AN: Holy shit guys, here it is! Bet ya never thought it was coming. A few things to note, before we dive in. I am keeping this mostly show-canon, with a few minor references to the book. I try to call them out beforehand. I'm also sticking to roughly show age, meaning I think Sansa is about 18 here, and Sandor in his late 20's, early 30's. If you think the age gap is weird, please don't make that a sticking point. I'm dating a guy a decade older than me, and trust me, it's fine. (Plus this is medieval times, remember?)

I don't intend for this to be a prediction fic, and for that reason, if it seems like I'm not covering the whole story, it's because I'm focusing solely on SanSan. Other characters are important, sure, and I will try to dedicate as much time as I deem fit on them, but it's primarily our fav pairing.

I am taking Sandor's character development into account here. As we saw in the dragon pit, with his interactions with Brienne and his brother, this is not the same Clegane that guarded Joffrey. If you are looking for that dynamic, it's not in this fic. This is who he is, now, and how recent events have affected him. (Next fic is going to have a lot more Angry!Sandor, promise.) Ok friends, that all I have. Oh, and the don't let the title freak you out, pinky swear I'm not going to GRRM this shit. Read on!

"Where to now?" Sandor remarked to Jon, as the two of them surveyed the empty dragon pit, where the dead wight still lay, rotting in the sun. The rest of their company had since departed, leaving them to go back to the Red Keep or to prepare the boats. Only they, along with Brienne and Davos, remained, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

"Home." Jon said it with a bit of relief. "We'll go back to Winterfell. That's where they'll hit first. We can make our stand there, use it as a home base and plan. We'll go through the north first, warn everyone of what's coming, and rally forces."

Sandor hadn't decided where he would go, or what he would do yet. The temptation to remain in the south, and wait for his chance to face off against his brother, was great. But he knew what threat was coming from the north, and he wanted to face it head on, rather than cowering in the south, while Tormund and the rest fought.

"If you plan to sail, your grace, would you like me to ride?" Brienne offered. "I know you will want me back to Winterfell quickly to protect the lady, and if you intend to show the people that they should follow the dragon queen, riding will make better time."

"I thought you said Arya could protect herself." Sandor turned to look at her. He was still surprised the girl managed to make it out alive, and all the way back to her home. He supposed the odd feeling in his chest could be described as proud, if he didn't look too closely at it. She always was a fighter.

"Arya is back in Winterfell?" Jon looked at Brienne, astonished.

"What other lady is there?" Sandor remarked, thinking in amusement of how Arya would react to being called a lady. She'd hate it, if she really was the girl Brienne said she was, and that made him wrench his mouth up in a half smile.

"Sansa." Brienne looked between the two of them, as though they were both idiots, missing every third word of a book they were all reading. "Both your sisters are home, your grace. Bran as well."

"What?" Jon looked astonished, while Sandor's heart was pounding of its seemingly own accord. "They are?"

After a moment, her words sank in for him. Sansa was alive then. That was more than he'd ever hoped for, during all the years that had passed since they'd lived in the Red Keep, in the nest of vipers, together. He'd assumed she would've perished, if not by the mad queen and her demon son, then smothered by the poisonous court. It had given him nightmares, and often he saw her face, afraid and bruised, in nobody's amongst a crowd. Hearing that she was alive, and at Winterfell, could only mean one thing. She was alright. She was the Lady of Winterfell, no less. She survived.

"Yes." Brienne blinked a couple times. "I thought you knew." Her words wrenched him back to the present and unbidden, his eyes flickered to the great red monster off in the distance. Every bone in his body was screaming, oddly enough, for him to go in the opposite direction. Away from his brother, away from where he had spent so much of his time. It was as though someone had reached inside him, caught a rib, and was now tugging him, tugging him relentlessly north.

"About Sansa, yes." Jon was astonished, looking at all of them, but Sandor heard his words, even if they didn't register. He was too busy with his own astonishment, trying to comprehend that Sansa Stark had lived, and was finally home. Where he'd promised to take her. "Not Bran, and certainly not Arya. Is she alright?"

"More than alright." Brienne's eyes flittered to Sandor, as though trying to understand why he looked like he'd been clubbed over the head. "Quite terrifying actually."

"What?" Jon absentmindedly felt the pommel of his sword.

