It was a grim day. Gray-black clouds and a droning drizzle. We got out of the Crossroads early enough for the four hour drive west into the mountains. I was hungover. My mouth tasted like ash and bile; I puked first thing that morning after single handedly putting down a case of Rose. Didn't know what else to do after texting Sansa good night. But it was my turn to drive the van. Couldn't really text her good morning with the nagging rain and fogged up roads, curved to shit. We made it to the Stone Crow by sundown. Last thing I got from the girl was on the train! see you soon 🥰
Perfect. Didn’t wanna think what I’d do to myself if she turned craven.
We got our shit loaded in. The Crow was big enough for two hundred people but a little rough around the edges. Nothing unusual, just that baked-in sourleaf stink and graffitied walls. Low black plaster ceilings that sagged and dripped murky water in a couple spots. Shredded up couches in the corners and linoleum tile floors, chipped, that stuck to my boots. We'd played here plenty of times before, knew the owner, Timett. He fixed us with some shots of Volantene Green to get us going, sent his buds out to get cheesesteaks. Offered us some blow, sure, why not. Railed it off the black oak bartop and then I started feeling pretty good. We hung out at the bar and passed around a joint with the stereo cranked up, Bloodraven, top tier shit.
I was deepthroating my cheesesteak when my pocket buzzed and kept buzzing.
walking over
such icky weather!
hope your drive went okay
okay i think im close
see you soon!
I tossed back one more round of Green and headed outside, lit up while I waited. Folks were trickling in, punks my age, tattoos faded and gauges sagging. Nodded to a few that recognized me. Gave a good scowl to younger goth twats that stared. If they squinted, they were reading my brow tatt: Loyal. If they grimaced, it was my scars. Fuck 'em. I was halfway ashed when I saw my bird coming down the oil-slick street. Sweet thing tottered along in her Docs, pink umbrella in hand. I had helped pick out her outfit, and let me tell you, I did good. She was wearing a pleated plaid skirt, dark green and yellow, with this princess-looking crop top. It had a lace-up bodice, low cut, with puff sleeves like cotton moonblooms.
I waved to her a ways off so she wouldn't chicken out, and earned myself a pearl smile. The little bird fluttered up to me like a rainy day schoolgirl fairy, two matching plaits rising and falling on her chest. She hovered at pec-level so I got a real good look down her shirt—didn't have a bra on, just two squished up tits. I blew my smoke there, dropped my butt, crushed it under heel.
She coughed.
"Hi pretty bird," I said.
"Hi," she got out.
She was interested in our boots on the wet pavement. I was interested in touching her. So I put a hand on her waist, thumbed the laces that suspended her little tits, then thumbed her actual tit. Her nipple poked through the white fabric. My cock woke up. "I love your shirt," I said.
She giggled and tapped her toes together.
"How was the train?"
"Oh, um, good."
"Here—" I took her umbrella, collapsed it, and gave it a shake. Gave her my hand instead. "Let's get you something to drink."
Her little fingers were tiny icicles stitched together with mine. I liked that—melting her. Umar had started his door shift but didn't bother us going in, just needed a quick nod. I tugged the girl through a meat of bodies and smoke over to the bar. Had to scare up a stool for her then hovered at her back. Timett came over smirking.
"I don't serve booze to twelve year olds."
Sansa turned to dish out her doe-eyes. I winked at her, told Timett, "Get bent, the bird's pushing nineteen. Give her something girly—rum and coke. I'll take a Rose."
Timett grumbled, “Lucky fucking dog,” but he went off to fix our shit.
The girl stayed blushing at me—wish I had bottled that up. Her blood probably tasted like strawberry wine. "You drink much?" I asked. She shook her head, mute. "You’ll like it," I said. I put the pint glass in her hands when it was ready. And she held it like that, all cute like, two-handed. She sipped and smiled sweetly up at me.
"Good, huh?"
I had watched Timett. He made it a generous triple. Dumped in extra simple syrup to mask the bitterness. A bang up cocktail, because the girl answered, "Really yummy."
I stole an extra step to trap her stitched-together knees between my legs. "You finish that, sweet girl," I said, picking up her cheek. "Then you won't be so nervous. I promise I don't bite."
She giggled but otherwise stayed quiet. "Do I scare you that bad?" I asked. I thumbed the shiny makeup on her cheekbone and watched her take a nice half inch sip. She looked up under her long lashes, made longer by black mascara, brutally even.
