A/N: Sorry for the wait! This picks up immediately after the previous chapter.

Sandor's tension and the wild, black look in his eyes made Sansa tremble as they sat together and he mulled over what to say to her. Unsure of what had happened between him and Tywin, Sansa rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, eager to offer him some respite from the strain of whatever this was.

Her husband sighed and looked at her, his jaw set tightly and fists curled at his sides. "My love," Sansa spoke softly, "what is it?" "Sit down, lass, and I'll tell you." Sansa chose a corner of the loveseat and settled back against a cushion, her hands automatically coming to rest upon her growing belly. Sandor watched the movement and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Sansa…you know I did work for the Lannisters awhile back." She nodded slowly, trying to understand what this about, and even growing frustrated as well. Not at Sandor, but at Tywin, for coming here to their home and disturbing her husband and the peace they had.

"Yes, Sandor, I remember. You left their service shortly after the war broke out. That's why you remained in the North." He nodded wearily. "Before I left, Tywin commissioned me with one last job. It was different than others I had done for him, but the pay was good, so I accepted without knowing the details. I was instructed to sail with a shipment to the Islands and make sure everything was delivered, collect payment, and sail back."

Sandor turned to a window and stared outside, the scarred side of his face twitching. "When I arrived at the harbor and boarded the ship, I discovered that the cargo was slaves. Hundreds of them, cramped into the lower hold with no light and barely any air to breath. They were chained to each other the walls."

Sansa swallowed hard, her heart filling with sorrow at the thought of what those poor slaves had endured. "What happened then?" she coaxed gently.

"I couldn't do it," Sandor answered simply. "I could not be a part of that. Tywin knew that I never dealt with the slave trade, yet he chose me for the task anyways."

He ran a hand over his face, then turned and joined Sansa on the loveseat. She took his hands in her own, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

"I commandeered the ship and sailed it to the Canada border instead, and set the slaves free under the cover of night. Some of them, most of them probably, died after from sickness. But it seemed better that they die free men than in chains, beaten by their masters."

"I sailed the ship back and let the crew do as they pleased, but I returned to Three Oaks and gave Tywin what he had paid me in advance. A while after that is when I began blockade running for the North, and we met again in Gettysburg."

"It was very brave, what you did," Sansa told him, wrapping her hands around his arm. "It was a fool's notion," Sandor spat, shaking his head. "I figured the war would keep Tywin occupied enough that he wouldn't have time to seek me out. But the war is ending, and he knows everything now."

Understanding dawned on Sansa as she fit the pieces together. "He visited today because he wants something for the slaves you set free," she stated. "Aye. He lost money and business over it, and he demands I pay him back. I refused." Sandor's fists clenched again and for a moment Sansa thought he might hit something.

"I'm a bloody fool, and I've pulled you into this mess. I'm sorry, little bird." "No, Sandor," Sansa said quickly. "Do not apologize for doing the right thing. Whatever Tywin has threatened you with, it is better than having guilt on your conscious for compromising your…code." Sandor barked a rough, joyless laugh and shook his head again.

"You're wrong, little bird. Tywin holds the leash to my brother." The fear that had begun diminish in Sansa's spirit flared once more, bringing with it an icy cold shudder as she thought of Gregor Clegane.

Sandor turned to her quickly and pulled her into his arms. "I promise, little bird, he won't touch you or our baby. Do you hear me? He will have to kill me before that." He was almost growling, his eyes wide with desperation and swirling with hate for his brother, and fear for her, Sansa realized.

Anxious to calm him, Sansa leaned into his embrace and rested her head against his shoulder. "I have faith in you, Sandor. I know you will protect us." She nuzzled the side of his neck. "I know I have nothing to fear as long as you are with me."

"Little bird," he rasped, holding her tighter. "Bugger Tywin and Gregor. The devil himself couldn't take me away from you."

They spent the rest of the evening shut away together, drawing strength from each other's presence and discussing the future. Sandor's anger had slowly ebbed into broodiness, and Sansa requested that they take their dinner in their private rooms. Sandor was more than willing to avoid playing at manners and gracing a practically empty dining room table, and he followed Sansa to their room without complaint.

