A/N: I'm writing this at the same time as my original book, so if there are pauses between publishing chapters, that's why.

Chapter 1

"Hm, what's that?" Jon was at the window, and his brow furrowed as he squinted into the distance to where a lone horseman was making his way toward the castle. Sansa joined him at the window. The horseman was still far, but there was something in the set of his shoulders that looked familiar to her.

Jon went below, to see what the newcomer wanted, while Sansa tried to remember where she had seen this man, how she had known him in the past.

They were not letting him within the keep walls; not now, so close to the battle, when one false move, one act of sabotage, could end them all. Sansa leaned out the window, straining to hear.

And when the rumble of his voice made its way to her, she choked on an indrawn breath, and ran from the room.

It had been a hell of a journey for Sandor, but at last it was over.

Upon leaving the Quiet Isle, he'd decided he needed a focus for his energies. The religious life clearly was not meant for him, and he might as well return to what he knew best: battle.

The townpeople of Stoney Sept, where he'd gone after killing the men who'd murdered Ray and the others, had spoken of nothing but the upcoming war between the Houses Bolton and Stark. They said that Ramsay Bolton was paying his sellswords a stag per month each, and since that rotten little wolf-whelp had robbed him of his last coppers while he lay dying, Sandor could use the coin.

He steadfastly ignored the pang of his conscience at the idea of fighting against the Starks; the younger girl had been a monumental pain in the arse, but the elder…

Ah, the elder…

Upon arrival in Winterfell, he learned that she'd been married to the Bolton bastard, then escaped to the North and her brother, also a bastard. And that this burgeoning war was to get her back. Seemed to Sandor that if a woman would rather leap off a castle wall than stay wed to you, perhaps you should look for a more amenable wife.

The idea of Sansa as a wife— anyone's wife— made him grind his molars. He tried to picture it, a home presided over by her, children mothered by her, and it made a queer feeling tighten in his chest, quickly and brutally banished.

Once he discovered the purpose of the war, all interest in fighting for the Boltons fled. He'd offered to free her from one gilded cage; he'd be buggered if he'd help lock her into another one. But they'd soon learned he was in town, few men being as large and disfigured as he, and sent a messenger to fetch him for an audience.

He considered just leaving Winterfell, but was curious to learn how much his reputation for prowess and ferocity was worth to the Boltons. If the bog-standard fighters were getting a stag a month, a warrior of his caliber should be worth at least five.

Not only was their offer insultingly low— as if he should feel privileged to be allowed the honor of fighting for them, but that crazy fuck, Ramsay, had made him uneasy. Sandor had worked for an unhinged monarch before; he'd seen first-hand how it would end in naught but chaos and flame. He'd be damned if he got himself into another pile of shit because he followed a man whose mind was too weak to rule.

He'd left that night, under cover of darkness, because he wouldn't put it past Ramsay to order his ambush if he'd made it known he would not be accepting their coin.

Well, he thought, let's see how the other side looks.

As he progressed north, he listened. He always listened. The townspeople and the soldiers talked about the Starks, about how Jon Snow had risen from the dead, and how Sansa Stark was trying to scrape together the last vestiges of her family's power to mount a resistance to the Boltons, and put an end to Ramsay's lunacy once and for all.

Sansa. Little Bird. It was almost incomprehensible to him how that meek little beauty, always so terrified of Joffrey, of Sandor, of her own shadow, could have found the courage and strength to head this level of insurrection.

There'd been hints of it, that courage, that strength, when he'd known her in King's Landing. The foolish spirit that had prodded her to needle Joffrey, how she'd confronted Sandor himself, and the grim determination he'd seen on her lovely face when she'd gone to push the king off the passageway to the ground far below.

No, maybe he should not be all that surprised.

Almost a week after he'd left Winterfell, Castle Black loomed on the grim horizon, and glad he was of it, because his supplies had run out the day before, and there was nothing more to feed his horse. He drew up to the sentinels at the gate. "You looking for mercenaries?"

