was still laughing at some joke Marcus didn't understand when she caught sight of him in the doorway.

"Marcus!" At once she pushed Sandor off of her, limbs flailing about briefly. His uncle stood up with a smothered groan, one that Sansa ignored.

"What is it, honey?" she cooed, arms outstretched in a beckoning gesture. Marcus didn't need any other indication; he waddled over to her, awkward and unsure in his footsteps with his source of warmth draped over his shoulders, and allowed Sandor to help haul him up onto the bed.

"'M cold, Sansa," he whispered to her, and wiggled about until she had him in her arms like a giant baby, head pressed to her warm shift over her heart.

"Oof!" she grunted, and laughed gaily. "You're getting to be too big for this, mister!" But she didn't ask him to leave, rather hugged him closer and kissed his forehead.

"We'll have to leave extra blankets for you tonight," she continued in a musing tone. "Winter is coming, Marcus. Didn't I tell you to wear your flannel jammies last night?"

Sheepish but too tired still to argue, he nodded and yawned pointedly. A quick look around told him Sandor had left the room and stepped into the bathroom. The sound of running water confirmed his deductions, and he knew his uncle was in the shower.

Only a few minutes passed before Sandor came back, running a towel toughly over his hair while a pair of low-slung track pants hung off his hips, revealing a broad, strapping chest. Various marks littered his body, scars he had acquired over the years much the same way he had acquired his furnishings. Marcus didn't mind them but for the fact it meant Sandor had suffered. He'd grown up looking at his uncle's half-melted face, cradled against the chest bearing the smattering of marks from knives and whips and all sorts of nasty things, Sansa called them.

Your uncle is a very brave man, Marcus, Sansa said over and over. You must be proud of him for being so strong.

I am, he said so every time.

"Hello, darling." Sansa smiled over Marcus' head at Sandor's direction. "Someone is cold." Marcus shivered loudly for effect, making her laugh.

"Are we, then?" Sandor tossed the towel into a chair (and picked it up and put it in the laundry bin under Sansa's scolding), and made his way to the bed. "I'm rather cold myself."

Ice cold fingers were suddenly pressed under Marcus' chin, making him squeal and flail in the confines of his blanket. "Meanie!" Marcus snapped when he gained his bearings again. Both his aunt and uncle chuckled, although his uncle's was—as usual—subdued.

"C'mere then, laddie." Skilled hands hooked under where Marcus' armpits were, fumbling only fleetingly with the bulk of the comforter, and Sandor hauled him sideways until half of Marcus was draped atop his uncle, while his legs were curled into Sansa's waist. His aunt laid on her side, watching the pair of them with a sweet-as-honey smile, gooey and strangely proud.

"Wha's for breakfas'?" Marcus enquired, voiced muffled by the makeshift pillow he'd made from Sandor's chest. Sandor grunted, eyes half-closed and ready for sleeping.

"Later. When you can keep your eyes open." Sandor yawned in perfect imitation of his nephew—or was it the other way around? "Sleep now."

Beside them Sansa had begun to hum something, evidently awake for the day, though her husband and nephew were clearly having nothing to do with it. It was the same tune she'd hummed to Marcus every day for as long as he could remember, though it had no words, and it was very short. The melody was soft and peaceful, and he could think of no better way to fall back asleep than to the warmth of his uncle and the sweet song of his aunt.

The memory of his guardians holding him in their bed stayed with him always, but the conversation he'd overheard accidently was forgotten for a long time.

---

"…can't just keep living like this, Sansa. You're thirty years old, not eighty. You should be out meeting new people, dating, having a life. This…this isn't healthy."

"…supposed to do, mom?...can't just forget him…was my life… I loved him."

"I know, honey, I do. But it's been over two years since he was last seen in combat. You shouldn't keep punishing yourself like this. Think of Marcus—"

"Think of Marcus?! You don't think I have been? He lost the only father figure he's ever known. He nearly lost me. I just…I won't do it. I won't bring some guy home just because I'm hurting. I don't want Marcus thinking I don't love Sandor…" In the kitchen he could hear Sansa's breath hitch, her mouth stumble awkwardly over his uncle's name. "He was my life. Marcus is my life. I don't care about dating, mom. It's…it's too much. It's too soon."

"Robb says he has a friend you might be interested in. His name is Theon. He's very handsome, dearest, and quite smart—"

Sansa scoffed, loudly. "You think I care for pretty boys with big egos, mom?"

"I think you're judging a person you've never met."

Even Marcus could hear the reproach in Catelyn's tone.

"Oh, but I have met him. The day I bring Theon home to meet Marcus is the day hell freezes over. And not even then."

"At least say you'll call back this Harry fellow. Heir to the Eyrie, did you say?"

"Yes, you must be so excited, mother. Beauty, brains and money—my, how wonderful."

"Oh, Sansa. Don't be like that. There's nothing wrong with having those things."

"You're right," Sansa amended very softly. "But there's nothing wrong with not having them either."

A long moment of silence was all that followed, and Marcus was old enough to guess why. The implication was fairly obvious, even to him: Sandor Clegane had had none of those traits. Brains, perhaps in the street sense, but not a textbook smartness. Not like Tyrion Lannister or this Theon guy or his granddad. Sandor had been a quick-thinker, but he hadn't held a doctorate in anything, not even a college diploma.

Marcus figured then was a good time to interrupt.

"Mom?"

Sansa perked instantly at the name, swivelling about in her chair. "Hey, baby!" She smiled radiantly at him, opening her arms to him encouragingly. "I didn't know you were awake yet."

Marcus stepped into the familiar comfort of her embrace and snuggled close. He should be greeting his nana, he knew, but irritation had filled him at the sight of her, having heard Catelyn's many gentle suggestions that Sansa start dating again.

I don't want her to date anyone. I don't want her to forget Sandor.

Sansa's hand was gentle as it carded through his curls. The repetitive motion made his eyes close against the crook of her neck, though he'd just woken up.

"Your hair is so long," she murmured against the crown of his head. "We'll have to cut it soon."

Marcus shook his head, but stayed tucked in against her warm skin. She smelled of her expensive perfume, the same kind he knew Sandor bought her once, before.

"No…" he pouted. "I like it long."

"Your mother's right, dear," Marcus peered over Sansa's shoulder to see his nana smiling tiredly at him. "Best cut it now before people start trying to use your poor head as a mop!"

Marcus ignored her remark and smiled as though he was just noticing her now. "Hi, Nana," he half-mumbled.

"Hello, Marcus. How are you this fine day?" Catelyn Stark smiled more warmly at him than before, and Marcus shimmied into his own chair, letting the wooden legs screech as he shuffled it bodily across the floor and closer to the table.

"I'm good. How are you?"

Mom had raised him to be polite, the same way her mother had raised her. Instilled into him from an early age were the gracious comments he'd heard echoed by his mother and her family. Hi, how are you? No, thank you. Yes please. It tastes lovely. Thank you for having us over. The lines were a long mantra engrained into his head at a young age, even younger than he was now at the age of eight and three quarters.

"I'm quite well, thank you dear. Your mother tells me your school is going quite well! Have you made any friends?"

Marcus nodded, a bit shyly, and looked to his mother for guidance. Sansa's blue eyes sparkled with affection and silent encouragement, reaching out one fine hand to touch his thick inky curls and brush them off his forehead.

The three of them spent some time discussing Marcus' new school in Iceland, and how the students were, and what Sansa's new job was like. War in continental Europe was starting to touch Scotland now, according to Catelyn, and Marcus tried to follow what the two women were saying, but he grew bored with it as most eight year olds inevitably do.

"Here, baby," his mom set a plate of waffles in front of him, stacked high and coated in butter and syrup. Thankful that he had a mother with such a sweet tooth, Marcus grinned at her and thanked her profusely. She winked at him. "Don't let it go to waste, now, sweetie."

Catelyn had resumed her ranting to Sansa before she had even sat back down. "I've tried a dozen times telling your sister that this cult she's in will do no good, but the girl won't listen! I'm afraid of the day when they'll make aggressive attacks on the enemies, and I'm scared just who their enemy is!"

Sansa shrugged carefully, averting her gaze from her mother's irate blue eyes, identical to her own. "Arya won't listen to anyone, mom. You know that as well as I do."