"You're really big in person," she peeped.
I felt that in my cock, shifted boot to boot, so her eyes landed low. My fingers tightened on supple skin.
"You're really small."
I downed my beer in one go. Got tired of holding the dripping umbrella—I could think of a much better use for my hands. So I grabbed the bird's wrist and pulled her to her feet. "Let's put your bag somewhere safe," I told her. "I'll show you around."
There wasn't much around, not for me at least. It was a dense sourleaf-addled mess, a voluntary coffin of sorts. But the girl was all wide-eyed like she was visiting the underworld. Made sense: baby's first metal show. She stayed quiet for the most part, still shy, maybe not sure if she should be here. It was for the best. Didn’t want her blabbing about A-Levels or some shit. But she'd remember to smile if I looked down at her, then quickly sip that rum and coke. Good girl.
We bumped into a few folks and I introduced her: "This is my girl, Sansa. Lives up near the Lance." She giggled more than she talked, but she and Chella kinda hit it off. Their mutual territory was symphonic metal, go figure. Then they got to chatting about how we met, girl said, "Oh, Instagram!"
Chella raised a triple-pierced brow at me. Sansa said, "I followed him and sent him a message, he was really so sweet."
“And how old are you, honey?” Chella asked, petting the girl's cheek.
“Eighteen,” she peeped. “Nineteen next moon.”
Chella snorted. Gave me a nasty look. “Looks like the Hound's robbing the cradle, eh?”
“Oh, fuck you,” I spat. “I've robbed your cradle plenty.” Sansa blushed; I winked. “Come on,” I said, squeezing her hand. "Let's put your bag in the back."
The back was behind a polyester velvet curtain, marginally less smoky, the crowd noise a dull roar like we were underwater. Wasn't much to it, just a narrow black-walled hallway, with the stage entry to one side, a couple closets, and storage room at the far end. I took Sansa there, yanked the string on a single dangling bulb, then shut the door behind us.
"Here," I said, and I eased her leather backpack off her shoulders. I set it on a rusty iron rack, put her umbrella next to it. "Safe and sound."
Her drink was three-quarters gone. She slowly maneuvered through the tight room, fingering Bronn's drumkit, Gerold's keyboard case, the amps and pedals.
"Do you like Chella?” she asked. “You know, like that?"
Two pond eyes touched down—accusing. I knew what like that meant to little girls.
"No," I got out, gruff. "I fucked her a few times. Didn't mean shit."
"Good. Okay. Um—” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, tipped her head toward the pile of instruments. “Which one is yours?"
I pointed to the case with the least amount of stickers. One, actually: a white weirwood with red leaves and a black eye. Sansa crouched and petted it. "Bloodraven," I said, when she looked up at me. "Are they good?" she asked.
"The best."
"I've seen a weirwood in real life—at Winterfell."
"Is that right?"
"Mhm."
Sansa stood, smoothed her skirt. "Daddy took me," she said. "He worked there when I was little." Three careful steps and she was in front me, lips puckered on her straw, blue moons up. She nursed her drink to a hollow slurp and giggled. My cock had had enough of that shit.
"You're still little," I growled, shelving her glass. I grabbed her exposed strip of waist in two hands and stuck her against the door. "You're my pretty little bird."
I didn't know where to start so I did it all. My mouth dropped to hers; my tongue got busy prying her lips apart. I felt up her tits while I was at it, really mashed them around, squeezed like they might pop and send sweet sticky juices trickling from my fingers. The girl got droopy, filled my mouth with yummy whimpers. Tiny fingers clutched my t-shirt. "You're so fucking pretty," I rasped to trembling lips, slobber strung between us. I stuck my hands up her skirt and learned she was wearing a thong. I grabbed her bare ass cheeks to keep her upright—just so happened to press her belly against my bulge.
I finished up with her mouth and went for her rosy cheeks. Sunk my teeth in them wishing they'd pop too. I used my tongue plenty. Licked along her button nose, to her forehead, then back down to her chin. Some of her makeup came away with my spit.
"You have the prettiest freckles. Did I ever tell you that?"
Her eyes were shut good, but she opened them a crack. "No," she whispered. "Thanks."
Those manners had me grinning. I pried apart her asscheeks, ran my fingertips along her dewy slit. We'd already made it this far—time to go all the way. But I had just gone for my buckle when a damn tidal wave of guitar noise crashed through the door.
