I can't sleep when I get home, after I go to Uncle's study, hand over my dragons, and kiss him good night. After I put on my silky blue pajama set, brush my teeth, say my prayers. I make a little cove of my floral down comforter, blazed in blue light from my phone. 1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM go by while I scroll my FYP and Explore feed. At 3:28AM, vision blurry, I cave and open my messages.
👍
😇
😘
The kissy face was foreshadowing—I know about that from Lit class. Mr. Clegane kissed me, a lot. I kissed his boner, because he kinda forced me to, like with his nice words and firm hand, because he treated me like his little girl. I'm fourteen, like, I'm almost a grown up. I don't need to be babied. I mean, cool girls definitely give blowjobs.
Mr. Clegane thinks I’m cool, right?
He said he’d answer my messages.
I try and fail a gazillion times to think of something cool to say. Something smart and sexy so he knows I’m not a Seven-obsessed loser. But all I picture is his big hand wiping the come from my chin and pulling me into his stupidly huge chest. He turned me into a baby. Into a sinner. It’s his fault. My eyes are hot springs, my thumbs uncontrollable, when I click Mr. Clegane's contact and press the phone icon.
"Little bird," he gruffly but softly answers on the first ring. My response is a sharp gasp, the kind when you're trying to sob quietly because your uncle will kill you if he finds out what happened. The garble of TV in the background shuts off and Sandor speaks more urgently. "Sweet girl, shhh, come now. What's the matter?"
"I want a boyfriend," I blubber, hugging my knees tight to my chest.
"The little bird wants a boyfriend,” Mr. Clegane repeats. He sips a beer that fizzes in the receiver. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"You made me—made me—" Oh my gosh, I hate him! Isn't it obvious?
"I told you, little bird. You're not going to hell for sucking me off. You did a real sweet job of it, did I mention that? Best head of my shit life."
My frown wobbles—he’s doing it again. "Daddy," I whine.
"Baby girl," he growls, low.
"I can't date you."
"I know that. I'm ugly, not stupid."
"It's illegal. Like, it's a crime. You're like twice my age!"
"More than that."
"See!"
I'm not crying anymore, just exasperated, whisper-shouting as quiet as possible in my muggy makeshift hideaway. I reach an arm out and grab Lady, my stuffed white direwolf. I've had her since I was an actual baby, even though Uncle sent her out to get her fur professionally re-fluffed after I begged him for like three moons straight. Her coat is pure white and glossy again. I kiss it.
Mr. Clegane drinks his beer and I listen, otherwise it's just my butterfly breath.
"Are you going to rat me out, little bird? You tell me now, so I know whether or not to put a bullet in my skull."
"Sandor," I gasp. I know he's not lying, because he has a gun! "I would never—Nell—"
"She deserves a better dad than me. A dad who doesn't whack off thinking of a tiny teen whose tits have barely grown in."
"Hey," I pout. Masturbation is gross, for one thing. And the other—"Are they really that small?"
"Doesn't matter. They're perfect. I should have gotten that little dress off you when I had the chance. Should have got my mouth on them. Made my money worthwhile, fuck."
It's so naughty but he makes my heart flutter where his thumb was mere hours ago. I mash my palm between my legs and weakly get out, "Do you...do you...touch yourself...thinking of other girls?"
"Just you, sweet pea." He heaves it out like a sigh, like he knows he could get in trouble, but I would also get in trouble, big time. If people knew—I'd have to change schools! Move to another town! Dye my hair, maybe even change my name!
I'd rather die too, I think. That makes us even.
I sigh really hard. Really, really hard. A lighter clicks and a cigarette crackles. Sandor exhales.
"Is that what you want, then? You want a sour old dog to be your boyfriend?"
I nod first, still pouting, then whisper, "Yes, please."
"We have to be careful, Sansa. We’d have to take this shit to our grave. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good girl." He takes a big long puff. "My good little girlfriend."
I fall asleep smiling in Lady's fur. Now the blowjob is less scary. Blowjobs aren't scary if they mean something. If you give them to your boyfriend. I smile because I'm not single anymore. I smile because my boyfriend has a gun and would probably hurt anyone that tried to hurt me first.
I smile because I'm dating a big scary dog, and it's a secret.
Uncle is so wrong. My boobs aren't ugly.
They're perfect.
—
I spend the weekend pleased as punch, not even mad that my throat is still sore from Sandor's hard-on. The only problem is that he doesn't text me. Not a good morning or good night text, or a text to tell me how pretty and wonderful of a girlfriend I am. I open and close his stupid kissy face a million times. I think of messages I could send, like a simple hi or whatcha up to, but he's a dad, and I'm just a girl who has to spend Fathersday reading the assigned chapters of Lord of the Gnats. It sucks. I hate being careful.
By Maidensday I'm a wreck. I'm going to see him at Runestone! We won't be able to kiss or hug or really even talk and it seems like he's trying to break up with me already! I can't focus on anything Mr. Corbray says in fourth period history class. The taking of the Shields, blah, blah, blah. I sneak my phone under my desk and send Sandor:
😞
He replies with ?
do u hate me
No
im nervous
Don't be
daddy 🥺
Sansa, don't
don't what?