He suggested that they perhaps remove themselves farther north, to a place where Tywin did not have spies and would not expect them to go. But the thought of traveling far when she was with child, and leaving her father and sister and brothers, gave Sansa reluctance at his idea. She ran her hand over her stomach thoughtfully while Sandor paced the floor.

"The war is not over yet," she commented softly. "And Gregor Clegane is not a man easily missed. I'm sure if he entered the north, the word would spread quickly." Sandor did not seem to share in her optimism, but he kept his thoughts to himself, responding only with a frown and a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"My love, come here," Sansa beckoned to him from where she lay on the bed, propped against the thick down pillows. He kicked off his boots and crawled in next to her, wrapping his arm around her body and burying his face in her hair. "We are safe here," she whispered, running a hand through his dark locks. "Tywin can't possibly be able to stay in the north for long, even with his name and connections." Sandor snorted, the sound muffled. "He'll have his spies, little bird. Don't be naïve. He will always be watching, waiting for the right moment. He will not let this go overlooked, even if it takes years."

His words chilled her to the bone and she snuggled further into his chest. Winter had just begun, but she felt its cold wind grasping greedily at her happiness, wanting to strip away all she had and leave her bare.

Emma Rose Clegane was born on a sunny morning just after the last snows were melting from the high fields.

The winter had been hard, as expected. People were beginning to feel the strain that the war placed on their supplies, and many things were scarce and prices rose. Eyes looked eagerly towards spring, which was all they could hope for as the end of the war began to not be as near as they had thought.

In mid-February Sansa had become ill with some cold or other, and while Doctor Luwin deemed it not serious, he insisted on a very strict regime for her to regain perfect health. She had been worried about the baby more than herself, but Sandor had been frantic for both of them. And when Sandor was frantic, he was prone to violent outbursts and crude language, even threatening the doctor with bodily harm should Sansa's illness take a turn for the worse, for both her and the baby. Only Sansa's gentle reassurances that she would be fine could calm him.

For some time their bedroom was occupied by cups of tea, a myriad of different bottles containing horrid syrups and medicines, and piles of hankies that Sansa blew through faster than Bethy could wash them for reuse. Sandor had moved into the guest bedroom at night after Sansa insisted she did not want to keep him up with all her sniffling and coughing, and what if he became sick too? Both of them hated the arrangement, and at bedtime Sandor lingered at their door, staring at her longingly before sighing in frustration and leaving. Sansa hated not feeling his warmth next to her as she slept, and it made her cry, which of course stopped her nose up more.

Thankfully she was not bed-ridden for long, but for a few weeks after she was forbidden to leave the house, unless it was a few minutes on the front porch for some fresh air, and then she was bundled up from head to toe. "I feel like one of those Egyptian mummies," she complained to Sandor.

At long last her sickness ended, and with it began the slow thawing as spring approached. Sansa's pregnancy was advanced by then and she felt outrageously fat. Lucinda made her a batch of lemoncakes, and Sansa sat and ate them all in one sitting, crying, as she stared at her beautiful dresses she could not wear. Sandor told her she was being foolish.

"Where would you wear those damn dresses anyways, with the snow drifts up to your pretty white thighs? Besides, I like you wearing your nightgowns and house-robes more, they are much easier to take off, don't you think?" Sansa tried to pout at him, but her blushing gave her away and he only laughed.

One night spasms erupted in Sansa's body, waking her and Sandor, who called for Lucinda. Lucinda felt around and counted the spasms, and told Sandor he should fetch the doctor. Her husband barked for one of the boys and sent him on the fastest horse they had besides Stranger, and another was sent to Winterfell to let her father and siblings aware that the child was arriving.

The labor pains and constrictions continued and Sansa gasped and groaned, becoming sweaty with the effort. She wanted her mother so badly it was difficult to remember to breathe.

Lucinda woke Bethy and together they kept her cool with water and cloths while they waited for the doctor to arrive. Sandor hovered worriedly, holding her hand and muttering curses and other words under his breath, among which was a promise to skin the doctor alive if he didn't hurry and arrive already.

