A/N: Longest chapter yet, mostly due to this super-long flashback which is also the first one not based on an episode of the show. It includes Sansa and Sandor's first time, so expect plenty of steaminess towards the end. ;-)

Disclaimer: I own no part of Game of Thrones and its characters.

They'd been avoiding human contact ever since Sandor noticed some men casting shrewd looks his and Sansa's way in the last village they stopped at to resupply. They stuck to back roads and even game trails as they made their way through the wilderness. The days were cold, the nights even colder. Any tree that wasn't an evergreen was bare of leaves. Autumn was coming to an end. This troubled Sandor more than he dared let on. Unless they found permanent shelter somewhere, they had no hope of surviving the winter.

Sansa never uttered a word of complaint, however great her discomfort. Years of hard travel had toughened the highborn girl. Her once soft hands were chapped and rough with callous. Her dresses were coarse roughspun, her red hair tied back in a simple plait. Doubtless her own family wouldn't recognize her now, assuming any of them still lived. Sansa heard plenty of rumors along the road, but seldom concrete facts. She knew that Robb and her mother were dead, killed in an act of betrayal. She knew Winterfell had been burned, though by whom she couldn't be certain. Some said it was the Greyjoys, others the Boltons, and still others said it was a sneak attack by the Lannisters. Some said her younger brothers were killed in the attack, while others said they managed to escape and had taken sanctuary at the Wall. Arya was still missing. None even claimed to have glimpsed her in years. The only family Sansa knew for sure was still alive was her half-brother Jon, and she had never been close to him. If she let herself think on it too long, the knowledge of her family's decimation would break her. She was alone.

No, she reminded herself, not alone. She had Sandor. Through all of this, the Hound had remained ever faithful. Protecting her from those who would use her to lay claim to Winterfell, which was still of great value even lying in ruins. He put himself in danger by staying on the run with her, yet he never asked for anything in return. He was truer than any knight Sansa had ever known.

Luck was with them. After nearly a fortnight in the woods, they came upon an old hunter's cabin, long abandoned. Part of the roof was caved in, but the walls were still sound - as was the chimney, thank the gods. While Sandor tended to his destrier, Sansa cleared the cobwebs and old nests out of the hearth and built a fire. Sansa had insisted on learning, since Sandor tended to curse and flinch every time he set a fire. By the time Sandor came inside with another armload of wood, the flames were crackling merrily and Sansa was preparing a stew with the last of their salted beef. Sandor stacked the wood beside the hearth and handed Sansa a couple of withered onions he'd dug up outside. Sansa smiled her thanks and cut them up to add to the pot.

They ate their meal straight from the pot, since they lacked any bowls. Neither of them said a word, but it was a comfortable silence. The kind of silence only those who'd spent years in each other's company could experience. When the food was gone Sandor unrolled a blanket and had Sansa sit in front of him. He put his arms around her, his broad body shielding her from the cold air whistling through the cabin's many chinks.

Keeping her warm, that was always his reasoning. In truth, Sandor grasped at any excuse to hold her. His feelings for Sansa had changed over the years. At first, he felt protective of her. She was such a young girl and so innocent, even after all the cruelties King Joffrey subjected her to. But as time passed and Sansa grew into womanhood, something deeper came over him. It crept over him so subtly as the months and years went by that when he finally realized what these emotions were, it was far too late to resist them.

A loud pop from the hearthfire made him jump in alarm. Sansa giggled.

"You think it's funny?" Sandor asked harshly, but Sansa was long past being intimidated by his gruff voice.

"Not your fear of it, no," she said. Her hand reached up to brush against his scars. Sometimes he tolerated her touch, but this time he jerked his head away.

"What do you know of my fear, Little Bird?" he growled, wondering at his sudden anger, "You think I got these scars in some daring battle? A torch to the face? A burning siege tower? Or how about dragon's breath? That's heroic for you." He scoffed.

Sansa chewed her bottom lip. "I...I know how you got them."

He glared down at her. "How the seven hells did you find out?"

For years Sansa had carried this secret, always knowing that someday she would need to tell him. It was something of a relief, really, to finally let it all out in the open. "When King Robert held that tourney for my father, and I saw Ser Gregor kill that other knight in the joust, Lord Baelish was sitting beside me. He told me what happened to you."