"She's a talented fighter. She'll protect Sansa." Brienne assured him.

"Not against white walkers." Sandor grumbled, looking down to hide the overwhelming rush of emotions. Joy. The little bird had finally escaped her cage. She was free. Shame. He failed her, on so many levels, so many times. Fear. She'd never forgive him for what he let be done to her. She had every right to never speak to him again.

"Nor against Littlefinger." Jon said darkly and Sandor's head snapped up.

"You left her alone, with him?" He demanded, of both Jon and Brienne. In his mind, they were both at fault. It didn't matter that they didn't know what he did. They'd never seen her in the keep, how the master of coin's eyes had followed her as she drifted from room to room, a broken thing. He had his own suspicions, confirmed by the dead whores he'd carried away from the king's rooms. Petyr Baelish didn't mind breaking things, as long as they could still serve his purpose.

"He's Lord of the Vale." Jon said, uncomfortably. "He saved Winterfell from the Bolton's, his army helped me win, I couldn't just throw him out."

"Sansa's dealt with worse." Brienne meant for it to make him feel better, but it did the exact opposite. Sandor looked at her in horror, unable to stop himself from showing such boldfaced, open concern. He'd seen the worst in King's Landing. What could possibly be worse than how Joffrey had tortured her? He didn't want to even think on it as he unstuck his throat and uttered lowly,

"Worse?"

"If they're all there, someone needs to go north and protect them." Jon looked a little dazed still, apparently ignoring Sandor. "Brienne—"

"I'll go." Sandor said suddenly, stepping forward and Jon looked at him, startled. Brienne went to protest, but he cut her off remorselessly. "I've faced the damn dead, and killed the fuckers. She hasn't. I go."

The words, urgent as they word, hardly conveyed his true panic. What Brienne had said kept thudding through his mind, worse, worse, worse… He needed to see that she was still standing. He needed to see her, for his own incredibly selfish reasons, but also because if she really was alone, with fucking Littlefinger of all people, he needed to be there. He needed to protect her. He needed to do something to make up for all the times that he had stood, pretending to be indifferent, and failed her.

"You want to?" Jon eyed him critically.

"I'll get there faster." He stated flatly, trying to be logical when all he wanted to do was run, as fast as he could, north. He had an apology to beg from a beautiful wolf. "I know the lands better, the roads. I can keep her— them— safe."

"I am her sworn shield." Brienne argued. "I'm bound to protect her."

"Oh, aye," He rolled his eyes. "And what good you'll do, dead." Brienne didn't know, she didn't know sneaky bastards, she didn't know undead wights, she didn't know a damned thing, and now that the knowledge that Sansa was alive had buried itself in his chest, right where his heart was meant to be, he didn't trust anyone to do right by her. He hardly trusted himself, but he had to try. He had to, for her.

"Enough." Jon held up a hand. "Brienne, he's right. He'll go quicker and he's faced what's coming. Let him. He'll protect them."

"But—" Brienne began, but Jon gave her a look.

"Sansa would appreciate her shield keeping her brother safe." Davos remarked, from where he'd been quiet. "And we could use a fighter like you to keep the peace with Jon and her grace."

"Fine." With a murderous look, Brienne stalked off, yelling for Pod. Sandor went to follow, mind already whirling with how to get to Winterfell quickly before Jon called,

"Clegane. A word?"

"What?" He turned back around with a furious expression and Jon gestured for him to walk, not moved in the slightest. With a barely restrained groan of annoyance, because he wanted nothing more than to get on the road and ride his horse into the ground if it meant making it to Winterfell quickly.

"My sisters," Jon began slowly, as they began a maddeningly slow pace around the dragon pit and towards where the horses waited. "And my brother Bran, they are everything to me. They are the only family I have left. They lost their mother, our father, Robb, and Rickon. If I lose any more of my family…" He trailed off.

"I'll protect them." He said roughly, touching his sword. It hardly gave him comfort, knowing that neither the dead nor Littlefinger feared such a thing. But it was a part of him, one that he knew others feared and respected. He hoped Sansa would accept it. How did those vows go? My sword before yours…

"Why?" Jon paused, looking up at where the two dragons wheeled in the sky and Sandor stopped with him, shifting from foot to foot in the impatience to be moving once again. "You aren't a sworn shield, like Brienne. You were loyal to the Lannister's, once. Why should I trust that my sisters will be safe with you?"

