A/N: Woo-hoo! Over 2,100 hits on this story. Thanks to everybody who's been following, faving, and reviewing. Here's the next chappie! :-)
Disclaimer: I wish I could say I owned something from Game of Thrones. Or at least Rory McCann. Sadly, I don't.
The fire was running low in the hearth, but Sandor paid it no heed. He paced restlessly in the main room of the newly built cottage. The walls still smelled of cut wood and the mud daubed between the logs. That was an unexpected chore, needing to thaw out the frozen dirt, cooking it in pots like stew before they could use it to fill in the chinks. But it was worth it. The house was sound. A good place to raise a family in.
A muffled cry from the next room jolted him from his musings. Sandor's gaze was drawn to the closed door leading to the bedchamber. Their bedchamber, though Sandor was banished from it thanks to that bitch Elanor and Maester Tolbert. Who were they to tell him he couldn't be with his own wife? He was half tempted to kick in the door and tell them both what they could do with their bloody propriety.
The door opened briefly to allow the midwife through. She immediately shut it behind her and walked over to the hearth. She noticed the dying embers and fixed Sandor with a disapproving glare. She indicated the kettle hanging from its hook over the hearth. "This water needs to boil."
Sandor felt a wave of guilt, far more than her rebuke warranted. "I forgot," he mumbled.
Elanor sighed and grabbed the poker to stir some life into the fire. She added a couple of logs, then turned away and, with a final admonishment to Sandor to please tend the fire, returned to the bedchamber.
The hours continued to creep by at a snail's pace. Sandor wandered aimlessly about the room, too restless to sit down. The sounds of agony from the other room only made the wait that much harder to bear. Part of him wanted to barge into the bedchamber, while another part wanted to throw on his coat and cloak and run out into the cold. The only thing that served to distract him were the moments he tended the fire. His skittishness around the hearth would have been embarrassing had there been anyone around to witness it. He stood as far from the flames as he could while he stretched his arm out to prod the coals with the poker. When he added fresh logs, he tossed them in from a couple of feet away and jumped back cursing when the clouds of embers flared up.
Elanor returned at one point to fetch the now steaming kettle. When Sandor asked how much longer it would be, she responded with, "It will happen in its own time." Sandor took it to mean she was talking out of her arse.
He wasn't certain how many hours had passed when Sansa's cries suddenly ended. For the briefest moment Sandor felt icy fingers of dread working through his guts, then the distinctive wail of a newborn rang out and Sandor nearly collapsed in relief.
Moments later Maester Tolbert stepped out, wiping his hands on a cloth and grinning happily. "Mother and child are doing well. Absolutely no complica-"
Sandor ran past him and entered the bedchamber. His wide eyes took in the bloodstained sheets which Elanor was gathering, as well as the bizarre contrast of a sweaty, exhausted Sansa beaming up at him with a tiny bundle in her arms. "It's a girl," she told him.
Sandor stumbled over and fell to his knees beside the bed. One large hand gently wiped the damp hair from her brow while the other covered one of her hands which clutched the bundle. "You're alright?" he asked, a tremble in his voice. Every story he remembered of women dying horribly in childbed kept running through his mind even now that it was over.
His wife nodded. Her smile widened. "Look," she carefully pulled back the soft blanket to reveal a tiny wizened face, "Isn't she darling?"
Sandor looked at his newborn daughter in dismay. He thought babies were supposed to be cute, but this one was all purple and pruny. Was that normal? Sansa didn't seem alarmed. From the look on her face, it was the most precious thing she'd ever seen. Something had to be wrong with him, then. He knew it. He was a terrible father, and the child was only minutes old!
"Would you like to hold her?" Sansa held the newborn out to him, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Though apparently not to the terror that flashed through his eyes at her suggestion. "It's alright. She won't break."
Sandor's gaze passed from the fragile little creature in its swaddlings to his big brutish hands. It seemed all too likely that he'd crush her. Unfortunately, his wife didn't give him the chance to say no. She directed him to arrange his arms just so, then gently laid the tiny bundle in them. Sandor sat stiffly with the baby in the cradle of his arms. He'd never felt more out of his depth than he did right then. His daughter blinked up at him, seemingly puzzled by this huge, hairy lummox that suddenly replaced her mother. Her eyes were a dark shade of blue.
"She has your eyes," Sandor said.
"All newborns start with blue eyes," Elanor's voice startled him. He'd forgotten the midwife was still in the room. "They'll soon change into their true color," she concluded. With a smile and a nod at the new family, she gathered up the bloodied bedclothes and left them to their privacy.
"Perhaps she'll have your eyes," Sansa said, "She already has your hair."
