That evening, Sandor stood in the covered walkway overlooking the yard of Winterfell. It had been a long and wearying day, it had started when he had to tell his children that their baby sister was lost and to speak to the servants in the hall and consult with the maester and carpenters and masons about a burial in the crypt beneath Winterfell. Had he not been exhausted from accepting everyone's condolences, he might have been tempted to go to the winter town for ales; but he wanted to be left alone now.

Since he no longer indulged in drinking himself senseless, Sandor was instead drawn to this spot when he felt overburdened or simply inclined to brood. It was the same yard he had entered on horseback when he first travelled to Winterfell with the then-royal family as Prince Joffrey's loyal sworn shield: his dog, the boy had called him and Sandor never objected or even minded…until Joffrey had called him that in front of the little bird.

And you, dog, away with you, you're scaring my betrothed.

Sansa had not truly learned fear yet, and the one to teach her would be the very prince she had believed would be her true love, like from a song. First she'd see her beloved direwolf killed, then her father: beheaded as she watched in terror from the steps the Sept of Baelor. Then the rotten shit of a bastard boy had taken her up to the walls of the Red Keep were her father's head had been mounted on a spike. When the little bird had learned what kind of monster was behind her prince's pretty face, she learned how little a pretty face was worth.

But that she should have come to love him, well, that still confounded him beyond everything he could have imagined. Sandor Clegane: second son of a minor house, a burned and scarred warrior, a loyal dog, sworn shield to the Lannisters, deserter, drifter, almost a dead man, penitent…not a man worthy of the heart and hand of Lord Eddard Stark's eldest and loveliest daughter, and yet he had somehow won both, and her, and had become her lord and husband and father to their children. Gods, how she had wanted a family of her own; even at the risk of her own life. She likely had not imagined that she would lose a child's life.

Sandor closed his eyes tightly and sighed in pain.

Pull yourself together, dog; you needs be strong now…for her, and for all of them.

"Clegane," came a familiar smokey voice from one side of the walkway.

Sandor knew it was his wife's great-uncle, Brynden Tully, called the Blackfish; but he did not turn to look, nor did he greet him.

The man approached him anyway. "Clegane, I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry that I was not here for you and Sansa when it happened-"

"How are things at the Wall then?" Sandor interrupted him.

He heard the Blackfish's boots on the planked wooden floor come closer until he stood beside him.

"Jon and Bran are both well…though if you will permit, I would like to send a raven and tell them of the sad news. They will want to know about their sister and her family."

Sandor nodded and replied gruffly. "Aye, go on and send word then."

The Blackfish nodded sympathetically now. "Is she resting?'

"She was."

"Then I won't disturb her tonight. And the children?"

"They dined in the solar with the nurse and a maid. Rickon and his family ate in the hall."

"I would like to see them. Will you come with me?"

"To see Rickon?" Sandor looked at him with impatience.

"To see your children," the Blackfish clarified calmly.

Sandor hesitated; he did not want to risk falling apart again as he had with Catya in the stables. The pups needed at least one parent to be strong for them.. "No," he rapsed, "you go ahead. You've a way with children," he noted grudgingly.

The older knight snorted derisively. "Do you know why that is?" he asked Sandor.

"Might be because you never had any," Sandor jeered. "Easy to be patient when you can come and go as you please with them."

The Blackfish gave a wry smile. "That may very well be a part of it; but you're patient with them too, Clegane. I've seen it many times myself. No, my brother's children came to me because I made time for them. Hoster was busy as Lord of Riverrun and the Riverlands, true enough; but he spent even less time with them when…when Minisa passed. Whether it was their grief or his own that he could not abide, I've never known. He left them alone when they needed him most, and so they concluded they were not important, or at least not as important as his duties. Someone needed to remind them the right order of the Tully words: Family. Duty. Honor."

Sandor stared at him, momentarily silent. "Bloody hells, man: it's not been a day yet and you liken it to abandonment, do you? I've spoken to them…well, Benjen don't understand, and I just told Brynden that his mother needed to rest."

"Does he understand that?

Sandor looked down. "Not really. Kept up his asking for her," he mumbled, "and Benjen just pouts and watches for her: he's nigh two, still a babe."

