The candle flame flickered unsteadily as he read, but it did not go out. Outside, he heard the ravens' burbling quorks from up in the blawing trees, like the sound of the river, or even the clopping of hoofbeats. He still clutched the letter to his chest after he read it, once again, as he lay back on his bed. It had been delivered to their encampment by Winterfell's trusted messenger, earlier in the day.

"Clegane," the messenger had called out, after halting his mount and conveying it to him from ahorseback, and he could not read the man's expression before he tossed a scarf back over the lower half of his face and rode swiftly away.

It was from the old woman. Written in a kind of veiled reference after discussing general matters, as always, in case it was intercepted and read by anyone else, but the seal had not been broken. He had no fear that his superiors would read his mail. But he understood.

A child, a daughter!

He wished he could return to Winterfell immediately to see her, child and mother, sweep them both up into his arms. He was a father now, and a husband.