Disclaimer: No ownership on my side. I just wish Martin would finish his next book!

Note: So here I am with another idea...me and my ideas. This one is going to be a bit harder than other stories, I'm going for a bit more raw and a bit more...bondage perhaps. Let's see what I can pull out of this story. At the moment this one chapter really stood out to me. More to come as inspiration hits. Your comments, likes, follows and so on are always appreciated. Tell me what you think!

Update: Sorry about all the weird typos...I took the wrong version for upload. This one is better. No plot changes just corrections to strange sentences!

The Will of the Old Gods

Sansa

There was a knock on the door that stirred Sansa from her ledger. It was late, her candles had burned down and she had gone through several logs for her fire already. She should have been in bed, but she was working fitting in some final notes preparing Winterfell for the long winter approaching.

"Enter." She said, not looking up from her parchment.

Her captain of the guard shuffled in, clearly uncomfortable to disturb her at such a late hour. "My Lady there has been a...disturbance."

She finished the sentence she was in the middle of and looked up at Ambrose, waiting for him to continue with the reason for his late intrusion.

"We captured a man my Lady. We found him outside the walls of Winterfell...we uh...we think it's the Hound." The man stood there, nervous and unsure as to what would happen next.

Sansa knew Ambrose to be a good man, not one to imagine things or tell tall tales. But the Hound was dead, both Brienne and Arya had sworn to it. She cocked her head to the side, not hiding her annoyance at his disturbance.

"And what makes you think you've captured the Hound?" There was a challenge in her voice that made Ambrose consider his words carefully.

"Well ma'am he's….rather big and ugly." The slender captain said, the nervous tapping of his foot filled the room.

Now she was very very annoyed. Sansa fluttered her eyelashes, "Do you care to explain what you mean by "rather big and ugly"?"

Ambrose thought for a moment, trying decide how to best describe the man he had in the dungeon. "Well my Lady, he's as big as a door frame, and...his face...it's like half of it is melted."

At this admission Sansa felt a pang in her chest, something she had not felt in a long time. 'Could it be?'

"If I go down into the dungeons and this man is not the Hound, you and your men will be on crow chasing duty for the next two months." She gave him her hardened "Lady of Winterfell" stare to make sure he knew how annoyed she would be.

The man nodded and opened the door so she could exit with him. Sansa took her thick warm cloak and threw it over her shoulders. The temperature had dropped in recent weeks, snow had begun to cover the ground on a more permanent basis. She nodded and Ambrose grabbed the torch and lead her through the halls and stairways of her family home.

Jon was raising his armies, gathering support to fight the threat from beyond the Wall. That left her to handle the daily work in Winterfell. She found that administering the Keep suited her, paying attention to detail and being able to manage both a house as well as a barracks. She had accomplished a lot since they had won back her ancestral home from the Boltons, learned a lot about life and human nature in the meantime. It had not been until they had retaken Winterfell and she had been reunited with Arya that she had heard of the Hound's demise. Somehow Sansa had felt like she'd lived two lifetimes since they had been together in King's Landing, but even then it wasn't until she had learned of his death, had she realized how much she cared for him. It was only when she had turned a woman grown that she had understood the look in his eyes when she had been in his presence. She would have given much to see a man look at her like that again.

Shaking herself from her musings, Sansa lifted her skirts as she went down the winding stairs into the dungeon. It was colder down there, as if the stone sucked out out any warmth that could have lived there. The light was dim as the stairs flattened out and Ambrose brought her to a lonely holding cell at the end of the hall. Two other men stood up and saluted her as she approached, looking nervously into the dark cell.

The smell of alcohol hit Sansa first, it was so strong she wondered if one could get drunk from pure smell. She wrinkled her nose a bit but drew herself closer to the dark cell.

"Ambrose bring the torch." She ordered.

There was a man in there, of that she was certain. He was laying on the ground of the damp, cold cell, only some straw to pad the floor. It was impossible to see his face.

"Open the cell door, I need to get a closer look at him."

The men did as they were bid, this seemed to stir the prisoner lying on the floor within. As he rolled from his side and slowly, even unsteadily rose from the floor, Sansa could see he had shackles on both his wrists and ankles. When he did finally stand, he was still in the dark, big almost looming over her and the guards. The large man swayed uneasily in front of her, still a silhouette against the dim light of the torches.

"He's drunk." Sansa said to her captain of the guard, turning her face to him surprised.

"We found him this way my Lady. Half frozen and wondering around the outer walls of the Keep."

Sansa could tell the man was at least conscious now, the way his head turned toward her when she spoke. He was listening through his drunken stupor, aware that his surroundings had changed. It was hard not to have your stomach clench in fear, even with shackles your mind began to play out all the bad scenarios, the what ifs and the if thens should this man decide to be difficult. She grabbed Ambros' wrist and brought the torch closer. Then she inhaled, steading her voice.

"Come into the light." She ordered the prisoner, squinting her eyes against the bright light of the fire hoping to see something.

The monster of a man in front of her shifted uncomfortably, making the shackles around his wrists and ankles klink loudly in the quiet of Winterfell's dungeons. When the man did finally step forward, Sansa had to do everything possible to control the fear that rose in her body. The prisoner's face shot out into the light, mangled and disfigured, his long dark hair matted to his head, his eyes heavily lidded from the booze, his breath smelling of strong proof alcohol and vomit.