What little there is of it, Sandor thought. But she was right, the baby's head was covered in black fuzz.
The newborn started to squirm. Her tiny fists waved about, then she uttered a faint grunt and turned her head towards Sandor's chest. She made a nuzzling motion as she instinctively searched for a breast that wasn't there. Sandor found himself smiling at the baby's rooting.
"See?" Sansa teased, "She won't hurt you."
Sandor disagreed. One day this little girl would break his heart. He handed the infant back to her mother and climbed into the other side of the bed. He put his arm around Sansa's shoulders and watched as she undid the laces at the front of her shift and bared her breast. Their daughter quickly latched on and began to suck.
Sansa rested her head on her husband's shoulder. "What should we name her?"
Sandor couldn't think of a single name for the child. "You bore her," he said, "You name her."
Sansa gave a tired laugh, then after a thoughtful silence said, "Catelyn."
Her husband considered, then nodded in approval. Yes, Catelyn felt right. "Little Cat," he murmured. He reached over and gently stroked the baby's cheek with one finger. Catelyn's little hand suddenly reached up to grab hold of it and Sandor marveled at the strength of her grip. I was this small once, he realized with awe and wondered how he survived at all with Gregor for an older brother. His own father had been emotionally absent for as long as Sandor could remember. He wasn't a cruel man, he was just...there. He never once did anything to protect his younger son. And Sandor had needed his protection desperately.
It won't be like that for you, Little Cat, he silently promised his nursing daughter. As long as he lived he would do whatever it took to keep her life free of the fear and pain her father knew all too well.
"Aye, I remember 'im," said the grizzled man who ran the sawmill. He was squat and balding, with sawdust sprinkled all over him. He scratched his bearded chin and muttered, "'Ard to forget a face like that, 'specially on a giant like 'im."
"Do you know which village he came from?" Jon asked.
The miller nodded. "Oh, aye. I know where he's from, sure enough."
Jon waited, expectant. The man gazed mildly back. Jon sighed, "Well?"
"Well what?"
He honestly couldn't tell if the man was playing stupid or not. "What is the name of the village?"
The man scratched his balding pate and a rain of sawdust sprinkled down like dandruff. "'E came with the convoy from Oldtree. Stands to reason 'at's where he returned."
"And where is Oldtree?"
The man snorted. "How the seven 'ells should I know? They come to me, I don't go t' them."
Jon gritted his teeth and thanked the man for his help. As he and his men started to leave the miller called out, "Oy! What's 'e done anyway?"
Jon replied over his shoulder, "Probably nothing."
They got rooms at an inn. Jon, his steward Farlen, and the two rangers Aron Frey and Kirken Snow. The inn was full to bursting with merrymakers. Jon sat alone in a dark corner nursing a mug of ale and watching his men at their carousing. He wished he could muster the enthusiasm to join in. It would be nice to shed his brooding thoughts for a while.
They would go to see Lord Larch tomorrow. Chances were he might know something about the location of Oldtree. At the very least he would have maps of the surrounding territories. And once he finally got there, he would know.
It had been years since Jon last saw the Hound, years ago when King Robert and his party arrived in Winterfell. Jon only saw Sandor Clegane in passing, but he never forgot that man's face. Not a single detail. Especially not since he heard the Hound had taken Sansa. Gods only knew what he did to her. Sandor's reputation was nearly as brutal as his brother's.
Jon's thoughts turned to what Grenn had told him when they met on the road, about the little girl. Was it possible Clegane had settled down with a woman and started a family? His first impulse was to say no, it couldn't be. But people could change. Jon knew this from experience. Sometimes people changed beyond all recognition.
And if the man he sought really was Sandor Clegane, what then? Take him into custody? Drag him all the way to Winterfell to let Bran sit in judgment of him? Jon needed to think on this. One thing he was certain of, he was damn well going to find out what happened to his sister. One way or another.
The next morning after they broke their fast (and Farlen availed himself of the inkeep's hangover remedy), Jon and his companions rode for Ironoak Keep. Along the way Ghost suddenly appeared, trotting at Jon's side. Ghost didn't do so well in towns, preferring to stick to the woods while Jon was there. Jon's horse only gave a faint start, then settled back to a calmer gait. Like most mounts from Black Castle, it was used to the direwolf's presence.
Lord Willem Larch was an affable man with ginger hair and a full beard. He took personal pride in knowing all the minor villages and holdings under his banner, and where they were.
