This is my first attempt at fan fiction, but I'm a hopeless SanSan fan, so I wrote this mostly to satiate myself. I thought I'd share in case any of y'all might enjoy it too. This takes place during Season 7, episode 7 and beyond, with a few obvious changes.

Chapter 1

Sandor Clegane hoisted himself purposefully onto the Night's Watch mount and turned his attention to the commander. "Tell the King in the North I'm going to protect his sister. Or don't tell him, I don't fucking care. I'm going either way." He looked Tormund straight in the eyes then. "And when those dead cunts get here, send a few of them to hell for me."

Tormund Giantsbane looked grim, but he gave a short nod in reply. "Hopefully you won't be seeing me and the rest of these fuckers in the crowd when they come for you. And tell the big woman I'm coming back for her soon." Tormund grinned in the way he always did when he talked about Brienne. The Hound snorted a half chuckle and dug his heels into the garron which took off toward the south gate of Eastwatch by the Sea. The gate to the land of the living, he thought. For now anyway.

The men in black eyed him with longing as he galloped past. They wore the cold on them like cloaks now, every man always a bit frozen, miserable, and something else too. A sense of hopelessness settled behind every grim mouth and sullen stare of the men of the night's watch. They were the last barrier between the army of the Dead and the Seven Kingdoms, but no songs would be sung for their sacrifice, and they'd suffer and die alone.

Clegane clenched his jaw in determination and let the castle shrink away behind him as he galloped into the frozen North toward Winterfell. Life isn't a fucking song, they know it as well as I do. He thought of Sansa then, as she was when she was just a girl who had first come to King's Landing. Obsessed with songs and lovers, knights and ladies, she'd hardly been able to look at his burned face. Then the lesson came with Joffrey's brutality after he'd killed her father. She'd learned then, he thought, when her life turned upside down. Still, she'd been weak and broken the last he'd seen her, hiding behind the calm, submissive, and deadpan face that she showed to the world, the only defense she had against the brutality she faced daily. Sandor cringed in remembrance. The poor girl was just a child. And now her brother had left her with Littlefinger, that conniving cunt of a man. He spurred the horse on at that thought, determined to arrive in time to protect Sansa from whatever Baelish was trying to use her for. The little bird. He couldn't help but smile. He'd protect her again if it was the last thing he did.

The journey was long and cold, with little shelter or fresh supplies to be had, but the Hound had faced worse. He was able to trade for a fresh mount at Castle Black, and restock his supplies. The men looked at him with a mixture of fear and distrust when he'd stated his purpose, sent by Jon Snow to the lady Sansa, but he sensed they didn't care much. Any distraction from the death marching on the wall was a welcome one. They all knew their time was short, and he wondered how many would desert in the days to come. How many already had?

He didn't bother telling them what he knew, he didn't want to remove the last of their hope. The dragon queen had lost one of her three dragons to the Night King. As much as those firebreathing fucks terrified him, the thought of the Night King mounting a dragon to lead his dead army sent a chill down his spine. And why wouldn't he do just that? He'd been prepared, Sandor saw, with the huge, frozen spears. The giant bears with their unnatural blue eyes and rotting flesh tearing into Thoros flashed into his memory, and he grimaced. The Night King obviously had no difficulty raising dead animals just as he raised the thousands of men and women corpses in his army. An undead dragon was too awful to dwell on, and Sandor pushed the thought from his mind as he grunted a thanks to the Lord Commander and left Castle Black behind just as he'd left Eastwatch.

He could travel faster alone, sleeping in the saddle to make up for the few hours of frozen sleep he risked at night. Still, he had to keep a fair pace for the sake of his mount, so he couldn't reach Winterfell as quickly as he'd like. As he rode he kept his mind busy with thoughts of what he'd seen beyond the wall, and what would come of the meeting in King's Landing where they planned to show Cersei the wight.

Sandor scowled. That cunt won't change her mind. It was a fucking suicide mission from the start. Seeing that dead fucker, even if they make it there, won't change her mind. As long as she and her brother lover are safe, the rest of Westeros can all die for all she cares. He seethed in remembrance of the friends he'd lost at the massacre of the sept he'd helped to build, and of the father and daughter who'd died in each other's arms at their farm.