Catelyn hummed unhappily, and sipped her cuppa. The fresh herbal tea was a favorite of Marcus' mother's, and was kept in large quantities in the pantry. They helped her with her nightmares, as he knew well. It wasn't uncommon to find her at the hours of dawn at the kitchen table with a newspaper in hand as she drank her tea in silence, tear-stained face pale in the quiet glow of the sun.

"I just wish she would call more and let me know she's alive," Catelyn murmured with a stern frown. "And Bran's nearly as bad, going off to Greenwich of all places with that Reed boy. What on earth does it have for him there?"

"I don't know, mom. Maybe he felt it was just something he had to do." No one had spoken in Bran in ages, but from what Marcus gathered his uncle wasn't in any danger wherever he was. He'd left with some old school friends named the Reed siblings, and Meera had returned home not long ago. Marcus had never met either the Reeds or his uncle, or if he had, he'd long since forgotten them. But it made his mom sad to remember her little brother, and he knew she worried frequently over him, almost as much as she worried about his Aunt Arya—who Marcus did remember, quite well.

"Well, maybe he could feel the calling to come home soon," Catelyn mumbled sourly, and Sansa pulled her cup away long enough to smile vaguely, then take another sip.

"Marcus," Sansa began with a smile, "what do you say you and I take a trip out to—"

The sharp ringing of a cell phone caused her to stop what she was saying and look about herself, frowning. Catelyn was doing the same thing, and she patted her pockets down until—"Ah-ha!" Catelyn triumphantly retrieved the source of noise, her phone with the screen lit up and a long distance number blared across in large letters. Marcus caught a glimpse of his Uncle Robb's name, and cheered. He liked his Uncle Robb. Not as much as he liked Jon and Ygritte, who lived not twenty minutes away, but Robb and Talisa were funny and nice, and Marcus spent a week with them in their house in France last year and had a blast. He was hoping Sansa would let him go again this year, but from the way the war was moving, it wasn't likely.

"It's your brother," Catelyn explained with a mixed air of fondness and exasperation. "Hold on, dear."

Catelyn pushed at the screen where Marcus figured the green phone was, and held it up to her ear, smiling expectantly. "Hello, Robb. What can I do for you now, sweetling?"

No sooner had she gotten the words out than her face had fallen in dismay and fear. Sansa was upright in her seat, tea abandoned and eyes fixed on her mother's face, waiting, watching. Marcus felt like his stomach had bottomed out and dropped to his knees, the way his heart sank.

Please don't be dead. Whoever it is, please don't let anyone else be dead… Please.

His nana had bad hearing, so she had the phone turned up quite loud, and in the silent kitchen Sansa and Marcus could hear the sound of Robb Stark's voice very well.

"Mom—are you with Sansa?! You need to find Sansa! You need to tell her—oh God, mom, they found him! They found him—he's alive!"

Life works in strange ways. His mom always said that, especially whenever he was upset about Sandor. Life works in strange ways, baby, and nobody knows why except for God himself.

Of all the strange curveballs he'd prepared himself for, bringing Sandor home had never been one of them.

From the moment Robb Stark had called, the life at Marcus and Sansa's house had stretched well-past the point of chaos. It was sheer pandemonium, between booking flights and calling relatives and the police and the hospital—and no one would let them talk to Sandor. They had flown to France—the hospital he was being kept in—with haste, and half of Sansa's family had accompanied them to both help her with Sandor's return to the living, and with Marcus' admittedly very confused emotions.

The following weeks and months had proceeded in odd lulls and lurches, sometimes five days would pass in the blink of an eye and five hours would take year. Marcus often lost track of time for it, and his mom gave him a watch (laboring under the strict belief that no eight year-old needed a phone, not even one who would be nine soon).

Relearning Sandor was a long and awkward process, one that hadn't fully finished even still. Marcus wondered if it ever would finish, if the day would come when he could reconcile the distant memories of a sarcastic, bantering uncle with this new surly father he'd acquired. At least he's alive, he reminded himself often. You got your wish, and he's alive, and that's all you have to remember.

But some days it was harder than others, and some days the dissimilarities truly struck him blind.

Sandor had accumulated a small collection of new scars since Marcus had last seen him. On the green hillside of the nearly-black waters, Marcus' uncle stood bare-chested and stoic, glaring out over the spring as though it were his life's enemies amassed into one. Hair still curled in a dark pelt over his chest, but the lines of his body had changed from Marcus' memories. Harder now, Sandor was slightly less bulky, his body nowhere near emaciated but smaller somehow, as though he had shrunk in size (Sansa assured him he hadn't, that Marcus had only gotten taller, but he really felt there was more to it).

Sansa was stretched out on the blanket thrown over the grass, and smiling dreamily at the pair of them as they waded into the water.

"Well, it's not too cold, is it, my loves?"

Her teasing voice made Marcus giggle, but Sandor drew himself to his full height and eyeballed her warningly from over his shoulder. It was, of course, a facetious question; the pools of water throughout Iceland were famous for their natural warmth, and though the Hrunalaug pool was nowhere near as large as some of the others, it was private and serene—two of Sandor's conditions on going swimming outdoors. The larger ones near their home were easier to access, of course (Sansa had had to refer to a local's map of the area so many times on their trip there that it was a wonder she hadn't memorized this side of Iceland), but they were public pools and, as such, marked tourist attractions. The mandatory nude showers of the public pools bothered Sandor less than the crowds did.

If it was one thing he disliked, it was a crowd of people.

Sansa looked like the image of contentedness from her reclined position ashore, as though she were the one sunken into warm waters. She had always had an affinity for the cold. Her toes flexed in the deep green grass and through the wet dirt, cool and relaxing underfoot. Her bum and elbows were resting over the old blanket she had dug out late last night with the declaration, "get your swimming trunks" quick on her tongue.

It was cloudy overhead, but the threat of rain was hardly a deterrent. No, the warmth of the naturally warm water, fashioned into a manmade hot tub of sorts via the stone walling deep into the ground, kept Marcus plenty warm.

He twisted in the water to look to her hopefully. She had brought a suit, he knew, on the off chance she chose to swim, but she'd insisted the whole way down that she wouldn't go in the water.

"Mom!" Marcus whined, hanging onto the edge, kicking his feet and creating low waves, low enough not to incur the wrath of his uncle. "Come in! It's wa-a-a-arm!" he sang, and his mom laughed.

"You enjoy yourself, baby. I'm just going to close my eyes and relax for a few." Marcus took a second to watch her, his mother, and study the way her hair was let loose and her head lolled on her shoulders freely. It was like all the stress of the last four months was gone, here in the middle of nowhere, suspended in between the valleys of green high hills and the rocky shorelines. She had picked up so many extra hours since his dad had returned, there was rarely any time for the three of them to spend together. Sandor protested repeatedly, arguing that he ought to start paying his share for the bills (Marcus was old enough and smart enough to understand the snippets of their fights he caught). But Sansa would have nothing of it; the doctors all agreed that sending Sandor back into a work environment—though it might help find regularity for him—was far too risky for the time being.

Sandor was prone to fits of paranoia and sudden irritation, and though he'd never raised a hand to either Sansa or Marcus, he still took every precaution possible to keep them safe. Sansa had explained it all to Marcus in a way he was sure she thought took the scariness of it all away, but he knew enough to understand. Sandor was damaged, hurt in a way that would take years to fix (if it could be fixed at all), and Sansa wanted Marcus to know how to help in every way he could.

Upon Sandor's homecoming and the first few sessions of therapy, Marcus had been given a set of rules to follow—under any circumstances, Sansa had said forcefully. These are crucial for our family, Marcus, she said severely in a way that made him feel breathless. You must always do as I say when it comes to your father's well-being, you understand? He had nodded, of course, a bit nervously and teary-eyed, and Sansa had been quick to kiss his forehead and thank him for being a good boy.

Marcus had memorized the rules some time ago, and could recall any of them at any given time.

"Your daddy has what's called PTSD, Marcus," Sansa had explained patiently. "It's shorthand for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. All that means, baby, is that your daddy…he went through a lot when he was fighting overseas, and it upset him badly. Like your nightmares about the funeral, Marcus, but more…severe. Sometimes your daddy might get really upset and you might not be able to understand why, and that's ok, honey. But you gotta know two things: the first is that it doesn't matter, whatever it is he's mad at. If Dad says you have to be quiet and leave him be, and I'm not around, you have to listen to him, ok? No questions. And the second thing you have to know is that he loves you very much, no matter what happens.

