A/N: I cannot believe how many people are reading this story! I know I've said it before, but thanks for reading, and thanks to everybody's who's been reviewing, following, and favorite-ing. Here's the latest chapter! :-D

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones TV show and books belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin, respectively.

Sansa was jolted awake as the door to the room she and Sandor were sharing for the night crashed open and Sandor lumbered in with a half-empty flagon clutched in one hand and a more-than-half-drunk wench gripping his other arm. Sansa rolled her eyes and covered her head with a pillow. Neither one of them seemed to notice.

"Off with yeh now," Sandor slurred, "Can't y' see me wife's over there sleepin'?" This was not the first time they posed as husband and wife. Other times they were father and daughter, or even on one occasion a sellsword escorting a young septa to a lord's keep. The husband and wife ruse felt more natural now, however, since their relationship had matured.

The wench tittered. "That skinny thing's yer wife?" she whispered theatrically, which meant anyone within twenty feet could clearly hear her, "Looks like yeh'd snap 'er in two. Me now," she leered, "I can take a beatin'."

"I'm sure yeh can," Sandor chuckled suggestively. The sound made Sansa clench her fists until her knuckles turned white. "But I've gotta make an early start tomorrow," he continued, "'Fraid I needs me rest."

The wench huffed. "Fine. Yeh don't know what you're missin', big man. There's plenty o' men who're eager t' get under me skirts."

I'll bet there are, you trollop, Sansa thought sourly.

The wench staggered off and Sandor slammed the door behind her. Sansa immediately sat up and hurled her pillow at him. "You brought a whore to our room?" she accused.

Sandor dodged the missile easily, all traces of his earlier drunkenness gone. "She was holding onto me like a lamprey. I couldn't shake her off without dropping character."

"I'll give you character!" She grabbed the other pillow from the bed and flung it at his head.

Sandor laughed as he ducked. "You'll give me character? That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, be quiet," she sulked.

Sandor set the half-empty wine flagon down on the room's table, retrieved the pillows, and approached the bed. "Word of the bounties on our heads hasn't reached this far yet," he said, placing the pillows on the bed and climbing in beside Sansa, "We're safe for the night, at least."

Sansa sighed, still sitting up, one hand absently rubbing her belly. "It'll be nice to sleep in a real bed for once."

Sandor's larger hand covered hers. The bump was small, hardly noticeable unless one knew what to look for. Sandor's expression sobered as his anxieties began to gnaw at him again. "The locals say there's a septon in a village about a fortnight from here." He looked up at her. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, Little Bird?"

"Of course I am," she said without hesitation. She reached over and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead. "I love you. Even if you did let that woman drape herself all over you."

Sandor chuckled. "Jealous? Over this old dog?"

"As if you weren't secretly thrilled," she sniffed.

"Not so secretly." He tugged her arm. "Come here."

Sansa lay down and curled into Sandor's comforting embrace. She buried her face against his chest, breathing in his earthy scent, only slightly tainted by the smell of sour wine. She felt the booming of his heart, faster than it should have been. She knew it was nerves. He was frightened of their impending marriage, of the child he'd fathered inside her, of failing them both. But Sansa trusted him, more than he seemed able to trust himself.

It's all I've ever wanted, she thought, echoing the words she spoke as a girl, when she believed Joffrey was her one true love and she was destined to become queen. A childish fancy. Now she realized what she'd truly wanted was this, a man who was good to her, who loved her, and who she loved without condition. Sandor would doubtless tell her she was still being childish, but she knew, deep down, he'd always wanted this, too.

Tears came to Sansa's eyes when she laid sight on the great keep of Winterfell for the first time in so many years. She was thirteen when she left its familiar halls for King's Landing. Just a child, though she didn't think herself as such at the time. She'd been so eager to leave, thinking her childhood home a stifling place. Now she looked on its ancient walls and battlements with fondness. She appreciated now what a good place it had been to grow up in. Safe, sheltered, and loved. Feelings she did not experience again until she and Sandor settled in Oldtree.