He thought of Arya and her vicious will to live, kept going only by hatred; so like himself. He thought of Sansa and a queer ache started in his chest. It was always like that, so he'd grown accustomed to the feeling, though it still made him uncomfortable. He knew it was just a desire to keep her safe. She was such a helpless little lady, used and abused by all who laid hands on her. He'd learned a few bits of information about Ramsay and Sansa's torture at his hands from Jon during their trek north of the wall. He'd gone cold at Jon's words, and not from the biting wind. The poor girl, the little bird, had been brutalized by that fucker, and Clegane thought that even Jon hadn't shared or perhaps hadn't even known the extent of the torture she'd endured.

The thought had given him purpose, for he'd made the decision then to go straight to Winterfell if he got out of that mission alive. He'd ask Jon's permission, more as a courtesy than anything, because he was going to go with or without his approval. Then Jon had nearly gotten himself killed by trying to be a fucking hero. He'd been unconscious when they'd sailed so the permission was never asked or received. It made no difference to him. As the acting ruler of the North in Jon's absence, Sansa would be able to decide for herself if she wanted his protection.

He cringed at the thought of her refusing it. Would she want his protection? She hadn't joined him when he fled King's Landing after the battle of the Blackwater. But she'd been gentle...he had felt for a moment that she'd cared about him, about what happened to him. No one had ever cared. Listen to yourself you fucking idiot, who's the little bird now? The songs are shit, the girl cared about her family and being safe. He liked to think that he'd at least tried to keep her safe then, as much as he could. She would've known, she must've known that he'd never hurt her.

By the time the towers of Winterfell rose in the distance, Sandor Clegane was exhausted. His bad leg ached so violently he almost wished it was gone. The horse he'd exchanged at the last farm he'd passed had been given to him reluctantly by the man, yet it had served him well and he patted its mane in approval. "Nearly there, girl, and you'll have a good meal and warm stables." His voice sounded strange in his ears, raspy and cold from lack of use, and he was anxious to be warm again.

When he approached the gate, the guard looked at him warily and demanded his purpose. The Hound knew he'd be recognized so didn't bother hiding his identity. "I've come from a mission north of the wall with Jon Snow, the king in the North. He's sailing now to King's Landing with the dragon queen and I've come to offer protection to his sister." Sandor intoned the last sentence to imply that he came at Jon's command and hoped he wouldn't be driven to an actual lie. The guard narrowed his eyes and conversed inaudibly with another guardsman before turning back to the Hound and giving a curt nod. "You'll be shown to a room and the servants will bring food. The lady Sansa will be told of your arrival."

"I'd rather see her now."

The guards exchanged glances. "The lady Sansa is in the great hall with her brother and has called for an audience with her sister. She will be occupied for the duration of the meeting."

Brother? Sister? Did they mean Arya? What brother, Jon was Sansa's last living brother, wasn't he? His confusion was plain on his face, but the guards were impatient. "Never you mind, if you'd rather see it for yourself, we'll escort you to the hall, but don't be surprised if you're made to wait. Hallyn," the guard called to another man inside the walls of the castle, "take two"- he glanced sideways at the Hound-"er, four men and escort this man to the great hall. Do not interrupt the Lady's doings, he is to wait until Lady Sansa is ready to see him."

Sandor handed his mount off to the stablehand who approached him, and followed two men to the hall, with the other two following close behind. He addressed the man called Hallyn, "what did he mean that the lady's brother and sister are here? They can't be alive." The last sentence was almost a question.

Hallyn looked up at him, taking in his scars and huge stature. "You're the Hound?"

"Aye I'm the fucking Hound, what's that got to do with anything?"

Hallyn gave him a dissatisfied glance, and donned the honorable look the Northmen were so well known for. "I'll not be giving information, Ser, unless my lady determines you're a friend and not one of our enemies."

Clegane growled and clenched his fists, "Fine, I'll use my eyes then. And I'm no fucking knight."

He spat. Hallyn looked disgusted, but said no more.

Sandor was led into the great hall by a side entrance so as not to disturb the meeting. Men gathered on all sides of the room, and to his right was a long table where a young man in a chair with wheels sat and solemnly faced the crowd. He had the look of the Starks, though Sandor could only see his profile, and in another instant the realization hit him. Fuck if that isn't the little crippled boy. He survived. Clegane was surprised that this thought pleased him. Anyone who beat the Lannisters in any way pleased him.

