A/N: Wow, there are a LOT of hits on this story, and the reviews are starting to come. :-D My brain was buzzing with so many ideas last night I hardly got any sleep. I'm really digging this fanfic. It's all because of these awesome characters, of course, and the great actors who play 'em. They bring on the inspiration.

Here's the latest chapter!

Disclaimer: I make no claim to Game of Thrones.

Sandor didn't like the way the septon kept glancing at his face, all surreptitious like something was niggling at him. No doubt he'd heard something about a burnt man and a highborn girl. Perhaps he even heard of a reward, or several rewards from as many lords, each hoping to grab the prize first. The prize being a certain Stark girl.

He'd wanted to use the false names they had been using lately - Sturm and Dyanne. He'd wanted Sansa to color her hair. But she insisted they had to present their true selves before the gods, else the entire ceremony would be false. And Sandor was fool enough to go along with it. He should have argued more. He should have made her listen. But she'd reasoned that they would be leaving as soon as they were done here, bound for one of the isolated lumber towns they heard about where no one would ever find them, and it did sound reasonable at the time...

That buggering septon was eying him again. "Get on with it!" Sandor growled.

The holy man jumped and began stammering the sacred words. Sandor looked at Sansa and saw the amusement on her face. Seven hells, didn't she realize how serious this was?

The ceremony was a mixture of the old faith and the new. The septon invoked the Seven while they all stood before a heart tree, in sight of the Old Gods. Sandor tried his best not to fidget while the septon droned on. He focused on Sansa, on how radiant she looked. Gods, he actually thought the word "radiant," but there really was no other way of describing her at that moment. Her smile was wider than he'd ever seen it. Her skin practically glowed. It wasn't merely from happiness, either. Sandor glanced down at the barely noticeable bump at her middle. It had been weeks since she told him she was with child - their child, his child - and he still had yet to get over the shock. After the first time they made love, when she gave him her maidenhead, Sandor was careful not to spill his seed in her. A precaution that came too late, as it turned out. That first time was all it took.

Sandor dreaded his impending fatherhood. Dreaded even more the thought of his child being a boy. He couldn't help but think there might be a curse on the men of his family. What if his son was like Gregor? Would he find the strength to do what needed to be done then? Would Sansa ever forgive him for it?

He looked at the grim face carved into the heart tree. Let it be a girl, he silently pleaded.

They reached the part of the ceremony where Sandor switched Sansa's cloak for his own. Both garments were plain brown wool, without any sigils. Sansa looked like a child in his, it was so big. Its bottom edge pooled around her ankles. The septon then lightly bound their hands together with a soft cord. And now the vows.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," Sandor intoned, wondering why his voice sounded so much rougher than usual, "I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of days."

Sansa's eyed filled with joyous tears as she responded, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of days."

Sandor didn't wait for the septon's permission. He pulled his new wife to him and kissed her hard, his unbound hand unconsciously resting on the faint swell of her belly. His, he thought, awed by the realization. She was his.

When Jon Snow became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at Black Castle, he never realized the sheer amount of paperwork this new position entailed. His personal steward, an eager young lad named Farlen Smythee, helped lighten the load by dealing with most of the routine materials, but some things required the Lord Commander's personal attention. Whether he liked it or not. There was correspondence from the other castles along the Wall (far more than there used to be now that the Watch's numbers were higher), accounts to keep track of, requisitions from the builders and stewards for more of...everything, really. It was a wonder he hadn't gone blind from all this squinting by candlelight.

Movement at the door dragged his attention away from the current pile of documents he was plodding through. Jon made it a habit to leave the door to his solar open so that his men could feel free to come to him with whatever might trouble them. He smiled at the sight of his friend Samwell Tarly, the head of the stewards since Maester Aemon died in the early part of winter. The years had hardly changed Sam. He was still fat, still good for a laugh - intentional or not. But experience had given him a confidence he'd lacked when he first joined the Watch. He was greatly respected for his abilities, and Jon was always grateful for his advice on complicated matters.

Jon's smile faded on seeing his friend's uncharacteristically sober expression. "What's wrong, Sam?"

Sam held out a tiny scroll of paper. "A raven arrived a few moments ago. It's from Grenn."

Jon tensed. "Is he alright? Did something happen on the recruit?"

"Everyone's fine," his friend assured him, "Just read the message. It's important."

