Notes: GUYS IT'S HERE, MY PASSION PROJECT! Ok, there is a lot to explain so buckle in, I'll make this quick. We have rotating POVs. First chapter Sandor, second chapter Sansa, so on and so forth. Each chapter title is a song. I highly recommend that you check them out. I have a full Sansan playlist on Spotify with all of these, and I think each song lends itself to the chapters. I'll post a brief little dictionary for words you don't know at the end of each chapter- biker lingo is a bit different and if you haven't watched Sons of Anarchy, you might be lost for a hot sec. As always, updates on Saturday mornings. Reviews are the blessings that gets a writer through life, and your reviews especially help my stressed self.

Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face
The kind you'd find on someone that could save
If they don't put me away
Well it'll be a miracle
Do you believe you're missing out
Everything good is happening somewhere else
But with nobody in your bed
The night's hard to get through
And I, will die, all alone
And when I, arrive, I won't know anyone
I know you'll come in the night like a thief
But I've had some time alone, to hold my lions at bay
I know you think that I'm someone you can trust
But I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up (and you won't know)

Guns for hire didn't last long. Clegane knew this, and knew it well. That's why his plan was to make as much cash as he could, then jet off to some quiet, non-extradition country, and live out the rest of his days with an excess of booze and porn. Not a bad idea, he thought.

And the biker wars offered plenty of chances to line his pockets and use the only skills he had. Violence, brutality, fighting, it was all second nature to him. It was all he'd ever known, and so when he offered his services, they'd taken one look at his hulking 6'9 frame, his scarred vestige, piss-poor attitude about everything in general, and nodded their assent.

He didn't expect to wind up as a bodyguard though. He should've known, really. He wasn't a prospect, and he'd never patch in. He wasn't ever going to truly be one of the club, so it made sense they wouldn't trust him with 'club shit'. But it didn't stop him from wishing he could do something other than follow the little cunt Joffrey around day in and day out.

He'd came to SoCal for him, ironically. Joffrey was the new president of one of the largest biker gangs, the Lions, and many said it was only because of the scheming of his mother. Clegane didn't care how Joffrey came to hold the gavel, or the mysterious circumstances of his father's death in prison. All he cared was that Joffrey had kicked off a turf war with the biggest biker gang there was- the Wolves of NorCal.

He'd gathered, in time, some of the circumstances. The former president of the Wolves, a man by the name of Stark, had been close with Robert, the last president of the Lions. Then, and the details were unclear, Robert ended up in prison on trumped up assault charges, and was shanked by a man inside. Joffrey claimed it was at the fault of Stark, and when the man traveled to pay his condolences, Joffrey had shot him in cold blood without a second thought of the alliance the Wolves and Lions had.

Joffrey had a talent for that. Clegane hadn't been here for long to see that the young man was mad, absolutely insane, and loved to hurt people. But to him, that was all fine in a boss, even if it meant that Stark's son, the new president of the Wolves, had declared war on them and now it seemed like California was a battleground. He was getting paid, handsomely, to stand as a hired gun, and make sure no one died.

He was sure that this job was going to be nothing more special than the last, and the one before that, and all the others in his life. He'd get paid and bail eventually, and he wouldn't spare a moment of regret for California. Then she walked into the clubhouse, head hanging, red hair glimmering in the lights, and his whole world upended in an instant.

"Dog!" Joffrey yelled, marching the girl into the middle of the clubhouse. Her head was down, but even from that angle, Clegane could see how pretty she was. And young. He stood up from the table where he'd been smoking, grunting.

"Who's this?" Littlefinger, the treasurer of the club, was looking at the girl with something like hunger in his eyes and it made the hairs on the back of Clegane's neck rise up.

"This," Joffrey said triumphantly, "Is Sansa. Sansa Stark."

The club broke out into whispers. The hookers and the girls that fetched beers and sucked dicks were exchanging looks, while Joffrey smirked. Clegane didn't know who this Sansa was, but if she was a Stark, that meant she was likely a key piece on their chessboard. He wondered how the fuck a girl like her was stupid enough to be this far south.

