A/N: Two chapters in one day! This one's another shortie.

Disclaimer: George R. R. Martin is my hero for creating this incredible world with its wonderful characters. Everything belongs to him, except my own OCs.

"No."

Sansa stared at her husband in disbelief. "You won't even discuss it?"

"There's nothing to discuss, Little Bird. One child is enough." He was seated in his chair, removing his boots. He acted like the laces were giving him trouble, but in truth he was just trying to avoid meeting his wife's eyes.

Sansa persisted, "But Maester Tolbert assured everyone that the Conclave in Oldtown believes the worst part of winter is over. Once there's enough light we can start growing crops in the glasshouses again. There's no reason not to have anymore children now."

"I said no, Little Bird."

Sansa threw her arms out in frustration. "Why? Why would you have Catelyn remain an only child?"

Dropping all pretense, Sandor kicked his boots aside and stood to face her. The look on his scarred face was uncompromising. "If we have another, our luck might not hold out this time."

"What are you talking about?"

He looked away. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Concerned, Sansa closed the distance between them and touched his arm. "Please do not turn from me. Tell me what you meant."

After a long pause, Sandor forced out between clenched teeth, "It could be a boy."

His wife frowned. "What if it is? Don't you want a son?"

"Gods, girl, you can't possibly be that thick," he spat, sounding for a moment like the Hound. He gripped her arms and loomed over her. "Look at me. Look at what my own brother did to me. It's not even the worst thing he's ever done. And I'm no better. I've cut down men who couldn't defend themselves. Killed women and children. And you're telling me you want to bring another monster like that into the world?"

Sansa gazed sorrowfully up at him. She reached up and touched the burnt half of his face. "You are no monster, my love."

"Gregor is," he insisted.

"Our son will not be Gregor."

Her husband snorted. "You don't know that, Little Bird."

"I do," she retorted, "He will not be like your brother because we won't let him. We will teach him kindness and goodness and he will grow up to be an honorable man. One we can be proud to call son."

Sandor shook his head, unable to believe her.

Sansa rested her other hand on his chest. "If you want me to keep using the tea Elanor makes, I will. But I won't take it forever. I want to have more of your children, girls and boys. Not only so Catelyn can have siblings to play with, but so you can have more people in the world who love you. Don't let your brother's monstrousness overshadow your happiness," she pleaded, "Think of the joy more children could bring."

Sandor's eyes closed as pain rippled across his face. He did not deserve such joy.

He felt Sansa's lips brush his. "It's alright," she murmured, "You don't have to decide now. It can wait." She kissed him again, and again, each kiss more lingering than before. "It's alright, my love."

Sandor pulled her close, deepening their kiss until they had to pull away gasping. He knew her desire for another child would eventually win out. He could never deny her whatever she wanted. But he was still afraid. What if she was wrong? What if there was something in him, some tainted part of him that might take root in his sons?

He thought about his daughter, as sweet and innocent as her mother, and yet one look at her left no doubt as to who her father was. She was his little miracle. More than that, she was his redemption. His Little Cat.

He did want more children with Sansa. If only for the chance of bringing more such miracles into this awful world.

Sandor had already left to begin another day of felling trees when Jon woke early the next morning. He broke his fast with his sister and her children, all sitting around the table chattering away. Jon marveled at how each child resembled Sandor as much as they did Sansa. The boys were big for their ages, would probably grow to be as big as their father when they came of age. And Catelyn, Jon could see a lot of Sandor in her. She had her mother's features, but her eyes were the exact shade of dark brown as her father's, and something about the way she frowned reminded him strongly of Clegane's intimidating scowl. Jon hoped she hadn't inherited Sandor's temper as well, otherwise gods help any man who drew her ire.

The children were full of questions for him, mostly about Ghost (Could they ride him like a pony?), the White Walkers (How many did he fight himself?), and the Wall (How big was it really?). When Jon pointed out that they could call him uncle, their excitement seemed to explode. Apparently having the legendary Lord Snow for their uncle was no small boast.

When they were done eating, Sansa reminded her daughter and two elder sons that they still had chores to do. The youngsters whined in protest, but obeyed. Jon insisted on clearing the table while Sansa set to cleaning up the baby, who seemed more interested in wearing his food than eating it. "I do believe you're the messiest one so far," she chided the infant, who giggled in response.

