A/N: Just to let you all know, it might be a few days before I can update again. Forecast calls for thunderstorms in my neck of the woods for the rest of the week, and I don't like using my computer during that kind of weather, even with the surge protector. But never fear, I will still be composing so that I can post future chappies as quickly as possible. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones and the book series A Song of Ice and Fire do not belong to me.

It was a mistake going into that town. Sandor knew it, but they hadn't eaten anything in the last few days but a couple of stringy squirrels, and Sansa needed a much warmer cloak. They did their best to stay unnoticed. Sansa dressed in loose boy clothes and Sandor kept most of his face wrapped in a scarf (it was cold enough for no one to think that odd). They got what they needed from the shop as fast as possible without actually seeming rushed and raising attention from the locals. But someone saw something. Someone suspected.

"We're being followed," Sandor murmured, keeping his voice low enough for only Sansa to hear. They were a few miles from the town, traveling down a narrow rut that hardly deserved the name "road". From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl tense, but otherwise give no indication that she heard. She didn't try to look behind them or assault him with a dozen panicked questions. She sat quietly on her palfrey and waited for him to tell her what they should do. Sandor felt a sense of pride in how quickly she'd learned. It had only been a little over three weeks since they escaped King's Landing.

"Do you have the dagger I gave you?"

She nodded, still looking straight ahead like him.

"Keep it handy," Sandor told her, "Follow my lead and do whatever I tell you without question. Hear me, Little Bird?"

A subtle nod. He could tell she was afraid. Her eyes were wide and her breathing louder than normal.

Sandor waited until he felt the moment was right, then abruptly spurred Stranger into a gallop. The destrier surged to the left, off the road and towards the cover of the surrounding woods. Beside him, Sansa and her palfrey kept pace. He could hear more hoofbeats behind them, their pursuers no longer bothering with stealth.

"Get ahead of me," Sandor shouted, "Keep riding. Do not stop no matter what you hear." He yanked back on Stranger's reins and the horse spun about with a bellow of protest. Sandor drew his broadsword and charged at their pursuers, three men who obviously knew little of battle. They looked like woodsmen, poachers most like. Armed with crossbows and short swords. They were caught off guard by Sandor's sudden change from fleeing to attacking. They quickly fired their crossbows. One arrow flew wild, missing man and horse altogether. One grazed the side of Stranger's neck, which only served to infuriate the warhorse. The third caught Sandor in his left arm. He barely noticed, high on adrenaline and the thrill of the prospect of bloodshed.

Two of the men dropped their bows and drew their swords. The third tried to reload, which proved his undoing. Sandor cut the fool down before he so much as drew the bowstring back. The larger of the remaining two came at Sandor with a yell, while the other rode off, apparently after Sansa. Sandor's opponent had some passable skills at fighting. Mostly he dodged and weaved, his overwrought horse snorting beneath him. Sandor rapidly lost what little patience he had and gave Stranger's reins a savage yank. The destrier reared, forelegs kicking, his heavy shod hooves connecting with the other mount's head and side so the beast screeched and overbalanced trying to get away. The man cried out as he and his horse fell. The horse almost immediately scrambled back to its feet and galloped off. It would not be so easy for its former rider. The man's leg was obviously broken from the animal's weight on it. Sandor leaned down from the saddle and finished him off with a stab of his longsword. The man was still gurgling when he rode off after Sansa and the remaining attacker.

The anxiety that had melted away in the heat of battle now returned in those moments of frantic riding. The trail left by the other fleeing horses was easy to follow. Broken branches and trampled undergrowth, so blatant they might as well have painted arrows on the ground. Sandor knew it wasn't long, but it felt like ages before he finally found them. He heard them first, a horrific squealing that turned out to be Sansa's palfrey foundering with a broken leg. Sansa was a short distance away, kneeling beside the supine body of the man who'd chased her. She was stabbing him in the chest with the dagger Sandor had given her, her thin arm rising and falling while a desperate sound escaped her throat.