"Robb's little sister?" Jaime Lannister, the Sergeant at Arms, gave Joffrey an incredulous look. "How the fuck did you—"

"Did you kidnap her?" One girl, a hooker with big tits, was trying to sidle up to Joffrey.

"No." He scoffed. "Sansa came to try and talk peace, didn't you?"

"Foolish girl." Cersei, the former queen and Joffrey's mother, laughed.

"Peace?" Even Littlefinger's eyes were wide in disbelief. "Why the hell would anyone think that there would be such thing as peace here?"

"Where did you find her?" Bronn still looked skeptical.

"Right on down the road." One of the prospects said eagerly. "She asked for Joffrey, said that she needed to talk to him."

"Stupid bitch." Joffrey gloated, appraising Sansa like she was some bike he wanted to buy. "Still, I wish it would've been her brother. He'd be a bigger prize."

"Yes, yes, you'll kill Robb Stark eventually." Jaime was the only one who had the decency to at least look a little horrified.

"I'll slaughter him." Joffrey corrected, with a glint in his eyes and Sandor was torn between rolling his eyes and pondering how Cersei didn't see the monster she'd created.

"Alright, fine." Bronn waved a hand, unbothered by Joffrey's statements. "In the meantime, what the fuck are we going to do with her?"

"What if her brother comes for her?" Jaime seemingly latched onto the suggestion of wisdom in the whole clusterfuck Joffrey had caused.

"He won't." Joffrey scoffed. "She's just a woman. If I had a sister, I'd never risk shit trying to get her back. She's just a fucking whore."

"Alright." Cersei cut him off gently, carefully. "But still, Jaime has a point. Robb Stark might try to get her back. We should have a plan."

"Maybe I'll marry her." Joffrey said thoughtfully. "How would fucking Robb Stark feel then, when his little sister was all—"

Clegane ignored Joffrey's monologue in favor of trying to evaluate the girl. She couldn't be older than 19 or 20, not with those perky tits and fresh skin. She was pale, even though they were in the midst of summer, and her skin didn't have a blemish on it. Her hair was auburn, and he debated if it was dyed or natural. He'd never seen a shade like that occurring naturally before.

She was wearing jeans, tight, and had legs for days. He wondered what her ass looked like idly and willed her to turn so he could see. Her top was simple- a tight white tank top that did her tits justice. She wore a single necklace, but it's pedant disappeared beneath the crest of her chest, and he wished he could draw it out and inspect it. A ring sat on her finger, and she spun it quickly.

Then she looked up, locking her gaze with his, and all the air in the clubhouse was seemingly sucked out. Her eyes were the most piercing blue he'd ever seen, the most stunning azure. She caught his gaze and held it, not a brush of fear there at his ruined face. She looked like a painting he vaguely remembered from history classes long ago, like a artist's brush come to life.

"Clegane!" Jaime said sharply and he came to, raising an eyebrow. Apparently he'd missed whatever orders Joffrey had given.

"Aye?"

"I said, you're to guard her." Joffrey repeated, looking rather annoyed. "Accompany her everywhere, and keep her safe."

"Safe from who?" One of the whores asked with wide eyes.

"The Wolves." Joffrey shoved Sansa towards Clegane and she very nearly tripped, catching and righting herself at the last moment before he could even make a move to try and prevent her from falling. He hovered, slightly awkward. She kept her gaze on the floor, apparently smart enough not to look up at anyone. "Put her up in one of the dorm rooms."

"Aye." Clegane agreed, grabbing her elbow roughly. The girl didn't fight it, and when he pulled her away, she lifted her head and strode out with all the grace of a queen. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her something, but instead they went along in a strange silence he didn't break.

He had to search for a few moments for a room that didn't have some club member passed out in a hooker's arms, eventually finding the furthest room upstairs to be empty. Sansa trailed him the entire time, as silent as a ghost, and he had to check several times that she was still there with him. He nudged her inside and for a moment she paused, looking at it.