Jon gathered up the dishes and carried them to the basin to be washed. "You know, I expected more hostility from Clegane, especially considering I drew my sword on him."

Sansa laughed. "I think he was holding back for my sake."

"He was certainly reserved last night," Jon remarked.

"He's always been that way," Sansa said, "People didn't think of him as quiet because of his reputation as the Hound. The truth is he's one of the least talkative people I've ever known."

"That must aggravate you," Jon grinned.

His half-sister laughed, wrestling her youngest into fresh clothes. "At times," she confessed, "Getting him to tell me what he's thinking is often like prying open a rusted hinge." Like last night, she thought. She knew something troubled her husband, even if he pretended otherwise. It had to be about Jon, though she wasn't certain what it could be. Now that Jon knew she was with him willingly, there was no reason to worry that he might try to "rescue" her. It had to be something more than that. She recalled how little her husband said while she and Jon spoke of their family history. Sandor was a quiet man, but seldom that quiet. Perhaps it was because his own past held so few good memories? Did he feel left out? Sansa resolved to find out.

Meanwhile, out in the forest, Sandor hacked at the thick trunks of the trees as if they were his enemies. The other woodcutters knew of Jon Snow and his Black Brothers arriving, and how Snow turned out to be blood kin to Sandor's wife. Those who hadn't been there to witness the initial confrontation soon heard of it from others, as gossip flew threw the tiny village faster than the wind. The woodcutters were full of questions, but one look at the big man's stormy expression was enough to make their questions die in their throats. They kept their distance from him, and the trees continued to receive the brunt of his anger.

He'd worked himself into a lather and had to strip down until he wore only his trousers and boots. The thick hair on his chest clung damply to his skin, while sweat dripped from the unscarred half of his face. The burnt half never sweated. He swung his huge ax tirelessly, grunting each time the blade thunked into the wood. Chips flew and small flecks coated Sandor's arms, shoulders, face, and chest. Yet no matter how hard he swung, or how long he kept this pace, he could not distract himself from his anxieties. They ate at him, these thoughts. Kept him up all night until he finally rose with the predawn rays and left the house without breaking his fast. His stomach was all in knots.

Sandor told himself he was being ridiculous. Sansa loved him. She belonged with him. She would never leave him. But a sinister little voice in the back of his mind, silent for so many years, whispered that she deserved better than a worthless, ugly dog like him. That if she ever came to her senses she'd gather up the children and run back to Winterfell where she belonged. Crack! Sandor gawped at the splintered ax handle in his grip, the ax head still buried deep into the trunk of the tree.

"Seven buggering hells!" he snarled, flinging the useless ax handle away. He grabbed the ax head and, after much wiggling back and forth, managed to yank it free. It was then that he noticed the nearest woodcutters had paused to openly stare at him. A hard glare from him was enough to motivate them to turn away and get back to work.

Sandor stormed back to the village with the broken ax and went to Davon Carver's place to get the handle replaced. Davon was the village's woodcarver, who made everything from furniture to utensils to simple toys. Fitting a new handle to an ax was routine for him. He always kept extras on hand. Minutes later Sandor returned to the timber site and got back to taking his frustrations out on the trees.

Jon and his men stayed another two days. Sansa wished he could have stayed longer, but he had duties at the Wall that could not be put off forever. She and her family said their farewells to Jon outside. The children seemed more distraught that the direwolf would be leaving as well as their newfound uncle. Ghost tolerated their affections for a while before finally trotting away and vanishing into the surrounding wilderness. After that, the children said goodbye to Jon. He embraced each of them in turn, kissing their brows and promising to visit again as soon as he was able. He then picked up Zander and spun around with the baby in his arms until the infant squealed with delight. Jon handed the baby to Sandor with a nod and finally went to hug his half-sister.

"The raven I sent should reach Winterfell in a few days," he told her, "Knowing our siblings, they might be tempted to jump on their horses and ride straight for Oldtree without telling anyone."

Sansa looked concerned. "They won't, though?"

Jon chuckled, "No. Fortunately they were smart enough to surround themselves with sensible people. More likely they'll end up sending a large escort to bring you and your family to them."

Sansa experienced a flutter of excitement at the thought. "Oh, I hope they do," she said. She longed to see the ancient walls of the keep she grew up in, no matter their condition.