You’re in class
so?
He doesn't reply—rude. I should have never gotten an old man boyfriend. I ignore him until the bell rings, finally, then set out on my walk to pick up Sweetrobin. Only Sandor has other plans for me. He gives me the stalker treatment as soon as I slip into the alley between Egen and Dutton. I play chase a little bit because I’m still mad, only he yanks my shoulder back and nearly slams me, backpack first, against a towering stone wall. “Easy, girl,” he grumbles, stopping two feet away from me. He’s another dark wall, just muscular and manly.
Smelly like deodorant. I accidentally breathe through my nose.
“Hi,” I peep.
He checks me out, from my black Adidas to my high-waisted jean shorts and my cute cropped henley, the three top buttons unbuttoned as soon as I hopped out of Uncle's car that morning.
"You look pretty today." He has sticky cigarette breath.
"Thanks." I look down at my boobs, where he's stuck staring. "Do you like them?"
"You have no idea."
He tugs at the leg of his jeans, then fishes something out his pocket. He takes a step closer and holds it out in his palm: a cell phone, an old fashioned one that flips shut and probably doesn't have internet or apps.
"It's yours," Sandor says. "I got one too, put my number in there. It's safer this way. I only want you texting me on this phone, understand?" He pinches my chin and makes sure I'm making eye contact. I nod slowly, distracted by his big warm hand and scary soft eyes. "Good girl. No one can know about this phone. You don't text me during class, you don't text me when your friends are around. You keep this thing hidden. When you go to bed, take out the SIM card." He does a little demonstration, digging his nail into a slot in the side of the phone, so that a tiny microchip pops out. "This"—he holds it up to my face—"this stores all your data. It'll have all our messages on it. That's what will get us into trouble, little bird. That's what will make Nell an orphan."
I swallow down a lump, remembering how he said our grave over the phone, singular. Like he'd be dead, but I can't remember if he said he'd kill me too. If we'd be buried together.
I’m not going to take any chances. I cram the phone in my pocket.
“I don’t want to get into trouble,” I whisper. Sandor leans down and kisses my forehead. His dark hair tickles my cheeks.
“I know, sweet girl. Me either. I only want you.”
I have to pretend I don’t know him when I arrive at Runestone. He makes me run up ahead and sit down on my usual stone bench in the courtyard. My new phone burns in my back pocket. Be careful. I know what that means. That the government, or worse, my uncle, could find our messages and arrest Mr. Clegane. They wouldn’t understand us. They wouldn’t get that Sandor is a good daddy. If he doesn’t kill both of us he’d go on a registry. Either way he’d lose Nell.
I couldn’t do that to her.
The other moms figure out quickly that I babysat for him, because even though I’m not allowed to pay attention to Mr. Clegane, Nell comes bounding up to me in her little light up sneakers, stringing her big daddy along. She shows me her latest art project, macaroni glued into the shape of flowers on blue construction paper.
“Look at that,” I say, smiling. “You’re quite the artist, aren’t you?”
“Mhm. Wanna come over to my house and play?”
I glance up to Mr. Clegane. He pets Nell’s braids. “No, sweet girl. Not on a school night.”
I’m not so mad about that. He might make me do more sex stuff, and I’m not sure if I’m ready. Instead I walk Robin home and make him his after school snack of ham and cheese on white bread, crusts off, a tall glass of two percent milk on the side. When he’s safely stationed in front of the TV, I sneak up to the bedroom and pull out my secret cell phone. I get the sticky feeling I got when I was sitting next to Mr. Clegane on the couch, the feeling that turns my undies gooey even though it’s definitely a sin to touch yourself.
I don’t touch myself, I just jump into bed and squeeze my legs really tight together. I try to figure out the keypad—no letters, all numbers! Well, okay, the letters are all super small and crowded together. You have to press the button over and over to get the letter you actually want. Good thing I only need two to start. I peck out hi and press send before I turn craven.
You alone? Sandor replies less than a minute later.
ya
Uncle isn’t home?
not until 6
Good girl
:)
I’ll call you in a few
okay :)
<3
Seeing the heart makes my tummy all fluttery again. It’s very old school to text without emojis but also pretty romantic. I wonder if Mr. Clegane is in love with me already. It only makes sense, if I’m his baby girl. If he has a crush on me.
And finally, it’s what I hoped. Mr. Clegane, well, actually I really should call him Sandor, does call me! We talk while he makes Nell some mac and cheese and I flop around on my bed cuddling Lady and partially scrolling Insta. When he asks how school went, I explain about how boring Lord of the Gnats is. Sandor disagrees. He says I ought to turn off my damn phone and pay attention to what it’s truly about, the theme. He says reading an actual book would do me good. Like what the heck, does he think he’s my Lit teacher?