Jon accepted the scroll and unrolled it. Grenn didn't know how to read, let alone write, so the neat penmanship had to belong to the maester who sent the raven. As he read the message, Jon's expression shifted from shock to disbelief, anger, and finally something akin to hope. Grenn claimed to have seen a man with a burnt face, resembling the description of Sandor Clegane. Grenn was careful to emphasize that it was probably nothing. There were plenty of men with such scars. It might be nothing but a vague coincidence.

Everyone had given up Sansa for dead long ago. No one had seen any sign of her or her abductor all winter. But if the man Grenn saw was Clegane, might there not be the faintest chance that Sansa yet lived? Jon could not ignore the possibility it was so.

"Are you going to tell the others?" Sam asked, meaning the surviving Starks.

Bran, Rickon, and Arya had eventually reunited and spent the Long Night with their mother's kin at Riverrun. Now that winter was ending, they were determined to rebuild Winterfell.

Jon shook his head. "I'll not give them false hope. I will see for myself if this man really is the Hound. If he is, I will find out what happened to my sister, and then let the others know."

"So, it's off to, er," Sam peered over his friend's shoulder, "Ironoak Holdfast with you. Do you want me to come along?"

Jon considered, then shook his head. "No. Someone has to take care of this damned paperwork while I'm gone. Might as well be you," he smirked, "You like reading."

Sam huffed indignantly, but the smile pulling the corners of his mouth ruined the effect. He sobered a moment later. "I hope whatever you learn...helps you somehow."

Jon nodded, solemn. "I need to learn the truth, one way or another."

"Just...promise you won't kill anyone," Sam grimaced.

"I won't." Jon reached down (though not far) to scratch his direwolf behind the ear. "Can't speak for Ghost, however." The dozing wolf snorted in his sleep.

Jon was a man of strong emotion. He wanted nothing more than to saddle a horse and ride off for Ironoak that very instant. In his youth he would have given in to the desire without a thought, but the years had tempered such impulsiveness. He made all necessary arrangements for his absence from Black Castle before leaving. The other senior officers insisted he take along more men other than just his steward. There were still outlaws and Wildlings out there who wouldn't show any qualms about attacking men of the Night's Watch. As if Ghost weren't enough of a deterrent, Jon thought sourly.

He and his escort left at first light. Jon smiled as he watched his direwolf run ahead. It had been far too long since they'd left the confines of the keep. If any good came from this journey, at least they could enjoy their time outdoors.

Ironoak was many leagues from the Wall. By the time they got there, the man Grenn claimed he saw could be long gone. Jon hoped not. He wanted to confront him as soon as possible, get it all over with quickly.

Jon and his men encountered Grenn's party of recruits halfway into the journey. The men from both groups all dismounted to greet their brothers. Jon and Grenn met in a fierce embrace. It had been several months since they last saw each other. "Looks live you've collected quite a crop of recruits," the Lord Commander observed.

Grenn nodded. "Yeah, most of 'em are pretty green. But they should do well enough if they survive Ser Alliser's training." Both men shared a chuckle. Ser Alliser Thorne had been Master-at-Arms at Castle Black since long before they joined the watch. Thorne's harsh training of the new recruits was legendary, as was his boundless contempt towards anyone he viewed as inept - which meant everyone. It was from him that Jon first received the nickname "Lord Snow." Oh, their hatred of each other was boundless back then. They disliked each other even now, but a grudging respect had grown between them during the war against the White Walkers.

Jon's smile waned as he brought up more serious matters. "Did you learn anything else about the man you saw?"

Grenn sighed. "Not much, I'm afraid. All I know for sure is he doesn't live in Ironoak. There were plenty of merchants and traders comin' in with the end of winter. From the way he was dressed, I'm thinkin' he's a woodcutter. Ironoak's got a sawmill and there's quite a few villages scattered out in the woods that deal in lumber. I didn't get a chance to question the miller, but I'm guessin' he'll remember a face like the one I saw. He should be able to point you to the right village."

Jon nodded thoughtfully.

Grenn cleared his throat and shifted his weight on his good leg. "Er, there's somethin' else you should know."

Jon looked at him. "What?"

"The man, he...had a girl with him. She looked about ten years old. His daughter."

A frown worked its way between his eyebrows. "A daughter? It can't be Clegane, then." He couldn't imagine the Hound ever settling down to have a family.

Grenn shook his head. "I don't know. She had this look to her."

"What 'look'?"

"Well," Grenn fidgeted, "She had a look that reminded me of you and that sister of yours."

"Arya."

"Aye. Kind of a Stark-ish look." Grenn observed his friend's reaction carefully. He could see the rising anger as the implications of what he said struck home. There was a time when Jon would have exploded. "I could be wrong," Grenn hastened to assure him.