Sandor's jaws clenched in growing rage. Petyr fucking Baelish, he should have known. "And what did that shit Littlefinger tell you?" he snarled.

Sansa twisted around to look at him. Her hand reached up to touch his face again and this time he did not pull away. "He told me," she said in a quiet voice, "that when you were six years old your brother caught you playing with one of his toys, and he carried you to the hearth and pushed your face into the fire."

Sandor's body went cold at her words. How? How did Baelish know? Sandor never told anyone.

"Why was Gregor never punished?" Sansa asked.

Sandor laughed bitterly. "Oh, did Lord Littlefinger not share that part of the story with you?" His expression turned stony. "My father said that my bed had caught fire. An accident was preferable than admitting his eldest son was a monster."

Tears came to Sansa's eyes. Her Hound was betrayed twice over, first by his brother, then by his father. And him only a child at the time. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't want your pity, Little Bird." Sandor turned his head, hiding his burnt side from her.

"I don't pity you." Sansa hesitated, wondering if her next words would damage what they had beyond repair. "I love you."

Sandor's eyes closed. A sound escaped him. A sigh? A sob? Even he couldn't say.

Sansa took his face in both her hands and gently turned him towards her. "Look at me."

His eyes opened. He looked at her. Then he was kissing her. Or did she kiss him? It didn't matter. All that mattered were her arms encircling his neck, his hands gripping her slender waist, the soft moan she uttered into his mouth. It was clumsy at first, neither one of them had any experience with kissing. But soon their lips and tongues were moving together in perfect rhythm. Sandor's hands slid up from her waist to the laces of her bodice. Highborn ladies' gowns laced from the back, since they had maids to dress them, but Sansa was wearing a commoner's dress, which laced in the front. Sandor's knuckles brushed against her clothed breasts as he undid the knot and pulled the laces apart.

Sansa's own hands were not idle. The fingers of one hand tangled in his black hair, while the other hand crept down and slipped under the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin of his back. That simple touch sent a jolt straight to Sandor's already throbbing groin. He yanked her dress open with a little more force than he intended. Luckily, the roughspun fabric held up. He slipped the dress down her body, Sansa shifting to allow it to go past her hips, leaving her in a plain cotton shift which she quickly discarded.

"Eager, are we?" Sandor chuckled.

A flush came over her cheeks. Sansa grinned. "I've wanted this a long time."

Her admission startled him. He gently stroked the soft skin at her waist. "So have I, Little Bird."

He cupped her breasts. They easily fit in the palms of his large hands. His thumbs circled her pink nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. Sansa's breath hitched. Her fingers tugged at his shirt. "Off!" she cried, "It's not fair that you get to see all of me and I don't see anything of you."

Sandor grinned. "You only have to ask, my lady." He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He kept still while Sansa's eyes roamed over his torso. He was big and muscular, as expected, his body covered in numerous battle scars. A thick covering of black hair ran down from beard to neck, over his broad chest, and down his belly. Sansa ran her fingers through it, a look of rapt fascination on her face.

"Are all men so hairy?"

Sandor laughed. "Some more than others." He gently pushed her shoulders until she lay on the blanket spread out on the earthen floor. For the first time in his life, Sandor was glad for the fire. Sansa had never looked more beautiful than she did now in its flickering glow. Her coppery hair was loosened from its plait and fanned around her head. Her fair skin had a golden cast in the firelight. Her breasts heaved with her heavy breathing.

Seven hells, could this really be happening?

"Do you want this?" Sandor asked, uncertainty coloring his voice.

Sansa rose up to kiss him. "I want this. I want you."

That was enough. Sandor would not waste another moment wondering at how he'd gotten so fortunate. He quickly shed his trousers and positioned himself between her legs. He hesitated then, not because of any lingering doubts, but because he knew this was bound to cause her pain. She was a maiden, after all, and he was a large man.

"Why do you stop?" Sansa panted.

"I don't want to hurt you."

She smiled at him. "You won't hurt me." She took his hand and guided it to her womanhood. She showed him where to touch her, that little bump that made her moan when he rubbed against it with his thumb. Sandor gradually gained enough confidence to carefully probe her opening with his finger. She was wetter than any woman he'd ever been with - all whores, admittedly - but so tight he wasn't sure he could ever hope to fit. Still, he slid his finger inside her, and after a few moments of thrusting he added a second, stretching her as gently as possible. All the while his thumb circled that hard little bump. When Sansa started moving her hips in time to his fingers, he knew he had to be doing something right. When she was finally able to take three of his fingers inside her, Sandor knew she was as ready as she would ever be. He withdrew his hand and guided his cock to her opening. His eyes met hers. She nodded.

