He remembered when he's first known he would kill his brother. He's been – eight, perhaps. And talking to someone – a noble guest, maybe. Their eyes kept skittering away from his face. It made him angry.

"And your brother," they'd said, and tittered nervously. "Fearsome man. Will you be like him? Become a knight, protect the weak…"

Sandor knew all about knights protecting the weak. He's looked up, eyes blazing through his hair, mouth a flat line. The idiot had stepped back, surprised. "No," he'd rasped, savagely, "I'm not going to be like him. I'm going to kill him," and he knew that it was true.