Sandor Clegane was the eldest of three siblings, the responsible one, the bigger man. Despite the cruelty of his drunken father and the monster his younger brother had become, Sandor had followed the path his mother inspired, those stories of chivalrous knights who rescued fair maidens, assisted the elderly, and championed for good.

At the age of fourteen, Sandor's father had drunk himself to an early grave. A giant of a man, the drink and an ill-fated tavern brawl had lead to the man's corpse arriving via a mule cart at the door of their humble home. Sandor had become the head of the family. Gregor, his twelve year old brother, was quickly reaching him in size. His sister was but five years old, hopefully too young to remember the abuse they had endured.

Their mother had been heavily weakened by Elina's birth and she was unable to provide for her children, save for the bits of clothing repair she took in for their closer neighbors. Sandor had taken his role with the utmost honor. Already a squire at the time of his father's death, the eldest son took his breadth and height to his advantage and began entering the lists as a silent champion, soon to be known as simply the Hound.

The tournaments started close to home, minor southern affairs that would take him less than a day's ride from the small village. He had won and lost some in the beginning. But as Sandor grew and he found more experienced knights to fight, his talent hit a soaring point without plateau. Sandor was a fine jouster, that won him silvers at first. Then came the melees of the larger tournaments, where standing in dented armor he remained the last standing. The years passed and Sandor found himself traveling further from home, bringing back more and more gold. He was known only by the hound shaped helm he wore to compete - the name Clegane still frowned upon in most of the South.

Eventually, Sandor had saved enough money to buy his mother and sister a fine home in the North, where the name Clegane meant nothing. The last years had been a struggle for his family, as his brother had grown and taken after their father. Gregor had been prone to outbursts and fits of violence. Sandor had tried to quash the instinct in him, training him in his spare time as they counted coins each month for the rental of the house they resided, to put food they were unable to grow on the table. That was until Sandor came home one day to find Gregor's massive hands around his sister's throat. He'd pulled the boy off in time and tossed him into the winter night, and banished him from their home. But that had not been enough, it seemed, to keep the Clegane's safe from further scrutiny.

Gregor had become an outlaw of the worst degree, a band of ruthless followers magnetized to his cruelty and intimidating bulk. He flaunted his name with egotistical notoriety. Rape, thievery, murder were the whispered rumors that flew from town to town. And Sandor stood it no longer.

With a cart and his horse, Warrior, Sandor packed his mother and sister and the few belongings they had. They left the only home they had ever known on a crisp autumn dawn for the mountains to the North.

It did not take long for Sandor to settle his sister and mother in the small stone house they had bought outright with a meager portion of his winnings. The North had no use for knights, of which Sandor was not if only by title, so he sold his blade to a local Innkeeper to keep peace at night when the tavern filled and the ale flowed. He kept the house and small farm during the day, while his mother taught Elina to read and write, and sing songs that had always inspired Sandor to be the men his father and brother were incapable of being.

Sandor returned in the late night of his nameday, surprised to find his mother waiting at the kitchen table for him next to a roaring hearth. He could smell his favorite stew wafting through the air. Elina's soft snores could be heard from her room.

His mother patted the seat beside her in welcome.

"Twenty-one name days, Sandor," she rasped, her voice weaker each day. "You are a handsome man, stronger and kinder than any man has right to be. Should it not be time to find a wife?"

Sandor smiled easily at her. His naturally sullen face of sharp angles and a prominent nose lit up as he exposed his straight white teeth in a grin that reached the corners of his eyes in a crinkle. Despite all the hardships and trials he had endured to allow himself and his family to survive, he was quick to laugh and nearly always had a bounce to his step.

"You and Elina are my family," he assured her. "What more do I need? We have a fine home, and we never have to endure summer heat," he teased as he gently squeezed her hand.

She smiled back at him. "You deserve a wife to love you, children of your own. Elina will marry one day, and I will always be your mother."

Sandor laughed loudly. "Elina is a wild one. I'll praise the man who manages to tame her."

Sandor's mother sighed with mock exasperation. "All those years you wore that awful helm, and you couldn't find a tournament for a princess's hand?"

"I certainly have no need for a princess," Sandor chuckled. "Just a village girl, preferably with red hair and blue eyes."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled." She stood up and leaned on the table for a moment before brushing Sandor's thick black hair with her lips. "Happy Nameday, Sandor. May the gods bless your selfless soul."

Sandor ate his fill of the venison stew, thick with extra potatoes as he liked. The slight oversalted broth gave testament to Elina's "help" in the kitchen affairs. He left more than enough over the dying embers for his sister and mother to partake. Dawn broke over the mountain top as he laid himself to sleep.

"Sandor!" rasped in his ear, causing him to bolt upright in his bed, the furs already crumpled aside as he had tossed and turned from the howling that never failed to call down from the mountain. "She's gone!" his mother frantically continued as he wiped sleep from his eyes.

"Elina?"

"Who else?" she cried. "She had left this morning, going on and on about the wolf songs as she readied for the market. The tales these locals tell of the beast on the mountain!"

"I've heard them a time or two," he replied, waiting for her to calm as he pulled on his socks and boots to ward off the cold floor. "What of it?"

His mother thrust a worn piece of parchment in his hands. The ink was blotchy with haste, sloppy as always for Elina.

"I sent her to the market this morning, and you know the rule! She's to be home by dusk," Sandor nodded in agreement. He had made the rule. "She still isn't home. And I found this in my sewing basket this afternoon."

'Don't worry, Mother, and don't bother Sandor! Off to find his nameday gift, one fit for the Hound. - Elina'

At age twelve, Elina was a capable girl. Sandor had taught her well when it came to the wilderness and hunting, but she often tried to do things beyond her teachings, always trying to surpass Sandor in the timeless competition of siblings. He fingered the note gently before he set it on his desk and strode into the main room of the home. He had an idea of what Elina intended to bring him, and it was utter madness. A wolf pup. He had spoken of getting hounds for them to breed, good hunting dogs for the people of the North. But a wolf was another matter entirely.

He slung his thick cloak over his shoulders and strapped his familiar weapons to his person before turning to his mother. She had sunken into her rocking chair, her fingers tight in her lap. Sandor knelt with ease in front of her, and held her white-knuckled hands within her own.

"I have some idea where she went," he assured her. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Wood is stocked already, and there is stew left for supper. You'll take care of yourself while I'm away." Although his voice was always tender, the deep resonance and wording brooked no question. It was a command.

Sandor's frail mother nodded. "Of course. Please, please find her."

Sandor nodded before he rose, dipping low to hug his mother gently in farewell.

When he stepped outside to saddle Warrior in his stable, he was shocked to find his mother had let him sleep the day away. The sky was deep red with the sun slipped low beyond horizon. He pondered where to start as he saddled his faithful companion. The stabled locked and he comfortable on Warrior's back, he looked to the sky where the North star twinkled innocently at him. It wasn't until he and Warrior were well onto the trail head that he noticed the wolves no longer howled.