"Happens we are," said one, and shouted to someone over his shoulder to fetch Jon Snow. The other began the slow business of cranking open the massive doors to the keep, and Sandor sneered at how lax their security was. Were they trying to lose? He'd have words with Snow about this.

He ambled in on his horse, in no hurry at all. He could hear the whispers all round: "That's the Hound!" and "He's the only one could ever take his brother!" and, of course, "Look at that scar!"

Snow presented himself at the top of the stairs, taking his measure from a distance. Sandor saw the moment the boy noticed his face, and made the connection, and felt a brief spurt of pride— even now, after all this time, he was known. Good. He didn't mind not having to prove himself all over again.

"Here to sell your sword?" Snow asked upon reaching him. "You'd be a great help."

"Depends on what you're paying," Sandor replied, though he had decided, as he rode north, that he'd fight for the Starks no matter how shite their wages. He could never have gone through with fighting against his little bird, even had he joined the Boltons. He'd failed her too much already, and would not betray her again.

…when had he begun thinking of her as his?

Disgusted with himself, Sandor spat into the snow and grimaced. Truth was, he'd always thought of her as his. His to guard, his to frighten into being more careful, his to protect. Maybe this way, by fighting for her cause, he could protect her again.

There was a commotion at the head of the stairs; damned if that big blonde bitch who'd tossed him off a cliff weren't standing there, trying to block the doorway and keep someone in.

"Brienne, let me pass!" cried the voice that he heard on odd occasions, when he was sleeping peaceful, when he felt safe enough to dream, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"Lady Sansa, you cannot go down!"

They had her there, in the very theater of war, instead of hidden in some backwater where no one could touch her? How could these fools even imagine they might win? If not for her, Sandor would have turned his mount around and left, right then, gone to find a boat to Essos to live in a hermit's refuge.

"Sansa?" The name slipped out of him before he could catch it back or swallow it down. Nearby, Jon shot him a look of surprise.

A mighty shove, and she broke past her guard: kissed by fire, they called those with red hair, and wasn't she a picture, her eyes as blue as ever, her cheeks flushed pink and all that hair tumbling down. She gazed down at him, still trying to fight free of restrictive arms.

"Brienne, let me go!"

Sandor was off his horse before he knew what he was doing. In one second, he was past Snow and across the keep yard; in another, his sword was in his hand and he felt his blood rise as it always did either before a battle, or when he was face-to-face with Sansa. Every man in the yard had done likewise, and he now stood in a ring of naked steel, all points aimed in his direction.

"Release her," he barked at Brienne, ready to kill them all to free Sansa. "Release her now."

The big woman froze and stared at him, incredulous. Sansa shimmied free of her restraints in a move Sandor was sure he'd revisit in his mind on many a cold evening, and dashed down the stairs toward him. He couldn't imagine what she was doing, what she was thinking to come to him that way, like she'd missed him—

She flung herself at him, her face pressed heedlessly against his battered chestplate, and his left arm came around her waist in a protective, greedy reflex he couldn't control, even as he held his sword ready. How many times had he wondered what she'd feel like, against him? She was soft, so soft, and smelled clean, and he still wanted her with the same fierceness as ever. But she could never want him back, not him, not a old scarred honorless wreck of a man—

Except that she was looking up at him now, and the expression on her face was gladness, was welcome, was a revelation.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone one of delight and wonder, as if he were an unexpected gift she'd never even dreamed of receiving. "Are you here to join us?"

The depends on what you're paying formed again on his lips, but in the end, all he said was, "Yes." Yes, he was joining them— her. Yes, he would fight for her. He would make her queen, and protect her, and yes. Yes.

Sansa gave his arm a little squeeze. "Come inside," she said. "You're cold and hungry. I'll arrange a bath for you, and clean clothes."

Feeling dazed, Sandor allowed her to usher him into the keep, past the stunned faces of her brother and guard and all the rest.