Then he starts talking about working on his motorcycle. “Tweaked the brakes a little, they’d gone soft on me. Need them responsive for trickier rides.” I ask if he went to work, and he laughs really raspy. “Sure, I worked a little,” he answers. “Freelance.”
Um, whatever that means.
When Uncle’s car pulls into the garage I have to hang up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, little bird,” Sandor says. “How about I pick you up?”
—
>Sandor texts me early the next morning: Meet me behind Waxley’s. Honestly, this is the best part about having a boyfriend, when he has a car and drives you around like a princess. I feel important all day, like I don’t even mind that fact that Maddy and Harry were making out against her locker in between first and second period. I eat lunch with Mya instead. She works at the stables where I take my horseback riding lessons. She’s not very popular, but admittedly, I love talking to her about my black sand steed, Nymeria. We both think I could win a blue ribbon at the next show tourney if I practice hard enough. She wants to talk about her crush, Mychel. I think it’s definitely not gonna happen unless she plucks her eyebrows and grows out her hair, so I offer for her to come over to my house for a makeover. Uncle never minds if girls visit.
It takes all my self control not to check my special phone again. My tummy buzzes so strong with nerves that I can't even finish my PB&J, I just eat a strawberry shortcake popsicle from the snack bar. By the time the bell rings, I practically leap out of my seat and sprint the three blocks to Waxley’s, a boring old drug store that no one my age would go to. Sandor’s truck spews black fumes in the tight service alley behind it. He reaches over the bench to crack open the passenger door for me.
As soon as I step up, he drags me into a wet kiss. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growls into my mouth. He drives on side streets to the quiet part of town by the railroad tracks, bordering on Redsmith. We pass a row of abandoned buildings, all boarded up with crumbly brick facades. Then Sandor steers the truck through another narrow lane, into a tiny parking lot, hemmed on all sides by a mossy stone fence. He shifts the truck into park and the engine goes from angry growling to total silence.
“Um,” I start. This definitely isn’t Runestone, but also of course he wouldn’t drive me straight there, no one can see me in his truck, and unfortunately there are forty minutes until the elementary school kids get dismissed! I clutch my backpack tighter on my lap, only Mr. Clegane pries my fingers off the straps and pushes it to the dirty floor mat.
“Gods, I’ve been waiting all weekend for this,” he rasps.
“What—what—” but he’s already doing it, feeling up my bare thigh, because naturally I wore my favorite sundress, puff-sleeved and patterned with tiny blue roses. He grabs my face and drops in for a makeout. I don’t understand his kisses, huge and wet, like he’s trying to eat me. Literally! He growls, “You taste like strawberries,” and suctions my entire cheek into his mouth. I whimper, so he switches to biting my lower lip, then sloppily sweeps his tongue around mine. His hand works further up my skirt until his fingers reach my undies. He rubs them and licks my teeth, my nose, my chin.
I should have known he was gonna finger me again and I don’t mind it. I’m so overwhelmed by his kisses that my pulse goes on autopilot, like I’m certain my flower is on fire, no matter how many gushy noises his fingers make, sliding in and out of me. “The little bird likes it,” he says, his half-burnt forehead pressed to mine. Like always, I’m lost in a curtain of his black hair, kept long to hide the ugly part of his face. But I’m watching his thick, veiny, hairy forearm pump as his hand moves inside me. Then I watch him reach behind my shoulders, pull my sleeve and my bra strap down. His big hand steals my bare boob. “Oh my gosh,” I puff.
“You like that, don’t you?” he breathes heavily. “I’ve wanted my hands on your little tits since I first saw you in the courtyard.”
That was three moons ago! He must really have been crushing hard. I don’t know what to do except moan while he crushes me some more, mashing my boob like he wants to pull it off and take it home as a souvenir.
When his thumb brushes my most tender spot below, I grab his forearm, two-handed.
“Oh, she wants Daddy to play with her little clit, doesn’t she?”
I whimper, he commands, “Say it.”
“I want it.”
“Want what?”
Oh gosh, he's the worst, but I weakly manage, “I want you to play with my clit, Daddy.”
He rewards me with a kiss on top of my head and gentle circles down there. It’s too much—the sharp stink of pine deodorant and manly armpit, the warm rain of cigarette breath, and my poor nipple, twisted in his forefinger and thumb. “Daddy,” I whine. “Daddy, please.”
“What is it, baby bird?”
“I’m—I’m—” coming, really hard. I trench my nails in his rock solid muscle as my insides go wild around his fingers, sucking them in and releasing, truly electrifying. I don’t know how much time passes before I uncurl my toes in my sandals, or start breathing regular instead of holding it. When I finally let go of Sandor’s forearm, it’s indented with a series of deep white half-moons. His fingers shine and drip with my mess. “Would you look at that,” he growls. I blush while he separates his fingers, watching strings form, then turn to globs. He sniffs them, licks them, then sucks them clean. He uses his same wet hand to undo his belt buckle.
“Come here, girl.”