Jon mounted his garron and joined his waiting men. With a final wave, the Lord Commander and his Men of the Watch rode away from Oldtree to begin the long journey back to the Wall. As soon as they were out of sight, Sansa turned to her family and was startled when Sandor abruptly handed her the baby and walked back into the cottage without a word. The boys were oblivious to their father's brusque manner, still chattering about Ghost and how much fun their Uncle Jon was. Catelyn, however, frowned as Sandor disappeared through the cottage door. She looked at her mother and asked, "Is Papa mad?"

Sansa gave her daughter a reassuring smile. "No, sweetling. I think he just needs a little time to himself."

Cat didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded. Sansa was grateful the child didn't press the issue. Her husband's sullenness hadn't escaped her notice. She hadn't felt right about confronting him while Jon was there, but now that her half-brother was gone, Sansa decided it was time she and Sandor had a talk. She just needed to wait until there weren't so many young eyes and ears about.

Nighttime was often when husband and wife had their serious talks. With the children asleep and all the day's tasks complete, they were free to take the time to bring up whatever concerns or troubles they might have.

Sansa entered the bedchamber with a small jar of ointment she'd gotten from Maester Tolbert. She'd noticed the battered condition of Sandor's hands and knew he was pushing himself harder than usual at work. Sandor was seated on the edge of their bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the toes of his scuffed boots. He glanced up at his wife's approach, then let his gaze fall again. Sansa sat beside him and removed the lid from the jar. The ointment had a pungent, but not unpleasant scent. She placed the open jar on the side table and took Sandor's closest hand - the left one - in her own. Sandor offered no resistance, but neither did he look up. Sansa reached over to dab some of the ointment onto her fingertips and gently applied it to the cuts and scrapes she found. After a few moments of silence passed, she ventured to ask without looking up from her task, "What troubles you, husband?"

Sandor didn't answer at first. When his wife finished with his left hand and reached for the right, he shifted his position to make it easier for her, even though this meant he was now facing towards her. This made it harder for him to keep his gaze averted. His eyes kept being drawn towards her calm face, her slender neck, and the long plait of auburn hair that she had draped over one shoulder. She was still the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

When she was done treating his small wounds, she replaced the jar's lid and focused her blue gaze on him. She sat patiently, waiting for him to respond. Sandor swallowed and finally told her, "These past few days have been a reminder to me."

"Of what?" she asked.

"Of my failure."

Sansa frowned in confusion. "I don't understand. What failure?"

"When I took you away from King's Landing," he said, "I promised to get you home."

His wife's eyes widened in comprehension. Then, surprisingly, she laughed. "Oh, my love," she gripped his hands once again, "You didn't fail."

Sandor shook his head angrily. "Don't patronize me, woman. I said I would take you to Winterfell and I never did. All I did was drag you from one place to another, living like bandits while we scrabbled for whatever scraps we could find. Even now we-"

Sansa's fingers on his lips halted him mid-sentence. Sandor took in her stern expression and fell silent.

"Do not disparage what we have, husband," she said firmly, "I love this life we built together, hardships and all. I wouldn't change any of it. Yes, we never reached Winterfell, and I have missed it terribly," she moved both hands to cup both sides of his face, "but Winterfell is not my home anymore. You, our children, that is my home. So you see, you didn't fail, my love."

Sandor dared to feel a glimmer of hope. "And if your brothers and sister bring us to Winterfell, and ask you to stay..."

"I will tell them," Sansa replied without hesitation, "that my place is with you. If you decide to stay, we will stay. If you wish to return to Oldtree, we'll return. As long as the children and I are with you, I will be happy. You are my husband and I love you."

Sandor's shoulders relaxed. He wasn't fool enough to think she would answer any other way. He knew her words were true, but his lifelong sense of low worth brought him doubts. Doubts which would no doubt haunt him all his life. But for now, he allowed himself to feel reassured. He took her hands from his cheeks and placed a kiss on each palm. "I love you, too, Little Bird."

Sansa smiled, but the expression was tinged with concern. "Please do not keep your thoughts from me. I only worry when you're silent."

Her husband sighed, nodded. It was not an easy thing for him to share so much of himself, not even with her. It left him feeling exposed, vulnerable. But he trusted his wife, just as she trusted him. So, for her sake, he would try.