"The young ones miss their mother right now. Not understanding often means they're frightened. And your older children: this is their first brush with death, with loss. You're the best person to reassure them, Clegane: you're their father."

Sandor sighed. "I know." He turned and looked back the old man. He had the same Tully blue eyes as his wife but his were circled with fine lines from harsh weather and age; and though they were filled with experience and wisdom and a sad sort of kindness, they could turn as cold blue as steel or ice if you crossed him. Family. Duty. Honor. Those were his family's words and he lived by them, with the exception of having refused to marry the girl his own brother chose for him. But once Sandor had married Sansa, the Blackfish had stood by him and accepted him, and he was grateful for that…even if he did not always let on. "Let's go then."

The Blackfish patted him on the back, a gesture both of camaraderie and comfort. Sandor realized that he was grateful for that too.

….

After the youngest children, Brynden and Benjen were put to bed, Sandor and the Blackfish walked back to the solar but once they reached the hallway leading to Sansa and Sandor's bedchamber Sandor stopped and looked down the hall.

"I think I would sit with her a while," he rasped somberly. "Will you come with me?"

The Blackfish nodded once. "If she would see me; I'll understand if she doesn't wish to have company yet."

As they were about to turn, Ned appeared from the hallway as well.

"Father, I- I would like to see Mother with you. As- as your eldest son it is my duty to assist you at this time," he struggled to say. "I will be a lord as well one day," he added with a lifting of his chin.

"Aye, one day, Ned; but you're still a boy now," Sandor countered gruffly.

"You are kind and dutiful to want to help, Ned," the Blackfish interceded when he saw the boy's face fall in reaction to his father's curt dismissal. "Mayhaps you can accompany your father to the stonemasons on the morrow. They are like to be finished their work by then; and I'm sure your father would appreciate the assistance."

Ned looked to his father who nodded wearily but patiently in agreement.

"Will you…can I go to see Mother with you now?" Ned asked again. "I'm her eldest son and should offer her comfort and help," he lifted his chin again, trying to look confident.

Sandor glanced at the Blackfish, who was looking at Ned. "Very well," he rasped, "but if she's sleeping or tired it will have to wait."

"Yes, Father," the boy replied easily now.

Sandor entered the darkened room, lit only by the hearth fire and a single candle on a table against the far wall. Sansa sat up in bed, resting against a bolster and pillows with a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her arms wrapped around herself tightly. She stared vacantly into the middle distance: her eyes were reddened from tears and her face was pale and drawn from grief and the effort of childbirth.

"Little bird," Sandor rasped gently as he sat next to her. "I've brought your great-uncle to see you, and Ned as well, but if you are too tired-"

Ned stared at his mother with big eyes. She was always so beautiful and though she was gentle, she had always seemed strong. But now she was weak and worn and frail-looking. He gulped down his apprehension and stepped forward now.

"I- I wished to see you, Mother; and tell you I am sorry for our baby sister. I'll help you…and Father…and all will be well soon, just as it was before," he tried to smile and sound encouraging.

Sansa bit her lip and whispered faintly. "Thank you, Ned." She looked at him now with infinite sadness. "You're a good boy," she told him shakily in her weak voice.

Ned tried again. "I know," he thought suddenly, "I can tell cook to make lemon cakes-"

"That's very thoughtful, Ned," interrupted the Blackfish smoothly, "but I think your mother needs time with your father." He leaned in towards Sansa momentarily. "I will come see you again, child. Rest now," he murmured in his smokey voice, gentle and reassuring, and Sansa pursed her lips together and nodded vaguely with her eyes shut.

"I'll stay with you, little bird," Sandor whispered hoarsely, and Sansa nodded again and kept her eyes closed.

Brynden Tully shut the door quietly behind him and Ned but paused momentarily and unconsciously shook his head.

"Will Mother be well soon?" Ned asked warily.

The Blackfish turned his head to look at him. The boy still had big eyes and an expression of uncertainty.

"She'll be well in time, Ned. Your mother is very strong; she loves her children…all of you. You know that."

"Yes, Ser," Ned answered dutifully and the Blackfish saw that the boy wanted to be brave but didn't quite feel it. Not wishing for the boy to doubt himself , he spoke to him as a young man.