Sandor almost went cross-eyed when he started to push into her. Gods, she was so tight! With a single hard thrust he felt her barrier tear and continued in until he was hilt-deep inside of her. He heard Sansa whimper and felt her nails dig into his sides. "You alright, Little Bird?"

She nodded. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as she feared. More a sharp sting than anything. When Sandor gave an experimental thrust, she felt a burning sensation, but also a deep pleasure she'd never experienced from touching herself. Something deep and primal. She wrapped her legs around his waist and moved her hips with his. Judging from the groan Sandor made, he found it as pleasurable as she did. Soon their bodies were moving in tandem, their moans and loving whispers overlapping the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Sandor knew he was close. A faint thought in the back of his mind warned that he should pull out before he spent himself in her, but the blissful sensations overwhelmed his good sense. He couldn't stop, did not want to stop. And neither did she. He heard it in the way she moaned his name again and again. Felt it in the way she clutched him inside and out, with arms and legs and inner walls. She was trembling beneath him. She was close, and he was rising to meet her. And then they were tumbling over the precipice together, crying out their joy.

Later, when he mustered enough energy to move, Sandor wrapped them in the blanket together. He hugged Sansa's smaller frame to his and lightly kissed the crown of her head. "I love you, Little Bird."

"I love you, too," she murmured, already half asleep. Sated and content, the lovers held each other through the night.

Catelyn felt like her eyes might pop out of her head. Ironoak was so big. And crowded! So many faces everywhere she looked, every one of them a stranger. There were ordinary smallfolk in roughspun clothes going about their business, slightly better-dressed merchants, sellswords clad in battered armor, knights in better-looking armor with shields bearing the pinecone sigil of House Larch, scantily-dressed whores propositioning men from a second-floor balcony, and filthy urchins scuttling underfoot. The only thing that impressed her more than the number of people were the buildings. Having grown up among simple cabins made from logs and daubed mud, she found the towering two- and three-story structures overwhelming. Buildings constructed from smooth wood planks and stone, with slate roofs rather than sod or thatch. Ironoak Keep was even bigger. A castle of ancient stone with numerous towers and turrets, surrounded by a great wall made from the thickest logs she'd ever seen.

"Is this normal?" Cat blurted.

Her father smiled. "Might be a little busier than usual with the mountain passes cleared."

The convoy had reached the town earlier that day and gone straight to the sawmill. There the logs were sorted by quality and type of wood, the woodcutters' marks counted, and the prices negotiated - heatedly - between Bertra and Syman and the mill's owner until they all reached a satisfactory agreement. After that, Syman doled out the commissions to the woodcutters while his wife oversaw the unloading of the wagons. Not surprisingly, Sandor had received one of the larger purses. Now he and his daughter were exploring the town together, looking to spend his coin on necessities as well as a few frivolities, whatever could not be easily found back in Oldtree.

The wagon containing the handmade goods from the village - including Sansa's embroidery - had already gone ahead to the market square. Cat saw the kiosk they'd set up and waved to the familiar faces. All around were dozens of kiosks, booths, and shops offering all manner of items for sale. Fabrics and spices, fruits and vegetables - both harvested from glasshouses and imported from further south, items made from ceramic or metal or wood, breads and pastries, meats cooked and raw, live fowls in cages, clothing and shoes of various quality, and so much more.

There was so much to take in, Catelyn hardly knew where to start. She stuck close to her father's side, afraid she might lose sight of even his imposing frame in the constant bustle.

"Your mother asked that I get a few things for her," Sandor said, "I thought we might also bring back gifts for her and your brothers. You can help me choose, if you like." He suppressed a grin, already knowing her answer.