"Well well well, if it isn't the elder Stark bitch? Where's that little sister of yours? I owe that bitch a broken hand or two." His laugh was a drunken, evil thing. Something that gave you shivers in the night, that would make grown men bolt their bedroom doors before going to bed.

Sansa's guards drew their swords, though the man was still shackled. It was unmistakably the Hound. She could never forget that face for as long as she lived, that voice for even longer. The man that had been the Lannister's Dog, Joffrey's Pet, one of the most feared warriors of Westeros was standing here, in her dungeon drunk off his tits, disheveled and properly out of shape from his warrior days.

'What on earth happened to you?' Sansa wondered, seeing only pain and anger in his eyes.

"Remove his bonds." She ordered her guards, a cold edge to her voice.

"But my Lady, he's….." one of the guards began.

Sansa cut him off quickly, "I know who he is and I know what I said. Now remove his bonds." There was no arguing with her tone, no talking back.

The men were scared of him, terrified of him even in this state. It saddened her deeply to see the Hound this way, down on his luck and buried in his cups. The sounds of the locks opening and the shackles being removed made Sansa stirr from her thoughts. She'd been playing with the rings on her fingers, a silly childhood habit that made her feel like a little girl sometimes. One of the only true tells that she was nervous. Now, however, it would serve a different purpose. She made sure her jewels were facing in toward her palm, then took two steps closer to the Hound and smacked him hard across the face. Her men flinched in surprise.

The Hound was surprised as well, his face turning from the force of her blow. "What the fu…"

She slapped him again, this time drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek where one of her bigger gems had made contact with his face. The big man held his face now with a hand, checking his fingers in the dim light and registering that she had drawn blood.

"Never use that word to describe me or my sister again. If you do, I'll put a collar on you and parade you around Winterfell on all fours like the dog you are." Sansa waited to see if he would react, letting her threat sink in. They were so close now she could smell the vomit that covered the front part of his shirt, but it didn't matter, she needed to make a point.

When the silence dragged on, she continued. "Wolves and dogs are not so different you know. You just need to show who the alpha is, then the rest fall in line." She eyed him now, seeing the rage that was building inside him, the anger that threatened to boil over into physical violence.

"Those are some pretty fucking brave words to say when you have three men with swords ready to kill me." The Hound said through gritted teeth, fists balling up at his sides.

At this Sansa couldn't help but laugh, heartily. "Do you think I never watched you at Tourney? Never sat there in awe as you took on five men at once? I watched you disarm them all and make them yield, never once needing your sword." She waited, she wanted to see if he would say anything. When he did not, she continued. "I know that even in the pitiful state you're in now you could take these men without thinking twice about it. Kill them without breaking a sweat."

Sansa moved closer, though it was difficult to even imagine being closer to him in this dark claustrophobic cell with three armed guards, the Hound and her. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "You could kill them perhaps, but I know you won't hurt me."

She let her breath blow warmly against his ear on his bad side, knowing he may not be able to feel it. But if he did, knowing he would consider it more intimate and more fearless of her to do so.

The Hound glared at her but said nothing, the tension in his hands gone.

"Ambrose. See that he bathes and has a new set of clothes. The smell coming off him could turn us all into white walkers. Clifton. Make sure Clegane receives enough to eat and water to drink, I want him fit and sober in a few days." Her men nodded. "If I hear that you have mistreated a Lord of Westeros in my household, I will personally see that you are sent to the Wall faster than you can blink. Am I clear?"

There was a feverish amount of nodding and 'yes-ing' being thrown around as she and her men left the cell, sliding the bars closed behind them. Sansa turned back to the Hound, unclipping her cloak from her shoulders.

"You'll need this." She handed it to him through the bars, he didn't move. "It gets cold." She said simply and without emotion, dropping the cloak on the floor of the cell. Sansa took one final look at him before turning toward the stairs to leave.

Something must have snapped in him then, but what she was not sure. All of the sudden she could hear the sound of iron straining against the stone walls as the Hound used his massive strength to hit and shake the bars. He was roaring, yelling his voice thundering through the cold walls of the dungeon as she rounded the stairs, "SANSA! SANSA get back here! SANSAAAAA!"

Her heart was beating fast in her chest as the Lady of Winterfell made her way back to her chambers, where she had left no more than an hour ago. She closed the door behind her quickly and slid down it, her back on the wood her bum now on the floor. She put her head in her hands.

All these years she thought he'd been dead, Arya had said it so. Now, the protector of her sanity, her champion from King's Landing had ended up here, in her dungeon in the worst condition she had ever seen him in. She looked up toward the heavens and exhaled. Sansa had long forsaken the Seven, her mother's gods. They had done nothing for her, only brought her pain. Despite her looks she was of the North, and knew that there was an easiness to the Old Gods that filled her with calm.

"The Old Gods saw it fit to bring you back to me. To make our paths cross once again." She said aloud. "I owe you a chance, I owe you...my life." She was overwhelmed with emotions, not sure what to do next or how to deal with the task in front of her. She needed him by her side, but she could not take him like this.

"Give me the strength to bring him back to me." This was her prayer, her plea to the Gods of her father. It was the only thing she wanted in this world.