I was too distracted to notice his boner, but I for sure notice now, as he tugs me forward, sticks my hand on the stiff swell in his jeans. “That’s right. Remember how we played last time?” I meekly nod. “Good girl. We're going to do it again.”
My hands are shaky on his button and zipper, and especially shaky when I reach into his boxers and pull out his massive hard-on. “Spit,” Sandor commands, so I spit. “That’s a good girl. Suck your daddy’s cock.” I start by licking, but no duh he needs more. As soon as my mouth is open all the way, Sandor takes a handful of my curls and shoves himself in. The angle is awkward because we’re in the truck, and I’m half-stooped over, head dangling from his strong grip. I don’t like it but he breathes hot lava breath and growls, “Oh, fuck. Suck that cock, sweetheart. Keep your tongue down. Take it all.”
All? That’s impossible! I’ve only managed halfway! But Mr. Clegane forces my head down so hard my gag reflex activates. “No,” I gargle on his spit-soaked cock, like there’s literally a puddle of drool on his boxers because my mouth is gaping open. “No,” I try again, but realize all he would hear is mmph, and it doesn't matter, there are worse issues, like how I gag each time his penis bumps against my throat and he's going really fast. My tummy churns like crazy. I feel the hotness of tears on my cheeks. I fight against his hand in my hair, claw lamely at his chest, his jeans.
“Look at those pretty tears,” Sandor groans. “Daddy put them there. Daddy's gonna fuck that pretty throat raw."
He's horrible and I can't breathe because snot clogs my nose, so I sputter and drool and pray I don't see my popsicle again, only I keep dropping closer to Sandor's tangly pubic hair. "That's it," he rasps. "Do you want to drink your daddy’s come?”
No! But when I open wider to get the word out, he goes too deep. The throw up simmering in my tummy shoots up as his come starts spurting. “Fuck,” Sandor growls. “Oh fuck, I'm coming.” His cock dances against my burning throat as my strawberry shortcake ice cream bar drops onto his lap in a creamy pink froth. “Shit, you’re puking. Goddammit. Fuck, that’s hot. Fuck me.” He lets go when my lunch is gone and his boner softens. I was already crying and blowing sticky bubbles through my nose but as soon as I get fresh air I start sobbing.
“You’re awful,” I blubber. I think I want to escape or die or both, so I just curl up under Sandor’s arm and weep into his polo.
“You’re alright,” he soothes. “I’ve seen way worse. You think I've never had a girl puke on my cock before?" He peels my face up to wipe me with a spit covered thumb. By the time my tears stop he’s all zipped up. His lap is clean but damp at the crotch, and there’s a grocery bag full of crumpled napkins between his boots. He rolls down the window and tosses it out.
“See, look at that. All better. You did great, sweet girl. No need for crocodile tears.”
Um, they're baby bird tears, obviously. “Water,” I pout. My mouth tastes terrible, like penis and bile, simply nightmarish. Sandor gropes behind the seat and fishes out a warm carton of apple juice. “Here,” he says. He rips the clear plastic from the straw with his teeth, then stabs the foil-covered square. “Drink up.”
I pout and sip and cuddle under his armpit. I’m glad my nose is still red-hot and stuffed with snot because I’m certain it smells nasty in here.
“I didn’t like that,” I mope.
Sandor swamps my cheek and pretty much half my face with his hand.
“I did.”
—
That’s what Sandor wants every afternoon, a makeout sesh and a blowjob. I turn him on, just by like, existing. That’s what he says, especially while I go down him. “Gods, little bird, you're perfect. You're daddy's little cocksucker, aren't you?" Yeah, it's naughty. Yeah, I still pray to the Maiden every night so she knows I'm faithful. I just like getting fingered and having orgasms and driving around with my sexy boyfriend instead of hanging out at Chella's with stupid Harry.
I'm over him. I'm even over Joffrey.
See, Sandor is actually good at being a boyfriend. He doesn't make me do deepthroat (choking blowjobs) every time. Sometimes he lets me do little bird blowjobs, where I kiss his hard-on and lick it cutely, like a baby animal. He still needs a handful of my hair, but he holds it loosely, lets me lap up his precome (the clear come before the actual come) and giggle when his cock bounces up against his belly. Unfortunately, good girls have to swallow no matter what. But if I keep my head down and drink Sandor's sperm, I get a treat. He must have remembered how much I liked the juicebox. Now he keeps a squishy zip up cooler bag behind the truck bench, stocked with ice cold cartons of strawberry milk. I sip them while we cuddle after sex.
That's my favorite part—talking.
I get to tell Sandor all about my day and yeah he interrupts like every ten seconds but he holds me close and listens, intermittently sniffing my hair and thumbing my nipple through my crop top. We get into another fight about Lord of the Gnats because I basically failed my pop quiz. He rifles through my backpack, scowling when sees the C+ peeking out from my English folder. It's not my fault! I was better at being a student when I didn't live with Uncle. When I lived with Mom and Dad. Now I sleep a lot and can't focus as much. Whatever.