Sandor dismounted and hurried to the girl's side. She didn't even notice him. When he grabbed her shoulder she screamed and tried to stab him in turn. Fortunately, Sandor's reflexes were much faster than hers. His fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist and stopped her mid-swing. "Easy, Little Bird. It's only me," he glanced down at the bloodied corpse, "He can't hurt you now."

Her wide, tearful eyes stared up at him in shock, then looked at her bloodstained hands in horror and let the dagger fall from her grip. "I...I...H-he came at me and...and I fell. M-my horse it- And he..." Her incoherent babbling gave way to sobbing. She buried her face against Sandor's broad chest, fingers clutching at his clothes, smearing them with blood.

Sandor was at a loss. He had no idea how to deal with a weeping girl. His first instinct was to push her away and growl at her to pull herself together, but for once better sense prevailed. He awkwardly patted her back with his left hand, his right still gripping his broadsword. "You're alright, Little Bird," he muttered in what he hoped was a gentle voice.

Sansa sniffled and finally pulled away. She started to wipe her face with her hand, then thought better of it and used her sleeve instead. Sandor went to put the palfrey out of its misery, then retrieved a flask of water from its saddlebags and brought it over to Sansa. She used the water to wet and cloth and wash off her hands while Sandor transferred the rest of her meager belongings to Stranger's back. By the time he was done, Sansa was as clean and composed as she was going to get. He was also pleased to notice that she had also wiped off the dagger and sheathed it at her belt. Sandor lifted her onto the less-than-thrilled Stranger's back and mounted behind her.

The ride was silent for some time. Sandor had gotten good at reading the girl's silences, few and far between though they were. He knew she was working up the courage to say something to him. He was content to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. "I apologize for my earlier behavior," she said timidly.

Sandor snorted. "Behavior? What the seven hells are you talking about?"

"When I cried," she explained in an even tinier voice, "It was weak of me. It won't happen again."

He sighed, "Little Bird-"

"I don't want you to see me as a burden," she insisted, "I know I've already inconvenienced you-"

"Stop," he laughed, incredulous, "Stupid girl, I don't care if you cry as long as it doesn't interfere with what has to be done. You didn't break down until after the danger was passed. You defended yourself first. That's all that matters to me."

Sansa's head bowed. "I killed that man."

"You did what had to be done." Sandor regretted it, though. He'd hoped to protect her from having to take such actions, preserve her innocence. The girl's sleep was uneasy as it was. He could just imagine the nightmares that would plague her tonight.

The girl tried to surreptitiously wipe her eyes. "How old were you when you..."

"Killed my first man?"

She nodded.

Sandor didn't answer for a long time. Finally, he said, "Not much younger than you. I was twelve, working as a squire for one of Tywin Lannister's bannermen. We were caught in a battle. Some nonesense feud between the Lannisters and some other House. A knight killed my master and then came after me. I was big for my age, already as tall as most grown men. I grabbed up my master's morningstar and used it to beat the knight's head in, helmet and all. After..." he hesitated, but forced himself to continue, "After, I vomited all over myself."

Sansa turned around to give him a surprised look. Sandor smirked, "So you see, Little Bird, a little crying is nothing to fret about. At least you didn't have to change your tunic."

A tremulous smile made its way across the girl's face. Sandor felt an unaccustomed warmth at the sight.

A few miles down the overgrown path they found a horse grazing. They recognized it as the horse belonging to the man Sansa had killed. Since he no longer had any use for the mount, Sansa was given claim to it. Stranger was grateful for the lightened load.

Arya knew the village was isolated and hard to get to, that it would take weeks to reach it even with the mountain passes cleared. Even so, there were moments when she wondered if this damned journey would ever end.

At least Nymeria seemed to be enjoying herself. The direwolf showed up the day Arya and the handful of men accompanying her were set to leave. Nymeria spent much of her time exploring the unfamiliar wilderness, returning on occasion with a bloodied muzzle or even a carcass which she was content to share with the humans. Once she trotted into camp dragging a massive boar, a sight which greatly impressed the men.