Jon gave a sharp nod. "I hope you are."

The journey home did not take as long, mainly because most of the wagons were now empty, allowing the oxen to go a bit faster with fewer rests. A few of them carried fresh supplies: sacks of grain, vegetables and seeds, bolts of cloth, and even a few crates of live chickens. People in Oaktree once kept laying hens, but the birds were all eaten during the winter. With any luck, the villagers would soon enjoy fresh eggs once again.

Catelyn was anxious to see home again. She'd enjoyed the adventure, but she missed her mum and little brothers, and Maester Tolbert, and all her friends. She couldn't wait to tell them about everything she'd seen and that she met an actual man of the Night's Watch! Everybody would be so jealous.

Sandor was even more homesick than his daughter. He longed to see his wife again, and his sons. They must have grown some while he was gone. Zander might even be taking his first steps soon. No matter how many children he had, every little milestone felt like a miracle. Sandor hoped he wouldn't miss any of Zander's.

"Papa!" Cat excitedly pointed ahead. She was seated in front of her father on Demon, her other hand gripping the pommel of the saddle.

Sandor looked at where she pointed and smiled at the familiar sight of the village in its clearing, the white boughs of the Old Man towering at its center. He could tell from Cat's squirming that she was fighting the urge to jump from the saddle and run ahead, even though they were still miles out. "We'll get there soon enough, Little Cat," he promised, though truthfully, he was tempted to quicken their horse's pace. But that wouldn't be wise. Just because home was in sight didn't mean there were no dangers to encounter. Staying together was best for everyone in the convoy.

The entire village turned out to welcome them back. Families and friends cried out loved ones' names and there was much embracing and happy tears shed.

When he saw his family ahead Sandor all but leaped from the saddle, pausing only to help his daughter down before they rushed ahead. Eddard and Morden ran screaming, "Papa! Papa!" until they crashed into his legs. Sandor scooped them both up and hugged them close while Catelyn ran past to meet her mother and baby Zander. As Sandor walked with the boys in his arms, they chattered enthusiastically, their clashing voices rendering their words meaningless. When he reached the rest of his family he set them down with a kiss to each of their brows. Catelyn was holding Zander, laughing as the baby squealed and gabbled happily. Sandor looked at his smiling wife for a heartbeat, then abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Gods, I've missed you," he whispered hoarsely, then kissed her hard, uncaring if the whole world could see them. Sansa returned the kiss with equal fervor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moaned softly. Sandor ended the kiss with a grin. "Careful. You keep making noise like that and I can't be responsible for my actions."

Sansa laughed.

They gathered their things from one of the wagons and headed home. Sandor tended to Demon as fast as he could, eager to join his family inside the house. By the time he got there he saw that Cat was already handing out presents. The two older boys were thrilled with their marionettes, fighting a mock battle between the knight and the goose. Zander was squeezing his rabbit-fur dog and tried to chew one of the ears off before Sansa stopped him. Sandor helped his daughter with the rest of the gifts. The new cloaks, Sansa's sewing threads, and the little cakes they bought from the baker. The boys were all too eager to wolf them all down in one sitting, but Sansa only permitted them one each. "You can have more after supper," she stated firmly. The children groaned, but obeyed.

That evening Sansa cooked a splendid meal from the supplies the convoy had brought. Smoked ham, buttered turnips, cooked greens, and fresh baked bread. When they were done the children were allowed to eat more of the cakes before settling in front of the hearth to play with their new toys. Sandor sat in his big chair and watched his wife playing with the baby. He wanted nothing more than to snatch her up and take her to their room so he could make love to her all night, but that would have to wait until the children were asleep.

There came a knock at the door. Sansa rose and hurried to answer it. She beamed and embraced the woman who entered their home. "Thank you so much for coming, Ela!"

Elanor was the village midwife, a kindly gray-haired woman who'd ushered generations of children into the world (alongside Maester Tolbert in recent years), including all of Sansa's. But none of her own. The gods had not seen fit to bless her in that way. Elanor insisted they made up for her barrenness by giving her a calling, making her, in a sense, everyone's mother.

"Ela!" Catelyn cried as she rushed into the older woman's open arms.

"Look at you," the midwife declared, "You've gotten taller since you were away!"

Not to be overlooked, the boys immediately hurried over to show her their new toys. Sandor stared over all their heads to meet his wife's gaze. Her smile confirmed his suspicion as to why she invited Elanor to their home.