"When daddy has calmed down, Marcus, and tells you that you can come see him again, you need to use your listening ears. You and me, we have to help him explain his feelings sometimes. You can ask him questions like, 'What can I do to help?' or 'How are you feeling?' Try not to be angry, ok? He doesn't mean to be upset. Like when you get a cold or a tummy bug—you don't mean to be sick. And neither does your daddy. You can't blame him for that, ok baby?"

But under no circumstances was he to put himself in danger. Sansa had told him this with mixed emotions and doubt. "If you ever think your daddy is having a fit or he's too angry, you leave and find me. Or find another adult. It's not your job to help him calm down, honey—this is something he has to figure out on his own. But we can support him. In any way we can."

And the most important thing of all—"he's still your daddy, Marcus. He still loves you. He fought so hard to come back to you."

And you too, Marcus wanted to say, because it was the truth. He could remember so clearly the way his uncle had looked at his mom with the most gut-wrenching expression of relief and joy and something like agony. Sansa, he'd mouthed her name over and over, into her hair, her neck, her mouth as he kissed her. Marcus had stood in the door of the hospital room, hand on the wall, face uncertain as he tried to recognize the man sitting upright in the bed, a man he'd missed so terribly for nearly three years.

Marcus' mom had wept noisily into Sandor's chest, hooked up with tubes and wires as he was. Her whole body shook with the force of her tears, and the sound and sight had quite overwhelmed the boy and sent him into nervous tears of his own. Marcus had hung onto the fringe of their vision as Sansa and Sandor clung to each other, Sandor talking in low tones to her while she cried freely and without restraint, laughing and pleading with him to never leave again. And he promised—I promise, Sansa. I won't go anywhere. I'm here, I'm back—and for some reason, Marcus felt very much alone.

At long last, Sansa turned around and saw him standing there, carry-on clutched with both trembling hands, and smiled brilliantly at him.

"Hey honey, do you remember this guy?" Sansa kept one hand pressed against Sandor's belly, and Sandor laid one great paw atop of hers to hold it there, both reassuring and confirming that she was real, and he was real, and they were both alive.

Marcus blinked and looked down into the stormy gaze of a perfect stranger. Shyness overtook him, and at the same instant, Sandor's eyes widened a fraction as he stared at Marcus in disbelief.

Sansa either didn't notice Sandor's reaction or ignored it. Instead she walked over and took Marcus' hand, beaming, and led him to Sandor. With Marcus in front of her, between her feet, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, bent down and pressed her smile into his cheek. Evidently she thought Sandor's reaction stemmed from shock at how much he'd grown, but Marcus…Marcus thought there was more to it. He could see the—the dismay? The shock? The fear?—linger on Sandor's face, and he knew there was more to it than his growth (although he had grown like a weed, sprouting up straight and thin like a beanstalk, so much that his mom jokingly called him Jack).

"Sandor, this is Marcus, your nephew." Sansa was still smiling, still weeping with her joy. Marcus felt tears rising to his own eyes, though he couldn't be sure why. A single salty tear spilled over, trickled fast down his flushed cheeks, and Marcus hastily flicked it away, embarrassed and ashamed and—to his horror—angry.

But no sooner had he wiped it aside than Sandor had leaned forward and reached outwards to him, murmuring, "Marcus, my nephew," over and over again. Overcome with emotion, Sansa started noisily crying again, but Marcus thought it sounded rather like Sandor reassuring himself who Marcus wasn't, than who he was.

Four months later and he still didn't understand the meaning to Sandor's reaction or his words, but he was finding it mattered less and less.

Sandor made a deep sound of contentment as he slid down against the wall of the stone tub, each arm draped over the side. He wasn't much of a talker, Marcus had come to realize, but he spoke in other ways. Like when he walked Marcus halfway to school (as far as Marcus would allow him to do, lest he be seen as uncool). Or when he weeded the garden Sansa kept in the back for her, because she didn't have time between her two jobs to tend it herself. Or how he studied resolutely in the day when they weren't home, so he could further his education and, when he was all better, get a job good enough to keep Mom from overworking herself anymore.

No, he wasn't very talkative, but Marcus liked him just fine.

They spent an hour like that, before Marcus grew bored and wiggled out of the water, splashing Sandor as he did (mostly accidentally, although it was pretty funny). Sandor made a sound like a growl, but it wasn't a serious sound. Not like the time he had had a nightmare and gotten up early in the morning, and Marcus had come down and asked what was wrong, and Sandor had snarled for him to get up to bed. Terrified, Marcus had obeyed, and fled to Mom's room in tears. Sansa mediated the next day, and Sandor, for his part, seemed extremely contrite. By the evening, father and son had patched things up as good as could be, and Marcus learned the hard way not to ask too many questions when his father was being surly. The next day, Sansa had made that list of rules and guidelines for the house to follow, and there hadn't been an incident so bad since.

In the cool sunlight, Marcus spent the rest of the morning chatting to his mom and entertaining them with stories about his classmates. Some of them were downright wild, but most were friendly enough. Marcus was an easy-going kid, so that helped of course. And he could scare the pants off of anyone who chose to pick on him, with his impressive height (even though he was still a beanpole).

His mom laughed and from the water, Sandor listened with an unusually calm air to him. He looked nearly happy, sprawled about there with his limbs stretched freely. No one came upon them either, which was a blessing and a half, since it was a public space and tourists frequented the warm waters regularly. War kept most of the continental Europe at home, Sandor had explained once when Marcus remarked upon it, and Marcus thought back to the house they had had in Scotland.

He could hardly remember it, except that it was larger than this one in Iceland, and with more land, too. Mom had sold their house shortly after Sandor's funeral, Marcus knew very well, and used the money for plane tickets to Iceland as well as money for their new home, food and gas bills. Not that they needed to drive far—Sansa had chosen a house in the city center, and most commodities were a short walk away.

Marcus heard his adoptive parents bring up the subject of Scotland once, and only the once.

"You did as I asked," Sandor observed quietly after dinner one night. Marcus was pushing vegetables around his plate under the watchful eye of his mother, and Sandor was washing in the sink. Something about the repetitive motions soothed him, or so Mom explained.

"What?" Sansa looked to her husband distractedly. (They had resumed calling each other husband and wife, although Sansa had long since called herself a widow).

"Scotland. You left."

"Oh," Sansa looked a bit flustered, and tapped pointedly at Marcus' plate for very unwanted encouragement to him. Sulking, Marcus shoved a boiled carrot into his mouth and tried not to gag.

"You told us to," Sansa said quietly, likely thinking that Marcus wasn't listening because of his horror over the vegetables on his plate. "I…I'm sorry, I know you wanted me to just lease the house, but no one would take it, and I needed the money, and…and…"

Sandor drew her into his arms, hushing her gently and rocking them from side to side. "Silly bird…. You know that it doesn't matter what roof we're under. You kept you and the kid alive and safe, and that's all I ever wanted."

Marcus averted his gaze when Sandor drew his large frame out of the water, and sloshed over to where the towels were. His swimming trunks were donned for Marcus' sake, and clung to his skin as he walked. Beside him, Marcus' mom followed her husband's movements with cat-like fixation.

"Ready to go?" Sandor asked when he had dried himself off, and helped Mom to her feet. She gave a languid stretch and sighed happily, reaching down to pat Marcus' shoulder.

"What do you think, home and then dinner and a movie?" Sansa asked, slinging an arm over his shoulders. Sandor began to pack up their things, and took Sansa's hand in his large palm as they walked back to their car.

"Dinner, and a movie, and popcorn and ice cream!" Marcus declared, sprinting ahead for a few seconds then pausing to wait for his parents.

"And then a jog on the treadmill, or else you'll be a plump little whale," Sandor teased, leaning down and pinching at Marcus' completely fat-free side. He yelped in an ungainly way and swatted at Sandor's fingers.

"Dad!" he shouted, and ran away. And then, more daring than he'd ever been, he called out to them, "At least I'm not slow as a snail!" He gave a squeal entirely too girly, racing away from Sandor's form running full tilt at him, and they were both laughing. Sandor's laugh was quiet and grumbling, but Sansa and Marcus' were happy enough to drown out any of his beastly growling.