She looked to her husband, riding alongside the wagon on his horse. None of the children rode with him now. They were all dozing in the wagon, exhausted from travel. Sandor looked more rugged than ever, his ragged beard having grown in over the past few weeks. It was thick enough to actually conceal some of the scars on the lower part of his face. The rest were partially hidden behind his long hair. Sansa couldn't help but think that he looked like he belonged here, at the heart of the North. With his dark coloring and powerful build, he probably had the blood of the First Men in him at that.

Noticing his wife's scrutiny, Sandor turned his head just enough for his brown eyes to meet her gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. It was good to see Sansa happy, in spite of the tiredness that weighed them all down.

"Looks like I finally brought you back to Winterfell," he remarked.

Sansa grinned. "Better late than never." She glanced back at their slumbering children.

"Let them sleep a while longer," Sandor suggested, "Enjoy the peace while we can."

Sansa nodded in agreement.

Arya rode some distance ahead of the rest. Ever since her confrontation with the Hound, she had kept an even greater distance than before. Her inner turmoil had transformed into anxiety. She did not know what to feel now. She did not forgive Clegane, and probably never would, but she no longer had it in her to maintain the level of hatred that had sustained her for so long. She felt lost and confused. What was she supposed to do with her life now? She did not fit in with the other highborn ladies. She never had, really, but now she was like a foreigner. She had no idea how to behave, how to belong. Couldn't see herself married to some lord and raising children, doing needlework, running the household. That wasn't her. And now, without vengeance to drive her on, she no longer knew who she was or where she belonged.

Rickon trotted his mount up alongside her. "Home at last, thank the gods," he shifted in his saddle, "My poor arse is grateful, if nothing else."

Arya grunted. Her little brother quirked an eyebrow. "That's it? Not even a roll of the eye or a smirk? Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," she responded in a dull voice, "I just want this journey to be over."

"Bran will be proud of you."

She looked at him querulously.

"For not trying to kill Sandor," Rickon explained.

"If I'd wanted to kill him he'd be dead. I wouldn't have tried."

The younger man smirked. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

Arya did roll her eyes that time.

As their little procession neared the gates, Sansa finally woke the children. They sat up, rubbing their eyes and blinking owlishly at the looming castle before them. Catelyn clambered onto the seat beside her mother. "It's big!" the girl exclaimed.

"Bigger than some," Sansa conceded, "It is the oldest and greatest keep in the North, dating back to the days of the First Men. And it has always been ruled by the Starks."

Banners flew from the parapets, proudly displaying the direwolf of House Stark. As they entered the main gate, Sansa saw the entire household and the guards had turned out to welcome them. The sight brought back vivid memories of the day when King Robert and his people arrived.

An ornate wooden chair had been set out at the front of the gathering. Seated there was a handsome man who bore a striking resemblance to Sansa's long dead father. His face, however, lacked the careworn wrinkles Ned Stark had borne. He beamed warmly and held out both hands. "Welcome to Winterfell."

"Bran!" Sansa jumped down from the wagon as soon as it was stopped and hurried to him. Her younger self would have been appalled by such unladylike behavior, but all she cared about at that moment was assuring herself of her brother's reality. Bran seemed to have no objections. His smile broadened as his sister embraced him. "You look so much like Father," she told him.

"So I've been told," he replied, "Though I don't see it, myself. You look lovely, sister."

Sansa laughed. "And you are a very kind liar, brother."

"I'm the lord of Winterfell," he reminded her with a grin, "It's not lying, it's diplomacy. Now, introduce me to your family. I'm eager to meet them."

Sansa quickly fetched the children. Little Zander was able to walk by then, after a fashion, so long as he had someone's hand to hold onto to help him keep his balance. Gripping his mother's hand, he wobbled over to his uncle and immediately tried to climb onto Bran's lap. Bran chuckled and lifted the infant up. Morden, in an uncharacteristic show of jealousy, immediately clambered up onto his uncle's lap as well, ignoring his mother's chastisements.