"I was planning on an extended jaunt to these places in the near future," Lord Larch informed them as he unrolled a large map that nearly took up the entire table. It was beautifully detailed, right down to the smallest landmarks. "Some of these villages were completely cut off from the world during the winter. Sad to say, not all of them made it through the Long Night." Larch squinted over the map, a single blunt fingertip poised. A moment later, he brought that finger down. "Here it is! Oldtree."
Jon peered down at the spot the man indicated. The village was represented by a circle with a tiny drawing of a white tree at its center. He noted the route he and his men would need to take to reach this place and repressed a groan. There were Wildling strongholds that were easier to get to. The journey was bound to take weeks.
We've come this far, he told himself. He looked up at the older man. "May I make a copy of this, my lord?"
"Certainly. May I ask what is so compelling about this village?"
"There is a man there I must see."
Perhaps it was something in his tone that gave the lord pause. Larch's bushy eyebrows drew together in concern. "Has this man done something?"
"Probably nothing." Jon had a feeling he'd be saying that a lot.
The days were getting warmer. A person from the South would still consider it terribly cold, but the villagers were already wearing fewer layers outdoors. Catelyn liked it this way. Fewer layers made it easier to climb.
She sat amid the higher branches of the Old Man, her head tilted back, enjoying the late afternoon rays. At first she hated the sunshine. It hurt her eyes. She was used to cloud cover and gray light. But she liked it now. Everything looked more real in the sunshine. She pulled off a glove and held her hand out, smiling at the way the sunlight filtered through the weirwood's red leaves, turning her skin a fiery hue. The world was so colorful now. And Mum said it would soon get even more so, once the flowers started to bloom. Cat had seen drawings of different flowers in one of Maester Tolbert's books. They weren't colored, though. They only had the descriptions written underneath them, along with the plants' properties and uses in medicines.
She slipped her glove back on and turned her attention to the view. With the sky now clear, she was able to see farther than ever before. She could make out the edges of the valley where the village lay, the mountains in the distance, and even the thread-like line of the road curving around and over them.
Catelyn squinted as movement in the distance caught her attention. Black specks they looked like, but as she watched they got steadily bigger. She started to make out some detail. Horses. Men on horseback. Three or four of them. Strangers coming here? Cat leaned over in her excitement, almost falling from her perch until a hasty grab at an overhead branch stayed her. Part of her knew she should probably go tell somebody about this, but couldn't bring herself to turn away from the sight of unfamiliar people coming ever closer. Just a little while longer, she told herself, Then I'll go let Mum know.
They were in the village now. Everyone who was outside stopped whatever they were doing to gape at the newcomers. Most of the onlookers were women and children, since all the woodcutters were off felling more trees. Catelyn could now see the strangers clearly. Four of them, all riding tough little garrons. The one in the lead had the classic black hair and sturdy build of a Northman. Beside him rode a younger man, beardless with curly light brown hair. The other two riding behind were closer to the leader in age, one with long stringy blonde hair and a thin beard, the other with much darker hair and a prominent scar across his right cheek. All of them were dressed entirely in black. They were men of the Night's Watch!
A hundred excited questions clamored through Cat's head. What were they doing here? Were they lost? Were they out recruiting? If so, why come all the way out here to this tiny village?
The leader paused by a group of women and spoke to them. Catelyn couldn't make out what they said, but she saw one of the women point in the direction that the woodcutters had gone early that morning. Since the evening would soon approach, the men were likely to return soon. The man of the Watch said something else that seemed to make the women nervous. A few of them shook their heads while the rest averted their eyes. Cat wished she had better ears so she could hear what the man was saying.
There was movement at the corner of her eye and she turned her head to see the men trickling back into the village, many carrying axes and saws. They were tired as usual from the day's work, but they all tensed when they saw the Black Brothers. The men of the watch urged their mounts closer to the woodcutters, which coincidentally also brought them closer to the weirwood in which Catelyn was perched. The leader called out in a voice that rang of authority, "I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I am looking for a man that one of my brothers saw in the holdfast of Ironoak."
Harald Gorge, a burly gray-haired woodcutter who was also one of the village elders, answered in his booming voice, "An' what makes ye think this man yer lookin' for is here in Oldtree, m'lord?"
"I asked the man who worked the sawmill in Ironoak," Jon Snow replied, "The man I described was distinct enough for him to remember which convoy he was with."
Harald rested his ax on his shoulder and idly scratched his scraggly beard with his free hand. Two of his fingers were missing, the result of an accident years back involving a slipped sawblade. "Well, I know everyone in this village. Describe this man to me and I'll let ye know if he's one o' ours."
"He's a big man," Snow said, "Well over six foot. One side of his face is covered in burn scars."
Catelyn's gasp was too quiet to be heard by those below her. She tightened her grip on the branch above her. What could the Night's Watch want with her Papa?