The game ended when they reached the car, and Sandor literally picked him up and dropped him into the backseat, muttering to himself about brats and washing their mouth out with soap and the beating he'd have gotten had he called his father slow.

Marcus giggled to himself until the car went into motion down the smooth roads, and the overcast sky was as calming as it had been when they got there this morning. The car lulled him into a deep drowsy sleep, and as the sun sank behind the rolling hills, Marcus' eyelids grew heavier and heavier, until his neck was strained with his chin tucked into his chest as he dozed in the backseat of their tiny vehicle (Mom wanted to buy a new one for Sandor's height, but he said they couldn't afford one, and that he'd make due).

What felt like fifteen minutes of shut-eye was in reality nearly an hour's worth, and the slamming car doors roused Marcus enough from his slumber to tell him he was home.

"Marcus, sweetie?" It was mom leaning over him, gently stroking his face. Marcus resisted the urge to screw up his face, lest he tell them he was awake. Deep slow breaths filled his lungs, let him live the lie that he had never woken up, that he was still dreaming and mom and dad would let him doze in the car… He wasn't hungry anymore. The thought of ice cream even churned his belly.

"I got him," Sandor's voice was rough and scratchy but gentle too, as gentle as the warm hands which lifted him from his seat and cradled him to a broad, barrel of a chest.

Marcus knew he was too big for this sort of game, knew he should have told them to stop and put him down, but instead his head drooped in genuine fatigue, and he let his surrogate father carry him up the stairs in slow, lumbering movements like a bear.

It was no time before he was being lain in the warm bed, tucked under the blankets by his mother's hands, and his father's hand even dared to sweep some hair out of Marcus' face, a warm, rare comfort he knew he would never forget.

He caught the mere whispers of his parents' voices before they left the room, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

"What's wrong, Sandor?"

"…gods, he looks just like him."

His mom was really happy. Like unusually happy. It had been going on for a few weeks now, where Marcus would catch her singing and smiling to herself, lips curled in the most delightfully secret of ways. He wondered if Sandor noticed. If he did, he said nothing about it, least not in front of Marcus.

"Be good for your mom," his dad said, kneeling down to speak to Marcus better. Sandor's grey eyes flickered into Marcus' gaze and away several times, but he'd grown used to it. For whatever reasons, his dad had a hard time meeting his eyes and holding it; Marcus chalked it up to the nightmares and day terrors of his recent past. He knew they still haunted Sandor, knew that him and his mom didn't share a bed like they used to, before Sandor was lost. So Marcus tried not to hold it against his dad, but some days…some days, it made him feel inexplicably sad.

"Ok," Marcus answered dutifully, offering a solemn nod and gripping his dad's shoulder slowly, in the comforting sort of way he'd caught his Grandpa Ned do to his sons on occasion. The action softened some of the hardness to Sandor's face, and his mouth even twitched in the barest remnants of a grin.

With a gentle clap to the side of Marcus' head, full of affection, Sandor pulled away and rose to his feet, steadily. Personally Marcus didn't see why Sandor felt the need to go back to Scotland, but Mom said it was important for him, said something about re-establishing a connection to his homeland or something of the sort. And though Marcus' memories of the Highlands were blurred and varied, he didn't doubt that Sandor's soul called to the green lands of Loch Lomond, the familiar bustle of the streets of Aberdeen.

Sandor stood, standing in front of Sansa with taut muscles and a look of dread building in the lines of his face.

"I don't have to go," he said quietly, honestly. It seemed a rather pointless thing to say, in Marcus' mind, since they were standing in the airport terminal, ready to watch Sandor board his plane.

Over his head, he saw Mom shake her head very slowly, deliberately. "I watched you leave once, and thought I had lost you forever. But you came back." She reached out and cupped his face with both hands, and bent their foreheads together until they touched, Sandor had to bow a bit to reach her. "You came back. You'll always come back to me."

"Always," he agreed, and kissed her hard, fast. And then he was holding her tight, mouthing something into her ear Marcus doubted even Sansa heard, and with a quick nod at Marcus, he was off, carry-on swung over his shoulder.

"Why couldn't we go?" Marcus asked, a definite whine to his voice. They had watched him board and take off several hours ago. Mom didn't want to go too far from home, so Sandor could call their landline when he landed.

"Because you have school," she said simply, stirring the sauce for pasta. "And you've missed entirely too much already. We've talked about this, honey."

They had. Many times, since his parents had broken the news to him a month ago. And Marcus had tried to convince them to let him tag along ever since.

What really bothered him was the fact that he knew his mom had stayed behind, not for work or money like she claimed, but because she didn't want to leave Marcus in Iceland alone. Suddenly he'd gone from being the joy in her life to her burden, and it was a sickly switch to fathom.

"I could be homeschooled," Marcus suggested hopefully. "Aunt Arya said you'd meant to do that with me, before…" Before Sandor left for war.

Sansa sighed and covered the bubbling pot, and turned the heat down on the oven. At the kitchen table, Marcus sat with his feet tucked close to his bum on the seat, knees drawn to his chest. After wiping her hands, his mom walked over and sat next to him. She had a look on her face of intense scrutiny, as though debating what to tell him.

The truth, Marcus wanted to beg her. Tell me the truth, at least.

He hated liars.

"Back then, things were different. We planned on living in the countryside, letting you grow up on a farm away from any schools or the like. There was no other choice, Marcus. Iceland… Reykjavik is different. You like school here, don't you? You picked up the language so well, baby, and think of all the friends you've made!" She smiled encouragingly at him. "Wouldn't you miss them?"

Well, yes, but not half so well as he'd miss Sandor.

"Besides," she continue, a frown creasing her brow though she tried to hide it. "…The doctors say this will be good for your daddy. He's been doing so well with his extra help." Therapy, Marcus translated in his mind with an inner eye-roll he didn't dare do in front of Sansa. "The doctors wanted to see how Sandor would do without us in a familiar environment."

"But he hasn't been there in years! What if he has a panic attack and needs help!"

Despite his serious (and relevant) question, Sansa smiled faintly again. "Oh honey, you didn't think I would let him go without any help, do you? We have friends in Scotland. People who will help us. You remember me telling you about Aunt Brienne and Uncle Jaime? They used to mind you when you were very small."

He wrinkled his nose. In fact, Sansa had told him plenty about Jaime and Brienne, but he had long since forgotten them except by recognizing them in the photographs Sansa showed him.

"They'll look after him?" he made a face of doubt, and not without cause. He didn't know anything about them, other than that Jaime had fought alongside Jaime, and Brienne was introduced to Jaime—her future husband—through Sansa's family, as the head of security for Sansa's parents' business.

"I don't doubt it for a second." Her promised was spoken with a kind kiss to the top of his head, and a quick ruffle of his curls. "Besides, Scotland's always going to be Sandor's home in a way. It's in his blood. Yours, too."

Marcus tried to find that Scottish blood but, like his memories, he was scared they it was getting washed away with the years.

Tucked under one arm, Sansa led him to the couch in the living room and pulled him into her side, cuddling him. He was too old for this sort of thing, he wanted to say, but something about her warmth and familiarity kept him silent.

They sat there watching TV for the better part of an hour, when his mom started to hum to herself. Every time he peeked a glance at her, she had a goofy smile on her face, inwards and so…pleased, in a way he had never seen. Her fingers curled very gently in his hair, and rubbed his scalp like he was a puppy.

"Do you want to know a secret, Marcus?" she whispered suddenly, and glanced down her nose at him. Marcus scrambled upright, head tilted in avid curiosity.

"A secret?"

"Mmhmm," she leaned back, turning so she faced him better. "Not even your daddy knows so yet, so you have to promise not to tell until I say so, ok?"

"Ok!"

Sansa reached out to him with her manicured nails and soft smile, found one of Marcus' hands and pressed it gingerly to her belly. There was no bump there, but the way she did it make him feel as though he should be able to miraculously feel something there.

"You're going to be a big brother," she murmured, and Marcus felt his heart seize in his chest with joy. A big brother. Not a cousin. Not another extended relative who wasn't truly family. A big brother—him!

The smile that spread across his face was wide enough to split him in two.