"Because they always have been." Sandor looked out at the water, rather than at Jon. He thought of his time in Kings Landing, when he'd thought to take her away on a boat, across the Narrow Sea. Somewhere where golden lions could never touch her again. He didn't look back at the keep. There were no happy memories there, except the one. When she'd sang, and for half a moment, he thought she'd follow him away from it all. He had promised her things then. He wanted to live up to them now. "I'd never let anything happen to them."

"They always have been?" Jon gave him a quizzical look.

"Aye," He huffed, trying to keep his temper in check. No matter what the septon said, it didn't seem to work. "When your sister came to Kings Landing and was to marry Joffrey, I kept her safe."

"Safe?" Jon went red. "You call her being beaten and taunted safe?"

"She was alive, wasn't she?" He snapped and Jon went to argue once again, but he cut him off, his words coming out hot like a sword fresh from the forge. "He was a cunt, I don't deny that. And I didn't do as much as I should've, I know that. I regret it every fucking day. But Arya, I kept her safe!"

"How?" Jon demanded, looking up at him with those damned northern eyes. Like Arya's, but not Sansa's. She had those twin blue pools, trapping and drowning men stupid enough to look at her. Eyes like a river.

"I tried to bring her to her mother." He sighed, turning his thoughts from Sansa and remembering vividly the night of the red wedding, how they paraded Robb's body about. How Arya had lost so much. "Then I took her from the Frey's massacre."

"She was there?" Jon looked stunned, and a little queasy around the gills. He wondered how much the man knew of his half brother's death, if he understood what exactly Sandor had risked going back for the girl.

"No," Sandor shook his head. "I took her while the rest were being slaughtered. Robb, her mother, already fucking dead. Then I tried to take her to her Aunt Lysa and—"

"Littlefinger." Jon said grimly.

"Cunt." He growled, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. He put the pieces together in an instant, imaging what had happened. If Littlefinger was in the Vale and Sansa wasn't in Kings Landing, he could about imagine how she escaped. He wouldn't put anything past the man, not even killing the king. With a jolt, he realized just how close he must've been to, when he'd stood at the Bloody Gate and demanded Lysa Arryn. "I should've stayed. If I would've seen Sansa— Lady Stark—" He began to ramble, despite himself.

"You would've saved her a lot of pain." Jon said heavily and Sandor's heart clenched. What could've possibly happened to her that was worse than the Lannister's? The word kept thundering in his head, to the rhythm of hooves— worse, worse, worse…

"Is she…" He trailed off, unable to say the words. He wasn't even sure which he would use here. Scarred? Broken? A shadow of her former self, the bright little songbird who'd chirped on command? Could he bring himself to ask such a question and receive such an answer? He didn't know.

"She's not who you knew, Clegane." Jon avoided his eyes. "She was married to the bastard Ramsey Bolton. He was worse than anyone I'd ever met. He tortured Theon Greyjoy, completely broke him Sansa said. Called him Reek."

"Seven hells." He swore, remembering the rumors he'd heard during his travels about the northern bastard, completely insane. Even as far south as the Riverlands, word of his exploits carried. Some said him worse than his brother, and his stomach suddenly heaved, his mouth gone dry. "And she—"

"Unspeakable things." Jon stared out over the water, the only emotion showing a tic in his jaw as he clenched and worked to unclench it. "The worst things that can happen to a woman." They were both silent for a long moment, as the horrible words sunk in for Sandor. Jon didn't need to say anything further to explain.

He wanted to be sick, right there, standing next to the King in the North. He had terrible images in his head, of hands running up that thin, pale neck. Usually when he had these waking nightmares, it was Gregor's hands, his cruel face, his harsh laugh as he bent a weeping Sansa forward. The only comfort Sandor had once taken was that it was all a dream, all a nightmare, and had never happened. Now he pictured pale hands and his gut clenched, threatening to return his food.

He thought of them, the Stark sisters. Arya, the little killer, and Sansa, the little bird. He thought about how someone had hurt Sansa, had caused her such pain, and he wanted to run his sword through himself with guilt. He could've done more, and he should have. That, or died to protect her. He couldn't even die right, he'd done it speaking such vile words on his lips, and he felt a familiar wave of self-hatred that he hadn't dealt with in years.