"Oh, they're starting!" Sansa peeped. She wriggled upright and went for the doorknob.
I thought about trapping her first, taking my fair due. Then I thought about waiting, thought about after, maybe another drink, or two, or three. I was gonna be a good daddy to start, nice, like she said I was. So I let her tow me down the hall, then I towed her to the bar. “Rum and coke for her, hit me with Green.” I tossed my shot back, put a fresh glass in the bird’s hand.
Moon Brothers were up first, they weren’t shit. A couple of local losers battering their instruments and crooning like victims of puberty. Still, the girl was interested in getting close. She swayed on those long legs already. Slurred, “Sooo good!" beaming like the sun. I took her glass while she went into the pit. I was in the pit too, but you best believe folks left well enough alone. Back in the day I’d shattered my fair share of bones: noses, clavicles, ribs. Wasn’t a true mosh if you didn’t emerge bloody and hankering to call an ambulance. Couldn’t risk that tonight—for the girl. So I stood at her back, head and shoulders above the crowd, and let her toss herself around. Made sure no one else played too rough. She’d turn and I’d put her straw in her mouth. Kept my pet hydrated. It made her smile more.
Next set was Sons of the Tree. It was fine, drone metal. Took the bird by surprise, so she backed up against my cock. I put my hand on her belly. Pinned her close. Kinda leaned down to smell her hair. Her shampoo must have been strawberries and cream or something. Like a smoothie, or milkshake. A sweet drink made out of girl.
Then it was our turn. Sweet thing was sad to see me go—I told her she could watch from backstage.
“But then I can’t dance!” she said, pouting.
“Suit yourself. Here—”
I made eye contact with Chella across the hazy floor. Tipped my head to the girl. “Our friend Chella will keep you company, how about that?”
“Okay!” she chirped. She sucked down her drink; the glass was in my hand. “All done. You can go now.”
I watched her while we set up on stage. She chatted with Chella, looked at me a lot and blushed. Or maybe she was already blushing, all that booze gone to her pretty cheeks. I prayed she’d keep playing our game like a good little bird. Playing I’m older so Sandor can make this work.
Chella was a safe enough bet—bound to keep the vultures off my baby bird.
When I started ripping chords she pushed right up against the stage, a little gift for me, because I could see straight down her shirt. I ground out the entirety of Lamentation, plus a few hits from Bloodbloom. The last song was always Elinor. At the end, the girl’s eyes shone, two lakes doused in moonlight. The cheesesteak and liquor didn’t sit right in my gut. For a second I thought I would blast puke into her tits. Tamped the feeling down, a necessary habit. But my throat was kinda clogged. I spit out a terse, “Good night,” into the mic, and that was that.
After we packed up our stuff, I stayed alone in the storage room. My cock was latently stiff, biding its time for a bath in young cunt. But my pulse was off in other places. Had sweat stuck from my pits down to my belt. The stage lights, probably. Combined with the blow and the booze, the crowds and the goddamn noise, I was slumped against the door and huffing a death rattle. Needed a fix, or something, fast. Then I got an idea.
I pawed through the girl’s backpack. Her wallet was cute—Hi Kitten, that cartoon cat from Yi Ti. Well, not the actual cat, but the same company had a blue and white creature with floppy ears, a rabbit maybe. She had a matching pen and mirror, and the score of all scores, matching panties, stamped with dozens of those same little creatures. I pressed them to my scars. Sniffed them. The crotch was slightly off-white. Real sweet-smelling. Mm.
By then I wasn’t sick, just horny. I pocketed the panties, cinched the girl’s backpack up and buckled it. Left it. So she’d have to beg me to get it back.
She waited for me on the other side of the curtain divider, twirling the end of a plait. “I missed you!” she cried when she saw me, then threw her arms around my middle. “You did so well!”
I had to think what a papa would do: hug her back. Of course, there wasn’t much meat on her, so my arms swallowed up her little skeleton. I put one palm on the back of her head to push her into my pecs. I got to steal a really long drink of her. My sweat felt colder when she let go.
"Can I meet your band?"
Fuck, couldn't say no. Not to that pretty face. Don't think she had ever done her eyeliner better, sharp enough to slice. Her manicured nails dug into my forearm.
"Pretty please?"
