A/N: The incident in this flashback was similar to an experience I had when I was a kid. I was bullying my little sister, and my dad handled it in a way that might have seemed cruel, but taught me a valuable lesson in empathy. I never forgot it, though it wasn't until I was an adult that I fully understood what my dad had done for me. I'm grateful he had the courage to be the bad guy that day.
Disclaimer: I make no claim to Game of Thrones or any of its characters.
Eddard tried not to squirm under Papa's hard glare. His father was seated in his big chair like a king in his throne, preparing to pass judgment on the boy's misdeeds.
It weren't his fault. Eddard just wanted to play with the other boys his age, but Morden kept following him like a hungry stray. Eddard told him more than once to go home. That he was too little to play with them. But the three-year-old wouldn't listen. Not even when the older boy yelled at him. Finally, Eddard lost his temper and shoved his little brother. He didn't mean to push him so hard. The next thing he knew Morden was sprawled in the dirt wailing like a baby while blood leaked out of his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue.
Catelyn had come running when she heard the child's cries and immediately took Morden to their mother. Eddard had trailed behind with a heavy, twisty feeling in his belly. He felt bad about Morden, but more than that, he feared the inevitable punishment he was sure to receive for his crime.
Mama was comforting Morden when he entered the family's cottage. The look she gave Eddard made him want to burrow into the floor. "Your father wishes to speak to you," she told him, her mouth set in a grim line.
Eddard knew there was no delaying it. He walked slowly towards where his father sat. As he passed his older sister, she gave him a look that held a mixture of pity and accusation.
Papa glowered at his eldest son for a long, agonizing moment before his steely voice finally broke the silence. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Eddard hung his head, unable to meet his papa's disapproving eyes. "I pushed Morden."
"Why?"
The boy shrugged. This only seemed to anger his father even more. "Do not shrug, boy. Answer my question. Why did you push your brother?"
Eddard chewed his lip as he stared down at the scuffed toes of his shoes. "He was buggin' me," he mumbled.
"'Bugging' you," Papa spat, "So you shoved him. A boy half your size, too little to defend himself. Is that how you treat those smaller than you when you're annoyed with them?"
His father suddenly rose to his feet and Eddard stumbled back a step, staring up at him wide-eyed. Papa had always been big, but somehow his anger made him seem gigantic. For the first time in his young life, Eddard was genuinely afraid of his father.
"I'm bigger than you," Papa growled ominously, "Should I use my strength against you every time you do something to anger me? Well?"
Eddard jumped and quickly shook his head. Tears began to well in his eyes.
Papa's expression remained unchanged. "The next time Morden starts 'bugging' you, you will come to me or your mother and we will handle him. Do you understand me, boy?"
Eddard nodded meekly.
The anger finally seeped away, his father seeming to deflate until he was just Papa again. He held his hands out to the boy. "It's alright. I won't hurt you."
Eddard started to cry as he leaned against Papa's legs. He had no idea how much his seeking comfort in his father relieved the large man. One broad hand rested atop the boy's head while the other patted his back. "It's alright, Ned. I'm not angry with you."
Later, once his tears were dried, Eddard told Morden he was sorry for pushing him. The younger boy hugged him, mostly because he didn't like seeing his big brother in distress. Little children were always so quick to forgive.
Eddard still got mad at Morden sometimes, but he never laid a hand on him again.
All this happened barely a week before Arya and Rickon arrived. If Arya had been there to witness it, she might have initially thought that Sandor was being cruel, but after a while she would have understood the truth of his actions. It hadn't been an easy thing for Sandor to do. He hated the look of fear in his son's eyes, but he knew it was necessary. Punishing Eddard for bullying his brother would not have been enough. It would only have served to make the boy wary of being caught.
Gregor was like that. Aside from the incident were he damn near burned Sandor's face off, the elder Clegane son had been clever in hiding his misdeeds from their father. His only goal was to avoid punishment. Once he came of age and had no one to answer to, Gregor stopped bothering to hide his sadistic nature.
Sandor wanted to avoid that kind of thinking in his son at all costs, and the only way he could think of to prevent this was to make Eddard understand how his little brother must have felt. To be confronted by someone bigger and stronger, and be helpless to defend himself. Sandor wished there had been another way. Unfortunately, there was no getting through to a five-year-old with rational talk. Lessons taught through deeds were far more lasting.
It was a great relief to Sandor that the boy's fear in him did not linger. By day's end Eddard behaved no differently toward him than before. Sandor never had such love and trust in his own father. He wondered how he could possibly deserve it from his children.
In her years on the run, Arya learned how to be unobtrusive. She followed Sandor, unseen, while he went about his daily tasks. She observed him toiling in the woods, felling trees and sawing logs with the other men of Oldtree. She watched his interactions with the other woodcutters. He showed none of the domineering or aggressiveness she expected, nor did he go out of his way to engage in idle conversation. He seemed to prefer his own company, though when he did interact with his fellow woodcutters, he obviously got on well with them. Arya was surprised to see him treated with respect rather than fear. A far cry from what she remembered of him back in King's Landing.