It wasn't in bad shape, not really. It was a little grimy, and a condom had missed the wastebasket, but the bed was made and the only decoration was that of a dresser with a large mirror. As far as places to be held hostage in, he thought this one was pretty decent. She took a few steps in, before turning and looking at him, blinking those damned eyes.

"Now what?" Her voice was clear, and didn't have the slightest tremble in it. When she turned to face him, he realized how tall she really was, though he still bested her with ease. He gave a small shrug, closing the door and standing before it. "Can you speak?" She asked, walking towards him and tilting her head curiously. He was silent, until she was close enough, and said,

"Dogs bark."

"Ah." She took a step back and crossed her arms. He strove to not look at what that did for her tits. "So you're the infamous Hound, Joffrey's blood thirsty guard dog." He was silent, and she didn't say anything else, watching him for a moment. Then she took to exploring the room and bathroom, throwing things into a pile in the center of the room. He watched without interest— there weren't any windows in the room large enough for her to escape from, and he could keep her from the door.

In the pile were ratty towels, old shampoo bottles, a few tee-shirts she'd pilfered from the dresser, and the entire bedding. When she had finally cleaned the room, she sat on the bed and went to work braiding her hair. He watched, entranced despite himself, as she wove the fiery strands into several braids that ended as one, falling down her back. So engrossed in her work he was, he jumped when someone knocked.

Ros, the redhead hooker, entered when he opened the door. After a moment, her eyes took in the devastation Sansa had caused, and the girl herself, sitting calmly on the bed, using a hair tie to neatly end the braid. He'd learned that Ros had a short temper and found himself wondering how Sansa was going to receive the wrath of the Lion's head whore.

"What the fuck did you do?" She demanded of Sansa, who straightened up.

"I'll need new towels, and bedding." Her voice was surprisingly authoritative, more so than he would expect from a girl in her position. "Oh, and toiletries. Since I'm assuming that I won't be allowed to go get any, I can make a list for someone else."

"You fucking—" Ros started, but Sansa simply kept talking.

"I wasn't permitted to keep any of my clothes, or shoes. I can give my sizes to whoever is going to go get me some new things."

"You can wear fucking rags, for all I care." Ros was clearly jealous of the younger, and prettier girl, he decided. Sansa looked at her coldly, and he was surprised by this girl with a spine.

"And would Joffrey want that?" It seemed to be a trump card, because Ros's mouth twisted into a snarl, and after a moment, she gathered up the bundle in the middle of the room and marched out. Once she was gone, Sansa deflated some, quiet. He watched as she fiddled with a ring that sat on her middle finger, spinning it idly as she stared at her reflection.

When the door opened again it was Cersei, who looked displeased. She walked in, folding her arms. Sansa didn't rise from the mattress where she sat, gazing at the biker queen levelly. He'd seen men cower under the gaze of the queen, and yet here was Sansa, back straight, unscared of all that was going to happen to her. It felt like respect was growing.

"Honey," Her voice was sickly sweet. Joffrey shared his mother's habit of revealing his mood with his tone, but usually the nicer Cersei was, the more likely she was to rip someone's throat out. "Were the accommodations not to your liking?"

"No." Sansa declared flatly and he wondered at how wise her bravery really was. He'd seen Cersei beat strippers for less.

"Oh?" Cersei arched an eyebrow dangerously. "What were you expecting then?"

"Better." Sansa said simply, still unafraid. "I would like things to be livable. And I'm going to need new clothes, since you took mine."

"And you think that you can just come in here and demand a new wardrobe?" Cersei was like a snake, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"I thought you'd like to dress me in red and gold." Sansa's voice was like ice. "Since I'm a golden lion now, isn't that right?"

"Well," Cersei had the good sense to look at least a little impressed at the girl's audacity. "You are most certainly right."

"I thought so." Sansa was quiet for a second and he wondered if Cersei was going to lose her shit. Instead, she gave a little smile.