Cat eagerly nodded. She grabbed his hand and immediately dragged him towards the nearest booth that got her attention. Its wares consisted of toys crafted from wood and metal. Marionettes, each one beautifully articulated and painted with careful detail. They hung down from the booth's overhead beams like fish dangling from lines. The man selling these items was tall and thin with piercing blue eyes. He had a bald head and a long gray beard, making it look like the hair had migrated from his scalp down to his face. He was demonstrating his wares to the delight of a small crowd gathered around. The marionette he operated looked like a white goose. It waddled across the counter, cocked its head, and flapped stiff wings that clacked against its sides. It's painted orange bill opened and the puppeteer gave a surprisingly lifelike honk. Catelyn laughed. Eddard and Morden would love such toys.

With Sandor's permission, she immediately picked the goose for Morden. The three-year-old adored toy animals more than anything. She could imagine him spending many happy hours figuring out all the ways to make the goose move.

For Eddard, it was a bit trickier. She and her father looked at the variety of puppets arrayed before them, trying to find the right one to give the five-year-old boy.

Sandor froze the instant his gaze fell upon it, a marionette that awoke a flood of memories he tried every day of his life to push into the deepest recesses of his mind. It was a little wooden knight, its armor painted silver-gray. In its right hand was a tiny sword, on its left arm a blank white shield.

"I can add any sigil you'd prefer," the puppet-maker offered.

Sandor's voice was rougher than usual when he heard himself say, "A direwolf."

The man smiled. "Honoring the King of the North, eh?" He took down the puppet from where it hung. "Give me some time to paint it on. It should be dry on the morrow, if you are able to come back for it then."

Sandor knew those of the convoy were planning to stay in town for a few days to rest and resupply. He nodded stiffly and walked away, his daughter hurrying after him.

Catelyn hadn't missed her father's reaction to the wooden knight. She reached up and tugged his sleeve to get his attention. Her father's head jerked towards her, a hard scowl on his severe features. Cat jumped a little, startled by his angry look. "What's wrong, Papa?"

Sandor's expression softened at her obvious worry. "Nothing that concerns you, Little Cat. Only history best forgotten."

Cat frowned in thought. "If it's best forgotten, how come you still remember?"

Her father snorted at her question, but didn't answer right away. His gaze wandered over the milling crowd around them without truly seeing. Finally he murmured, "The toy reminded me of something that happened long ago."

"Something bad?"

He nodded, then looked down at her. "Something I'd rather not talk about."

"Not even with Mum?"

"She knows already," he sighed.

Catelyn took his hand in hers. Her smaller hand disappeared in his much larger grip. "Will you tell me someday?" she asked quietly.

Sandor hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Someday. But not now, Little Cat." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Alright, Papa."

In a furrier's shop, they bought new warm cloaks for the family, as well as a toy dog for Zander that the furrier's wife had made from rabbit fur and stuffed with wool. They found an old woman who sold dried herbs and bought enough spices to replenish Sansa's cooking supplies at home. By then they were hungry, so Sandor bought some stewed meat and potatoes from a street vendor that was served out of bowls made from hollowed round loaves of stale black bread. When they finished their meals, they gave their gravy-soaked bread bowls to a couple of beggars, who tore into them like starving dogs.

A heavenly scent in the air brought drool to Catelyn's mouth, despite her full stomach. Noticing his daughter's eager sniffing, Sandor grinned and led her to a baker's shop. Sweets were rare in Oldtree, often limited to the occasional honeycomb, the honey crystallized from years spent in storage. Catelyn was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of treats displayed on racks to either side of the baker's door. Pies and cakes of every size, shape, and flavor, all steaming merrily in the cool air. A portly man with a round, jolly face, flour dusting his hands and apron, smiled and declared, "All baked fresh this morning, m'lord and little lady. What is your pleasure?"

"I'm not a lord," Sandor corrected, more from habit than anything. He bit back a laugh at the pleading look his daughter gave him.

"Can we get just a few of the little ones?" she begged, "We can take them home to Mum and the boys."

"The ones you don't eat yourself, you mean," her father smirked.

"Perhaps the little lady would like a sample?" The portly baker picked up a tray of bite-sized pastries and offered it to Catelyn. "The wife likes this one in particular," he pointed, "A lovely raspberry tart."

Cat gave in to the temptation and snatched the proffered tart from the tray before her father could say anything. She eagerly stuffed the little pastry into her mouth. The baker chuckled and even her father looked amused at her impertinence. "Idz good!" she slurred. Her tongue darted out to lick a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth.

Sandor looked at the rows of cakes on display and finally asked the baker, "Are any of them lemon?"