Harald pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "Can't say as I know such a man. P'raps the miller got it wrong. Either that or he was havin' a laugh."
The Lord Commander looked unconvinced. "The miller was quite certain. He told us plain this man was of Oldtree. This is Oldtree?"
"Aye, it is," Harald answered coolly, "But there's no man like that here."
From where Catelyn sat, high up in the Old Man's boughs, she easily saw her father approaching down the woodland path, his ax resting on his shoulder. Soon he would be over the slight rise and in view of the Black Brothers. A couple of fellow woodcutters noticed him as well and tried to intercept him without the Night's Watch men noticing, but they weren't fast enough. Cat saw the four mounted men tense as they saw her father. He saw them at almost the same instant and halted, his grip tightening on his ax's handle.
Jon Snow leaped down from his horse and drew his sword. Its blade gleamed like no kind of metal Cat had ever seen before, beautiful and deadly. The stormy look on Snow's face matched the barely suppressed rage in his voice as he all but snarled out, "What did you do with my sister, Hound?"
Catelyn watched her Papa slowly lower the ax from his shoulder and grip it in both hands. He answered in a deceptively calm voice, "No more than what she asked for."
His words only seemed to intensify the Lord Commander's anger. He began to march towards Cat's father while behind him his brothers dismounted and drew their weapons as well. The villagers all gaped at the scene. None seemed willing to interfere, not even Harald. They all just stood there wide-eyed while the swordsmen came at their quarry.
"Papa!" Catelyn cried out. She started to climb down the tree as fast as she could, heedless of where she put her hands and feet. Then she heard a lout crack and felt the branch she'd put her weight on - a branch she always avoided before because she'd felt how brittle it was - snap beneath her and send her tumbling. She flailed helplessly, her small body slamming into more branches, bouncing and rolling as she dropped, until suddenly there were no more branches between her and the hard ground.
Sandor felt as if his guts turned to water the moment he saw his little girl fall. He didn't remember dropping his ax, didn't even think about it until another woodcutter returned it to him much later. He ran past all the shocked faces - including the four men he was about to fight only seconds ago - and dropped to his knees beside his daughter's supine form. She was battered and bloody, but still conscious. When Sandor helped her sit up she clutched her head in both hands and starting whimpering. Tears leaked from her eyes and smeared the dirt on her cheeks.
"It's alright, Little Cat," he scooped her up in his arms, "I've got you."
"Papa..." She was crying in earnest now, frightened and in pain. Sandor fought the growing tightness in his own throat and continued uttering soothing words as he got to his feet and started carrying her towards Maester Tolbert's house. He did not even waste a glance on Snow and his Black Brothers as he hurried past with his precious burden. They gawked at his retreating back, their swords still in their hands until they finally noticed and sheathed them once again.
What the seven hells just happened? Jon's baffled mind wondered. When he saw that little girl fall, the first thing that sprang to his mind was Bran. His poor little brother lying broken on the ground. And the look on Sandor Clegane's face was just like the look on Ned Stark's when he found out what happened to his second-youngest son. Jon couldn't believe the man gently comforting his weeping daughter was the same Hound that he and his brothers were about to clash with only a moment ago. It made no sense.
Jon became aware of the angry glares of the villagers. He regretted his earlier behavior. It was foolish and impulsive, the sort of thing he would have done in his youth. He'd worked hard to become the sort of man who thought before he acted, but one look at that unmistakable scarred face, and the only thought in his head right then was for his long-vanished sister.
He turned to his brothers. "Stay with the horses. I'm going after him."
"Shouldn't you at least take one of us along?" Aron Frey asked, eying the locals warily, "In case someone's in a mind t' stab you in the back?"
Jon shook his head. "No. It'll be better if I try to speak to him on my own."
Kirken Snow snorted, "Good luck with that, m'lord."
Jon started after Sandor only to find his way blocked by the stout form of Harald Gorge. "I think ye've done enough, Lord Snow. Why don't you take yer men and be on your way?"
Jon held up his hands. "I meant no harm-"
"Oh, really? That why ye drew yer sword on one o' my neighbors?"
"That man is Sandor Clegane, the Hound."
Harald shrugged his broad shoulders. "Not to anyone here in Oldtree. Him an' his wife have been nothin' but good, decent folk all the years they've been living here. They did their part to help Oldtree survive the Long Night, and none here can say they ever shied from hard work and doin' their duty."
"That's as may be," Jon sighed, "But long before he came here, Sandor Clegane took my half-sister, the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, from King's Landing. He's the only one who knows what happened to her."