She watched him at home as well. He always spent time with his children, no matter how weary he was from the day's work. He tried his best to treat them equally, though Arya could tell Catelyn held a special place in his heart.
And the children adored him. This shocked Arya most of all. There was no sign of fear or even wariness in their behavior. They played with him like he was an ordinary father, and not the cold-blooded killer he used to be. This angered Arya for some reason. How dare he pretend to be a decent man when he'd slaughtered innocent people in the king's service?
What infuriated her even more was the direwolves' reactions to him. They'd approached the cottage the day after she and Rickon arrived. Shaggydog had sniffed Sandor once in curiosity, then promptly walked away. Nymeria didn't even bother to show even that little interest in the man, which felt almost like a betrayal to Arya. Direwolves were very perceptive when it came to people, so why hadn't they growled as soon as they saw the Hound? Was it possible that he had them fooled as well?
Sandor was well aware of Arya's scrutiny. He knew she was hoping to catch him in a lie, as if his life in Oldtree was nothing more than an act. Not that he really blamed her. He wouldn't have believed his change of character either. It still frustrated him, though, to feel the constant weight of her judgmental gaze. If it weren't for the fact that she was his wife's sister, he would have confronted her about it. But he didn't want to upset the uneasy peace. Sansa was so happy to have members of her long-lost family in their home. And the children especially loved their uncle Rickon, who taught them all sorts of new games and even got his direwolf to join in the fun. He regaled them with stories of Winterfell as well. The children were soon eager to see it for themselves.
It was decided that the family would accept the Starks' offer to return with them to Winterfell for an extended visit. Sansa longed to see her brother Bran again, as well as her childhood home. Sandor had agreed, despite his misgivings. He was more than a little worried that she and the children might decide to stay there forever. He knew he would never be permanently welcome in Winterfell. His past was too well known there.
Sandor started at the feel of gentle fingers rubbing away the frown that creased his brow. He looked up at his wife's smiling face. It was nighttime. Sandor was seated on the bed, waiting while Sansa readied herself and ending up lost in thought.
"You're brooding," she accused fondly.
"You think there's nothing to brood over?" he asked.
She sat down beside him and hugged his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. "No, I know there is plenty to think on. I'm sorry, husband. You must feel as if you carry the burden alone, what with me being so caught up in the excitement of seeing Winterfell again."
"Many see me as little better than a kidnapper and outlaw," Sandor confessed, "And your sister, she seems to think me a demon from the seven hells."
"Arya was always hot-headed," Sansa said, "I fear her experiences only made it worse. She clings so fiercely to past wrongs. Her rage is as strong as when they occurred." She hesitated, then added, "She keeps bringing up the butcher's boy that died while we traveled the kingsroad."
"You mean the butcher's boy that I killed," he stated calmly.
"You had no choice. Joffrey, the queen-"
"They ordered me to catch the boy so they could punish him, not to kill him. Not that his death mattered to them," he added bitterly.
Sansa pursed her lips. She knew many of the wrongs her husband committed in his past life, but could not bring herself to reconcile them with the person he was now. The good and decent man who loved her and their children. "It no longer matters," she declared, "I've forgiven you long ago."
Sandor rested his chin atop her head. "It's not for you to forgive, Little Bird. You're not the one I wronged."
"Arya's not the one you wronged, either," she argued.
"No, it was the butcher whose son I murdered."
Sansa went still at those words. She realized with a stab of guilt that she never gave a thought to Micah's father. Yet he was the one who had suffered the most that terrible day. Not even losing Lady could compare to the anguish of losing a child. The thought of such a fate befalling one of her children made her tighten her grip on Sandor's arm. "It was my fault," she said in a weak voice, "I should have told the truth about what happened."
"And call Joffrey a liar? That would have been suicide."
"I should've known what kind of monster he was then," she stated bitterly, "I was such a blind little fool, caught up in a fantasy of palaces and royal balls and pretty gowns. I wanted so much to be Joffrey's queen and have his beautiful blonde children. How could I have been so stupid?"
Sandor scoffed. "You were thirteen, Little Bird. What girl that age hasn't acted stupid about a boy she was smitten with?"
Sansa grimaced. "I suppose Catelyn will behave that way once she reaches that age."
"Gods, I never thought of that," he groaned. Yet the idea of seeing his little girl become a young women filled him with a bittersweet feeling.
Sansa pulled back to meet her husband's eyes. "We don't have to go," she told him.
Sandor smiled tenderly at her. "The children deserve to see where their family comes from. And you deserve to see Winterfell again."
His wife smiled in gratitude. "Everything will be alright, my love. You'll see."
Sandor wished he shared her optimism.