"I'll go." He promised Jon, gritting it out from between clenched teeth to stop himself from spitting with rage. "I'll kill the bastard." He imagined splitting his skull open, presenting it to Sansa, before he could stop himself. He always imagined violence, and hated dragging her innocent self into it.

"Too late." Jon turned, looking at him with an honest expression, and he saw something dark glitter there, reminding him of himself. "Sansa was never going to let him live once we took back Winterfell."

"What?" Sandor's head whipped around in astonishment as he thought about the beautiful little bird who said all the right words when demanded of her, with soft, pale skin, and vivid red hair. She'd been the most stunning woman in Kings Landing, and he'd seen girls from Dorne to Mereen. None compared to her. What did Jon mean, she hadn't let him live? She was an innocent. She didn't do such things.

"He's dead." Jon said plainly.

"And she killed him?" He didn't bother to try and hide the wonder in his voice. Jon's next words sent a bolt of heat through his stomach and down into his groin.

"She doesn't use swords or bows, but she gets the job done."

"Huh." He tried to understand that, his little bird now a little wolf. He tried to understand why the thought of her, watching with cold blue eyes as the men that had hurt her died in front of her, made his mouth water. He tried to understand the rapid beat of his heart against his ribs, as though it was a little bird itself, looking for its pair.

"If I send you home to my sisters, what can I expect?" Jon folded his arms and gone was the King in the North, the fearless leader, the noble warrior. Before him stood a skeptical big brother, and nothing more.

"I owe them this." He thought of when Sansa had been beaten in front of him, and he'd done nothing. He thought of that damned white cloak wrapped around her, and the way those blue eyes had peered up at him like he'd been her beloved. He tried not to think about how much he desired such a look to be true ever since, knowing it was impossible. He even thought of Arya and how she had, rather unwittingly, reminded him of why a person could not run on hate alone. "I owe them everything."

"And they're not going to be upset if I send you?" Jon pressed.

"I don't think I'm on Arya's little list anymore." He said thoughtfully, remembering how her hateful little voice had declared his name every single night, and Jon's brows furrowed but he kept talking. "And if the lady orders me to be killed, so be it. She deserves that much, and I'd go without question." His voice broke at the end, but he spoke the words truly and meant them with utter sincerity.

"You speak of Sansa like you know her, and know her well." Jon was quiet, the long face and dark eyes unreadable. "How?"

"She was the only honest thing in that den of vipers." Sandor looked to where the Red Keep towered high above all else and repressed every urge to go start tearing the damned thing down. He wished the dragons would burn it, and clean away all the memories he and Sansa had of that place. "The only good thing. I didn't think she'd survive them and I fucking hated it. I tried to steal her, but she wouldn't come. Should've stole her anyways." Regret and bitterness hung heavy on his words.

"Would you die for her?" Jon asked bluntly.

"Aye." He turned away from the keep and turned back north again, the ache in his chest eased only when he faced that direction. He thought about all the wrongs he'd done her, all the evils she'd faced because of him. "That'd only be fair."

"Alright." Jon clapped his shoulder, startling him. "Go then, tell them I sent you to make sure Winterfell is ready for me, and for what's coming. Tell them I'll be home soon. Tell Arya… Tell her that I miss her." Jon's words nearly stuck in his throat.

"I'll leave some of the dead fuckers for you and the dragon queen." He glanced up at the fire breathers and shuddered. Jon grinned.

"Not too many. Be safe."

"Aye." He grunted and glanced at Jon, taking a last look at him. He was the exact opposite of Joffrey, in every way, from the attitude to the looks. He dismissed any idea he had of finally having a king to follow, to vow to, and headed to where the horses were tethered, waiting. They weren't the only ones.

"A word." Brienne said stiffly, her and her squire already sitting astride their horses. He glanced up at them, Pod looking a little bemused and Brienne looking like someone had put a hedgehog between her ass and the saddle. He bristled but reminded himself, forcefully, that she wouldn't be Sansa's sworn shield if she didn't trust and respect her.

"Quickly then." He ordered, checking the saddlebags for his supplies.

