The first he ever laid eyes on her, he was only a boy, quiet and scared and more broken than any child should ever be.

She was waiting at the gates, playing some game or other with her youngest brother, a boy of eleven years or so. They could have been twins for their likeness, thick black curls and rosy cheeks, flushed from the biting cold. For though it was in the throes of summer, the north still felt the chill.

As a child, he had never paid much attention to the weather. For one thing, he could only remember the warm summers of the south at the tender age of seven. For another, there were always more pressing fears to worry about in his house. As such, he was entirely unprepared for the dry, icy air of the north, unprepared for the frostbitten ground every morning. He stood there, in clothes too flimsy for such enduring elements, and stared in wide-eyed fascination at the children playing. The girl could hardly be called a child for much longer, but there was something innocent in her laughing eyes, the way she threw her head back with a wild grin, that made her seem young and carefree.

He'd never seen children play like that, not up close. He had never been afforded the chance, and now, as his hand ghosted lightly over his covered cheek, he feared he never would.

"Sandor," the old man who had lead them north beckoned now. He'd stopped to turn and wave impatiently. "Come along, boy."

The child rushed afters the swirling cloak of the grey-haired, hunch-backed man, clutching at the coattails for dear life. A thousand and one questions danced on the tip of his tongue, but all had been asked before, on their way north.

What will we do there?

What if they turn us away?

Will we ever go home again?

His grandfather, the man who had swept him up from his bed and risked the hard journey north for his well-being, answered much the same way for every question asked.

We will know when we get there.

We shall wait and see.

Only time will tell.

And the only time the answer deviated from the pattern was when Sandor asked, on their third night of traveling when food was scarce and the fear was stronger than ever, what will happen to Gregor?

His grandfather's face grew dark and haunted then, deeply angry and frothing with disgust.

I don't know, Sandor. I don't know.

Sandor didn't doubt that he had told the truth—he truly didn't know either way—but he thought from the way he spoke, his grandfather perhaps wanted something to happen to Gregor. Something bad, something as bad as the deed he had done to Sandor himself. Perhaps his grandfather even prayed for it.

Sandor certainly did.

For as long as he was alive, the only memories he had of his brother were ones of cruelty and malice. It's a rarity to see such hate in one so young, but for Gregor that's all there was. Hate. Anger. Viciousness. Sandor thought of the pups his grandfather had raised, thought of the times he'd found one drowned, or bludgeoned, or simply strangled in the bushes. Eventually his grandfather had ceased rearing pups altogether, only a few months before the incident occurred. And though Sandor missed the warm bundles of fur playing at his ankles, he was happier to stop finding dead puppies than he was upset to see them go.

The remaining dogs of his house grew scared, as scared as Sandor was, and where there was fear, there was anger. Sporadic biting, constant growling, teeth bared at you from every corner of the house. Such became normal, and Sandor was as terrified of the dogs as he was of his brother, prior to the incident.

His grandfather had taken him aside one morning, into his chambers where Sandor knew it was safest in the whole house, and sat him on the bed with a weary sigh.

"You don't have to be scared of the dogs." His grandfather was stroking the soft, velvety ears of a long-nosed hound. Its droopy ears almost grazed the floor from its recumbent place at his master's ankles. The dog lived in his grandfather's room, too old to venture out save to sniff the flowers along the stony wall of their house and mark the brickwork with its piss.

They had been forced to leave the old dog behind when they left. Sandor often wondered what would happen to him, but he never dared to ask. He was too scared.

"But they're mean." Sandor had watched two of them draw blood over the skinny, withered bones of a rabbit, it's meat long since stripped and boiled for stew. The sight had sent him running until he hit the knees of his grandfather, on his way to the kitchens for evening meal.

"They're only hungry, and scared," said his grandfather gruffly. "Dogs don't do things without purpose. Dogs don't bite hands that feed them." The man was an exact replica of his father, only older and stronger and (in Sandor's opinion) smarter. Since his mother died in childbed, there were few people Sandor truly loved anymore, and his grandfather was one of them. The man always had a story to tell or wisdom to offer. And best of all, he shared Sandor's dislike of Gregor, although their feelings diverged in subtle ways. Where Sandor was scared, his grandfather was angry, and it was no secret his father and grandfather feuded constantly over the matter of Gregor.

That boy is a menace, his grandfather had growled one night, in plain sight of Sandor even. His father was sitting at the dinner table, his mother alive at the time, and quite heavy with his unborn sister. The only memories Sandor had of her were the times he'd shyly press a hand to her belly and whisper kind words to her, in the quiet, desperate hopes she would come out nicer and sweeter than their older brother. His mother would smile tearfully at him, stroke a curl behind his ear, and go back to whatever she was doing.