But he did arrive, and the labor went on, and when the time grew closer his assistant suggested Sandor leave the room. "It's no place for a husband to be," the nurse informed him curtly. Sandor gaped at her for a moment, then the Hound emerged with black anger across his face, causing the woman to stumble back in alarm. "And who's going to keep me out? You?" he thundered, and laughed humorlessly at her reaction. With a growl he returned to Sansa's side, taking seat firmly and glaring about the room, daring anyone else to try to tell him he should leave.

Sansa didn't remember much about the actual birthing, only that there was a lot of pain and pushing that never seemed to end, and she clenched so hard to Sandor's hand she thought she must be cutting off his circulation, and someone was screaming. Was it her? Oh, Mother, I wish you were here. Sansa had been told to expect pain, and she had heard Catelyn Stark's cries when her sister and two younger brothers were born, but never had she imagined this white-hot, searing flame that was consuming her entire body.

Was this similar to what Sandor had felt when Gregor had pushed his face in the fire?

But then it was over, and a small yet piercing wail met her ears: the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. My baby.

Through the haze of sweat and ebbing pain she tried to focus on where the sound was coming from, blinking and struggling to sit up while the maids cleaned her off. Sandor hadn't moved, but he was staring at something in the doctor's arms. "Congratulations, it's a healthy baby girl," Doctor Luwin announced as he handed off the squirming infant to be cleaned as well.

Exhausted, Sansa fell back against the pillows and her eyes slid close as she tried to regain her breath. Sandor's lips pressed against her forehead and he rasped lowly, "Well done, little bird."

When she awoke, the sun was streaming through a crack in the curtains, though she could not say how much time must have passed. Shifting around, she heard some small whimpering, gurgling sounds, and looked blearily over to the side of the bed where Sandor was sitting, holding the baby wrapped in a soft pink and white blanket that Sansa had knitted. She looked very small nestled in his large arms.

"Oh, Sandor…let me see her," she pleaded, and Sandor grinned and handed the baby to her carefully.

"She's so beautiful," Sansa whispered, staring down at the little pink face peeking out of the blanket. Their daughter already had a scattering of soft, dark downy hair, and her eyes occasionally opened in little slits, peering cautiously out at this strange new world. Sansa felt so full of love she feared she might burst. Tears of happiness pricked her eyes.

Sandor had scooted closer to her side and arranged an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, watching their daughter wriggle in the blankets.

"She'll look like you," Sandor spoke after a moment, clearing his throat. Sansa smiled and looked up at him. His face was sorted in its usual sternness, but his eyes were soft as he regarded both her and the baby, and when his mouth twitched into a small grin Sansa knew he was just as overjoyed as she was.

"I think she will have your eyes," Sansa answered, tracing the baby's cheek with her finger. Just then the infant let a series of soft, anxious cries, and Sansa started, not knowing what to do for a minute, but Lucinda entered with a tray and bowl of something steaming. "She'll be hungry jus' now, Missus," the woman informed her with a cheery smile. "Oh, of course," Sansa responded, feeling stupid. She shyly rearranged her nightgown and held the baby to her chest, and a few moments later the cries stopped and were replaced by soft sucking sounds.

"I seen lots of babies in my time," Lucinda continued as she arranged the tray on a side table, "but that there wee one is the pertiest I ever see. You decided on a name, now?" "Oh!" Sansa gasped. She had made a list of names, of course…crossing them out and circling them and petitioning certain ones for Sandor's approval. But in all the excitement she had completely forgotten.

Glancing at Sandor, she smiled softly and said, "We like "Emma", don't we?" Sandor smirked and nodded, crossing his arms so she had more room to navigate the feeding process. "Aye, it's a good name." "And I thought…maybe "Rose" for her middle name…after your sister," Sansa continued in a hushed voice while Lucinda pretended not to notice. He was very still for a few minutes, apparently weighing the decision as his mouth tightened, then he exhaled and nodded. "I would like that."

Sansa squeezed his hand and looked down at the baby. "Emma Rose Clegane it is."