---

If Marcus didn't know better, he'd almost think Sandor's mood got worse with the news of the impending baby.

He didn't like to talk much. Mom said that he'd grow used to them in time, and they just had to show him lots of love and support and keep taking him to the therapy classes in the meantime. Marcus didn't mind waiting—he knew enough about war to grasp that Sandor had spent the two years he was gone fighting or else captured, and neither had been easy experiences.

Sandor had been gone for nearly two and a half weeks before he came home, rather relaxed and easier with Marcus and his mom than he'd been in a long time. And then Sansa had told him—while Marcus was at school one day—about his impending state of fatherhood, so to speak, and ever since, well…

Marcus had heard bits and pieces about the problems surrounding Sansa's pregnancy. She was approaching five months now, and had a bump to prove it. Though Marcus spent many hours talking to her tummy, patting it gently, sitting attentively and waiting for the baby to move (even after Sansa explained it was too early to feel anything), Sandor almost never did.

Marcus was old enough to understand that his parents weren't, by any means, financially well-off, not like they had been before Sandor left. Money was tight even with just the three of them, and with the incoming bills, Marcus knew it was getting harder and harder for Sandor to stay at home while Sansa worked multiple jobs, pregnant no less.

It came to a head when Sandor went out and applied for a job working from home, online mostly. He finished his courses not long ago, and though his doctors had recommended not returning to fulltime work just yet, he'd gone ahead and applied anyways, all without speaking to Sansa.

Marcus had been in the room when he told her—straight-faced and solemn over dinner one evening—and his mom's fork literally clattered to her plate with her shock. In his seat, Marcus wriggled uncomfortably, looked between his parents with unease.

"You…" Mom tried to speak and stopped herself abruptly. "We'll discuss this later."

Which meant, of course, when Marcus was asleep. He made an unhappy face and stuffed some potatoes in his mouth, eyeing the two miserably. He deserved to have a say in Sandor's well-being too!

But his dad just shrugged and kept eating, muttering, "Whatever you say."

Somehow, Marcus knew Sandor would be working that job with or without Sansa's approval, and his mom seemed to know it as well.

Dinner passed in silence afterwards, and Marcus helped to tidy up and serve dessert. All the while, Sansa chewed and sat and thought long and hard, frowning at her plate in concentration.

"Are you done your pudding, Marcus?" He looked up at the sound of Sansa's voice, and nodded quickly. Whenever she said his name like that—Mar-cus—he knew better than to try pushing his luck and linger when he wasn't wanted.

He could always just spy at the top of the landing, anyways. The walls weren't half as thick as his parents thought they were.

As he clambered up the stairs to his room, he heard the chair legs scrape against the floor; they were moving to the living room then. Even better—it'd be as easy as pie listening to them, especially if they got riled up and starting 'not-shouting,' which was really just Sansa's term for heated arguments without breaking glasses.

Marcus crouched against the wall of the hallway, angled in a way that they couldn't see him, nor could he see them unfortunately. Bated breath, he knelt and waited on tenterhooks for one of them to start.

"A job?" Sansa asked, and she sounded so tired, so unhappy. "Sandor, I know it bothers you seeing me pregnant and working, but you heard Dr. Luwin."

"That was before he found out you were pregnant. And I never agreed to listen to his shit anyways. I know my body. I know my mind. I can handle it, little bird."

"That's not what Brie said. She said Jaime had to pick you up from the middle of nowhere because—"

"Och, that was nothing. Just leave it be."

She sounded like she was pleading with him, gently still. "Sandor, this is your health we're talking about. You can't expect me to watch you work yourself to death—"

"What—like the way I watch you?" Sandor scoffed, and Marcus wiggled on his bum in discomfort. He hadn't heard his father so sarcastic for some time. "You think it's easy for me, watching you work day and night, come home with swollen ankles and handfuls of bills, trying to budget out your maternity leave because your own husband is too goddamn weak to look after you!" There was a thud of fists hitting the table once, viciously. "It kills me! It fucking kills me, Sansa!"

"You've been through so much… No one expects you to just go back to how things were—"

"No one, huh? No one expects me to be normal? That's not the impression I got from your mother last week."

There was a long silence, and Marcus leaned closer in their direction, arms wrapped around his knees, back pushed firmly against the wall.

"She didn't mean it like that, I'm sure…" His mom's voice was feeble in her defense. "You and my mom have always…butt heads, Sandor. It's no different…"

"No. Before, your mother hated that I couldn't give you a three story manse with a view of the city in the back. And that was fine—but now she pities you. Can't you see it? You can't, can you! She fucking pities you for having to put up with me and my shit—"

"That's not true!"

"—and that you had to raise my fucking disgrace of a brother's bastard—"

"You mind your tongue!"

Sansa's voice had suddenly turned white hot with anger, and the sound of it made Marcus' legs tremble, even though he was seated.

All he could hear after Sansa's enraged shriek was panting, huffing and puffing of his parent's whose patience was collectively spent.

"Sandor," his mom tried again, in measured tones. "Sandor, you know I love that boy. He's mine. My mother knows it."

"She doesn't give a shit about some papers, Sansa."

"It's not about the paperwork." Custody papers. Marcus could remember those clearly enough. "It's about me raising a boy who called me mother, who looked to me to protect him, fight for him, defend and love him. She knows. My mother knows he's our son—"

"He's not your son! He's not my son either!"

The loud cracking sound of a hand striking flesh filled the air for what felt like eternity, echoing in the silence which followed. Marcus couldn't decide which was worse; the words Sandor had spoken, or the sound of Sansa backhanding her husband. The slap felt like it echoed in his chest, echoed dimly the pain he felt at the ferocity of Sandor's words, loud and unfaltering…

Though her voice was low, his mother's words were utterly clear to Marcus.

"Don't you ever—ever—call him anything but my son ever again. He is my son. I don't care what you think or say or feel about it. I raised him as much as you, and for you to stand there and tell me that that boy is anything less than mine is horseshit!" Her voice lifted into a shriek, and Marcus clapped his hands over his ears, shaking. He couldn't see anything thanks to his tears blurring his vision, but he managed to stumble his way to his room in silence, crawling on all fours to avoid being heard above their heads.

Before he got away he could hear Sandor talking in low tones, could hear Sansa crying hysterically, but he didn't go downstairs any further than he already had. It was too much. The sound of Sandor's voice as he shouted at his mom—at Sansa—was etched into his brain like a scar, as much a scar as the one on Sandor's face.

I'm not your son? Marcus wanted to ask. I'm not your son? Then what am I?

He was Marcus Clegane, wasn't he? The boy who had lost and found his father, the boy who had been taken in and raised as his aunt's own flesh and blood. We're each other's family, Marcus. He could hear his mom saying that. She was his mom.

Wasn't she?

He crawled into bed and tugged the covers over his head, trying desperately to stifle the sound of his sobs, lest Sansa or Sandor hear him.

The sun rose with a sense of ease, completely unaware of the way Marcus' heart writhed in his own chest. Dawn broke, and though he was still tired, Marcus found the prospect of staying in bed any longer to be entirely unfavorable.

Dread and doubt filled his veins with each sleepy step in the direction of the kitchen. Sandor slept very little as far as he knew, and it wasn't surprising to hear the sizzling of bacon stirring from down the stairs and around the corner. The soft steps across the linoleum floor could only belong to Sansa; it was the only way he could tell she was awake, too, since no one had so much as breathed a word.

He bit back his fears and slowly made his way to the kitchen doorway, heart ramming in his chest. Would they be angry still? Was Sandor going to ignore him? Would Sansa tell him they were leaving Sandor behind, her and the baby and Marcus? Was Sandor going to get a job?

His head peaked around into the kitchen with trepidation. Their breakfast was laid out on the table, hot and fresh off the grill from the look of it. His stomach rumbled lowly with anticipation, despite his emotional turmoil.

At their dining table, Sandor had his back to the sliding glass door, peering over the newspaper and flipping the pages with lazy strokes, a coffee in his free hand. Beard untrimmed, hair left loose. His face was tired, but there was something quiet about him, something softer. Over-worn socks adorned his feet, and his track pants sat loose on his hips. The muscle shirt was something Sansa had given him as a joke gift, though Marcus didn't quite understand it. A cartoon dog was chasing a red-winged blackbird, midflight on the front.