"You were kind to your mother, Ned; she's just not ready for company. Grief hits people hard, especially mothers for their children. Don't let how she is now change how you feel about her, or how you think she feels about you."

He paused and let his words take effect though the boy showed little sign of having heard him much less taken his counsel to heart. He sighed inwardly.

"You're not accustomed to death; not as yet, though you will learn in time if you must lead men into battle or decide their fates under the laws when you are a lord," he warned him somberly. "Your mother's father took his sons out with him when he needed to mete justice, so they would learn just what it meant to face death. Now walk back to the solar with me, Ned: I'd like to hear about your training and lessons. You must have learned a lot since I last saw you…and you look bigger and stronger too."

Ned shuffled his feet a moment, and looked back at his parents' chamber door before letting the older knight put his hand on his shoulder and guide him towards the solar.

….

Sansa still sat with her eyes closed and her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Sandor approached the side of the bed and sat down gently.

"Our boy means well, little bird," he rasped, "but he is a boy."

There was a paused before Sansa spoke.

"Jonquil," she whispered hoarsely without opening her eyes. "Where…where have they taken her?"

Sandor wanted to reach for her hand but they were tucked tightly around her body. He placed a large hand on her leg, on top of the heavy furs that covered their bed, and gave a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"In the sept, little bird," he rasped quietly, "beneath the Mother's altar. The carpenters did their work quickly, and well. There's people there all the time, keeping vigil and minding the burning candles. The maester has seen to it." Though those in the North worshiped the Old Gods, Sansa had seen that the sept in Winterfell was rebuilt in memory of her own mother.

Sansa put her hand to her lips suddenly, to stifle a sob; but she shuddered and tears leaked from between her lashes. Sandor leaned in and put his large, warm hands on her shoulders.

"I'll take you to her, little bird," he promised with all the fervor he had felt when he had once promised to kill anyone who would hurt her. She was hurting now, and he did not know how to protect her. "I'll fetch your cloak, and I'll carry you there."

She looked at him now, big blue eyes despairingly sad. "Oh, Sandor: they'll put my sweet baby in the crypt where it's dark and cold."

She turned her face away suddenly and he saw her clamp her mouth shut to stop herself from sobbing. She clutched herself even tighter, nearly doubling over, and Sandor wished that she would cling to him and let him comfort her. He reached out to caress her auburn hair but stopped himself.

"It's alright, little bird," he rasped instead. "It will be alright-"

The maester came in then, looking harried and carrying a small pewter cup in his hand.

"Can you help her?" Sandor asked with gruff concern.

"My lady," the man soothed her, "I beg you, drink of this. It will help calm you."

Sansa tried feebly to turn her head away but the maester approached her and deftly held her head and brought the cup to her lips. "Drink, my lady."

Sansa drank obediently though she wrinkled her nose and looked reproachfully at him.

"Sweetsleep," she accused thickly.

"Aye, my lady, only the slightest drop to ease your sleep," he admitted smoothly. "You needs rest and not upset yourself too much. Sleep now, my lady, I pray you."

Sansa's eyelids quickly grew heavy, and Sandor eased her back gently against the bolster and finally reached now to brush her hair back from her forehead.

"Rest, little bird," he murmured. "I'll take you to the sept in the morning."

Sansa didn't reply; the sweetsleep had already taken her. Sandor smoothed her hair again before turning to the maester.

"She was overcome with grief and tried to stop it," Sandor felt he should explain.

"Naturally, my lord," the maester replied. "Lady Clegane also tried very hard to control her grief when…when your child was taken away. I feared that she may have a stronger reaction in time and so readied the draught if it were needed." The man paused and bowed his head. "Is there aught I may do for you, my lord? Might I offer you something to ease your sleep, or settle your stomach perhaps?"

"I've not had any wine," Sandor countered sharply.

"Nor much to eat," the man continued despite Sandor's defensiveness. "Forgive me, my lord, but the servants do talk and I am responsible for the health and well-being of all at Winterfell. I know well that you will look to your family at this time; however you needs look to yourself as well."

"Thank you, maester," Sandor rasped, his eyes still on Sansa as she slept. "There is much to do," he added simply, "and we have other children."