Sandor pulls out the dumb book and starts reading. It's the part where Florian gets smashed by a boulder and the silly little shell breaks.
"It's a symbol, little bird,” Sandor tells me. “It's not just a shell."
"I know that," I huff.
"Then what does it represent?"
"Like, the rules. Symeon blows the horn to make them be good, obviously."
"That's right. And what about the beast?"
I sigh and try to goo-goo-eyes my way out of talking about schoolwork. "Little bird," Sandor presses, putting the book on the dash and staring me down. "Was the beast real?"
"Well, no," I start. "They were all afraid of it, but they never found it."
"Why not?"
"Because—because—"
"What was the scariest thing in the book?"
I look sheepishly up at Sandor—there's scary for you. "Um, the boys?"
"Smart bird. The beast is in all of them. It's human nature. Does that make sense?"
"I guess so," I say. "I still don't like the book. The boys are horrible."
Sandor smirks in his twitchy way, then puts a kiss on my forehead. "Damn straight," he rasps. "Teenage boys are violent idiots."
Thankfully we don't talk about homework every single time. We don't even do sex every time, not if I don't want to. I don't want to on a very sad day: Daddy's name day. I didn't even want to get out of bed, let alone go to school. Still, I think of how Daddy always liked to see me dressed up, especially for our trips to the Godswood. So I pick out my lacy white sundress and matching white sandals. I'm not allowed to wear makeup but I curl my hair, which takes a whole hour.
I don't eat at lunch even though they serve lemon cakes at the snack bar. I worry about the imminent blowjob, if Sandor will make me throw up again. He's very touchy on the ride to our sketchy parking lot. He gropes my thigh like I'm a cut of spring lamb.
"You're quiet," he says as he stops the truck and puts a few dog kisses on my frowning face. I don't mean for tears to fall, they just happen. "Hey," Sandor says, and he licks them up. My face crumples worse. "What's going on, sweet girl?"
"It's Daddy's name day," I wail.
Like a baby, I burst out crying. But Sandor doesn't tell me to toughen up or be quiet. "Oh, sweet little bird," is all he says. It shouldn't be possible for him to sound so rough and concerned at once so I only cry harder. He scoops me so I straddle him and he can give me a big hug—seriously, his meaty arms blanket all of my backside. He cradles my head in one huge palm and lets me use his puffy chest as a pillow and a tissue. I'm used to crying alone, late at night, when Uncle won't hear me. This is better, even though I'm so sad that Daddy is dead and I'll never see him again. I'll never be able to make his special red velvet cake with cream cheese icing. Crying on Sandor is better because he says, "I'm here, little bird. You let it out. I'm sure your daddy was a good man if he raised a precious thing like you. It's alright to miss him."
A good while passes that way, with Sandor petting my curls and shushing me, running his hands all over my back. When I get quiet, he asks, “What happened?”
“Blackwater,” I say, small.
Sandor grunts because everyone knows about it: terrorists ignited the green wildfire at the Red Keep during the important gala for important politicians like Daddy. He was a senator for the North. Now he’s dead. I should be too. I was supposed to be in the city that day, only Uncle Petyr surprised me with a trip to the Vale. He didn’t seem surprised that I ended up staying.
“My dad is dead too,” Sandor grumbles.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say into his pecs.
“Don’t be. He was a cunt. Used to touch us, all three of us. I wasn’t so sad when he didn’t come back from that hunting trip.”
Three? He must be talking about the girl from the picture. I lift off Sandor’s chest to actually look at him, but only get out, “T-touch?”
His lip twitches. “Fondle. Diddle. I think they call it molesting these days, but it was more than that. I’d jerk him off, suck him, take his fingers up my ass. Sick fuck. I could handle it. It sent Gregor over the edge. It was—it was—” Sandor swallows. His eyes are grey glass.
“Your little sister?”
“Elinor,” he says, and his eyes shut. I put a hand on his good cheek and thumb his tanned skin.
“Nell,” I whisper.
“Yeah, that’s who she’s named for. He raped her. She offed herself. Mom offed herself after.”
A tear slips from his lashes and runs along my fingers. My eyes burn too. “That’s awful,” I say. I take Sandor’s other cheek and kiss his rough lips as if it’ll raise the dead. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Sandor grunts. “I’m over it.”
He pries my hands off him then grabs my waist to plunk me back at his side. He turns the keys and the engine roars to life. “Don’t want to be late,” he grumbles, shouldering a droplet of moisture from his scruff. I feel sad for the entire drive, thinking of child predators. Thinking of the time that Uncle—well, I don’t like thinking about that. It was just one time. It’s fine. Mostly I’m sad for Sandor. Sad for when he was small and couldn’t defend himself. Like me.
I can’t kiss Sandor when he drops me off two blocks from Runestone. He gives my hand a big squeeze, where it rests on his jeans.
“Will you call me tonight?” I ask.
“Of course, little bird.”
“Can you call me late?”
Sandor makes a rough sigh. It’s risky being on the phone if Uncle’s in the house, I know that. But he thumbs my knuckles and answers, “Fine. I wanna hear your pretty voice. It helps me sleep better.”