Birthing babies was entirely beyond the scope of any of Sandor's abilities, but he was determined to be there for his little bird through the entire ordeal.

The labor lasted a good while, and Sandor was not accustomed to sitting for so long and feeling useless, only able to hold Sansa's hand while she whimpered through the contractions. Everyone else seemed to be busy doing something for her. Maybe he should have ridden for that blasted doctor himself.

Where was that old man, anyway? What if the baby came before he got there? Sure, Lucinda could probably deliver the infant just fine, but what about Sansa? What if something went wrong? Where was the bloody wine when you needed it?

His poor little bird looked small and tired, and Sandor snatched up a damp washcloth to cool her forehead. "I'm alright," she murmured, squeezing his hand while her other palm clenched the bed sheets. She didn't look alright to Sandor, but he nodded and kissed her hand anyway. Gods, I need wine. Or whiskey.

After the doctor finally arrived, filled with numerous explanations of which Sandor did not give a rat's arse to hear, the real work began. All through the long dark night and into the early gray morning, Sandor sat with his little bird while she screamed and groaned and cried out as their child was being born.

He had been paying so much attention to Sansa that he almost missed the baby finally being lifted up out from between her legs and sheets. The infant was covered in blood and other liquids and wriggling like a worm. Sandor stared while they wrapped it in a towel, and the doctor proceeded to inform them that they had a baby girl.

A girl. My daughter.

He looked down at Sansa as she was smiling faintly and drifting off to sleep. He was worried for a minute until Lucinda told him that she needed rest and she was doing just fine. He nodded and moved away from the bed so they could clean his wife up, then the doctor approached him with the baby, now clean and wrapped snuggly in the blanket Sansa had knitted a few months ago.

"Would you like to hold her?" Doctor Luwin asked kindly. Sandor's palms began to sweat as he stared at the little bundle nervously. He had helped birth colts and puppies before and held them; surely this would be no different. Carefully he held his arms out, mimicking the doctor, and his daughter was placed in his arms.

She was so tiny. Sandor could hold her in the crook of just one arm and he did so as cautiously as he could, like she was made of glass and he might break her. The little pink face was all that was visible until a small fist darted out from the folds of the blanket, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Sandor offered her one of his own fingers and her hand closed around it, soft and warm against his own callousness. Like Sansa.

A strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, feeling bubbled up inside Sandor as he watched the babe cuddle closer towards his chest, apparently seeking warmth and comfort after what must have been a rather startling journey out of the safety of her mother's belly.

When Sansa finally awoke, Sandor rose to sit on the bed, as he was sure she would want to see their daughter. The little bird looked completely worn out, but Sandor thought she had never been more beautiful than she was now, holding their baby and nursing her. A swell of pride made his heart pound within his chest, and he knew nothing, not even Gregor or Tywin Lannister, could ruin this moment for him.

Sandor had not much cared what they named their daughter as long as it was nothing ridiculous like Jonquil. "Emma" was a good enough name, and it went well with Clegane, and Sandor hoped that would be the end of it, but then Sansa brought up his sister. The little bird meant well, and only wanted to please him, and the irritation he had first felt quickly melted as he studied her glowing and hopeful face. It was sweet of her to want to remember his sister in some small way, and Sandor did not want to disappoint her.

When Emma was finished nursing, Lucinda took her and insisted Sansa eat some of the broth she had brought up, and Sansa meekly complied, most likely too tired argue. Lucinda placed the baby in the cradle and made sure she was secure in her blankets.

Sandor finally poured himself a long over-due drink, relishing the taste of the whiskey as it went down his throat and warmed his stomach. He watched Sansa eat her broth, daintily in spite of the day's early activities. She kept glancing at the cradle longingly, so he stood and gently scooted it closer so she lean over and see inside. "Thank you, my love," Sansa told him gratefully, and he bent over to kiss her sweet mouth.

A/N: To quote Mellie from GWtW: "The happiest days are when babies are born". Kind of a shorter chapter, I know, but I wanted one that was just dedicated to the baby's birth before moving onward. Hope you enjoyed it!