I grunted, tore off to the front of the stage, where Gerold and Bronn were posted up with a couple of goth babes. They were hot, long-haired and pierced, in black fishnet tops that showed off their bonafide milkers. Tits that suffocated.
"This is my girl Sansa," I said, my palm heavy on her upper back.
The babes were Dyah and Ferny, apparently we'd met before. "At your Craster's show!" Ferny slurred, drunk off her ass. She tottered forward, caught herself with a hand on my pec, and giggled. She puckered thick lips, slathered in black gloss. "Don't you remember these?"
Sansa curled herself bodily around my arm. I liked her tits better. "Remember what?" she asked.
Sloppy top in a bathroom stall, most likely. I pried Ferny off me by her wrist. Glanced to my bird. Didn’t like her pouting like that, angry, her pretty brow creased. Needed the right words.
"I'm taken," I said.
"He's taken," Sansa chirped.
I’d done good but they all laughed—Gerold, Bronn, the Craster's chicks. The good side of my face burned. My chest too. The cheesesteak again; I was getting old.
That's what Bronn said, the useless cunt: "A shiny new pup for the old mutt." He exhaled blunt smoke through gold teeth, smirking.
"How old are you, anyway?" Dyah asked. The question was for me. She sipped green liquid from a plastic cup and stared daggers.
"Thirty-three next month."
Sansa shook my arm. "Omg, you're a Taurus! You never told me! Wait, what time were you born? Here—"
She pulled out her phone and went to work, egged on by Dyah and Ferny. It was astrology shit. I didn't know what time I was born, so I fibbed, nine pm. Right in the doublewide, knew that much. Turned out I was a Pisces moon and Aries rising, whatever that meant. The girls kept going after that though, asking Gerold, then Bronn. Tittering and giggling like a newfound flock. I was busy fingering the end of Sansa's skirt, trying to think up my next move.
Snapped out of it when Dyah asked Sansa, "Wait, what year were you born?"
"Two eighty si—oh." She pressed her fingers to lips and looked guiltily up at me. "Two eighty four. That's the year I was born. Two eighty four."
I didn't like the way Gerold glared, all smug and shit, like he hadn't gotten his dick wet inside a fourteen year old.
"Aw, a little Scorpio," Ferny crooned. "Just like Darkstar."
She launched herself at him. It was enough of a reason to start sucking face. Bronn gave Dyah eyes, thumbed his nostril, sniffed.
"Hells yes," Dyah said, taking his hand. "Are y'all coming?"
Sansa lazily perked up. She was halfway gone from the look of it, droopy-lidded. "Nah, she doesn't need any coke," I answered for her. It was true. Better that she never start. So Bronn and Dyah left. The bird tottered in her Docs, and I brought her in closer, wedged her little asscheeks against my thigh, where my cock climbed down. Thought she might get the idea what with Darkstar dry-humping Ferny three feet away. But she didn't. She still had her little astrology app up. She blabbed about houses and transit, alignment and modality.
I trailed my blunt nails beneath her hem. Some girl at Gerold's place had painted them black a few moons back. Hadn't thought to take that shit off. Maybe I'd fuck Sansa right here, bend her over the stage, stuff my cock under skirt, just like I'd dreamed. I nuzzled her neck. She squirmed; I got harder.
"Oh, it's getting late—" She pulled a text message conversation with Randa. Pecked out:
call now
say you're
But her phone went blank.
I felt her swallow, my lips pressed to her pretty throat. "Oh no," she puffed. "My battery died."
Her eyes were watery again and I swam in them, thought, I want to drown in them too, how can we make more tears? “Come on,” I told her. I straightened up, but kept an arm rigid around her waist. To Gerold mid-makeout, but really no one, I said, “The little bird needs a charger, I’m gonna go get one from the van.”
Sansa got floppy as we walked into the drizzling dark. It was almost like shouldering a corpse, if a corpse could still resist some, try to come up from the dead. "Woah," she breathed as she staggered a step. "I'm feeling...so spinny...oh my gosh, I'm—"
"You're drunk, girl."
"Drunk?"
I unlocked the van and threw open the side door. Tossed the girl in the back. "Where am I going?" she asked.
I hopped up with her. Slammed the door shut. The back was totally cleared out—hadn't reloaded our shit yet. I parked on my ass, back against the center console. Sprawled my legs wide with the girl kneeling in the middle.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said back.