His father hadn't liked any time someone found fault with Gregor, not even his own father. He believed Gregor was made to do great things one day, although Sandor didn't understand what he truly meant by that for a long time.

How could someone so evil do great things?

But his grandfather had explained it to him on their journey, their venture to the north, with a long and tired sigh as he massaged the stump of his knee, where he was missing the rest of the leg. "He meant that your brother would bring fame and glory to our name. That he would warrant the attention of our liege lord one day, and that we might one day become a great House of the West."

Any lord who gave fame and glory to Gregor was no lord to Sandor, and he told such to his grandfather. The old man had snorted, and shaken his head.

"Why do you think we left, boy? Nothing left for you and your sister but pain and disappointment." He frowned at the road ahead of them, baby Elinor tucked against his chest. "Tis a hard road which lays ahead of you, but it will be a fair one for it. One without the likes of your brother, with any luck."

When Sandor was hungry, or when Elinor's angry crying kept them awake, or when their grandfather shouted at her to stop her bitching, he thought of those words and felt hope kindle in his chest, the only fire he would touch any more.

Some nights, all Sandor did was explore the rough contours of his face. It was the only time he could do it without garnering a disgusted look from his grandfather, like he'd gone and pissed himself in front of everyone. Don't touch it, the man would hiss, and Sandor's hands would snap to his sides like he'd been whipped.

But here in the dark, with his back to the flickering, sweltering heat of the fire his grandfather started, no one could tell him what to do, and so he took the time to stroke his face, to try and shape the skin back to its normal form. He couldn't see himself, but he knew well enough that the pocket in his cheek wasn't normal. His fingers poked and prodded until the skin broke and shifted, and blood seeped through the pink, angry cracks which had only barely healed. Stay, he tried to tell the skin, pushing down the mottled, bubbly texture of his forehead and cheek with tearful eyes. Stay, he pleaded. But every morning he woke and touched his face once more, he was disappointed to find the skin in the exact same, scarred, disfigured, gruesome arrangement as when he'd left it.

They avoided inns and towns, save to buy necessities, and though the old man never said so, Sandor knew it was so people couldn't look at his face. His grandfather, on those days they were forced into society, would wrap Sandor's face in a high cowl, and tell any curious by-passers that his grandson was sensitive to the cold. Some would laugh, some would shake their heads.

It's only going to get colder, laddie, they'd often say. Good luck with that.

I don't mind the cold! He longed to shout at them until his throat went hoarse. I don't mind it! I can endure anything! Because that was the worst, seeing so many people believe him to be weak. He thought he might prefer to be stared at and judged for his scarred face, rather than be mocked for lies about his bravery and strength.

But he kept his mouth shut, allowed the insult, and walked with his head down, fingers curled nervously around the long, sweeping hem of his grandfather's cloak.

"Food, for myself and the boy. And some goat's milk for the bairn." His grandfather scowled when the innkeeper told him the price, and would often direct it at Sandor himself. "Your sister is costing me an arm and a leg, boy."

"M' sorry, Grandfather."

The man would only grunt and scowl with one hand rubbing his bad knee, and turn away to throw the few coins on the table with disgust. "Criminal," he muttered under his breath. "Absolutely criminal."

The cost of Elinor's milk was often far less than the food he bought for himself and Sandor to feast on, but he only ever complained about the milk. His grandfather hadn't wanted to bring Elinor, see, and Sandor had had to beg him not to leave her behind. For much like the old dog in his grandfather's rooms, Sandor knew the fate of his baby sister would be as inevitable and as tragic. She likely wouldn't live past two, and that was something he could not allow.

"Please?" he'd begged, holding baby Elinor in one skinny arm. "Please, Grandfather? I'll mind her myself. You won't even know she's here!"

That was a lie, but he hadn't meant it to be. Sandor truly had intended to care for the baby, but when the time came to change her or feed her and she started to cry, he was at a loss of what to do, being only seven years himself. So his grandfather would take her into his arms, squalling and all, and gruffly rock her to sleep while they traversed between towns, or instruct Sandor to get her a change in nappies, or swaddle her tight in her blankets and tuck her against his chest. He hadn't wanted to bring her, but he had done it all the same, and what's more was that he actually helped keep her alive.

It was nearly a month before they reached Winterfell, and the day before they got to the gates, his grandfather had taken him aside and washed his face, brushed his hair, and pulled it down just so in a way that hid his left eye entirely. "There," he rasped, and clapped the boy's scrawny shoulder. "As good as it'll ever be."