The maester nodded kindly. "Very well, my lord. Please know that I am at your disposal at any time." He hesitated slightly. "I should tell you, my lord, that Lady Clegane may not wake for some time. I have given her only the mildest dose of sweetsleep naturally; however you likely may not be able to keep your promise to take her to the sept on the morrow. Mayhaps…mayhaps her grief would be eased if she did not needs look upon the small coffin, and I fear that her already fragile state would be taxed by a trip down into the crypts. My lord, I-"

"You're telling me to have the babe buried and out of her sight before she wakes, maester?" Sandor questioned harshly.

The man folded his hands together before him and took a breath for courage. "My lord, I believe it would serve the best interest of my lady's health not to needs grieve so…so demonstrably. Women will wear themselves out with such unrestrained emotions," he spoke confidentially.

"My lady saw her own father executed; then was forced to look upon his head on a spike. She survived being a hostage of the Lannisters, a forced marriage to the Imp, the deaths of her mother and brother at the Red Wedding and the manipulations of Littlefinger before finding her way back North to wage war, face down the Dragon Queen and defeat the Others," he intoned brusquely. "She is stronger than anyone I have ever known."

"As you wish, my lord. Please believe I only wished to spare her any more grief," he explained humbly.

Sandor looked back to Sansa, and remembered a time many years ago: the little bird after the execution of her father. The young king Joffrey had brought Sandor and Meryn Trant with him to drag her out of bed and force her to attend him at court. She had not been permitted to grieve then…

Buggering hells: the maester is no Joffrey, and neither am I. She's not being prevented from grieving, only from suffering from it too much.

Sandor had not been permitted to grieve for his sister, nor had time to grieve for his father when he fled Clegane's Keep. Had it made him stronger? Might be it did; but Sansa was not a child on her own in the world, nor anymore. She did not need to suffer from more grief; and he had promised to protect her.

He squeezed her hand now. He only wanted what was best for the little bird.

I'll keep you safe.

"If that is your counsel, maester," he rasped resignedly.

The maester bowed his head and opened his hands. "Very well, my lord. Shall I leave you?"

"Aye," Sandor rasped firmly. "I'll stay with her now. Have them send for me early tomorrow…and the Blackfish as well. Have them wake my daughter and eldest sons too." He turned to face the maester and nodded decisively. "We'll have it done before she wakes again."

When the man left, Sandor turned back to Sansa and held her hand in both of his.

"Gods, old and new, let it be the right thing…for her. I want my lady to be well again."

He kissed her hand now. There would be more babes: she was still young and he was still strong but…

He closed his eyes and saw the weak, small girl she had held so tightly and willed to live and felt his heart break all over again. He had wanted the pup, as much as Sansa had. Their older children had come into the world in winter when their lives and circumstances were more uncertain, and he had fretted for their survival too much to rejoice in their births. But now in the peaceful and prosperous North, they were secure and happy. Rickon was Lord Stark and ruled as Warden in his own right; he had taken a wife and fathered sons. Sansa and Sandor could enjoy their own family and take time for each other as they had once could not. They walked hand in hand through the winter town with their children to the market and shops. They rode out together when the weather was fine or sat with their children in the solar watching them play or hearing them recite their lessons. And when they retired to their chamber, they left the shutters unlatched on summer nights to let the fresh air blow in as they clung to each other under the furs.

Sandor closed his eyes and sighed faintly to remember the wonderful feel of her fuller breasts and bottom now that they had abundant food to eat. Her skin and hair were soft and fragrant, just like the milder summer air that blew across the steppes around Winterfell and brought the smell of wildflowers from the wolfswood. He would sometimes carry them back beneath his cloak when he rode out on patrols, and leave bunches of them on her dressing table or the bolster of their bed. She would wait for him naked under the furs with the loveliest of the blooms in her hand.

Sansa had blushed like a maiden to tell him she was with child again: a girl and two boys in winter and now two boys and a girl in summer, she had whispered to him one night; and she had bloomed like a fresh rose in the glass garden even as her eyes glowed sharp like a direwolf's.

Aye: stronger than anyone I know. You're a wolf, girl, and you'll be strong again.

Meanwhile he would see to their child's burial…poor, weak little pup.

Sandor caught his breath sharply, and raised Sansa's hand to kiss again.

There would be time to mourn later, he told himself; now, he needed to be strong for her, until she was well again.