"Can I go to Randa's now?"
"Sure, little bird. But first—" I snared her wrist, dragged her to my lap, legs draped over my thigh. "I thought we could cuddle some. Remember how we talked about that?"
She nodded against my chest. "I remember."
"That's a good girl. I've wanted this for so long."
Didn't know what I was saying. Nice things, to calm her down. I liked the way her whole body fit in my arms, with her head tucked beneath my chin. I didn't do this much. I didn't do this at all. Last girl I held like this was Elinor. But she was a corpse. Sansa was a living and breathing girl. A girl who had messaged me first. A girl who spent hours every day beating up my phone. Who wanted to know my Wanda’s order and my favorite movie—Quiet Lamb. Just because I liked the main lady detective. Humble roots, but worth a damn. Me and Sansa watched it alone, together. Pressed play at the same time. She got real scared. Wished I could have held her that night. I was holding her now.
"You smell funny," she mumbled.
"You smell good."
"Like what?"
I stuck my nose in her hair, ripped a long drag, growled it back. "Berries. Sunshine. Sweet things. I could eat you up, little bird."
"Nooo," she said, picking up her face to pout. "I'm not dinner."
She sure was, so I kissed her. Ate those pouty lips first, ripe fruits, low hanging. She put tasty noises in my mouth, squirmed. I braced her by the back of her neck. Kept her head forward.
I knew she was weaker. That it would be easy if I was patient. That I could trap that cute waist of hers and lay her flat on the floor of the van, bare metal with a beat-up quilt thrown over it. If I kept sucking face she couldn’t get out any actual protest. Her tiny fists clenching my t-shirt did my cock a service as I unlaced her top and freed her tits, once and for all. I felt them up one-handed while I foraged for her thong. Had to damn near rip it off, blind, because she started to put her nails to use. She scratched her way up my neck to my scars. When she sunk into my bad cheek, I tore out of our make-out session. Trapped her naughty wrist and squeezed so hard tears spouted from her eyes.
“You don’t touch my scars,” I spat.
“S-Sandor,” she blubbered. “S-Sandor I’m scared. I don’t—please don’t.”
Her thighs seized up with my hand trapped between. I felt her handmade gashes. Her own ugly sins.
“Please don’t what?”
“I’m a maiden, remember? I’m saving myself. I—I promised Daddy.”
It was insane. This manipulative little cunt. Throwing herself in my path. Stealing my time for months on end. Gutting me, the same way Gregor did. No, different. Her bare little tits bounced to the beat of her rapidfire breaths. Her eyes gushed; she drowned herself with snot.
But quietly. Just feeble sniffs. So soft the drizzle smacking the van’s roof won.
I was under. I was gone. I shouldered the sweat that stung my scars with my damp shirt. I put Sansa’s hand on them instead. A fist at first, that bloomed a cautious spring. Five snowy petals.
“You never told me what happened,” she said, voice wet.
“You never asked.”
I hated the cold on my burns for the absence of heat. Cold would kill me dead, and I wouldn’t even know. Couldn’t see straight when Sansa asked, “What happened, Sandor?” and I answered, “Gregor. I was seven years old. Stole his toy. It was the fireplace. He put me there.”
The girl wanted to cry about it, delicate little tears. I took up her sodden cheek. Thumbed the gunk from beneath her nose.
“Don’t make me beg, girl. I need this.”
“Why?”
It wasn’t obvious? She couldn’t feel my meat, fired up stiff, ground against her softest bits? She wouldn’t quit staring, either. Like she was looking death in the eye. But she was the eternal damnation, sixteen and gently dragging me down. I landed on my elbow, my hair fallen like night around us. Rain from the rusty gaps in the roof, or maybe sweat, trickled from the end of my nose to her quivering, gaping pout.
“I love you,” I said, and she swallowed. She traced gaps in my cheek to the singed corner of my mouth.
“You love me?”
I grunted, but with her fingertips lightly born on my lower lip, she urged, “Tell me.”
“It was right when you followed me—when I saw your pretty picture. Like an angel come to earth, all glowy and shit. All smiles and cute sundresses. Too good to be true—except you talked like an angel too. You made—you kept me company. I think I needed it.”