"Children," Sansa spoke up, "How would you all like to spend the night in Ela's house?"

A chorus of cheers greeted this proposal. Spending the night with Ela was like visiting a grandparent. She was bound to spoil them. Even Cat, who'd been looking forward to sleeping in her own bed again, was thrilled.

"Alright then, little ones," Elanor shooed them, "Go get your things and we'll be off."

There was a minor stampede as three sets of feet scurried off to collect nightclothes and whatever other essentials they needed for a night's sleep. Elanor picked up Zander while Sansa packed a small bag of the baby's things.

"Thank you for doing this," Sansa said, handing over the bag and hugging the older woman.

"Oh, it's hardly a chore, love," the midwife assured her. "Come on now, little ones!" she called out.

The children trotted back with their things balled up and tucked under their arms. Their parents kissed them all and admonished them to behave themselves, then Elanor herded them all out the door.

The moment they were alone, Sandor swept his wife into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips. "Clever woman."

Sansa giggled and looped her arms around his neck. "Not clever. Merely determined to give my husband a proper welcome home without fear of interruption."

Sandor chuckled warmly and carried her into their bedchamber. He gently placed her in their bed. Sansa pulled him down for another kiss.

"Wait," Sandor abruptly straightened, "Forgot something."

"What?" Sansa watched as he left the room and returned a moment later with a small wrapped bundle in his hands. He placed it on her lap with a grin. "Open it."

Smiling, she did so and gasped at the contents. "Are those...?"

Sandor nodded. His wife clapped her hands with a gleeful cry of, "Lemoncakes!" There were a dozen of the little squares. She immediately picked one up and bit into it.

"They might've gone a bit stale," Sandor warned her, his tone a shade nervous.

Sansa's eyes drifted closed at her first taste of the little pastry. The chewed slowly, her appreciative moan causing her husband's pulse to quicken and his trousers to become increasingly uncomfortable.

"Delicious." She licked the crumbs from her lips. "Gods, it's been years since I've last eaten these. Would you like one?" She held a cake out to him, a coy smile on her face.

Sandor picked up the remaining cakes and set them out of the way on the side table. "I'm hungry for something sweeter," he said, grabbing her by the waist and yanking her towards him. Sansa's laughter sang in his ears as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Elanor's home was one of the oldest in the village. So old its sod roof draped over the sides, giving it the look of a hillock with windows and a door. Inside was small and cozy. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the cottage with a pleasant scent. Elanor's knowledge of herbal lore was vast, though centered around her craft. The right herbs could ease the pain of childbirth, avert miscarriage, reduce swelling of the ankles, or prevent pregnancy altogether. There were remedies for cramps during a woman's moonblood, others that encouraged the production of breastmilk, and some that brought vitality to anemic expectant mothers.

There was also a certain remedy, known about by very few of the men, that ended pregnancy. Elanor almost never used this potion, save as a last resort. The most recent incidents were during the winter, when the Long Night was at its worst and nothing grew in the glasshouses for lack of light. When extra mouths would have used up their meager supplies all the sooner. Elanor was grateful those dark days were over.

The children were all tucked up in their bedrolls before the hearth, and Zander lay in a crib that was almost as old as Elanor herself. All the boys were sound asleep, their little faces content. Yet Catelyn's eyes remained open, gazing up at the bundles of herbs dangling from the rafters. Elanor moved to kneel beside the girl. "Are you not tired, sweetling?" She ran a gentle hand through Cat's dark hair.

Catelyn shook her head. "I'm tired. I just can't stop thinking."

The midwife smiled in understanding. "Come. I'll make you some tea that will help you sleep."

Cat rose from her bedroll and followed the old woman into the kitchen area, still clutching her doll. She sat at the table, legs dangling from the chair, and watched Elanor crush a mixture of dried leaves with a mortar and pestle, pour them into an earthen mug, then add not water from a kettle she retrieved from the hearth. Fragrant steam rose from the mug. Elanor pushed it in front of the girl and took a seat on the other side of the table. "We'll let that steep for a while."

Catelyn's eyes wandered over the cluttered shelves lining the walls. It reminded her of Maester Tolbert's chambers. There were jars of ointments, vials of powders and tinctures. Elanor kept a small glasshouse where she raised most of the ingredients. It fascinated Cat to know that so many things could be done with mere plants.

"What troubles you, little one?" the midwife's voice jarred her from her reverie.

"Nothing."

The old woman cocked an eyebrow.

