A/N: Well, I've got quite a few follows, which is cool, and traffic stats is already at well over 100 readers, which is even cooler. (Thanks!) But only a couple of reviews so far... Odd.

Anyhoo, here's the next chapter. :-)

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones and its characters belong to George R.R. Martin and HBO. I'm only borrowing them for a while.

It wasn't only the attack itself that haunted her long after it was over, but how swiftly it all came upon them. One moment the royal party and its escort was walking through a crowd of jeering smallfolk, and the next there was rioting. And all because a stupid cow pie was hurled at the king. Sansa remembered Joffrey, his face smeared with cow shit, screaming for the deaths of every person there. Even she, naïve girl that she was, realized how foolhardy his words were. Their armed guards were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of enraged, desperate people. It was all they could do to cut a swath through the mob to reach the safety of the Red Keep. More than a few hapless nobles didn't make it. Sansa could still remember the shrieks of the fat septon as a swarm of emaciated men tore him to pieces.

She didn't have any sword-bearing men protecting her. All she had were her maids. They tried to keep her shielded between them, but they soon lost each other in the chaos. All around Sansa were filthy bodies dressed in rags, skinny with starvation and fueled by rage born of sheer desperation. Sansa could have pitied them, but all she felt at that moment was terror. Terror which multiplied when she suddenly found herself confronting half a dozen men with mad eyes locked on her. She ran, not thinking about where she was going, only trying to get away. They chased her through a narrow alley and eventually caught her in what appeared to be an empty stable. A hard slap from one of her attackers sent her sprawling in the moldy straw. Rough hands clawed at her and a voice hissed in her ear, "You ever been fucked, little girl?"

Never had she fought so hard, but it was futile. She was only a weak little highborn girl. She didn't have the strength to stand up to even one of these hard men, let alone four. All too soon they had her pinned down, her dress torn and legs held apart. Still she struggled, screaming and weeping, as one of the men knelt between her legs and fumbled with the laces of his trousers. She knew then that it was hopeless. No one would save her. These men would rape her and then kill her, and there was no one who would even care.

It was only in that instant when despair overwhelmed her that a massive shadow loomed behind her assailants and grabbed her would-be rapist, spinning him around and lifting him by the neck so his feet dangled. Sansa recalled years later the intense look in her savior's eyes. The same look he had whenever Joffrey subjected her to another beating. Only now he did not simply stand by with his gaze fixed ahead. This time Sandor gutted the attacker with his dagger and flung the body aside like so much trash. The second man he stabbed in the back before he could even rise to his feet. The third, the one who'd been holding Sansa's shoulders, tried to run, but Sandor caught him easily. All Sansa could see then was his broad back. She heard the man cry out, then a wet gurgle as the man's body collapsed. Sandor turned sidelong and sheathed his dagger in a single quick movement. For the briefest instant he stood unmoving, then he turned to her and it was like a different man stood before her. No longer the coldly efficient killer, he reached his hand out to her and said in a strangely comforting voice, "Alright now, Little Bird. You're alright."

Sansa took his gloved hand without hesitation and quickly found herself hoisted over his shoulder and carried off. She glimpsed her final attacker, a shirtless bald man, huddled against a bale of straw in wide-eyed terror, ignored by the Hound who deemed him not worth the effort of killing.

Sansa was no longer afraid, even when Sandor drew his longsword to hack his way through the rioters to the Red Keep. She knew as long as he was with her, no one could harm her. Only when he finally put her down again did the fear return. She didn't want to let go of him, didn't want to be taken away. Only with him was she safe. Only him.

"The Little Bird is bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage, see to that cut."

She wanted to him to stay with her, but the effort to speak was beyond her then. Exhaustion came over her, and it was all she could do to stay upright when her maids helped her to her feet and led her back to her chambers, away from her protector.

Travel of any kind always held risks. Some were unavoidable, such as sudden changes in weather, or rockfalls, or washed-out roads. Others could be prepared for, like packs of winter-starved wolves, or bandits, all made especially desperate by the unforgiving season. For this reason, the convoys sent from Oldtree always included armed men.

