Sandor came before she could even sit down, rushing across the room to hold her. Qerhan hid against his breast, silent for a good long while.

"If it's any comfort, Arya near throttled the little shit." He offered.

Qerhan laughed, drying her eyes. "I know he didn't mean it...he was trying to be comforting, I think."

"Did a hell of a job."

She pinched his side. "I miss her."

Sandor kissed her hair. "I've not even met her and I miss her."

Qerhan stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "I have a present for you."

His eyebrow shot up. "A present?"

"It's not much." She went to her belongings, and from one of the packs extracted a silver cylinder. Taking it to the table, she gestured for him to sit. For once he complied, clearly intrigued. Qerhan handed him the container. "Open it."

Sandor unscrewed the top and tipped the tube, a puzzled expression coming across his face as a tightly-packed roll of paper slid into his hand. "What's this?"

"They don't rely much on Maesters to do their record keeping in Braavos. After Rosha was born, my brother took me to the census building to sort out her records." She explained.

He carefully unrolled the vellum scroll, silver eyes darting back and forth over the writing. It was all in Braavosi, of course, but he could deduce some of it.

"What's this?"

"Her birth weight."

"This?"

"Length."

"I don't know what these are."

"I think they're her eyes and hair color."

It took him an age to cop the most important detail. "Rosha...Clegane?"

Qerhan nodded. "They have no system for naming bastards in Braavos. As long as they have the father's name, that's what they'll use."

He already looked fit to weep, when he noticed there was a second page. "How much information do they fucking -"

Sandor Clegane, not one easily left speechless, lost his words.

"It's also customary to have a portrait done of the baby at three months. My brother's friend is particularly famous for his work."

The lacquered square of canvas fluttered to the table as he buried his face in his hands. On it was the image of an infant wrapped in a red blanket, blue eyes looking straight up as she sucked on her tiny fist.

It was enough to reduce even the most hardened warrior to tears. Qerhan reached across the table to comfort him, stroking his silky black hair, letting him take her hand and squeeze it like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline

"The...necklace…" He managed, trying to collect himself. "Do you still have it?"

She frowned. "Of course."

"Put it on."

"But Gregor."

"If that cunt so much as touches either of you, he's fucking dead."

Sandor rolled over, taking the blankets with him and effectively waking his wife right up. Qerhan swore, wriggling right up against him and trying to yank them out from under his massive bulk.

"The fuck are you doing?" He rumbled sleepily.

"Trying not to freeze to death."

Seeing her predicament, he turned, wrapping the blanket around her and pulling her close. She allowed herself to be subjected to an onslaught of lazy kisses as she enjoyed the heat radiating off him.

"I had a dream." He told her.

"Congratulations."

"Just for that I won't tell you."

"Good."

He lasted as long as it took her to trace his scars from his lip to his ear.

"I dreamt I was hunting with your father."

"You've never met my father."

"It was a fucking dream, I told you." He retorted. "Anyway, we were out hunting, and I brought down a doe. Drove an arrow right through its neck."

She snorted. "I've seen you shoot. You'd hit the tree twelve yards to the left."

"Fuck you."

"You already did."

He laughed at that. "Anyway, we brought it home, and your father set about skinning it. Then he starts talking about how I shouldn't have killed a doe. Said it was bad luck to kill a doe in winter. Then he took the knife and stabbed me in the neck."

"Sounds like Daddy, alright."

He prodded her. "You really think he'd stab me?"

"Just to test how soft you are."

"So you don't think he'd like me?"

"I think he'd love you."

"...he would?"

"Aye, Mammy too. She'd feed you til you were as fat as that Baratheon king." Qerhan tried to imitate her mother. "'Big lad like that needs fuel...are you feeding him, Qerhan?... Here son, you finish that, you need it more than me…'"

"You speak from experience."

"I remember her with Polfrud."

"And your father? Did he like Polfrud?"

She thought a moment. "Not at first. You saw, Polfrud's skinny. Da thought he was weak at first. Then he saw him take down a boar, and decided he was alright."

"So he'd like me because I'm strong?"

"No, he'd try to like you because he'd know how I feel about you. He'd respect you because you're strong."

"Ah."

"...Sandor?"

"Hm?"

"What did he look like, my father?"

"Ummm….a lot like Shoni. Tall, lithe but powerful. Red hair. Red beard. Eyes like yours and freckles like your sister. Nose looked like it'd been broken a hundred times."

She raised her head to stare at him.

"What? Ridiculous, right?"

"I think I'd say 'disturbingly accurate."