"Any suggestions then? I wouldn't want to get you the wrong size. I know how unflattering clothes can be when they don't fit."

"I'm a small." Sansa said cooly, raking her eyes down Cersei's form. Though still young, Cersei was no longer a thin 20 year old. She couldn't match Sansa's youth.

"Of course." Cersei looked like she was struggling to keep her teeth from gnashing together. "Anything else then for you?"

"If I'm to be Joffrey's prized toy, I should look the part." Sansa rose and went to look out the long, thin window. "And I'd like to sleep on sheets that aren't cum-stained and smell of weed."

"Well, of course." Cersei's lip curled and he'd spent enough time around her to know that something awful was about to happen. "Can't have such a delicate little princess sleeping on a pea now can we?"

"No, we cannot." Sansa turned to face her, and he saw a flash of hatred there, despite her flat mask. "I'll need toiletries as well."

"Alright." Cersei inclined her head. "I'll send someone to get them." Sandor blinked in surprise, but didn't let it show on his face. It seemed Sansa had won the first of this, whatever it was. He hoped she savored it. It wasn't going to happen again with Cersei.

Sansa didn't say a word, just stared out the window until Cersei had left. Even then, when the door had clicked shut and he'd moved back in front of it, she didn't move. She stared out the window as a car pulled out, the gate rolled back, and then rolled closed once more. She stayed that way, face turned north for so long, he wondered if she was frozen. Then she dropped her gaze, sat in a chair, and twisted the ring on her finger.

He stood and kept watch for a long time and she didn't say a word, or make a noise. She sat, staring at the floor, twisting her ring, as though lost in thought. Some part of him itched to know what she was thinking, what was on her mind that kept her from screaming with boredom. But he was silent, watching her, until the sun had set and there was a knock at the door.

In paraded the hookers, each carrying a bundle or bag. Sansa watched with disinterest as they spilled items onto the dresser, arranging things in the small bathroom, making the bed, and putting clothes into dresser drawers. Cersei stood in the doorway, arms folded, and her eyes glared into Sansa's skull, though the younger woman seemed not to notice.

As the woman worked, they talked, laughing harshly at Sansa's expense. They didn't keep their voices down as they called her names— slut, whore, bitch, cunt— not particularly imaginative, but he was sure they had to sting nonetheless.

"And I heard her mother was a whore-"

"What mother? I heard wolves just sleep with whoever."

"How many do you think she's fucked?"

"Hundreds, I bet."

"I bet the bitch is probably desperate for Joffrey's cock."

"Fuck off Ros, we all know you're desperate for it!"

They dissolved into laughter, and Cersei's smile was a cruel thing from the corner. Sansa endured it all without saying a word, her face like stone. He was left to wonder just how much abuse they were going to heap on her, and how much she could take. When the bed was made, the clothes folded, and the bathroom stocked, the women left, leaving him, Sansa, and Cersei alone.

"Well." Cersei clapped her hands. "Hopefully this restores everything to your standards. Wouldn't want to upset you now."

"Thank you." Sansa said quietly. He was surprised at her courtesies, but Cersei seemed to expect them. He wondered at the games women played. Men had brute strength and power, making it simple enough. Women, on the other hand, had their minds. He wryly thought that perhaps women should be feared more, given what he knew of Cersei.

"Hopefully this will do to remind you that you're not a prisoner." The queen's silky voice carried every contradiction to her words. "I believe my son could fall in love with you, given time. If you two got married, it could do a lot to convince your brother that we don't hold you responsible for your father being a rat."

"My father was not a rat." Sansa looked up, eyes flashing. "He was a wolf."

"Your father was the reason my husband was killed." Cersei spat. "He ordered him killed in prison, so that he could have SoCal for himself."

For a second, he wondered if Sansa was going to step up and face the lioness. With her flashing blue eyes and rigid stance, he half believed she might actually have a shot. Then she turned away, the braid flying. She held herself still while Cersei breathed heavily, having seemingly anticipated an attack from the girl as much as Sandor had. For a second, all was still.

