Disclaimer: I love the books and the movies and can sadly claim neither as my own intellectual property. Anything similar to something you may have read somewhere is pure coincidence.

Note: This is my first GoT story in the fanfic realm, so I'm totally curious to see how the fans are. If you read any of my other stories I have a huge affinity for broken things, which is probably why I'm so hot on the SanSan pairing. There's something about him that's alluring and disturbing, which is why I adore him. I will portray Sansa in this fic as her season 7 strong self with a sexual edge, I'll let her live my dirty little fantasy on this one ;-) This is a part of a story I might work into something bigger, but it's hard to say. Anyway, please enjoy, please give comments etc. I only anticipate one or two more chapters. As I said in the description, it's short, it's lemons and that's all.

Sandor

The dirt flew from the hooves of his black mare as Sandor Clegane directed her up the hill. His heart beat a little faster knowing he was close, knowing he would soon see the place he had been thinking about, almost obsessively, for the last four years. He had to see if the rumors were true, if the chatter of the flirty barmaids and the banter of the traveled bards held any weight. 'Is she really there? Did she survive all that?' He wondered. So many things had happened, his own journey had not been as easy as simply going from one place to another. He knew hers had not been either, and it gave him a sense of longing, of wondering how it might be when they reunited. Sandor's stomach clenched at the thought, he wasn't one to get nervous over such things, but these thoughts left him uneasy.

The black mare grunted as he brought her to a halt at the top of the hill. It was an early winter day, sunny with a slight chill in the air. The sky was a deep blue and the sun seemed to shine on Winterfell as if the Gods were guiding him to that direct spot. Sandor could not deny that he preferred the smell and freshness of the northern air. It gave a man a sense of freedom, a break from the overfilled and rancid cities of the south. He was not a northern man, but he had fought against them, seen their prowess on the battlefield and had a great affinity for their determination and skill. 'She'll be well guarded. She's home now, with thousands of men at her command.' He considered his options silently as he took in the view of the city.

In the end it was clear, there was only one way he could really do anything successfully and it was always direct and with a sword in hand. He hoped she would remember him, he hoped she would look upon him differently than she had in King's Landing. A small smile crept across his burnt face. His little bird had become a she-wolf now, there was nothing more that he wanted other than to see her again, make sure she was well and possibly tell her how he felt about her. His smile weakened at the thought of the last point. Sandor remembered his offer to her before the siege, when he had snuck into her chambers and asked her to come away with him. Well that had been his hope, he had actually offered to take her away to her family, back to familiar and friendly territory. Her refusal had hurt, but what had he been thinking? How could she have ever conceived of leaving with a brute like him? Perhaps he would pass on the last point.

Spurred by his riding boots the mare trotted onward toward the stronghold. Winter was coming, the words of the Starks rang truer than he cared to admit. Though, if what he had heard on the road heald any water, the army of the dead would be approaching. At this pace he would make it to Winterfell at sundown. So fuck honor and fuck responsibilities, it was time to settle scores and tend to unfinished business before the apocalypse. And there was no one he had more unfinished business with than Lady Sansa Stark.

Sansa

The Maester had brought more candles to the hall were Sansa sat, finishing up the book keeping. There was much to be done in Jon's absence and much to prepare for as the winter snows began to fall. She was the Lady of Winterfell, the eldest to still bare the name Stark and felt the weight of her office heavily on her shoulders. She preferred working in the Great Hall, it provided her the space she needed to review ledgers, consult laws and to make sure the stockpiles were growing at a reasonable pace. She also couldn't stand being in her parents old bedroom, formerly Ramsey's quarters and now her own. Her captivity at Winterfell had been a horrific chapter in a life that had started with privilege, journeyed into loss and suffering, then finally continued with her and Jon regaining their family's traditional lands. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She took the room because she knew she had to confront her fears, she knew she had to show everybody, particularly herself, that she was strong enough to get over her short but horrific time as a Bolton. She had heard her father, uncle and even Jon talk about the terrors of war. What it did to a man and how things could haunt them for the rest of their lives. She had decided that a woman's ordeal in these times was not all that different when it came to the marks it left on the soul. Different battles, different stakes, but the pain, strength and grit it required to get through them was the same.

Sansa was about to put away her books when a large commotion drew her from her task. Not even taking a moment to throw her warm cloak over her shoulders, she ran out onto the balcony that overlooked the courtyard of her home. The yelling grew louder and the sound of metal hitting metal rang out on this cool winter's evening. Upon reaching the railing, Sansa had to shield her eyes from the light of the dusk, just peaking out over the horizon, it still shone into the courtyard. She could see her house guards surrounding a man, fighting him six to one. Peering a little closer, the voice and the face was unmistakable. 'He's here!' she thought to herself with excitement. There were very few men in the Seven Kingdoms who could take on six men at once and have those men shivering in their boots.