Sansa walked over to Sandor's side, and set a fork and knife in front of him with a pointed gesture. Grumbling, her husband acquiesced with ill-grace, set aside his paper in favor of pulling a plateful of eggs closer. Sansa smiled slightly and went to take her seat, when a large paw reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. Its grasp, even from where Marcus was standing, was gentle and caring.

Sandor sighed, his voice deep and scratchy in his sleep-sore throat. "Ok, little bird?"

Little bird. Marcus couldn't remember the last time he had called her that.

Sansa blushed and took a step closer to him, towering over his seated frame. With a hand to either of his shoulders, she nodded, bent down and pressed her mouth to his in a soft kiss.

Marcus watched it all in disbelief. They had been yelling at each other last night, and Sandor had said those awful, horrible things—and Sansa was ok with it? The sense of betrayal was strong and surged through his chest uncontrollably.

He had expected tension. He had expected fighting. He had expected tears and apologies and promises, as though it would pick up right where he left off.

He had expected Sansa to take his side.

But it appeared she wasn't half as offended as she had pretended to be.

Marcus stepped fully into the room as Sansa released Sandor, a soft grin lit her face. Coughing, he drew their attention to him purposefully. Arms folded over his chest, Marcus stood and waited for his explanation.

How could you forgive him?

But Sansa's eyes lacked confusion even as she took in his hostile stance; she smiled rather brightly at him. Sandor was already digging into his meal, and his hand reaching for the newspaper again like a magnet.

Sansa made a chiding sound as she surveyed her adopted son.

"Marcus, go wash up and get ready for school." She waved her hand in the direction he just came from. "You know better than to come down on a school day in your jammies." And she turned away to ready a second plate, either for herself or Marcus.

Something within him snapped. How could she stand there and just be with Sandor after what he'd said about Marcus? How could she have forgiven him for what he'd said, just like that? Did she even care what Sandor had said? Did she agree with him?

Before he could stop it—before he could rationalize his anger like Sansa was teaching him to do by counting to ten, by taking deep breaths and squeezing his fists and releasing them repeatedly—before he could stop himself, Marcus spoke.

"You're not my mother."

It was the hateful tone in which he'd said it, he knew, that got her attention, though the words alone would have been enough certainly. Both she and Sandor froze, Sandor's face contorted in anger before Sansa had even registered what had been said. He got to his feet swiftly, but Marcus didn't back away even an inch.

Their indignant reactions, as though Marcus had said something foreign to either of them, lit the fire in his belly to keep him going. Somewhere deep within him, Marcus watched his mouth move with horror.

"It's true, isn't it? You're not my mom!" God, he was crying now. Big fat tears and a runny nose all in one, and his face was flushed and he was literally shaking with his anger and, more than any of that, his hurt. "You're not my father! You're not my mom! You're not! You're liars! You lied to me!" he sobbed wretchedly in the middle of the kitchen, and the anger slid off of Sandor's face at the same exact second Sansa realized what had happened.

"Oh God," she wailed, her hands flew to her face like she wanted to cover her eyes and tear them out simultaneously. "Oh God! You heard us fighting last night!" And all at once, she had leapt at Sandor, screaming, sobbing, crying harder than Marcus had ever seen her cry. It was nothing short of utterly terrifying to watch, seeing your parent attack another so viciously.

Sansa's hands were raining a torrent of blows onto Sandor's torso, punctuated with each gasping, hateful word. "You bastard! You bastard! How could you? How could you?"

Marcus cried harder, and Sandor lifted his hands to block the blows, but made no move to strike back. He looked to be in shock, looked as though he didn't even notice Sansa's fists.

"Get out!" Sansa shrieked. It was some other wild woman in their kitchen, one neither man nor boy was familiar with. Her red hair flew about her face in waves of fire, though her eyes were ice. She had cried so ardently that Marcus had expected tears on her face and was surprised to catch a glimpse of her cheeks flushed but free of any trace of wetness. "Get out!" she repeated, and it spurred Sandor into action.

As his uncle began to move, Marcus felt the gravity shift, dragging his feet in the direction his uncle was headed: out the front door. His anger had abandoned him in the face of his fear, and the thought that he'd caused Sansa to kick Sandor out – or, God forbid it, for them to break up so soon – was nothing short of gut-wrenching.

"No," he begged, his voice rough and unnecessarily loud from all his crying. His volume felt uncontrollable. "No, don't!"

But Sansa didn't listen, and Sandor didn't stop from walking slowly to the door. A manicured hand shot out and touched Marcus' shoulder when he tried to lunge past Sansa, and he looked up into his aunt—his mother—Sansa's face.

"Marcus, baby," she whispered, and tears had finally risen to the surface in the quiet of her words. But Marcus didn't want to listen to her now, not when Sandor was opening the door—

"No," Marcus said over and over again. "Wait, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…" To what? What had he done wrong? You should've kept your mouth shut, a voice snarled, mean and angry. They've given you everything and this is how you treat them in return? For shame!

"It's alright, kid," Sandor said lowly, his head down and eyes fixed on Marcus, looking back from over his shoulder. Avoiding Sansa's furious gaze, Marcus realized. "I'll see you."

And he was gone.

As the door closed with not a bang but a soft click, Marcus burst into renewed sobs of fright. Sansa was trying to talk to him and calm him down, stroking his face with her soft hands, but it wasn't working. It wasn't working. All he could think of was the way Sandor had looked when Sansa started screaming, the agony in his aunt's face when she came to the understanding of what had happened last night, the way the close of the door sounded so permanent, like an irreversible action with limitless consequences.

"Don't t-touch m-m-me!" he croaked, and turned on his heel and ran for his room. School was long since forgotten, and he knew Sansa wouldn't dare to bring it up or enforce it on a day like today. Today was like one of their Bad Days. Every now and then, when one of them was really sad back when Sandor was still missing, Sansa would call in sick and let Marcus skip school and they called it a Bad Day. Grandma Cat didn't know about them because she wouldn't have agreed with Marcus skipping school, but Sansa said it was a secret they could keep to themselves.

He slammed the door behind him and fell onto his bed, ready to cry himself to sleep.

---

Before dinner that day, Sansa had made several attempts to get into Marcus' room, but they were met with the same frenzied shouting every time. Marcus had no interest in speaking to her, or Sandor, or anyone. Sandor didn't want him, and Sansa would chose her husband over Marcus, and the new baby would be their real child, not Marcus. Not the weird orphan nephew, whose father was in prison. Who would ever want him?

He cried out again at the thought, at the hopelessness of it all. Tired, hungry and heartbroken—they made for a terrible combination, Marcus found.

It was nearly four when Sansa gave up and went to lie down. Guilt pulled at his heart; she got tired very quickly, he knew, and should've rested much sooner. And she should have gone to work, too. They needed to save up money for the baby. She couldn't afford to miss any more days, definitely not on his behalf.

Marcus dragged himself out of bed when he was sure she was asleep, and made for the front door on tiptoes. He just needed some air, a change of scene. Sansa wasn't usually opposed to him going out for a walk around the neighborhood to stretch his legs, but she did request that he tell her where he was going. And unfortunately Marcus just didn't feel like talking to her at that moment.

His dark blue coat buttoned up to his chin, he stepped outside and made his way down the gravel road, toeing the pebbles out of the way as he walked.

Sandor will be back, Marcus, Sansa had said, sagged against his shut door from the sounds of it. He could hardly hear her over his tears, but she had repeated enough to force him to listen. He will, honey. He'll be back, I promise.

I don't care, Marcus cried from the other side of the wall, lying through his teeth. I don't care! I don't care!

I don't care, he told himself as he walked away from his house, head down and eyes tracking his feet. They were large compared to the other boys' feet, and he always took pride in his height. His teachers said he'd be a natural at sports, but Sandor didn't like the idea of him taking up wrestling or boxing or karate. He was only allowed on team sports, but that was ok. Marcus liked playing games with the others, so long as he was captain.

"I don't care," he mumbled over and over. "I don't need them. Who needs 'em? I don't need anyone. Bunch of…of…!" He couldn't find any words to describe both his disgust and anger and hurt and self-loathing, so he said nothing and huffed loudly in frustration.