—
We do a lot of talking, me and Sandor. I think this is how it’s supposed to be with boyfriends— you tell them everything. He wants to hear about the red velvet cakes I would bake, decorated with creamy roses and I love you Daddy in my prettiest script. He wants to hear about our horseback rides and our camping trips beyond the wall to see the Milkwater. He wants to hear about how Daddy read to me, sitting in his lap on snowy nights, really good books, books like The Halfling. “I miss the North,” I tell Sandor, because it’s true. I miss Dad and Mom and my pretty four story house in Winter Town. I miss Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon. I tell Sandor how Robb died in college, of alcohol poisoning at a frat party. My little siblings live with Uncle Edmure in Riverrun. I miss them too, but at least they're alive. I get to visit them on school breaks and stay for two whole weeks.
I wish we lived together, though. Never mind how hard I begged to stay with Uncle.
It’s okay if I met Sandor. He had a sad life too, and plenty of stories. Not just sad ones. On our secret late night calls, he tells me about the West, how he grew up in grandparent’s farm house where they raised cattle and farmed poppies. He and Elinor were best friends. They liked playing in the creek together, catching turtles and salamanders and snakes, dragonflies and caterpillars. They had a rope swing over the swimming hole, so they could swoop in and compete to make the biggest splash. But Sandor had to learn how to shoot guns and butcher cows. Elinor stayed with their mom, doing laundry, making dumplings and berry pie. Sandor liked his mom better, because she didn’t hit him. Didn’t touch him at all, only to hug him. His dad didn’t like that though, said hugs and kisses made little boys soft. He and his mom both got slapped if she coddled him after he cried.
Sandor tells these stories in pieces, while he smokes and drinks beer. It seems like he doesn’t have a lot of friends, the way he talks. It seems like his friends are ghosts. His mom, his sister, his wife. He had a boyfriend once named Beric. Beric died of overdosing. It’s all so sad. It makes me glad we have each other.
We have Nell, too.
I see her every day after school, but on Smithsday, I come over and play. I’m a little nervous because Sandor didn’t mention any plans, any blowjobs or fingering that he would want to do to me after he gets home. I worry worse that he won’t do anything at all, so I wear my cute denim miniskirt with a cropped tank top, shielded by a cardigan until I get safely to his house.
He holds Nell on his hip so he doesn’t kiss me. He hangs my cardigan up in the closet. I fidget with my Star of the Seven necklace. Sandor compliments it.
Me and Nell do the same thing as last time: dress up and a tea party. The weather is nice so we have our picnic in the backyard and leave peach juice in a saucer for the butterflies and hummingbirds. We put ribbons on Stranger, so he can be fancy too, as he bounds around chasing squirrels and his own silly tail.
“I used to ride him when I was baby,” Nell tells me, all business. “But I’m a big girl now.”
She picks out Frostfire for us to watch even though she spends most of the time playing doll games on her iPad, which okay, I get invested too, doll games are so high tech these days! Who doesn’t want to invent their own princess?
At bed time I read her a story. She wants to sleep in her daddy’s bed and I let her, because I like the way it smells in his room, like a secret. Nell falls asleep fast once I start singing.
Then I have the house to myself. I crack open a beer out of curiosity but it tastes nasty, like bread-flavored nail polish remover. I put it back in the fridge and grab an apple juice instead. I find loose pictures in a credenza drawer, cute ones of baby Nell and Amaya, older ones of baby Elinor. I wonder why they’re not framed, but then I think of the sad look on Sandor’s face, the one he gave me that day in the truck. It’s fine, he said, but I know what it’s like to be haunted. To be very, very tired.
When I’m done snooping, I watch TV and hang out on my phone. I text Sandor to see if he’s busy, just a simple hey :). Problem is, on our special phones he can be dirty. He doesn’t have emojis but he immediately replies I can’t wait to get my hands on your tits. I smile because it’s nice to know he still likes them. Then he sends, I’m hard already. Very naughty of him to have a boner at work! I reply, naughty! and ten minutes later I get, Just whacked off in the bathroom. Like oh my gosh! He loves masturbating! He does it over the phone with me almost daily!
Do not tell anyone, but he pairs that message with a picture of his hand on his huge red penis and come splattered on the stall wall. Secretly it turns me on, even though I reply, omg!!! gross!!!
That’s how he finds me when finally gets home, blushing on the couch with Frostfire running in the background, praying I’m not so wet it soaked through the cushions.
“Hi, sweet girl,” he greets. He stalks off to check on Nell. I hear him laugh when he goes back to the kitchen and opens up the fridge.
“The little bird didn't like her beer,” he muses, padding down to the den with probably my exact same can in his hand. I stick out my tongue, but remember to be polite when he settles heavily next to me and nods to his boots. Then I fall to my knees—good girls help their daddies unlace. We both notice the copper-star-sized spot on the dark green upholstery, right where I was sitting. Sandor puts his hand on it and grins. I blush and hurry with his boots and socks, eternally grateful when the first question he asks me is, “How did she do?”