"Lower your swords at once!" Sansa's voice boomed from the balcony with authority. As her last word rang out Sandor brought his sword tip to the ground, kneeling before it in the direction of her voice. Her guards stood there dumbfounded, not understanding exactly what had just happened.

"What is the meaning of this?" she questioned her guards, noticing the chill of the evening creeping up her skin.

"Ma' Lady, it's the Hound. He's come from King's Landing, a Lannister man here to do you ill." The commander of the guard protested, keeping one eye trained on Sansa and the other on his huge opponent. The other guards also kept their swords drawn, pointed toward the mountain of the man known to all as the disfigured Hound, Sandor Clegane.

Sandor kept his eyes trained on the ground in front of him, willing himself not to look the she-wolf in the face. It had been a lifetime since he had heard that voice. What had been so soft and unsure in the capital, was strong and authoritative in her homeland. It was all he could do to not look up until called upon.

"My dear Captain," Sansa started, "I appreciate your concern and am grateful for your sharp eye and your fast reaction. You have done your duty well. However, of all those in King's Landing who would wish me ill, Master Clegane is not one of them." She waited to gauge their reaction to her words. "Whilst in King's Landing Master Clegane and I were both bound to do certain things, whether willing or unwilling, because of duty and for fear of our lives. The Lannisters are tyrants and have forced many a good person in a position to do bad things. Show him the same forgiveness you have for my transgressions whilst at the capital, and put down your swords."

Sandor smiled slightly toward the ground as he heard her voice speak his name and profess his honor. He'd never been a man of honor, nor had any man in his house. Theirs was one built on the corpses of the children of the Mad King, not through thousands of years of rule as Sansa's house had. Yet she had not seen him as an enemy, she was welcoming him. Sandor inhaled deeply as he heard the swords of the guards being put into their sheaths.

Sansa marveled at his discipline, as he stayed on his knee showing her the respect of his full capitulation. Even from the balcony he was bigger than she remembered, so much so that he stood out even amongst Northern men. While his sword might not be quite as tall as she was, it was probably about as heavy. She moved forward on the balcony, grasping the railing with her hands. With a deep breath she turned her full attention to him, "Master Clegane, to what do I owe this honor?"

There are moments in time when you both love and hate your codpiece. As Sandor rose to meet his patron, both he and his codpiece could not have been prepared for what they saw. Gone was the lanky young girl with blue eyes and striking red hair. In her place was a woman, her simple green gown pulled over her curves so tightly that Sandor could see that even Starks could feel the cold in winter. It accentuated her Tully blue eyes and her deep red hair hung loose and wild, surrounding her face in a mane of hair that made her look like a goddess out of some southern tales told to children. So in this moment he was simultaneously cursing the very existence of his codpiece for stifling his true physical emotions, and thanking it for the fact that he kept him from utter embarrassment.

When he couldn't let the silence drag out any longer he began, "Lady Stark, I've come for a private audience."

He could see his request was not popular amongst the guards and the Maester, now by Sansa's side. Northerner's had a reason for mistrusting Southerner's, but it made him angry to see how blatant their mistrust was. He locked his eyes on Sansa, knowing that to look at the faces of utter disgust around him, would only serve to feed his temper.

"Then you shall have one." Sansa confirmed in a rather business like tone. She needed to temper her pure excitement so she focused on this as a task, and not as something she had been hoping for since they had retaken Winterfell and Arya had recounted her adventures with Sandor. "Maester, show him to the room in the East Wing. Have food and a bath for him. I'm sure our guest is tired after his long journey."

She allowed her eye to wander back to the Hound and was captured by his dark brown eyes. She could have spent hours looking into them, but managed to tear herself away from them and say, "I'll be with you once I've finished up here." She turned and walked back into the hall, leaving the cold and her old guardian to be attended to in the courtyard.

Sansa had not expected that just the sight of him would kick up so many emotions in her. She was instantly brought back to their encounters in King's Landing and how much of what he had done was keep her strong and out of the line of fire. Joffrey had been on the edge of insanity, drunken with power, and nobody to truly check his dark side. Sandor had always protected her, had always made sure she was ok...he had always looked at her in a way that tore through her. At the time Sansa had not know what it meant or why, she only knew it made her feel uncomfortable. Now, after several betrothals and two marriages, she knew what men's looks meant and she knew the benevolence or malevolence behind them. In all this time the Hound, the King's dog, the disfigured beast that did the bidding of the Lannisters had been the only man who looked at her with both desire and love. It was a look she had not forgotten. His eyes were the same then as they were in the courtyard only moments ago, and the thought brought a warmth to her body and a tingle to her breasts. She was certainly ready to give Sandor Clegane a private audience.