"I can't see, Grandfather!"

The man scoffed. "It's better than the alternative, believe me. Now listen here lad, and listen well. The Lord Rickard Stark is known to be a hard man ever since his wife died, hard but fair. He was distant kin of my wife, you know, and I have no reason to believe he'll turn you away, being a big, strong lad such as yourself."

Sandor's eyes roamed to where baby Elinor was sleeping, curled in a cot at the first inn they had ever slept in, for the benefit of a bath, his grandfather explained. She was sprawled on her tummy, a plump thumb stuffed in her mouth.

"What about Elinor?"

His grandfather sniffed carelessly, didn't spare her a glance. "Her? She's a girl, and a babe nonetheless. Might be he'll send her to be raised with a couple of farmers or cooks, let her grow up to be some poor man's daughter. Likely be taught to be a ladies' maid or such."

That wasn't right, Sandor thought. His sister was a lady; she shouldn't be serving them, she ought to be learning her lessons and wearing fancy dresses and singing songs about the Seven. Shouldn't she?

"Can we not keep her with us?" asked Sandor, thinking he'd like to have his family very close to him now, more than ever. His father was miles away, his mother dead, and his brother as good as, for all it mattered. Grandfather and Elinor, they were all he had left. "Can you not—"

"It won't be up to me, lad." He shook his head gravely. "You'll listen to what Lord Rickard has to say, and you'll do as he tells you. I'll not risk my life for you to toss it away for some squalling brat, now. You hear?"

Tearfully, Sandor nodded.

"That's a good lad." And his grandfather had lead Sandor and Elinor to the gates of Winterfell the next day, to where Sandor had watched the two children play with wooden swords. Not only had he never seen child's play, he'd certainly not seen a girl hold a sword before, not even a wooden one.

"Take that, grumpkin! And that, giant-breath!" She laughed, pushing a mass of errant curls out of her face, the other hand with a stick raised boldly in the air.

"I am not a grumpkin!" The boy pouted unhappily, and swatted viciously at her erect sword before letting his arms fall morosely. "I am not, Lya! Take it back!"

"Are too!" she said, and stuck her tongue out for emphasis. She only barely managed to duck her little brother's retaliation, a crazed swing of his short branch which would have likely left a serious bruise no matter the material of the false-sword, and laughed victoriously when he fell over with a huff.

Sandor's eyes—or his eye rather—locked with hers, mid-laugh, and he dared to grin a bit, still trailing his grandfather's cloak closely. She smiled back, a gleaming, toothy grin, and raised her hand in an exuberant wave.

And then her brother leapt up and tackled her.

Sandor stopped there, laughing to himself without meaning to, watching as the brother and sister fought and kicked and pulled at each other's hair. "Sandor!" He spun around and raced ahead, his grandfather having stopped once more. "I won't ask again," he snapped, and Sandor nodded contritely.

"Yes, Grandfather. Sorry."

And he followed his father's father into the hall where smallfolk could go to voice their complaints, where guests were received and feasts held. It wasn't elaborate or bedecked in gold, but it was larger than any hall Sandor had been in, and nearly took his breath away at the grandness of it all.

They waited in a long line of peasants, some old, some young, some men, some women. Most of them unhappy, most of them muttering either to themselves or to each other. Slowly Sandor, his grandfather and baby Elinor shuffled down the line, forming the end of it, winding between rows of tables like a serpent's tail. The long wait, standing and moving so slowly, must have been excruciating for his grandfather's missing leg. Sandor knew it was dull for him. It got terribly boring terribly fast, and though he was scared, he was more relieved than anything when it was finally their turn to be heard.

Sandor had tried getting glimpses of the man in the tall-backed chair all afternoon, but only at the front of the line could he truly see him and his features. He was everything a northernman was said to look like. Big, tall, and broad. Dark hair, as dark as the children who played outside. A high forehead and a hooked nose, paired with the strong jaw of a northerner. It was the face of the First Men, and Sandor was surprised to find he looked rather similar to his own father. Or maybe, his father looked similar to them.

It didn't take long for Sandor to spot the greatsword resting over his lap, out of its scabbard and ready for use. To call it a greatsword felt foolish, though that's what it was, because this sword was the singular most spectacular sword he had ever seen. It didn't just gleam. It glowed, a dark, murky silver light reflected and refracted off its blade, the hilt carved and created out of some strong, enduring material to form a wolf's head.