"So, it's a personal quest yer on," Harald quirked a bushy eyebrow, "An' here I thought you men o' the Night's Watch swore off old family ties and such."
Jon took a breath and let it slowly out through his nose. "Please," he forced out as calmly as he could, "I give you my word, I only wish to speak with him."
"Hmph," Harald grunted, "That sword o' yers better stay in its sheath, Lord Snow. We may not be soldiers, but every man here knows how t' swing an ax."
"I understand."
The village elder led Jon to the only building that stood two stories high. From the cawing coming from the open windows, Jon guessed the second floor was a rookery. He followed Harald inside to find himself in a cluttered solar. Everywhere he looked were books and jars and bottles of every shape and size. Just like every other maester's domain.
The little girl who'd fallen from the tree was seated on the edge of a table, sniffling quietly while the brown-robed maester tended her wounds. Clegane stood off to the side, out of the maester's way. He was holding the little girl's hand and trying his best not to look worried.
"I don't think it is too serious," Maester Tolbert said in his reassuring way, "All those tree branches seem to have slowed her fall somewhat, though they certainly left their share of bruises and abrasions." After daubing some ointment onto the back of the girl's head, he picked up a candle and moved it back and forth in front of her eyes to check her pupils' reactions. He seemed satisfied with the results. "Her reflexes are all normal. No signs of concussion. I believe the worst she has is a rather painful bump on the head."
A slump of the shoulders revealed Sandor's relief at those words.
Tolbert poured a measure of liquid into a small cup and handed it to the girl. "Drink this, sweetling. It will help with the pain."
The girl sniffled and drank obediently. She grimaced at the odd taste and handed the empty cup back to the maester, who then turned to her father and admonished him to bring her back immediately should her condition change at all. Sandor thanked the older man and Tolbert walked away to continue whatever task had been interrupted by their arrival.
Jon watched in bemusement as the Hound gently wiped the tears from the child's face and murmured something that made her smile. He then picked her up and she wound her thin little arms around his neck, utterly trusting.
When Sandor turned to the door and saw Jon standing there with Harald, a scowl worked its way across his scarred face. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.
"How is the girl?" Jon asked.
"Fine." No thanks to you, his tone implied.
Jon turned to the little girl. Looking at her now, he could clearly understand what Grenn had meant by her Stark-ish look. She reminded him of Arya. "I'm sorry for frightening you."
"You wanted to hurt my Papa," she accused.
Jon was at a loss at what to say. He had little experience speaking to children. How was he to explain it to her? "I...am sorry for that as well."
Sandor's glare didn't relent, even as he said to Jon, "You want to see your sister?"
Jon blinked in surprise. "She's here?"
"Come with me." The left the maester's house and started down the street towards home.
"Do ye want me to come with, Sturm?" Harald asked.
Sandor shook his head. The village elder gave a brief farewell and went off in a different direction, leaving Sandor and his daughter alone with Jon.
A huge white form suddenly trotted into view. Sandor jerked to a halt and his daughter gasped in his arms. "Issat a direwolf?" the child blurted.
"His name is Ghost," Jon said, scratching the beast behind the ear. "Don't worry, he won't hurt you."
Worry seemed to be the farthest thing from the girl's mind. "Can I pet him?"
Jon and Sandor exchanged wary looks, then Sandor bent down so the girl's outstretched hand could reach the direwolf. Ghost remained placidly still as the girl's fingers sank into his long fur. The child grinned in delight. Her eyes widened as something occurred to her. "You're Lord Snow the Valiant!" she declared.
Jon winced. Even out in the middle of nowhere there was no escaping that damned nickname. "Yes, but I would prefer it if you just called me Jon. And since you already know my name, it's only fair you share yours with me."
The girl glanced at her father, who frowned, but gave a slight nod. "My name's Catelyn," she said, "But most people call me Cat."
Jon felt a chill down his spine. He looked at Sandor, but couldn't read the man's face. "Catelyn?"
She nodded. "Mum said it was my grandmother's name."
Gods, it couldn't be. His sister and the Hound? He didn't want to believe it. Yet as they continued walking his stomach roiled while his denial weakened. Then they came to a cottage where two little boys played in the late afternoon sunlight and a woman applied fresh mud daub to the outer walls of the house, replacing what had worn away over time. In a basket by her feet a baby played happily with a furry toy hound.
"Little Bird," Sandor called, and the woman turned with a welcoming smile, only for it to change to a look of shock at Jon standing there with Ghost at his side. One look at her and Jon knew then that it could not be anyone else. The same light auburn hair, the same Tully blue eyes now wide with astonishment. It was her, alive and whole.
"Jon?"
He smiled. "Hello, Sansa."