Arya wasn't the only Stark traveling in the group. When she'd stepped out of the keep with her pack slung over her shoulder, she was surprised and irritated to discover Rickon had decided to tag along. She suspected he was there to make sure she behaved herself, either by his own volition or at their brother's suggestion. As if her word wasn't good enough. His direwolf, Shaggydog, tended to stick closer to the group while they traveled. And when he did hunt, he never bothered to share his kills. But he and Nymeria got along well. There were few things more amazing than watching two massive direwolves frolic together like puppies.

It was a great relief when they finally saw the village of Oldtree ahead. Aside from the massive weirwood at its center, it was a fairly nondescript place. The cabins were rustic, but soundly built. The people were dressed mainly in brown roughspun and coats of various animal furs. It was evening, so the men were returned from their work in the woods. All were solidly built from swinging axes all through the days. The women bore themselves with a strong sense of independence, while the children behaved like children everywhere, playing and shouting or doing chores. All in all these were simple, self-reliant folk, able to get themselves through hardship without complaint. Arya found it hard to imagine the Hound living amongst such people.

"You're from Winterfell?"

Arya twisted in the saddle to face the man who called out. He was an older man in a simple brown robe, wearing the chain of a maester.

"I am Arya Stark," she replied, then gestured to her brother, "This is my younger brother, Rickon. We're here to see our sister, Sansa."

A look of puzzlement passed over the maester's face, then he smiled in understanding. "Ah, yes. Here we all know her as Dyanne Edger, and her husband as Sturm."

Arya's fingers tightened on the reins at the mention of her sister's "husband."

The old man continued. "I am Maester Tolbert. Your sister and her family are good friends of mine. I was there for each of their children's births."

Arya shifted uncomfortably. "Can you tell us which house is theirs?"

"Certainly. Come with me," Tolbert beckoned.

Arya, Rickon, and their men dismounted and followed the maester, leading their mounts. After so much time in the saddle, stretching their legs was a welcome relief. As they passed the ancient weirwood, Arya was struck by the laughing, gaping maw of its carved face. The tree's size rivaled that of the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood.

"The villagers call the tree the Old Man," Maester Tolbert explained, "It is a popular climbing spot for the children, most notably your sister's eldest child, Catelyn."

Arya blinked in surprise. She'd read the names of Sansa's children in Jon's message, but hearing her long-dead mother's name spoken aloud felt strange. She peered up into the Old Man's branches, but saw no signs of any children in its boughs at this time.

When they reached their destination, there was nothing about the cabin that distinguished it from its neighbors. Hewn logs and mud daub, sod roof, small shuttered windows. The sounds of youngsters playing at the back of the house reached Arya's ears. At the front, a woman scrubbed clothes in a metal washtub while a man split logs for firewood. Despite the fact that he must have been swinging the ax all day, he did not seem tired. He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with long black hair showing streaks of gray. Arya's left hand unconsciously reached for the hilt of her sword.

"Sturm, Dyanne," Maester Tolbert called out. The couple paused in their tasks and looked up at the newcomers.

Arya's vision narrowed onto the man's face. There was no question it was the Hound. Those hideous burns were there for all to see. Her grip on her sword tightened as the rage started to boil up in her. In that instant she forgot about her reluctant promise to Bran not to start any violence. All she knew was that her friend's murderer was right in front of her and the chance for vengeance was finally at hand.

"Arya!"

She blinked and turned her head to see the woman running at her with a brilliant smile, long auburn plait flying behind her. She was so different, older, more filled-out with age and childbirth. No longer the willowy thirteen-year-old Arya remembered. But there was no mistaking that hair, those blue eyes, and that face so like their mother's.

The next thing Arya knew, she was wrapped in a tight embrace. Sansa's hands, still wet from her laundry, pressed into her back.