"I am sworn to Lady Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Wardenness of the North, and as her sworn shield, I must—"

"Out with it." He ground out, taking a bag of gold from Tyrion's saddlebags. He'd deal with that later. Stealing from the imp felt oddly right and he bared his teeth in what might've been a smile, if he wasn't so savage.

"Are you really going to protect those girls?" Brienne dropped all her pretense and stared at him hard, suspicion in her bright blue eyes.

"I am." He glared at her, hard, as if he could knock her from her horse on that alone. "I did, or did you forget?"

"What are your intentions?" Brienne questioned, all honor and nobility and he laughed, a harsh rasp.

"Maybe swear to be Arya's sworn shield." He said with feigned thoughtfulness and Brienne gave him a withering look while Pod watched the two of them in mild interest, the horses shifting in anticipation.

"I'll be to the north soon enough." Brienne flicked her reins and the horses walked past him, her back as straight as if she herself sat on the damned Iron Throne, not looking down at him. "Leave it still standing."

"Aye." He hid his slight amusement from her. Once he had stolen and taken enough provisions to get him through the journey without needing to stop frequently, he swung himself up into the saddle. He spared one glance towards the sea, where the ship with black sails waited. Then he urged Stranger the other way and headed for the Kings Road, heart soaring at he was pulled north.

The journey seemed to fly. He vaguely recalled the first time he'd done this journey, when Robert had been king and it had been summer. It had been easier then, except they'd moved at a snail's pace, with the cooks and the ladies and half of the household dragged onto the road. This time, he rode at a hard pace every day, slept in the saddle when he could, and hardly noticed as the kingswood melted into the Trident, into the Neck, into the wintery lands of the North.

He tried to keep his thoughts off of Sansa, but it was utterly useless and by the time he passed into where the drifts were nearly too high for Stranger to step over, he had to admit that he was terrified, for the first time in his life, of what a woman might do to him. Scared of how much power she had.

Because he kept picturing how it would go. How she would come down the stairs and slap him for presuming that he could come back. Or how she wouldn't even greet him and instead send an archer to pierce his heart before he even reached the walls. Or how she would sentence him to death in that muddy yard and list out his crimes against him. That was always the worst, hearing his crimes in her sweet voice.

"I, Sansa Stark, do sentence you, Sandor Clegane, to die.."

But as he drew closer to Winterfell, he resolved himself to a simple truth. He hated it, hated coming to the conclusion, but it was like a festering wound, and he'd long since learned his lesson there. It was best to root out the source of the hurt, and face it head on, unafraid, before it could get worse.

And so he, Sandor Clegane, came to the realization that he was going to go devote his life to Sansa Stark, if she would have him. Because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the good that blasted Beric thought he might still do. Because it felt like, for the first time in ever, he had a calling in his life. A purpose.

He was no silver knight, streaking across a wild field to come to the rescue of a fair maiden. He still spat on stories and vows and songs. They were utterly useless and the world was shit. But there was a small part of him that hoped that the Sansa Stark that greeted him at Winterfell might still believe and take comfort in such things like she once had. So he traveled north and promised himself that he was simply doing his duty to Jon, by protecting the girls who had deserved better from him, long ago.

He didn't think about how he slept and dreamt of Sansa, gliding towards him over the snow, arms outstretched and smiling. On the nights when he made a fire and sat around it, trying to get warm, he would often stare into the flames and try to see what was going to happen, even if he hated himself for it slightly.

He never saw anything as clear he had with the dead. He saw what he thought might be three dragons in the sky, he saw the moon cross in front of the sun, he saw walls crumbling and light rush through them, he saw the sun set in the east, he saw wolves creeping down the mountain and through dead trees. He saw what might have been a woman in the flames, but she turned away from him when he called for her. But nothing that told him what he might expect from Sansa Stark.

AN: Man, you guys cannot know how excited I am to share this with you... Updates will be weekly, but forgive me with the holidays thrown in there. I am American-Midwest, which means that Thanksgiving and Christmas is a family-hostage situation. Pretty please leave kudos, reviews, and tell a friend. Literally, for every review I get, I have the inscription to write another page. So the more reviews, the more SanSan. Like seriously, just copy and paste your favorite part in. Tell me your favorite character. Tell me who you hope to see. Tell me your predictions for season 8. Anything. Y'all are great!