Davos and Thoros were none too pleased with how he'd abandoned them. Somehow, as he pulled on the furs Tormund had happily given him off a dead comrade, Sandor could not find the will to care. His head was full of other, far greater concerns than the fate of those two imbeciles.

Qerhan stood at the far end of the hall, conversing with her brother and two others. She forced a smile when their eyes met, but that was all. He shivered. She had said she still loved him, and when he held her, she squeezed him back, yet Sandor could see through her guise. Could see the pain in her face when she looked at him. It had been there hundredfold when he had tried to push things further in the warden's office. He put a hand to her breast only for her to recoil.

"I can't." She had said flatly. "I'm sorry, Sandor. I can't."

Of course he had let her go, let her slip out of his arms to the door. He never thought she would ever be repelled by him.

Can you blame her, you fool? He had damned himself the second he chose his own safety over her. He thought he could find repentance on the Quiet Isle, maybe even salvation.

In the shadows, what was left of the Hound chuckled to himself. Your salvation lay across the Narrow Sea all the time you spent hiding like a coward.

What had she thought, when he hadn't come? How much did she hear from the west? Enough to know about the Long Winter. She must have thought he'd abandoned her-

You did. Got her big with child and then fucked off to be monk.

He shook his head, remembering the breathing exercises the brothers had taught him, imagining the Hound as smoke within his chest and pushing him out. Still, vicious as he was, he was right. The image came again, of Qerhan lying at death's door, sheets soaked in blood as an infant wailed out of sight.

Why did you not simply stick a knife in her the day of the riots? Would have saved the both of you all of this agony-

He buried his head in his hands. Shut up!

"Sandor?" Qerhan was there all of a sudden, putting her arm around him, chin on his shoulder. "What is it?"

He rubbed his temples. "Headache."

She kissed his neck. Still so good, even after all he'd put her through. "Mihaal's making stew, if you want some."

He thought of the dead man who had once worn his elkskin mantle. "What kind of stew?"

"I've learned not to ask such questions."

Probably best if I do, too.

"I'll get yours."

"You don't-" But she was already gone, eager to be away from him. "Have to."

She didn't have to return either, but of course she did, smiling as she set two bowls of piping hot stew on the table, each with a heel of greyish bread soaking in broth. They sat with shoulders touching as they ate, and once she jogged his elbow like she used to, snorting at the resulting stain on his face.

The more familiar she tried to act, the more he screamed inside. There was a wedge between them, and as much as he wanted to pretend this was their old room, and nothing of the past months had happened...it wasn't and it had. Pretending did nothing for either of them.

He knew she felt the same way, too. He saw the shadow in her smiles, the uncertainty. He had lost her, betrayed her, hurt her in ways that he did not know how to right. She was trying to forgive him, but what if he could not forgive himself?

"Sandor?" A voice summoned from his dreams, to chase away his demons. "What's wrong?"

"Everything." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but he did not retract it.

At his arm, she tore her bread apart with undue aggression. It was almost powder before she whispered: "I know."

Before, he would have embraced her. Maybe kissed her cheek. Too bad this was now. Instead he sat there, with only her shoulder for warmth.

"I want to know why." She hissed. "Not here. I want you to tell me everything."

A nod was all he could manage. Inside, guilt gnawed at him.

"And I'll tell you my side, too."

He didn't deserve that, wanted to say as much to her. It seemed he could not utter a sound, not even to say that much. He just idly scraped the side of his empty bowl with his spoon.

Her brother and Tormund sat a few tables away, apparently in conversation. Yet their eyes darted so frequently their way that he knew they were watching.

Probably ready to skin me alive as soon as Qerhan gives the signal.

Presently, Shoni turned, and held his gaze. The man smiled, but it was false. It spoke volumes.

Hurt her again, Sandor Clegane, and you'll regret it.

Qerhan stood suddenly, reaching a gloved hand out to him.

"I want to walk."

So they walked. And walked and walked. From the yard to the top of the Wall. The silence was peppered with her soft voice as she showed him this and that, sometimes speaking of one incident or another. He did not respond. He only wanted to listen.

There were outlook points at regular intervals along the precipice, looking both north and south. She brought him to the furthest one, so they could look out over the sea as well. When she gazed east, he knew what she was searching for. And when she turned into him he knew she could not see it. When she kissed him he stiffened at one, thinking to pull away. Holding him fast, she pressed her lips to his until his will dissolved, arms coiling possessively about her waist, wondering that she still managed to smell of roses and taste as sweet as ever, even up here at the edge of the world.

Of course a shagging Stark would be the one to drag them north. And of course Qerhan insisted on joining their expedition. Sandor did not doubt that she could look after herself - the gods knew she'd been doing so before he darkened her doorstep - but this was different. This was a suicide mission.

So he kept her close, hounding her every waking minute, never letting her out of his sight. Always at her back, or, as she preferred, her side. It was too cold. Was she cold? He put an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against his warmth. To his delight, she hugged him back, heating her hands by rubbing them against his sides. When she tripped he picked her right back up, fussing over the ice now dusting her clothes. She huffed indignantly and told him to worry about himself.

Cold. Too cold. He tucked her against him at night, keeping his back against the wind. He had to keep her safe even when -

"Fucking hell can I piss alone!" She snapped.

"I uh." He floundered. "I just wanted to make sure…"

"I'm not going to freeze to death in the half minute it'll take me to relieve myself, Sandor!" She pushed him back into the cave. "Now sit."

Across the fire, Thoros sniggered. "You two were made for each other."

"Fuck off, you bald cunt!" He growled, dropping down a safe distance from the flames.

The priest's expression straightened. "I mean it."

In spite of her irritation, she snuggled into him that night, covering his face with kisses, sidling closer, even teasing-

"Stop that." He rasped, pulling her hand away from his crotch.

"Please."

"You didn't want it before."

"I do now."

"It's freezing cold."

"It'll keep us warm."

"Go to sleep."

Grumbling, she rolled away, but did not resist when he pressed up against her, one arm fast against her waist, the other cushioning her head. He listened to her breathing til she fell asleep.

They had survived. Not everyone had. It had been a frantic, terrifying ordeal, but they'd come out the other end intact. More than that: together. Sandor had thought it might take years for him to want him again, but after he had explained the business with the Stark bitch, and everything that came after, she thawed.

And then she broke.

It happened so suddenly that he had no time to prepare. Still, he should have known that night she'd first taken him to bed, and she had wept. He offered to stop, but she refused, begging him to take her. He had shed tears then, too. But he had not stopped. And they had both enjoyed it in the end.

In the dead of night, the boards creaked. Sandor Clegane snapped awake, listening intently, reaching a hand out to his wife.

She was not there.

A sniff, muffled but distinct.

"Qerhan?"

No answer. Now he knew something was wrong. He rolled to find her curled up by the bed, head in her arms. As he stroked her smooth hair, another sob burst out of her.

"Come here." He ordered, ignoring her mewl of protest, dragging her bodily into the bed. She hid against his breast as she only did when truly miserable. "What?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Well you did. Now: what?"

"I dreamt of her."

He kissed her crown. "Oh?"

"I miss her."

"I know."

Unbidden, she told him of her, painting a picture so vivid that his heart cracked, and a lump rose in his throat.

She likes grapes, but not beans.

She's scared of moths.

Her favourite toy is the mouse Aunt Givre bought.

She loves Aunt Givre.

"Sandor?" An urgent whisper, thickened with emotion. "Will she think Givre is her-"

"No."

"But I left when-"

"Believe me, Qerhan. She could never forget you."