Cat's eyes lowered to the scarred tabletop. Her finger picked at a deep gouge in the wood that had darkened with age. "Papa kept telling me to stay close. When we got to Ironoak there were so many people everywhere, all closed-in and noisy, and I didn't know any of 'em."

"It frightened you."

"A little," she mumbled, "At first. But there were so many new things to see, and after a while all those people didn't bother me anymore. They were like...part of the town, you know? Like the buildings."

Elanor nodded her understanding.

"Anyway, I saw something I wanted to get a better look at, so I started runnin' to it," because she always ran whenever she could, "and I forgot about Papa. I was only away from him a little while, and I heard him yell my name, so I ran back."

"Was your father angry with you?"

Cat nodded. "Yeah. He talked at me like he was wanting to yell, but didn't. I told him I was sorry, and I was...sort of," the girl smirked, earning her a chuckle from the midwife. Then Catelyn's face grew serious. "But he wouldn't let go of my hand the whole rest of the day. And he kept lookin' at me, not mad, but like..."

"Like he was afraid," Elanor finished for her.

Catelyn chewed her lip. "I thought nothing ever scared Papa."

"Oh, there are many things that frighten him. Things that would frighten any sane man," Elanor assured her. She indicated the steaming mug. "Try the tea now."

Cat picked it up with both hands, blew on it, and took a sip. The tea had a milder flavor than she expected, considering its strong scent.

"Do you want some honey in it?" Elanor asked. The girl nodded. Elanor got up to retrieve a small crock of crystallized honey. She used a wooden spoon to add a scoop of honey to the tea and stir it in. Catelyn tasted it again and smiled to let her know it was better. Elanor sat back down. "Your parents didn't always live in this village. Did you know this?"

Cat blinked in surprise, shook her head. There were lots of woodcutters who came to Oldtree from somewhere else, but it never really occurred to her that her parents were among them. It made sense, though, the way they acted sometimes. The little things they let slip, then tried to ignore when questioned about them.

"They came with the winter," the midwife told her, "during that first terrible snowstorm that swept in from nowhere. Maester Tolbert arrived only that morning, driven to Oldtree by that same storm. Everyone thought it a miracle that he found the village at all. The blizzard was ferocious, with killing winds that some believed sounded like the screams of the White Walkers, and blinding snow that made you feel as if there was nothing left but you and the terrible cold. Everyone was huddled in their cottages around their hearths, praying to whatever gods might listen that the storm would end before the firewood ran out. Maester Tolbert was here in my home with his cage of half-frozen ravens. The poor mule that had carried him here lay dead outside and buried under a deep snowdrift. We ended up eating it weeks later."

Cat's eyes were wide as she listened in rapt attention. Her mug of tea sat forgotten before her.

Elanor continued. "Imagine the shock when there came a thudding at my door. I thought the wind was throwing balls of hail around until I heard a man's voice shouting to be let in! As soon as I opened the door, your father barged through leading that foul-tempered horse of his."

"Stranger," Catelyn said, dimly remembering Demon's sire.

The old woman nodded. "And draped across the horse's back was your mother, wrapped in her cloak and every blanket they had. To this day I cannot believe she survived unscathed, and your father only lost three toes to the frostbite. Two on his left foot and one on his right.

"So here we all were, squeezed into this little cottage waiting out the blizzard. Me, Maester Tolbert and his ravens, that huge horse, your parents, and you," she smiled fondly, "Just a little bump in your mum's belly."

Catelyn stared as she took it all in. "Where'd they come from?" she asked, "Before they came here?"

"They never said," Elanor replied, "And none here ever asked."

"Why not?"

The old woman paused to consider the best way to explain. "Some of those who come to Oldtree have histories they feel are best forgotten. Things they'd done, or were done to them. They come to this village running away from something and end up finding a home, family, acceptance. Whatever may have been lacking in their old lives. Their pasts no longer matter, so they are never discussed."

Cat pondered this. "So...it's like the Night's Watch?" She knew many men of the Watch were once criminals, but once they took the black and said their vows, it was like their past needs never happened.

"I suppose it is, in a way," Elanor agreed.

The girl frowned in thought. "What were my parents running from?"

"You'll have to ask them," the old woman said, "But I can tell you that the world beyond Oldtree is not always a kind place, and often it is the good and innocent people who suffer most in it."

When Catelyn finally slept that night, she dreamed of her parents struggling through endless white, her mother huddled on Stranger's back, her father leading the destrier through the blowing snow, his other arm thrown up to shield his face from the biting wind. Walking, walking, walking forever...