An ancestral Valyrian blade. He'd never seen one before, and he didn't think twice about letting his eyes feast on it now.

"Come forth, state your name and your purpose for coming." The Lord of Winterfell—Sandor didn't need to be introduced to know such a thing—motioned for them with a barely perceptible flick of his wrist. At once, his grandfather took two steps forth and fell awkwardly onto one bent knee, his false leg stretched out behind him, lowering his head respectfully and cradling the baby to his breast. Sandor immediately followed him, kneeling at his side and ducking his head nervously. Now that the excitement was over, the fear had returned. He wondered what the Lord did to little boys who vomited at his feet.

"I am Aldor, of House Clegane, Lord Stark." His grandfather didn't lift his head as he spoke, not once. Sandor's eyes darted up a bit to peak at him, and saw the man's eyes were actually closed. He looked to be praying.

"House Clegane?" Sandor heard the confusion in the man's voice. "That sounds like a Westerlands' House, if memory serves me."

"It does, my lord." His grandfather looked up slowly, but didn't rise. Elinor began to make snuffling, snorting sounds, and the man handed her to Sandor's arms without hesitation. "My wife was the younger sister of your grandfather."

Lord Stark's face was blank for a moment, then grew intense. "Berena. I heard stories of her. They say she disgraced herself, ran away with a kennelmaster. From the South, no less."

Sandor's grandfather was solemn and fierce. He lifted his head and looked the Lord of Winterfell in the eye. "Aye. She did." And he said no more, although Sandor desperately wanted to know more. Disgraced herself? The younger sister of a Lord? He hadn't known these things about Berena, only that she was Berena Clegane, the wife of the man kneeling next to him. He'd never thought to ask more.

"Tell me, Lord Aldor of House Clegane. What brings you so far from your home? With two children, no less."

His grandfather laid a rough and weathered hand on Sandor's shoulder, hefted the girl higher on his chest. "The lad here is looking for a place in your town. And his sister as well. My grandchildren," he added grudgingly, as though he'd wished to keep that part a secret. Sandor felt himself blush and look at his feet, suddenly unable to stare at the greatsword any longer.

"As wards?"

"As residents. Permanently." Aldor gave Sandor a quick push, nudged him forward and to his feet. "He'll swear himself to you now, if it please milord. And the girl, when she can. They're parents were hale and hearty stock. They'll both grow big and strong."

"I have no use for big, strong women," said Lord Stark with a hint of amusement coloring his voice. "Gods know I've enough trouble on my hands with the strength of my daughter. But we're always looking for strong lads. Tell me, lad, what's your name?"

"Sandor, milord. Sandor of House Clegane."

"Well, Sandor, of House Clegane. Can you wield a sword yet?"

"N-no, milord. My grandfather only started teaching me."

Rickard frowned pensively. "Well, how old are you?"

"Seven, milord."

There was a mild rumble of surprise, and even Lord Stark sat back half an inch with his shock. "Seven? By the gods, you are a big lad. How big—what happened there?"

Sandor, who had raised his head shyly at the unexpected praise, felt his cowl slide back away from his face, freely displaying his scarred cheek, and the murmurs of impressed surprise turned at once to horrified dismay.

His grandfather had risen to his feet—to his foot and his peg leg, rather—and was all too quick to intervene. "A terrible accident, Lord Stark. His sheets caught fire when he was only small. The Maester said it was a miracle the boy lived at all."

Lord Stark got out of his seat and sheathed the greatsword (to Sandor's relief) before walking forth. "I don't doubt it," he murmured, frowning at the young boy before him. "Sounds like a very careless mistake, Lord Clegane. You'll see no such accidents happen here."

"No, of course not, my lord." Aldor nodded respectfully, while Sandor forcibly bit his own tongue to keep from protesting. It was not an accident! My own brother did this to me! He did this, and my father gave him a real sword as punishment. Where's the justice in that, Lord Stark? But he didn't dare—oh he didn't dare—say it aloud.

"Tell me, lad. What brings you so far from home, when you could be with your own people?" Lord Rickard crouched down in front of him, close enough that Sandor could count the thick pelt of hair over the man's sharp jaw. "Don't you miss your home?"

Don't you miss your home?

Sandor didn't rightfully know what to say to that. "My grandfather—Lord Clegane, I mean—he told me the north has men of honor. I…I wanted to come here, so that I wouldn't…so that the southron men wouldn't…" He touched his cheek without thinking, and heard his grandfather hiss in dismay and warning.