Her eyes scrunched, pushing two sparkly tears down reddened cheeks. They left mascara trails—my own doing. I had kept my other hand dormant beneath her skirt, but my fingers found their way to her furled petals. I stroked them lightly, from her maidenhair to the cleft of her asscheeks. “How about I can be your daddy? We can make a new promise, together. Won’t upset the Gods none. I’ll take good care of you. Won’t ever let you down.”
She clasped my neck when my index finger sunk into her hole. Made a little sniveling sound. “Easy, little bird. Relax.” She was dry until the second poke, when something warm and wet broke inside her. Dark streaks shone down to my knuckles, knuckles that read PURE.
My maiden wasn’t a liar.
But she wouldn’t be a maiden for long.
Used my bloody hand to undo my buckle, unzip my fly. My cock fell heavily against her cunt. She whimpered. I said, “Hold on,” and gave her my neck in full. She wrapped her arms around it, buried her wet face against my collar bone. “There’s a good girl. Remember what I told you? About being brave? Be brave for me again.”
I felt a timid nod, and thrust. Stranger knew there was nothing so sweet as virgin pussy, tight from nerves and inexperience, eager to strangle whatever invades it. Innocence tries to protect itself for no good reason. It makes the first kill that much sweeter. It makes blood drawn a victory. A victory that rang its way to my cock, crammed halfway into my baby girl, no room to budge.
“You’re so tight, sweetheart. I love your little pussy. Nothing has ever felt so good.”
It was true. I humped gently, relishing her flower’s chokehold. I only did a couple inches in and out, in and out, earning a whimper each time. When I forced myself deeper, I won a shaky, “Daddy.” Then I had nothing to prove. Nothing to do but chase my cock down the world’s most precious rabbit hole. A high that wouldn’t kill me, so long as the girl kept her legs open and the word daddy spilling from her lips like a sordid prayer to the Father, king of heaven. “Daddy’s here,” I reassured her. “Daddy loves you. You’re my little princess, forever. Nothing will ever change that.”
It soothed her like I hoped it would. She had gone kinda limp, no fight in her, languidly grasping my neck. I kissed her strawberry head. Listened for her next whimper so I knew she wasn’t out cold. “Do you want a baby?” I asked. “We could start a family together. I have a house out west.”
I pulled her braid to get her face up, but her eyes were fogged up good. “A baby?” she lazily parroted. “I’m too little. I haven't even graduated yet.”
I nutted like that, my sack smashed against her petals. Her brow rumpled, and she looked down where her skirt and my jeans mingled. Where my seed had been planted. Her little tummy convulsed. I thought at first she was gonna come on me, which would have been real sweet, but the convulsions worked their way up her throat. She clasped a hand to her mouth and puke burst through her fingers, choking her as it fell straight back into her nostrils.
“Fuck’s sake,” I grunted, pulling out, zipping up. I eased the girl onto her side so her puke fell straight into the quilt. I got her plaits out of the way, and petted them as the rest of her guts came up, mostly brownish bile with a couple leafy-looking globs. “Just let it out, little bird. You’re alright.”
Didn’t stop her from crying when she was done, her hands and face and neck down to her tits basted in vomit. I whipped off my shirt, spit on it, rubbed her clean. Had nothing to drink in the van except a case of lukewarm Rose, but I cracked one anyway, told her to swish it and spit it back in my shirt. She did.
I knew I’d done it then. That I hadn’t escaped the Gods, no matter how hard I tried. Because there sat the most fragile creature. She trembled, her skinny limbs bare and white as snow, her pretty face of makeup smeared to a sludge. Red curls split from her plaits like ember awry. I put my bird to the forge, and for what glory? The Stranger is no Father. Death is the only certainty.
I picked up her shirt, guided her arms through the puff sleeves, and laced her up. I took her extra pair of panties from my pocket and slid them up over her ass. “It hurts,” she told me, putting my hand over her flower. “Here. It really hurts.”
“I know. It’ll heal up. Give it a week.”
“My phone.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
It lay by her side, fallen from her pocket. I leaned over the center console and plugged it into the cable I kept up there. Shoved the keys into the ignition to get the heat going, but for good measure, I grabbed my leather jacket from behind the driver’s seat and wrapped the girl in it.
“Come on, I’ll get you to Randa’s.” I held her hand and cupped her ass as she climbed unsteadily into the passenger’s side. “You sit here while I get your backpack, understand?”
She nodded, half here and half gone, curled into a little ball with her knees to her chin.
