DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire

"Go home, child. You have a home, which is more than many can say in these dark days."

Elder Brother to Brienne of Tarth on the Quiet Isle. AFFC

HOUSES

"M'lady."

The young man who had found him bowed to her and gestured to the covered bridge leading from the Great Keep to the armory. Sansa nodded to him and peered into the walkway. Her husband stood at the sole window, looking out onto the yard of Winterfell. The ground was muddy from the day's steady rainfall and the remaining patches of snow that lingered in corners and at the bases to towers had formed icy crusts as the night air grew cooler.

"Would you be so kind as to fetch my lord's cloak? Thank you," she murmured courteously. Sansa Stark was raised to be a lady and to run a great household and was taught that courtesies were not only to be extended to the high-born. Since having suffered years of ill-treatment as the hands of those she had once thought the noblest in the Seven Kingdoms, she was grateful to find true kindness from anyone. Her courtesies were no longer simply her armor but all the more sincere now that she had learned to trust again.

She approached him slowly though she knew he was aware of her presence: the wooden planks beneath her feet were mostly new, replaced to ensure there were not any rotting boards after the long winter, and her footfalls and the creaking of the boards sounded clearly in the enclosed space. Still he continued to stare and did not turn to her. She wrung her hands and furrowed her brow in distress but she was determined to reach him, to calm and comfort him before he came back into the Keep.

The young servant returned with the cloak and she took it from him. "That will be all," she said softly but with finality. They were to be left strictly alone.

The cloak gave her a purpose and so she walked steadily now without hesitation. "Please take this," she implored him gently as she reached up to drape it over his wide shoulders, "the night air is cold."

He grunted slightly in acceptance but kept his eyes on the yard and both hands braced on either side of the window. She ran her hand down his arm now, a faint caress, and pressed her forehead to his shoulder in supplication.

"Sandor…"

"I'm sorry, little bird," he interrupted wearily; "I wanted to be a good man for you…and for them. I –"

"You are good," she insisted as he shook his head, "you are, Sandor. Don't say you are not, not to the person who knows that best, who knows you best. You lost your temper, that is all; you-"

"I terrified them; I saw it in their faces, Sansa; they were frightened of me," he snorted from his nose angrily, "…just as you used to be," he growled. "It seems the Hound could not stay dead."

"Don't. Don't call yourself that," she entreated in a low voice. "You are not a dog."

He sneered as he turned to her now, a look she had not seen on his face in many years. "Am I not then? Tell me, Lady Stark, who was it raged at your children just now, until they cowered and spilled fat tears and you had to stand between them and me?" He bent over her as he challenged her.

"I am Lady Clegane, and those are your children, and I do not need to remind you of that," she told him firmly though her voice quavered from hurt, for him, for all of them.

It had been a terrible evening. The rain had kept them all inside all day and patience and tempers had worn frightfully thin. Finally their two boys had fought over a toy, shoving and insulting each other and coming to blows. It was too much for Sandor, who had watched it all unfold quickly with his eyes growing wider and then narrowing like a beast of prey. Before she could stop him, he had erupted like wildfire.

…..

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed and flew at his sons who jumped and turned with wide eyes.

"YOU DARE FIGHT IN HERE? AND IN FRONT OF YOUR MOTHER AND SISTER?" He rasped hoarsely, bending over at them as he shouted.

The boys looked to Sansa and their sister, seated side by side as mother instructed daughter in needlework. They looked startled and bewildered, and did not know how to answer their father who seemed enraged and angrier than they had ever seen him.

"ANSWER ME! WHAT KIND OF BOYS FIGHT OVER NOTHING? HOW WILL I EVER TEACH YOU ARMS IF YOU WILL FIGHT OVER TOYS? SWORDS ARE NOT TOYS! REAL MEN DO NOT DRAW STEEL OVER NOTHING!"

He grabbed the eldest roughly and pulled the toy from his hand. "IS THIS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR BROTHER?" He held it up to the boy's nose.

"I-it's mine," the boy tried to tell him, "and he took it…"

"AND YOU'LL FIGHT YOUR OWN BROTHER FOR IT? HERE!" Sandor turned and hurled the toy against the hearth where it smashed resoundingly and turned back to his son as the shattered wooden pieces skittered about the room or fell into the fire. "I TOOK IT FROM YOU. WILL YOU FIGHT ME NOW?"

"Sandor!" Sansa rushed to him, seeing the fearful confusion in her sons' eyes. She stepped in front of him to make him look at her. When she looked into his eyes she saw he was wild, like a sick man raging with fever, and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

His head snapped up in surprise, and he looked for a moment as though he did not recognize her. Then he heard the crying. He looked over to see the youngest, Robb, gasp in his breath as tears came to him. The eldest, Ned, stood still but he quivered and his eyes glistened. Across the room his daughter had her hand pressed to her mouth and big tears hanging from her lashes; when she blinked they rolled down her cheeks.

He raised his heavy brow in surprise and looked back to his wife, confounded, and then raised his voice again.

"Stop that! All of you stop your crying; stop it now!" But he faltered and stood slack-jawed.

"Papa…" his daughter sniffled. He saw she looked frightened. He had seen that look before, on another girl, a lifetime ago. He turned to that girl, now a woman: his wife.

"Seven buggering hells!" He breathed.

Sansa gasped slightly. "Sandor, not in front of the –"

But he did not hear her; he had turned away and now stalked away from them, only turning back for one last look as he went out the door. She saw clearly how his anger had turned to anguish and wanted to follow him. But her children were crying and so she turned back to them to comfort them. Within moments, their nurse appeared at the door where Sandor had just disappeared.

"Help me, please, Nan." As she spoke, Rickon and his page appeared as well. "Find Sandor, please, and come tell me where he is." The page left immediately but Rickon lingered a moment, then came in to help.

"Papa is very angry at us," Robb told his uncle sadly, still sniffling.

Sansa shook her head. "No, my sweet boy," she kissed his brow to soothe him, "he is angry at himself."