The sound of tires crunching down the road told him to step over, closer to the curb of the sidewalk. All of the sudden, the truck stopped, and a window was rolled down.

"Marcus!?" The sound was a question and a startled greeting in and of itself. The runaway turned to look over his shoulder though he knew, without question, exactly who it was that had spoken.

Sandor was in his truck, head hanging out the driver's window to get a better look at the boy. Sandor himself looked rather…tired, Marcus thought to himself, and considered what that meant. Was he coming home to apologize to Sansa? Was he here to tell them he had decided to move back to Scotland? Marcus chewed his lip in fear; what if Sandor wanted a divorce? What if he took Marcus with him, and Sansa wasn't allowed to see him ever? Even though he wasn't talking much to Sansa for the time being, she was still his mom. He still loved her.

In Marcus' frozen stupor, Sandor had pulled up so they were next to each other, and pulled over and put the truck in park. As he got out, Marcus found himself repressing the oddly compelling urge to run the other way, to avoid this talk by any means necessary.

As though reading his mind (and Marcus half thought he really could) Sandor waved him over to the flatbed of the truck, dropping the back open so they could sit on it together.

"Come on, kid. I think it's time we had a good talk."

---

"I'm not sure how much S…your mom has told you about…our family. My family, the Cleganes."

"I know my dad is a bad person," Marcus said very quietly. "And you don't have to call her my mom."

"I do," Sandor said quickly, nodding fervently. "I do. Because it's only the truth. I'm not one to lie, kid, but I told a right foul one when I said…that night…" he sighed, and rubbed the back of his back with an outstretched hand. "God, it's all so insane…"

Marcus stood in silence, not because he was upset or angry or afraid, but because he really had no clue what he was supposed to say. He didn't even know what he was feeling! Pity for his tired uncle? Anger over what he had said last night to Sansa? Relieved that he had come back? Marcus tucked his hands into his pockets and waited, waited for either Sandor to continue talking or else to think of something, anything, to say.

In the end, Sandor did speak again, only it was much more organized this time.

"I never got on with your dad. Never. He… Marcus, he was a cruel man. Not my father or mother had half the temper of my brother, and I often suffered the brunt of it." Sandor paused, and raised a hand to touch his face, the scarred half, before thinking better of it and setting it back in his lap. "You…you're a good boy, Marcus. I don't know how you turned out to be such a great kid, but you did. I guess all I can say is that you should thank your mom for that—and by her I mean Sansa, but your birth mom was supposedly a nice girl, too. But your mom, Sansa that is, she really loves you. Always has, ever since I first brought her home to meet you. You know she took one look at you, and that was it. She was in love. All I wanted was for you to have a proper mother, and I'll be damned if she isn't everything a kid could ask for in a mom."

Marcus found himself hanging his head in shame, although he still felt justified in his yelling. He was still angry, only less so now.

"I know," Marcus said simply after a moment, because he wasn't sure what else to say. Sandor seemed to sense his hesitation, for he started speaking again, low and oddly earnest.

"Your dad and I…well, we look a lot alike, you know. Everyone says how much you look like me…" Sandor trailed off and grimaced. "My brother, he was…he was a scary man. I didn't see much of him after he left the house, but I've had nightmares of him since I was a kid."

Marcus felt something like shame begin to well up inside of him. Sandor had nightmares over his father? The thought made him feel like throwing up, though it wouldn't have helped any. It hadn't really been a secret that Gregor Clegane was a bad man, but hearing it said so straight for the first time made him queasy, and a little weepy. Angrily, Marcus rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed. He'd cried enough times in front of his uncle.

Sandor caught the movement of course, and instantly drew Marcus close. "Hey, kid, what did I just say? You're a good boy. No, listen to me," Sandor shook him a bit, gently but enough to draw Marcus' attention to his uncle's scarred face. "You are a good boy. You're nothing like him, Marcus. Believe me, I'd know."

Marcus cried out keenly, unable to swallow it back. "My temper!"

Sandor shook his head adamantly, and wrapped the other arm around Marcus' skinny shoulders, holding him close now. After resisting for only a moment, Marcus sagged against the warm body and wept. His uncle rocked back and forth somewhat awkwardly (Marcus couldn't recall the last time Sandor had held him like this), but the secure feeling Marcus got from being held was enough to calm him down quickly.

Sandor doesn't lie. It had been one of the first truths Marcus had learnt as a kid, and only now he was realizing what a good one it was to have in his life.

"Listen to me, Marcus," Sandor spoke overhead, running a hand down the back of Marcus' hair. "You're a kid. Kids lash out. It's perfectly normal. It…It took me a while to realize that. Hey, y'know who taught me it was normal? Your Aunt Arya." Marcus laughed once against Sandor's chest, unable to help himself. "Crazy she-wolf that she is, she told me that she was suspended loads of times for fighting. And you tell me: do you really think there's an evil bone in your Aunt Arya's body?"

Marcus paused, sniffling. At last he shook his head, face still hidden in Sandor's shirt. "No," he said quietly. Aunt Arya was wild and daring, but she'd never purposely hurt someone (who didn't deserve it).

"No," Sandor repeated softly, and exhaled loudly in a huff. "Kids fight. It ain't right, and I'm not telling you to start hitting people, but even if you beat a kid black and blue…" he faltered for only a second, and added quietly, "I'd still love you."

The silence that followed was more than just stillness surrounding them. In the wake of Sandor's words, Marcus heard so many other things that had gone unsaid, so many thoughts Sandor was trying to convey. It was healing in a way Marcus had never experienced before, a kind of spiritual cleansing that left the two males feeling light-hearted and calm. Slowly, bit by bit, the sting of Sandor's words was washing away like waves sweeping back and forth along the shore.

"I guess what I want to say, kid, is that I'm…I'm real sorry. So very sorry." Sandor drew him back until they were arm's length apart. Marcus froze at the sight of his uncle's face, not because of the scars or the still unfamiliar sight of it, but because of the glassiness to his grey eyes, the telltale sign of tears coming on.

"I can't say I'll never let you down again, much as I'd like to, but if you want me… I'd like to be your dad again. I'd be…honored to call you my son. If you'd allow it."

Marcus swallowed, shaking in his spot. His uncle was giving him the choice, then; he could refuse, and be bitter and angry for God knew how long, and disappoint Sansa and probably upset Sandor a great deal. Or he could accept him, accept Sandor's apology and let this fall into the past.

We can start again. Sansa's words whispered in his ear, he could almost feel her holding him. If Marcus let it, they could all move on from that dreadful night and start again as a family—a real family. And Sansa would have Sandor to help with the baby. Marcus could just…be Marcus. Just Marcus, the big brother. No bitterness, no resentment… Sansa wanted him to love the new baby. And Sandor wanted to be a father to him. And Marcus…

Marcus so desperately wanted a mom and dad.

"Ok," he said then in a squeaky voice he'd have been humiliated over if not for Sandor's reaction. The big man nodded gruffly, looking as though he wanted to get up and flee to the front seat of the truck where it was safe and there would be distance between him and Marcus, before changing his mind, and kneeling and seizing Marcus round the waist. At once Marcus went into his arms, and this time he was holding Sandor, who could be heard overhead—Marcus jerked a bit—weeping into his hair.

"My son," Sandor murmured, and Marcus reached up to curl his fingers gently through Sandor's hair like he'd done for Marcus minutes ago. "Christ, you brave, strong lad…"

After patting Sandor's back for several moments which felt like an eternity, Sandor drew away and turned Marcus by the shoulders so he wasn't looking at his tearstained face.

"Get in the truck, now," he ordered, not unkindly. "See if I can patch things up with your mother."

As Marcus fastened his seatbelt, a terrifying thought occurred to him, and he looked at his adopted father in the driver's seat. "But…what if she doesn't forgive you?"

To his surprise, Sandor snorted. "Your mom took me as her man for better or for worse. I certainly wasn't at my best, but I'll be damned if that was my worst. If she can forgive me for what's in the past, she'll forgive me of this too." His mouth twitched at the corners as though a funny thought had occurred to him.

"Besides," he reasoned, speeding down the road with one arm hanging out the driver's window, the wind ruffling both elder and younger Clegane. "If there's one person in this world she can't say no to, it's you."