We talk a bit and snuggle. Sandor finishes one beer and gets another, then goes surfing around on Netflix. “I think you like this one,” he says, pressing play on Bloodbond.
Look, I’m very fair-skinned. I blush a lot. It’s obvious. But never, ever, have I blushed so hard as when I realized Sandor had picked out the exact same episode I watched at his house the first time, the very sexy one. He starts it from the beginning, so I have to sit in morbid anticipation, while he holds me close with a muscular arm, his hand coincidentally lined up with my boob. Even though I’m wearing a padded bra my nipple pokes through my tank top. When I cross my legs extra tight to keep my juice from spilling out, Sandor crams his hand there instead, thumbs the baby hairs and gooseprickles on my upper thigh. He forces his way up to my undies as always, leaves the edge of his pinky right against my flower, throbbing through sticky cotton.
I want to melt into the couch and never return—no way he can’t feel how wet I am, except he’s not even looking at me! He’s watching Aemon and Naerys kiss, running a palm over the bulge in his jeans. It grows bigger when the Targaryean brother and sister get naked and touch each other’s privates. When Aemon kisses his way between Naerys’s legs, Sandor suddenly drops to his knees in front of me, grabs my hips from beneath my miniskirt.
“What do you think of this part?” he asks, glancing back to the eating out scene.
I shake my head. “I—um, I don’t—” but Sandor’s already sliding my panties to the floor, my nicest lacy pink ones. He shoves his hands under my butt and drags me to the edge of the cushions, with my legs over his broad shoulders and my gooey flower tilted up towards heaven. “Don’t lie to me, girl. I have the evidence right here.” He leans close, sniffs me so hard a rush of wind torments my clit.
“Daddy,” I whimper.
“I won’t make you beg, baby girl. I see how bad you have it.” He thumbs apart my petals, which make the most embarrassing gushy sounds. “How about Daddy cleans you up? Would you like that?”
“Yes, please,” I say, pouting.
Let’s just say I immediately understand oral sex. Imagine Sandor’s ravenous dog kisses, but down there. His whole huge mouth attaches itself to my flower and his tongue goes crazy, probing my center, lapping my petals, and oh my gosh, my bud. His tongue is as strong as his fingers, but wetter and warmer, and best of all is the fact that his mouth can latch on, like he totally starts sucking me. “So sweet,” he growls as he works. His voice is so low it reverberates up my spine. Quite frankly, he turns me into a wiggle worm. I grab his hair because it’s the easiest thing to steady myself, but otherwise I wriggle my hips, grinding up and down, not sure if I want to thrust myself into his mouth, or retreat, melt, sink into cushiony oblivion.
Sandor doesn’t waste a drop of me. I dig my heels into his hunky shoulders. I pull so hard on his hair I’m surprised it doesn’t rip out. “Oh my gosh, Daddy,” I whisper-moan. “Daddy please, oh, I’m gonna—I’m coming.” He growls bone-deep while I orgasm into his mouth, squeezing my buttcheeks extra fierce so I don’t simply fly through the ceiling.
When he lifts up, his square scruffy chin shines by the glow of TV, where Aemon and Naerys are curled up in lavish velvet bedding. He’s smirking again, like he always is, because he’s a big hungry dog and I’m just a tasty little snack to him.
"My turn," he says.
In one swift tug I'm flat down on the carpet that smells like mildew and dog pee. Sandor pries open my legs and puts his big body between them, pins my belly with one strong hand. I'm praying for a blowjob in an instant, that's what taking turns means, except he unbuckles, unzips, and takes out his—his thing. It's big already but he strokes it bigger while yanking down my tank top and bra and making my boobs pop out. "Look at you," he growls, and I can picture the steam leaving his messed up nose, like a dragon on the prowl. “Little teenybopper tits.” His squeezes hurt. His callouses rub my nipples stiff and raw. I decide to squirm away backwards, shoulders prickling, only he falls on top of me.
"Ah," I gasp. I latch onto his polo as the lights go out. He starts humping right away, like his boner dropped right onto my bare flower, still tender and dewy from his tongue. "There you are, pretty bird," he growls, wetly kissing my scrunched up face. "You'll look even prettier with Daddy's cock inside you."
"No," I puff out, clenching my knees around his hips. Not my dad. Not like this. But he humps again, one stroke, two, then the tips presses in. "Mr. Clegane, I—" I throw a fit like a baby, thrashing around, scratching his chest and neck, because he's trying to have real sex with me on the stinky ground and we've been dating for less than a moon! "Daddy, no!"
"Hush, girl."
Sandor clamps a hand over my mouth as he tries to find a way in. I'm too weak to escape so I bite down on his nasty fingers. "Fuck," he hisses, pulling away. As soon as I have air I suck in a huge sob.
"I hate you," I wail at the top of my lungs.
Upstairs, a door creaks open. "Daddy?"