"It's alright," Bran assured her, "The gods know my legs are no good for anything else." There was no bitterness in his voice when he said this. It was merely a statement of fact.

"And you must be Eddard," he said to the eldest boy. Eddard nodded, suddenly shy.

Cat had no such constraints. "I'm Catelyn."

"That you are," Bran's expression softened, "My mother's name was Catelyn. Did you know that?"

She nodded.

"You look like her."

Cat frowned. It felt strange, being compared to someone she had never met. "Everybody says I look like Mum."

"And who do you think your mum looks like?" her uncle teased. He gently put the two youngsters down and gestured behind him. "Why don't we get in out of the chill. I'm sure you would all like some time to rest and refresh yourselves before the welcoming feast. Hodor!"

"Hodor." A huge man lumbered over and scooped the Stark lord up as if he weighed nothing.

"Giant!" Morden exclaimed, pointing. As if no one could guess who he was talking about.

Bran smiled. "Don't worry. He's a gentle giant. Wouldn't hurt a mouse, would you, Hodor?"

"Hodor," the big man nodded happily. His hair was slowly turning from gray to white. Otherwise, age hardly seemed to have touched him.

They entered the castle together, then Bran had one of the servants lead the family to the chambers that had been prepared for them. "The meal won't be ready for a few hours yet," Bran informed them, "So don't feel you need to rush anything. Feel free to relax and catch your breaths."

The family was grateful. As thrilling as it was to have finally reached their destination, they were still quite tired from their travels. The servant who led them through the halls of the recently renovated part of the keep was a tall, sturdy girl in her early teens with unruly blonde hair barely held in place beneath a knotted scarf.

"The two older boys got this room," she pointed, "The girl gets the one next to it, an' you and your babe get the big room opposite," she indicated the door across the hall.

Catelyn was shocked. "I get my own room?" She quickly dashed through the door before anyone could respond. It was relatively small and humbly furnished, with a small bed, a cedar trunk, and a table and chair placed near the single window. Cat could not have been more elated. Nor could her brothers, once they saw they would each have a bed to himself in their shared room. Doubtless there would be a great deal of jumping about on the mattresses before they settled down.

There was a crib already set at the foot of the large four poster bed in Sandor and Sansa's room. Sansa lay her sleepy infant down and Zander immediately curled up and drifted off.

"I'll be up t' fetch you when the feast's ready," the servant girl reminded them, then left them alone, shutting the oaken door behind her.

Sansa flopped onto the bed with a great sigh of relief. "Finally, we can sleep in a real bed again."

Sandor put aside his longsword, shrugged out of his leather jerkin, and kicked off his boots before joining his wife on the bed. They lay atop the quilted duvet and gazed up at the ceiling, letting their muscles slowly relax.

"Bran has changed so much," Sansa murmured, "Yet I can still see the little boy he used to be. Isn't that odd?"

Sandor uttered a noncommittal grunt. He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

Sansa rolled her head to the side to look at him. "What happened between you and Arya?"

Sandor cracked an eye and glanced at her. "What makes you think anything happened?"

"She's been behaving differently, somehow. More distant, if that's even possible."

He let his eye drift shut again. "We had a talk. Didn't come to blows, I promise."

"I didn't think it did."

He sighed, "I told her about what happened with the butcher's boy. How he died."

A thoughtful silence, then, "Did she believe you?"

"Don't know," he muttered, "Don't care."

"Doesn't her feeling towards you matter? For the sake of peace, at least?"

Sandor's hand inched over until his fingers interlaced with hers. "Only people whose opinions matter to me are right here and in the rooms across the hall."

"She's my sister," Sansa quietly declared, "Her regard of you matters to me."

"It doesn't matter to me, Little Bird," he replied, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're just being honest." She gave his hand a squeeze. "You've been so supportive throughout this whole journey. I hope you know how grateful I am to have you here."

Her words eased the last traces of tension from his body and Sandor dozed off with a faint smile on his face.