"You want me to tell her to forgive you?" Marcus asked with raised brows. He didn't think Sandor knew Sansa that well if he thought she was incapable of saying no to Marcus. Oh, she said no plenty of times.

But Sandor grinned, the action twisting his scars grotesquely. Marcus didn't so much as flinch. "Well, why did you think I came looking for you first?"

Both were silent when she came into their bedroom, head down, lower lip worried by her perfect teeth. Her hands rested gently against the bedpost farthest from him. Propped up against the pillows, he watched her with measured doubt and fear.

"Marcus is asleep."

"Ok."

"…Do you want anything? Coffee? Toast? A beer?"

"Just my wife. If she'll have me."

Sansa glanced at him, swallowed loudly, and looked down at her toes. They were still visible, but the way her belly was inflating told her she wouldn't be able to much longer. Absent-mindedly, she cupped the small but distinctly round bump with both hands, rubbing the swell slowly, tenderly.

Although she heard him get up, heard the bed springs creak and the floor groan with his shifting weight, she hadn't expected the large hand to cover both of hers without warning, nor with too much haste either. Her eyes snapped up to find Sandor crouched before her, face drawn tight with tension and fear—fear of rejection, she knew—and his other hand moved to run down the length of her arm.

"Let me help you undress." His request was quiet, as low as the thud of his footsteps, and it was all too easy to concede to his wishes. He unbuttoned her blouse with surprising dexterity for a man who had endured so much, for a man with large, blunt fingers made for hitting and grabbing and prying. Only she knew the gentleness those same fingers possessed.

She wore a simple bra, designed for function over elegance. Her breasts were beginning to change with her hormonal body, but they had always been smallish. She was unused to the new size, although it was something Sandor had, until their fight, enjoyed studying.

He helped her slide her slacks down her legs, held her elbows so she could step out of them easily. Her black cotton panties, he left, and she was a bit surprised that he did.

Sandor took her by the hand, as light as the wind. Again, she let him guide her wordlessly into the master bathroom, and sat her on the carpeted toilet seat as he rummaged through the cabinets.

"Here," he said gruffly, coming to her knees with a bottle in hand. "Doctor said it would help with the…you know," he gestured uncomfortably to the belly she had, and with a start Sansa realized he meant the stretch marks rippling in her skin.

"Oh!" She took a glance at the bottle. BioOil. "Yes, that's… That's expensive stuff, actually. But…what doctor were you talking to?"

Sandor was on his knees before her, turning the open bottle upside down into a large palm. His brow furrowed a bit at her question in a way that was familiar to her; he was embarrassed, and a bit flustered at her thought.

"I only know one," he muttered under his breath. "Who do you think?"

"Luwin?" she asked with raised eyebrows. "You got pregnancy advice from your counselor?" It wasn't an unfair thing for him to do, but for some reason it struck Sansa as hilarious—and more than slightly endearing.

"Yes," he grumped, flicking his gaze up to her briefly and then away. "Do you want it or no?"

"Please," Sansa gestured for him to start rubbing, but was caught off guard at the intimacy of the act when he did. His calloused hand pressed only hard enough to massage the oils into her skin, paying special attention to the sides of her belly and the outsides of her thighs where the grooves were deep and long.

He was meticulous and devoted, patient and focused. Deep grey eyes stared hard at her belly with an intense protectiveness that made her want to weep.

After a few minutes he was done, and the moment had passed. Awkward silence was left in their wake. Sansa was all too aware, as was he, of the last time they had been alone. And she knew he was remembering their parting words, too.

"Sansa," he said very quietly. He stroked her arm almost without thinking, then covered her stomach with his hands. "I am sorry."

"I know," she murmured as she pulled one hand free to cup his face, laid it deliberately over the scars. The other, she pressed onto her belly, enjoying the heat of their combined palms. "I know, Sandor."

It was Sandor's turn to swallow, though she couldn't tell whether it was from a dry throat or fear of her answer to his next question. "And will you forgive me?"

Will I? Sansa bit her tongue to keep herself from replying too quickly, either way. A part of her, a very large part of her, wanted to say yes. She wasn't, by nature, one to hold a grudge. This sort of blind rage was as uncommon in Sansa as it had been common in Sandor, before he received therapy from the Elder Brother. But hearing Sandor deny Marcus as their son had awoken some beast within her, like a mother wolf protecting her pup, and she had growled back with equal ferocity.

But she knew he didn't mean it. Sandor was many things but he wasn't unloving. Sansa could remember the first time she had seen Sandor and Marcus together, and she knew instantly that there was more than blood between them. There was love, even if Sandor didn't understand it himself at the time. And then he had actually trusted her enough to share that love with him, trusted her enough to let Marcus look to her as his mother, enough to tell teachers to call Sansa when they couldn't reach Sandor in emergencies.

Sandor had been a long time in telling Sansa that he loved her, but she had never—not once—doubted that he did.

So part of her wanted to forgive him instantly because it was an honest mistake, and Sandor always did his best to fix his mistakes with her, always. Still, the spark of anger when he had said those hateful words flickered and ignited when she recalled it—oh she could tear into him so easily if she allowed it of herself—and she managed to bite back her cruel words with effort and patience, forcing herself to think before she spoke.

Love is easy. Her mother's words came back to her with ease, words she'd said to Sansa on the morning of her wedding. Making a marriage last is the hard work, and it's not without sacrifice. But if it is love, then it's always worth it, sweetling. Always.

Sansa had vowed to love him, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer. 'Til death do they part…

Death had parted them. And Sandor's love and determination had brought them together.

Was she willing to sacrifice that much, to sacrifice all those years of loving him, for the sake of a fight, even one as bad as theirs had been? Life without Sandor, she pondered, and recoiled from the thought at once. Because Sansa didn't have to imagine it—she knew. She knew damn well what it felt like to wake up and find the other half of the bed cold, to wake up knowing it would always be cold.

She knew what it was to be alone.

"Yes," she found herself whispering into the quiet bathroom. Not even the drip of a frequently leaky faucet could be heard. Her husband exhaled loudly, head dropped low and his hands suddenly clung to hers with desperation. "Yes, I forgive you."

"Thank you." Sandor said it once, but the fervor with which he'd spoken made it as though he had said it over and over and over again.

"On one condition," Sansa reached out and traced the crown of his head with a caring hand, curling her fingers over the back of his neck and urging him to look up. His eyes were wide and vulnerable in a way she wasn't used to. "Only if you forgive me for hitting you." She cupped his cheek, the good one, the one she had struck, and then touched his shoulders. Sandor snorted softly, and took her hands in his again.

"All's forgiven, little bird. It didn't hurt a thing."

Sansa shook her head. "Some hurts aren't on the outside." Her fingers coasted lightly over the place his heart rested under, beating a steady pulse for his body. "I shouldn't have done it. I won't do it again."

"What I said—"

"What you said was awful, and you deserved my anger. But not my abuse. Never that." She sniffed, and Sandor was quick to interject.

"I know you didn't mean it. I forgive you, Sansa. All of it. Just…tell me you forgive me too." His voice ran ragged with emotion, and she soothed him swiftly, cupping his cheeks in either hand.

"Shh," she kissed his mouth, "all is well, my darling."

Darling. The name she could only call him in the privacy of their bedroom. Not even in front of Marcus did she call him that anymore, ever since he could talk.

"Sansa," Sandor pulled her into his arms until she was forced to sit on his lap on the floor, wrapping her arms about his torso to hug him back. "I need you."

The words were urgent and crazed, not at all meant in the heart-rending romantic way. But Sandor was no romantic, and she had known that for a very long time.

"Yes."

And then she was straddling his lap, lifting herself so he could bury his face between her new ripe, full breasts, and hiking down her panties as he shuffled awkwardly out of his briefs. Their singularity vanished and all at once she was both whole and more than herself. Both one person, and two. Three, she corrected, as her unborn baby bump rubbed against the chiseled physique of her lover's.

I am more than myself, Sansa thought with distinct clarity, as Sandor lavished kisses to her neck, moaning through them all the while. I am us, and us is all I want to be.

She warned him, begged him, praised him with a single word. "Sandor…"

"Yes," he urged her lowly. "Come now."

Huff-puff, huff-puff, huff-puff… Sandor's breathing was as strained as hers, a harsh sound in the otherwise silent house.

"Sandor!"

"Gods, yes."