Catelyn and her brothers watched in fascination as their father opened the dusty old trunk none of them were allowed to touch and pulled out a long object wrapped in oilcloth. He pulled away the heavy fabric, revealing an impressive longsword. A smaller man would have needed both hands to wield it, but Sandor hefted it in one hand without trouble. He drew it from its sheath - to the appreciative gasps of the children - and tested the blade's edge with his thumb. Still sharp enough to cleave a man, if necessary. There was a time when he would have hoped for that necessity, but no longer. His thirst for blood had waned with time and the births of his daughter and sons.

"Can we see it, Papa?" Eddard asked.

Sandor hesitated, then brought the sword closer to them. The youngsters' eyes widened even more as they took in the sheer size of the weapon. Swords were uncommon in the village. The only blades they were familiar with belonged on axes, and they were used to hew nothing more threatening than tree trunks. Morden reached out a chubby hand to touch the sword and Sandor pulled it away. "This isn't for children's hands," he admonished.

"Did you kill anyone with it?" Catelyn asked, far too eagerly for Sandor's comfort. He abruptly shoved the lid of the trunk closed and stood with the re-sheathed longsword in hand. "I need to go practice," he told them, then pointed at the trunk, "You are still forbidden to open it."

"Yes, Papa," the children replied obediently.

An impromptu practice area had been set up in a cleared area just outside the village. Crude figures of wood or stuffed bags of straw and twigs were clumsily hacked at by out-of-practice men wielding battered old swords. Others sparred each other with lengths of wood roughly carved into sword-shapes. Some were surprisingly adept at fighting once they warmed up to it. But then again, Sandor wasn't the only man with a questionable past to have taken up residence in Oldtree. Cutthroats, bandits, wildlings, bastards and runaways - as long as they worked hard and kept the peace, none cared about their pasts. It was a fact Sandor counted on when he and Sansa first arrived. Here, they were known as Sturm and Dyanne Edger. Those were the names they gave, and no one saw any reason to dispute them. Just as no one questioned "Dyanne's" highborn speech (which she was never quite able to shed) or "Sturm's" obvious skills at swordplay. After ten years of surviving winter with their neighbors, none of those details really mattered anymore.

Sandor practiced first on one of the wooden figures, just to get the feel of swinging the sword again. It was strange how unfamiliar once totally unconscious movements now felt. But after a while, muscle-memory kicked in and soon the wood chips were flying under the longsword's assault. Once his confidence was stronger, he set aside the now dulled blade (need to hone it later, he thought to himself) and picked up one of the wooden practice swords.

Hours later, when the last sparring partner limped away to the good-natured jeers of those watching, Sandor picked up his longsword and stormed off in disgust. Not at the others - not one of them had received a proper day's training a day in his life - but at himself. His reflexes were dulled, the weapon no longer felt like an extension of his arm, and muscles long disused to such activity were cramped from exertion. All to be expected, but still, the distant part of him that was still the Hound sneered at how soft he'd become.

Sandor barged into the house, startling Sansa and eliciting a surprised - but not displeased - squeal from baby Zander. Sandor paused and glanced around. "Where are the children?"

"At their lessons with Maester Tolbert." Sansa had insisted their children learn at least the basics of reading, writing, and numbers. Fortunately, the village's maester was more than happy to act as tutor, and the children quite enjoyed their afternoon lessons.

Sandor grunted and headed for the corner where he kept the trunk full of his old possessions. Sansa set aside the stockings she was darning and followed him, pausing to pick up the baby where he played on a blanket on the floor. She could tell something was troubling her husband. "What's wrong?"

Her husband rummaged through the trunk. "Can't find my gods-damned oilstone, for one," he grumbled.

Sansa leaned down to move aside an age-cracked leather jerkin and picked up the palm-sized object hidden beneath it. "Is this it?"