In the end, they purchased a dozen small cakes of different flavors. Sandor allowed his daughter to eat one while he carried the rest in a cloth-wrapped bundle. Hopefully, they would survive the journey back to Oldtree without going too stale. Or getting eaten along the way.

"Papa," Cat pointed excitedly into the crowd, "Look!"
Sandor looked and saw a trio of men clad entirely in black making their way down the crowded street. Men of the Night's Watch. People were quick to make way for them and bow their heads in respect. Some even called greetings to them. After the Long Night and the war against the White Walkers' attempted invasion, the once struggling Night's Watch rose in prestige. Their days of low numbers, poor supplies, and crumbling keeps were past. No longer did they have to scour dungeons for a handful of dubious recruits. Men from as far south as Dorne traveled to the Wall, eager to volunteer for the honor of serving with the Black Brothers. And even the highborn now showed them the respect they were due.

The villagers of Oldtree knew all of this, even from their isolated corner of the world. Ravens had carried word of the Watch's valor. The stories spread over the hearthfires, and young boys often played at "Black Brothers and White Walkers."

"What're they doing here?" Catelyn asked, her expression bordering on awed.

Sandor shrugged. "Recruiting, most like."

"Can we talk to them?"

"Maybe later, Little Cat. Right now they look like they have someplace to go. And so do we," he nudged her, "It's getting late. We should get back to the others."

Catelyn slumped in disappointment, but nodded and followed her father. She turned her head to gaze at the black-clad men over her shoulder until the milling bodies of others finally blocked them from her view.

Grenn's knee was starting to pain him. He'd injured it in battle with the White Walkers during the Long Night and Sam Tarly - now affectionately called "Maester Samwell", though he never took any vows at Oldtown - had devised a rather ingenious brace that allowed Grenn to walk without need of a cane. Good enough for most things, but his ranging days were long over. Now Grenn traveled south of the Wall instead of north, hunting up fresh recruits for the Watch. And there was no shortage of volunteers. There were so many men and boys eager to join up that they could actually afford to be discerning these days, even turning away those deemed not quite suitable for life at the Wall.

This was the first time Grenn had come to Ironoak on a recruiting run, but it was much the same as anywhere else. Men and boys from all walks of life put themselves forward for selection. Merchants and farmers, bastards and highborn. Even Lord Larch's youngest son had asked to join. The lad seemed eager enough, in Grenn's estimation, if a bit green. But he'd soon be whipped into shape once they reached Black Castle.

The Black Brothers weren't the only strangers in town. Travel between normally isolated communities was picking up with the promise of spring. The streets were a-bustle with horses, wagons, and people on foot, bringing commerce and news from afar. People who hadn't seen each other all winter were reunited. The inns and whorehouses were barely able to keep up with the influx of new customers. Life was returning to the North.

On a street corner, a young man was playing a woodharp and singing one of the more popular songs that had sprung up in the last few years, Lord Snow the Valiant. Grenn and his companions chuckled over this. Poor Jon. He always hated the nickname Lord Snow. Now he was stuck with it for all eternity. Grenn dug a coin from the pouch tied to his belt and tossed it into the bowl at the singer's feet in passing. It was a good song, after all.

He and his brothers of the Watch finally reached the inn where they were staying. It was called the Dancing Maester and its sign depicted a balding man in brown robes, a long chain looped around his neck, clutching an overflowing tankard in one hand and reeling drunkenly, a ridiculous grin on his wizened face. It was just the sort of place Grenn liked, nothing fancy: hot food, good brown ale, and beds free of vermin. The best part of the Black Brothers' stay was that the innkeeper refused any payment from them. "Men o' the Night's Watch are always welcome under this roof, m'lords," she declared. She, like everyone else of the North, knew how much they owed those from the Wall.

The Dancing Maester was crowded like everywhere else. Most of its customers were forced to stand. Yet when those fortunate enough to be seated at tables noticed the trio of men clad in black, calls rang out offering their precious seats to them. Grenn and his brothers accepted the nearest, thanking the men for their gracious offer. Once they sat down a haggard serving wench quickly brought them ale and they ordered themselves a meal as well. Moments later they were feasting on roast chicken, potatoes, greens, and fresh baked bread.

"Gods, I'll be missing this when we get back," Jaq Rivers, one of Grenn's companions, declared as he took a swig of ale.