"Gods, I can't believe it's you!" Sansa drew back, holding her sister at arm's length. "You look just the same!"

Arya tried to think of a response, but her mind was a blank. She honestly didn't know how to react to her sister's presence. It troubled her to realize she actually felt more strongly about the Hound that she did about Sansa. It was as if the part of her that should have felt joy was numbed by the anger that had been the focus of her life for so many years.

A grinning Rickon approached the embracing women. "And what about me?"

Sansa studied his face, her expression confused, but growing certain the more she took in his distinctive Stark features. "Rickon? Little Rickon, is that really you?"

"It's me," his grin broadened, "Though not so little anymore, obviously." He was taller than her by two or three inches. A light fuzz of beard that had grown during the journey covered his chin and upper lip.

Sansa hurried over to embrace him as well. "My baby brother. I cannot believe how much you've grown!" She looked up at his smiling face. "Do you remember me at all? You were so young when we separated."

Rickon shrugged. "I remember a few things. Mostly you yelling at me to stay out of your room."

Sansa laughed, "You were always underfoot. My children are the same way, all so rambunctious. Oh, you must meet them! They'll be so excited."

"I'll fetch them," Sandor said, thunking his ax into the old stump he used for a chopping block and heading for the back of their cabin. He glanced at Arya as he passed, his look telling her he was perfectly aware of the murderous intent in her eyes, even if the others hadn't noticed.

Once Sandor was out of sight Arya approached her sister and whispered, "Do you need our help?"

Sansa frowned, puzzled. "Help with what?"

"Getting away from him," Arya pointed in the direction Sandor had gone. Rickon sighed and rolled his eyes.

Sansa's eyes widened in understanding. "No, of course not."

"If you're afraid for yourself or the children-"

"Look at her, Arya," Rickon interjected, "She's not afraid."

"Sandor has been a kind and loving husband, and a wonderful father," Sansa explained, just as she had with Jon, "He's not the man he used to be back in King's Landing."

Arya gritted her teeth. "He killed Micah."

Her sister frowned. "Who?"

"The butcher's boy!"

Rickon touched her shoulder, cautious. "Arya, let's not get into this now. The little ones are coming." And he was right. Sandor returned with Eddard and Morden holding his hands, while Catelyn trailed behind with little Zander. Cat was behind her baby brother, holding his hands while he stumbled along in a clumsy almost-walk. From the intense smile on his face, the infant was elated with his own progress.

Sansa made the introductions. "This is my sister, Arya, and my younger brother, Rickon."

The children gazed at their aunt and uncle in frank curiosity.

"Are you wif the Night's Watch, too?" Eddard asked.

Rickon chuckled. "No we're not. Besides, girls aren't allowed in the Watch." He nudged Arya playfully.

"Girls are too smart for the Watch," she retorted with a roll of her eyes. She scrutinized the youngsters closely, searching for any signs of mistreatment. Yet they looked nothing like the used and abused children she'd encountered in her years of travel. They didn't cringe or avoid her eyes. And when Sandor picked up the baby, Zander leaned his head trustingly on his father's shoulder. Arya felt an uncomfortable roil in her stomach, seeing the Hound holding a little child. It was too incongruous with everything she knew about him. This wasn't right. None of it was.

Sansa touched her arm, jarring her from her thoughts. "Why don't we all go inside? Have a bite of supper?"

Maester Tolbert spoke up, "Your men are more than welcome at my house while you get reacquainted with your family."

Rickon thanked him for the kind offer and the men followed Tolbert. Arya remained silent, still brooding over what she'd seen so far. She followed her brother and the rest into the cabin, pausing only to meet Sandor's unwavering gaze. He was still carrying his infant son. The look in his brown eyes far too knowing. Arya's fingers twitched with the urge to reach for her sword, but she kept her hands at her sides. Not now, she told herself. But later, when there were no innocents around... She just needed to find away to get him alone, so she could finally confront him for his crimes.