Sandor scowled and took it from her without a murmur of thanks. He rose from his knees with a grunt and went to sit in the oversized chair constructed to accommodate his large frame. He unsheathed the longsword and proceeded to hone the blade with the oilstone. The high-pitched song of the metal brought back a lot of memories, few of them pleasant.

Switching the baby to her other hip, Sansa approached her husband. "What troubles you, my love?"

There was a time when he would have barked some cruel retort to get her to leave him alone, and a time when she would have been too timid to approach him to begin with. But those times were long gone, and they were no longer the people they once were.

"Old age troubles me," he growled, eyes focused on his task, "I'm slow and clumsy."

"Surely you are skilled enough to fight off any brigands that should attack the convoy."

Sandor snorted disdainfully. "They'd be little more than gnats to swat aside. But if we were to encounter someone who actually knows how to use a damned sword, I'd be hard-pressed to fight them."

"Why would anyone like that come after you?" his wife asked, "No one knows who we once were."

He looked at her sidelong, his expression deadly serious. "I'll not take that chance. I will keep practicing until I'm as able as I ever was, or close enough to it."

"Can you accomplish this before the convoy leaves? That's less than a week's time."

"I'll keep practicing as we travel, when we make camp."

Sansa placed her free hand on his shoulder, making him pause in his honing. He looked up to find her quietly smiling. "You'll protect her," she declared, confident, "Just as you protected me."

Sandor frowned. "What makes you think I decided to bring her along?"

His wife's smile broadened. "Do you deny it, my lord?"

"I'm no lord," he snapped, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening his words. He turned his attention back to sharpening his blade. "Do you want me to take her along with the convoy?" he asked in a more subdued voice.

Sansa gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I want her to be safe, but I also want her to be happy. She won't be happy in a cage any more than I was." She bent down to kiss his temple. "There is no one I trust more to keep her from harm than you."

Sandor looked at his wife, saw the truth in her eyes. "You always gave your trust too easily," he chided.

"When I was young," she agreed, "But not now. You have earned my trust again and again, from the moment you first lied to protect me from Joffrey's wrath. I will fret when Catelyn leaves, as any mother would for her daughter, but I will not be afraid, because she will have you there to shield her. So all we truly need to worry about is that you look after yourself. Can you manage that, husband?"

Sandor chuckled wryly. "Aye, Little Bird, that I can manage."

"Good." Satisfied, Sansa walked away to place Zander back on the blanket with his toys and returned to her sewing.

Maesters, as a rule, were only to be found in holdfasts and castles, serving the lords and their families, and rarely interacting with the smallfolk. The fact that Oldtree had a maester of their own was pure happenstance. Maester Tolbert was on his way to Ironoak to assist and eventually succeed the holdfast's current aging maester. He was only days from his destination when winter's first snowstorm (the same one which Sandor and Sansa were caught in, in fact) swept through the mountains and Tolbert was separated from the convoy he traveled with. By the time he finally stumbled upon the isolated village, both he and his mule were nearly dead and most of the caged ravens he brought along completely so. When the blizzard finally ended, the mountain roads and passes were utterly impassable, so Maester Tolbert sent one of his surviving ravens to Oldtown to explain the situation and resigned himself to spending the winter in the village.

Ironoak's loss was Oldtree's gain. With a maester present, the villagers enjoyed superior medicines and knowledge they never would have known otherwise. He treated all manner of ailments, aided the midwives in difficult deliveries, gave sage council to the village elders, and offered a superior education to the local children.

Catelyn and her brothers were not the only children to take advantage of Maester Tolbert's lessons. Some afternoons he had as many as twenty small bodies squeezed into his solar. It wasn't the lessons themselves that drew them so much as the promise of a story after, provided they were diligent enough in their studies. The maester would seat himself in his comfortable old chair before the hearth while the youngsters sat on the floor all around him, their eyes riveted to him while he regaled them with tales of the First Men, the Age of Heroes, and even the White Walkers. Often one of the smaller children would sit on his knee during story time. Cat recalled being little enough to be one of those children. She remembered the comforting drone of his voice, the warm scratchiness of his brown robes, the smells of old books and medicinal herbs that clung to him. Sometimes she would play with the chain he always wore around his neck, fascinated by the colors and textures of the different links.