Movement to his right drew his eye behind the boy, and he almost gasped audibly. Sansa. Not the little bird as she'd been, but Sansa, the lady of Winterfell. She was more beautiful than he remembered, with a maturity to her features. She'd grown taller, with a full woman's body, and the gorgeous red hair streaming behind her over the fur cloak she wore. But the biggest change was her expression. No longer a terrified girl, this Sansa had piercing blue eyes that took no shit, and her pretty mouth was set in a determined line. He was the most flabbergasted he'd been since he'd seen Danaerys flying in to their rescue on fucking dragons. She looks like a dragon. That fire hair. She looks ready to kill.

Had Sansa looked to her left, she'd have seen him, but she did not. She was a woman with a purpose. She sat down and faced ahead where the hall was almost immediately opened, and footsteps signaled the entry of someone, a someone who must be the focus of this meeting.

Sandor looked for the person, and for the second time in a matter of seconds, he was completely speechless. Arya, strode in determinedly, flanked by soldiers. She was not like the Arya he remembered, aside from her still not dressing like a lady. She'd grown taller, fuller, older in every way. When he looked at her face he knew she'd become the killer she'd always wanted to be. He was torn by a surge of pride and fear at what she had become. And then the trial began.

When Sansa began to speak, the Hound was struck with the maturity in her voice. The lady of Winterfell spoke clearly, piercing, and without the timid stammered courtesies that he remembered. She spoke with a cold determination that both chilled and impressed him.

While she spoke, his attention shifted to a point slightly ahead and to the right of him where he saw Littlefinger standing in the shadows near the front of the hall. He looked pleased, far too pleased, and Sandor could see that this meeting was a result of his conniving. He listened more carefully then to what Sansa was saying. She was laying accusations at Arya's feet.

Shit. He glanced back at Littlefinger who had the look of a man who had everything going according to plan. He's playing them, playing their obvious differences to his advantages. That cunt. Sandor determined then that he would make a move to distract and interrupt this trial; anything that could delay it long enough for him to convince the Stark girls of Littlefinger's deceit. He began to step forward and drew in a breath to speak loudly, when he heard Sansa say, "Lord Baelish?"

For a third time, he was dumbstruck, and he paused and clamped his mouth shut again. The scene before him played out like a pleasant dream, the kind where you wake up bummed that it was only a dream. Was this actually happening? Bran chimed in and Clegane looked back at him. The boy has some magic. And why not? I've seen dragons and dead men, why not a broken boy who can see into the past? This made him suddenly uncomfortable, and he turned his attention back to the trial before him.

Petyr Baelish was coming undone, begging and near crying like a small child. For all the conniving and scheming that this man had done to claw his way to power in King's Landing and the fear he'd invoked in lesser men, here he knelt, begging for life from two girls and a crippled boy. The sweet irony filled Sandor with a sense of justice done and he was full of pride for the Stark girls.

And suddenly, in one swift motion, Arya ended Littlefinger's disgusting life with the very blade that had started the war of the five kings. The lifeblood flowed from the neck of Petyr Baelish, pooling beneath him like a maroon cloak, and the Stark children had their justice.

Sandor Clegane had an inane urge to applaud them, but he instead snorted loudly and said, "I couldn't have made a better ending for that cunt if I'd had a week to plan."

He hadn't intended to draw attention and said it more to himself than anyone, but the Hound was not a softspoken man, and half the room turned to him. The silence was heavy, as the condemned man still lay bleeding, and the entire room felt the awkwardness of the timing for the Hound's arrival. It couldn't be helped now, however, and Hallyn glared at Sandor before stepping forward and announcing their guest to the lady of Winterfell.

It was Arya, though, who moved first, walking directly toward the Hound, never breaking eye contact. She stopped abruptly just an arm's length from him, looking up at the much larger man with a questioning look in her dark brows. He returned the silence, meeting her gaze with the same intense look, so that gasps were heard throughout the room by those who feared violence from one or both.

Then he grinned a half grin at the same moment that Arya threw herself into his embrace. He returned the hug, as awkwardly as he was wont to do during any displays of emotion, and they remained this way for several long seconds. When they'd both pulled away, Sandor grunted quietly, "it's good to see you, girl." Arya's reply was a huge grin.

And then there was Sansa. She'd appeared so silently behind Arya that Sandor hadn't noticed when she'd approached. Her face was impossible to read, but she did a small curtsey and said, "Sandor Clegane, we did not expect to see you here. You must be exhausted from your journey. Won't you please take your rest before joining us for supper? We may discuss your purpose then. Please excuse me." And before he could even express his surprise, Sansa turned on her heel and left the hall.