The Crown had cleared out, save for the boys and the regulars at the bar. “Gotta take my bird home,” I called, on my way into the back. There were some whistles and maybe some heckling, nothing I could hear, owing to years on the front and a dip in the fireplace. I was wet from the rain and shirtless from helping the girl. Found a spare shirt in the back room, the one I kept in my case for post-show sweat. Resurfaced with the backpack, and grumbled, “Be back in twenty,” before anyone came for me.
Sansa had fallen asleep. I shook her, got her awake long enough for her to unlock her phone and open Randa’s messages, a one-sided stream of hey girl where r u? Idk when i should get worried. plssss reply. I typed on the way sorry my phone died on Sansa’s behalf and received an immediate omg thank god i was literally gonna call the cops. Like hell. I’d slob on the pistol I kept in the glove compartment before I’d get arrested.
Nah, we weren’t doing any cop shit. I was just driving my baby girl home. She’d had a long day. She doesn’t usually drink so much. It was her first metal show. She breathed sweetly at my side, filled the van like it was a candy shop, or a flower field in full sun, not drenched dark. I felt like I was laying in that field too, the way I used to before the accident, in nothing but shorts, unafraid of the sun blazing heavy over me. I didn’t know it was on fire back then. I didn’t know it could burn me, or how bad burns hurt. I let it swallow me whole. Like I was just as big and bright and powerful, like I belonged there, and had only been sent this far down temporarily.
The sundrop feeling.
When I looked at Sansa my eyes watered, because of how fiercely oncoming headlights lit up her hair. She stirred when I shuddered to a stop in front of her friend’s house. I took up her face.
“We’re here,” I said.
“Oh good,” she softly chirped. “I feel really weird.”
“You had a lot to drink.”
“I threw up.”
“It happens to everyone.”
“But you gave me those drinks.”
“You drank them.”
She chewed on that, really gored into me with those pretty eyes. I had enough. I popped open the glove compartment. My Blackfyre sat inside, fully loaded. Safety off. Her eyes went there.
“That’s right,” I said. I put my hand on her milky thigh, traced a crusty brown smear I’d left behind. “If you tell anyone about us, about tonight, I’ll put it to use. I know where you live. I know where you go to school. I know all your friends, your uncle, your cousin. One peep, and I’ll kill them all. Nothing I haven't done before. I’ll kill you last. Stick a bullet in that pretty skull. Watch your pretty brains explode. Do you hear me?”
She nodded slow, maybe sleepy, maybe understanding how bad I cared. She laid her hand on mine, pet the fuzz I had there. Traced the faded ink MUTT on my knuckles. Half Dornish, half Westerlandish. All Hound. Girl oughta know by now.
“So you’re my boyfriend?” she asked her lap, quiet.
My fingers tensed. “Yeah,” I got out. “Yeah, I’m your boyfriend.”
“Good.” She took advantage. Bent back my pinky, then my ring finger. “I think—I’ve thought about it a lot—I think if you leave me, I’ll tell my uncle. I’ll show him all our texts. I’ll tell him you raped me.” She looked up. She picked up my wrist two-handed, aimed my fingers beneath her chin. “I’ll call you on Facetime, so you can still watch.” She pressed down my thumb, bam. “I’d rather be dead than live without you. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Tears streamed from long lashes. I slid my hand up to cradle her jaw, pressed my thumb so gently between her lips. Used her spit and sorrow to smear the black crud from her cheeks.
“I won’t ever leave you, little bird.”
“Will you kiss other girls?”
“Never.”
“Because you love me the most?”
“Because I love you more than anything.”
Sansa wilted into me, her little face pressed into my pecs. Her arms wound around my middle. “I love you too. I love you so much. I was afraid you didn’t feel the same. I think this is the most anyone can ever be in love. It’s okay that we had sex. It’s okay because we’re in love. Because you're my new daddy. You can shoot people if I say it's okay. Just not my friends. Not Sweetrobin. You have to promise.”
I inhaled sunshine. Sweetly, I choked. A fine fate. A fate I'd known since swallowing smoke. That's what I exhaled:
“I promise you, Sansa. I'm your dog until I’m dead."
Because after all, the Maiden was just another face of the Stranger. But more lethal, for all her beauty. For casting sparks of heaven into hell’s darkest pits. I’d keep her light, or I’d end it.
We’d eat lead together.