Today's tale was of more recent events: the story of Robert Baratheon's rebellion against the Mad King Aerys Targaryen. Even though all this took place within their parents' lifetimes, to the gathered children this was no different than any other exciting tale from history. The people Maester Tolbert spoke of were no more than characters, the events and places described too far away to affect their sheltered lives. When the maester reached the part of the sacking of Kings Landing, Cat's hand shot up.

"Yes, Catelyn?" the salt-and-pepper-haired man asked patiently.

"You said the Lannister men killed all the Targaryens."

"Indeed they did."

"Even the women?"

Tolbert seemed oddly pleased by that question. It was not the sort of detail his students normally focused on when listening to him recite these tales. "Even the women," he nodded, "And the children as well."

"But why?" Cat blurted, "They couldn't have hurt anyone. They weren't even in the fighting!"

The maester offered a sad smile. "There are several reasons. For one, Robert Baratheon's hatred of the Targaryens was all-encompassing at that point. It didn't matter whether they were man, woman, or child. They were all equally guilty in his eyes. For another, any survivors would have been able to make a claim on the Iron Throne, since they would, technically, be the legitimate heir to the Seven Kingdoms. In order to prevent this, the entire bloodline had to be wiped out."

"But it didn't end!" a boy declared.

"No, Mikal, two managed to escape across the Narrow Sea. King Aerys's son, Viserys, and his daughter, Daenerys. Viserys was killed years later by the Dothraki, but Daenerys lived on to bring dragons back into the world and eventually reclaim the Iron Throne."

Tolbert's young audience perked up at the mention of dragons. Their piping voices begged him to tell them more about those fantastic creatures, but the maester smilingly demurred. "Not today, little ones. It is time for you all to return to your homes. But I promise, tomorrow I shall tell you all you wish to know about dragons."

There was some whining and grumbling, but the children obediently left the maester's home.

Catelyn led Morden by the hand while Eddard walked freely beside her. She was more subdued than normal, still mulling over what Maester Tolbert told her about the Lannisters killing all the Targaryens. She couldn't understand how anyone would do something as awful as kill helpless children, no matter who their parents were. And so many of those killers were said to be knights, but how could that be? Knights were supposed to be good and heroic. At least, that's what all the songs said. Cat never cared too much for the songs other girls liked, but she knew enough about them to know that slaughtering families was never mentioned, unless it was done by monsters or villains. Never knights. It made her wonder what else the songs got wrong.

When they reached home, Papa was seated in his big chair with the longsword across his lap. He slid the blade into its sheath and set it down so it leaned against his chair. "Cat, come over here for a moment. I need to have a word with you."

Catelyn dutifully went to her father while her brothers trotted off to play with their toys. She came to a halt before him, wondering if she should be looking contrite about something. "Yes, Papa?"

Sandor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to bring his gaze level with his daughter's. "Your mother and I have discussed it, and we've decided to let you come along with me in the convoy."

Cat beamed and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you! Thank you!" She planted a noisy kiss on his scarred cheek for emphasis. Her father chuckled as he disentangled himself from her embrace. "There are still some rules you need to know," he told her in all seriousness, "You're not to leave my sight, even when we reach Ironoak. There will be no wandering off. If you need to take a piss, you tell me and I'll get one of the women to take you." Not all woodcutters were men, and some of these hardy women would be in the convoy as well. "And if we run into trouble," Sandor continued, "you do exactly what I say, no arguments, no questions."

His daughter nodded. "Yes, Papa." Then her solemn expression cracked into a huge grin. "I'm going on the convoy!" She practically hopped with excitement.

Sandor couldn't help but smile at her eagerness. "Aye, Little Cat. It should be quite an adventure for you." Hopefully not a dangerous one, he thought. Something must have showed in his expression, because his daughter hugged him again.

"I'm not scared, Papa. I know you'll keep me safe."