"We've got ale at the wall," Errol Whitehart argued.

Jaq scoffed. "You're comparin' that watered-down piss to this?" He held up his tankard.

Errol shrugged. "Mebbe the innkeeper will give us a barrel or two for the journey." The prospect obviously cheered his friend.

Grenn abruptly stood with a groan. "Speaking of watered-down piss..." He made his way to the exit. Outside, he found a quiet spot in a nearby alley to empty his bladder. From the smell of things, he wasn't the first to do this. Once he was done he retied his breeches and limped out into the street leading back to the inn, only to stagger back when something small and quick ran into him. "Watch it!"

It was a girl that nearly knocked him over. She looked to be nine or ten years old with black hair and dark brown eyes. Her expression was properly contrite. "I'm sorry, um, ser..." She seemed uncertain about the honorific.

"No harm done," Grenn said, "Though you really should watch yourself in a busy street. 'Specially on your own."

"I'm not alone," the girl pointed behind her, "I'm here with my Papa."

Grenn looked to where she pointed and noticed a tall figure weaving through the milling crowd. The man's back was to him, but Grenn could tell from the tension in the shoulders and the way the man's head kept turning back and forth that he was anxiously looking for his wayward daughter. "Don't look like he knows your with him," Grenn observed.

The girl flashed an embarrassed smile, but instead of returning to her father she blurted, "Are you in the Night's Watch?"

Grenn smiled. "That I am. A Ranger, in fact, though the only ranging I do now is collecting new men for the Wall."

"Did you see any White Walkers?"

"Aye. White Walkers, giants, mammoths. Our Lord Commander even has a direwolf."

"Wow!" The girl's eyes were wide in awe. "I wish I could see all that. Not the White Walkers," she quickly amended, "but all the rest of it."

"Maybe you will, someday, if you ever visit the Wall."

"Cat!" a man's voice bellowed.

The girl winced. "I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, ser."

"You as well," Grenn replied. He watched as the girl raced off to rejoin her father. As he was walking back to the inn, he noticed the big man he saw earlier chastising the girl for leaving his sight. Grenn smirked at the girl's downcast expression. It was obvious she didn't feel nearly as guilty as she pretended.

The big man took the girl's hand and started to lead her away. As they turned, Grenn got a good look at the right side of the man's face. Grenn froze at the sight of the burns scarring the man's face. It wasn't so much their grotesqueness that shocked him as what they signified to him.

Grenn had been a friend to Jon Snow for almost as long as they'd been in the Night's Watch. He knew all about Jon's family and the tragedies that befell them. Father beheaded, brothers betrayed, youngest sister on the run for years. And the other sister, Sansa, held captive by the Lannisters in King's Landing, then abducted by King Joffrey's personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane. The Hound. People everywhere, North and South, were frantic to get to them. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Greyjoys, and gods knew how many minor lords, all with their own agendas regarding the Stark girl. Daughter of a traitor or not, she was still valuable, either as a hostage, a bargaining chip, or even a means to inherit Winterfell by forcing her into marriage. There were dozens of competing bounties for the Stark girl, most of them requiring the Hound's head as well. Those who weren't fighting in the war were searching for the two fugitives. Bounty hunters, sellswords, and hedge knights scoured the lands. Yet Sandor Clegane and his captive always managed to stay one step ahead of them all. For the four years of autumn they remained on the run. Then, with winter's arrival, all sign of them disappeared.

Everyone assumed they must have died in the Long Night. Grenn had certainly thought so. But the sight of that burned man had shaken this belief.

Just a coincidence, he told himself, There's hundreds of men out there with scarred faces. Still, all the descriptions Grenn heard about the Hound fit pretty closely. Not just the scars, but she sheer size of the man. And the girl... She called him papa. Probably born near the start of winter. Sansa would have been seventeen or eighteen at the time. Plenty old enough to-

Grenn stopped that thought in its tracks. He hurried back to the Dancing Maester to tell his companions where he was going, then got his horse and rode for Lord Larch's keep. There he met with the maester and had him send a raven to the Lord Commander of the Wall. Grenn emphasized in his message that it was highly unlikely the man he saw was really Sandor Clegane, knowing it wouldn't do any good. The moment Jon read it he'd come straight to Ironoak to see for himself.

Gods, Grenn hoped it was nothing. That little girl didn't deserve to lose her father.