But Rickard caught the gesture, and understood what Sandor was saying without words. "My own men don't judge those except by their deeds, that much is true. But you will find those who stare and mock and judge you for your scars your whole life. Coming north won't change that."

Sandor tried not to look as disheartened as he felt, for though the words were painfully honest, they were not altogether unkind.

"However," Lord Stark continued. "I've known young men to rise above the circumstances a time or two. Perhaps the north will afford you this opportunity, Sandor of House Clegane. If you can survive the rage of a fire and the fury of our winters, might be you can survive anything, even the cruelty of man's words." Lord Stark rose to his feet. He matched his grandfather's height with ease, and stood there like a more noble, more powerful and more handsome version of Aldor Clegane's only son.

"I believe our smith is looking for someone to train. Perhaps you will find your purpose there. His name is Mikken." Lord Stark looked at the bundle in Sandor's arms. "As for the girl…"

"Elinor, my lord."

Lord Stark nodded gratefully at Sandor's words. "Elinor. Perhaps a family would take her in, raise her to become a farmer's wife, or maybe even work in my House one day."

"My Lord?" A man stepped forward from the shadows of the wall, proud and strong like the rest of them. He moved to one knee like Sandor's grandfather had done, only with much more ease. "My wife has always longed for a daughter. With our newest son still nursing, she could take her."

Lord Stark grunted in approval. "Very well. Here, take the girl child to your wife, Martyn. Gods be good to you—four boys and a daughter to boot." He shook his head wryly. "You'll be eating your offer one day."

Several men laughed and the man, Martyn, stepped forth to take baby Elinor from Sandor's arms. But he clutched her tighter when the man tried, looking desperately to his grandfather for help.

Aldor offered nothing in the lines of comfort. "Give her up, boy. Being raised in a fine house is more than you could have hoped for."

"Sandor, is it?" Martyn ignored Sandor's grandfather. "I swear to you I will see your sister raised safely, and kindly. Perhaps you will even see her on your travels. Winter Town isn't so large."

"Please," he whispered, and hugged the baby. "Please, might we stay together?"

Martyn's face seemed truly apologetic. "Mikken has no use for baby girls. And my wife hasn't the time to raise another lad, not even one as good as you. Give her here, now." Slowly, with no other choice, Sandor relented the baby into Martyn's hands.

"I won't be long, Lord Stark," he said with a hasty bow. Rickard nodded tiredly, and made shooing motions with one hand. Martyn left, baby Elinor with him.

"And what of you, Lord Clegane?" Rickard surveyed Aldor with a critical eye. "Have you wish to join my House as well?"

"No," said Sandor's grandfather, and though he'd been expecting it, he was still sorely disappointed to hear it. "No, I was born in the Westerlands. I mean to die in the Westerlands." He bowed to Lord Stark, rigid and tired and, Sandor could see, very much in pain. "Tis my dying wish to see the lad in a good home."

"Mikken will treat him fairly. So long as he does his work and minds his tongue. For the sake of our shared kin, I will see it done." Lord Rickard frowned, unconvinced by Aldor's words. "You mean to rest first, surely, before you leave?"

"I fear the gods won't allow me the pleasure." Aldor and Rickard shared a final look. "May the gods look on your House with favor, Lord Stark. You've done my grandchildren more kindness than I had dared to hope for."

They shared a silence for a moment, and the Warden of the North chewed on his words thoughtfully for the pause, then offered a ghost of a smile. "It would be my wife's nameday this day. Perhaps this is the gift I would give her."

Aldor then turned to Sandor, who felt tears come on without warning. "There now, lad. Don't cry." His grandfather rubbed a knuckle over Sandor's wet cheek, only over the good one. "You be strong. Do as you're told. Be loyal and brave for Lord Stark. You hear me?"

"Yes, grandfather." He sniffled, and straightened his back as best he could.

"Good boy." And his grandfather clapped him warmly on the back. "Remember our words, too, Sandor. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you." Before Sandor could say he would remember, that he could never forget, the old man had turned around and begun to walk away, proud but frail. Tall, but hunchbacked.

"Come now, lad." Sandor looked up, followed the sight of the hand on his shoulder to the face of the man holding him steady. Lord Stark didn't smile, but his face wasn't so severe either. "Time for supper. Then we'll get you to Mikken."

And Sandor let himself be turned away from his grandfather's retreating back, tried not to think on his little sister, tried not to think on the fact he would never see Aldor Clegane again, tried to be brave and strong. Sandor followed his new Liege Lord from that day on, loyal and unwavering. The men might question his face, his age, his House. But they would never find cause to question his loyalty.

Not ever.