"Excuse me, I should shower." She walked into the bathroom and Cersei fumed silently for a moment, before turning to him.

"See that she never leaves this room." She ordered him flatly and he nodded, bowing his head slightly. "I'm going to break that wolf bitch."

"Aye." He said simply.

"And Clegane?" Cersei gave him a long look and he held it.

"Yes?"

"Don't worry about being gentle. Live up to your reputation." She ordered and swept out, slamming the door behind her.

Part of him prickled at Cersei's mention of his reputation and what it implied. He knew that anyone who looked at him saw the scars and felt horror first. He'd made his living off of his face and reputation for years now. That he had skills was secondary to the fact that he looked like a killer. He knew all this, but couldn't quite place why Cersei's reminder of it irked him so.

He watched the closed bathroom door, hearing the water of the shower. It went on for some time and just when he had half a mind to go make sure she hadn't drowned herself in it, the noise stopped. A few moments later she emerged from the steaming room, wrapped only in a towel. He was glad that he was seated and that she hardly looked up at him.

Now her hair hung in strands down her back, some grouped together, some loose. It was like a waterfall of red, and when he glanced at her, he saw a pale face devoid of makeup before he quickly locked his gaze on a point on the wall. He was determined not to think about what was under that flimsy towel, but he couldn't think of much else watching her.

She opened the drawers to the dresser, rifling through the clothes with disinterest. She'd been right to assume that everything was going to be gold and red— club colors. She picked out a pair of leggings, the only black in the pile, and a red shirt with a roaring lion. Something in her face twitched at the sight, before she located a sports bra and went back into the bathroom.

The next time she emerged, she was dressed. He chanced one look at her, noting the bare feet and the still dripping wet hair. She was combing through it absentmindedly as she walked, leaving a trail of wet carpet as she went. Twice she explored the room intently. He watched closely, though he had no idea what she was looking for, before she came to a halt before him.

Her blue eyes unnerved him, he wasn't too manly to admit it. The way she cocked her head, that hair messy down her back, was offsetting to him for reasons he couldn't explain. She didn't look right in red. He liked her better in white. After a moment, she reached for the ring on her finger, slowly sliding it off. Then she took the necklace, lifting it over her head.

He saw that the charm hanging from it was actually two strands— the shorter one a crescent moon and the longer a wolf, howling up at it. After a moment, she unclasped it, slid the ring on the chain, and offered it to him. He stared at it, then at her, uncomprehending. It swung back and forth from her fingers, the silver glinting when it caught the light right.

"What?" He asked, glancing at her, unsure of what she meant by this.

"Take it." Her voice was calm and sure, and he was silent. She knew what questions he would ask then, and she answered them. "You'll keep it safe. She'll take it from me, or he will. Someone, eventually, will try to remove everything that I am. I won't let them."

"Why me?" He grunted. The words he left unspoken hung in the air. Why would I keep it safe? Why wouldn't I hand it over? Why would I care? Why would I keep it secret? Why would I do anything for you?

"Because you're not one of them." She replied, her gaze feeling like the weight of the world was pushing down on him. And she was right, he knew, as his palm reached out and the necklace pooled into it. The metal was still warm from its contact with her, and he closed his fingers around it tightly. Sansa held his eyes for a long second, before with an almost imperceivable nod, turned and walked to the bed.

He stayed where he was, watching from her perch on the other side of the room as she curled into a ball amongst the pillows, folding her knees up tightly and wrapping her arms around them. Her hair fanned over the pillows and so she fell into a fitful sleep, and he kept watch over her until he too felt the tendrils of sleep pulling at him. He settled into his chair, and tried to sleep.

Dictionary

Gavel - literally a judge's gavel, used by the president of the club.

Queen - wife of the president.

Notes: Guys, this is seriously one of my favorite stories I've ever written. I liked Gone North but I love this one. Leave me reviews, kudos, even a smiley face. You are all so great. All I can say is thank you, and come back next week.