"Fuck," Sandor curses again. He cruelly pinches my chin. "You shut the fuck the up, little bird, you hear me? Silent as the grave, now."
He thrusts himself to standing and tucks himself up in a flash. All I hear when he storms out of the den is, "I'm right here, sweet girl," then I'm alone, boobs and flower out, crying without making noise like I'm used to, like I'm right at home. I think I might die down on the floor with how hollow my tummy feels, bigger and emptier than ever, somehow heavy even though I skipped dinner by mistake.
But it smells awful down here.
Like a sad worm, I slink back up onto the couch. That's where I go away, curled in a ball, small as I can make myself.
I don't pay attention when I hear Sandor rustling in the kitchen, opening a cupboard, pouring something liquid. A glass slams to the countertops three times. The cushions sink when he sits on the other side of the couch. I'm never talking to him again. He swore at me. He tried to take my virginity. But he's still stronger. He curls a hand around my upper arm and drags me into him. I don't relax because I'm not a cuddlebug right now. I stiffly slump at his side, with my face pressed into his thigh.
He doesn't have a boner anymore. He runs a hand through my hair and breathes calmly but thoroughly. “You’re my girlfriend, little bird. Girlfriends and boyfriends fuck.”
It sounds like something Joff would say. I know it’s true because that’s why I got broken up with.
“I’m not ready,” I mumble, my same excuse as last time.
"Then when?"
Sandor picks up my face, thumbs snot from beneath my nose.
Never, I think.
"I want it to be special," I say aloud.
“She wants it to be special,” Sandor repeats. “You want a proper knight, is that it?”
“I want a date,” I pout. “And a bed.”
My face wobbles and we both know what will happen next, so Sandor scoops me all the way up, kisses the top of my head a bunch, rocks me. "We'll make it special, sweet girl. So special. I want to fuck you bad, but I can be chivalrous. I’ll treat you like a little lady."
I don't cry again; I just cling to his shirt. He smells like my real daddy. Like whiskey and love.
—
There are a lot of things to do besides actual sex, things are that sexy practice for sex. Sandor keeps his word about waiting—we practice instead. We make out in his truck after school. We make out on the couch when I babysit. He only goes as far as dry humping, though sometimes at the end he takes out his cock and jerks off on top of my panties. He keeps his clothes on but he likes to take my shirt off and play with my boobs. One time I let him put his boner between them and come there.
The important part is he stops when I tell him. Otherwise he would have taken my maidenhead a dozen times over. He wants to fuck me. I'm that pretty to him. That desirable.
We watch naughty videos in the truck as preparation. I would never watch porn, in case Uncle found out. I only ever read naughty stories on Whitparchment, very late at night. Then I delete my browser history. But since Sandor is grown up and very horny he can watch whatever he likes. He likes yellow-tinted old fashioned videos with mustached guys and hairy girls. Shaving down there is supposed to be more sexy according to Randa. I haven’t done it yet, so I ask Sandor if that’s what he wants.
“No,” he answers simply. “You keep your flower however you like.”
He shows me lots of positions, like missionary and doggy style, sixty-nine and reverse cowgirl. I find out that he likes doing stuff to butts (anal) because he shows me a video of man sticking his penis inside a woman’s booty. I cover my eyes because it looks like it hurts and there might be poop. Sandor laughs, and next time he fingers me, he teases me by pressing his thumb against the wrong hole! Like I am so not having sex there!
He likes videos of lots of people having sex at once. First he shows me a video of a girl and two guys, where the girl gives a blowjob and has sex at the same time. Then the guys make out and have anal while one of them does oral on the girl. I ask Sandor if he’s ever done stuff like this. He says, “Damn straight I have.”
Turns out Sandor has had a lot of sex, which makes sense. He’s old and he’s travelled the world to serve the realm. He likes girls and boys. He can’t even remember how many people he’s slept with. So he’s pretty much done everything in the porn movies! Everything except one thing, the grossest thing, a sex party (orgy) where everyone pees on each other (golden showers). It’s the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen, worse than anal and double penetration.
Thank goodness Sandor can’t pee on me in the truck! Like, yuck!
I don’t think he wants to anyway. He just wants to get me ready for sex, because he really, really wants to fuck me. He tells me all the time, over the phone, and especially in person after school. Half the time he strokes his boner while he drives to our special parking lot. He teases me while he fingers me, tells me he can feel my maidenhead. He tells me my maidenhead belongs to him and only him. That he's gonna take it. Soon enough it'll be his cock in there. It's wrong, but I'm curious too. I got my moon blood a year ago, which means my body is technically ready, and getting wet all the time has to be related. Sometimes when Sandor fingers me I picture his penis instead. One night in bed, I tried using a hairbrush handle to prepare myself, but it was stiff and cold. I couldn't come and furiously scrubbed it clean. I'd be mortified if Uncle found out.
Sandor laughs at me when I tell him about it. I ask him if his penis will hurt, or if it would make me feel even better. He says both. Not helpful. I ask if I’ll get pregnant, or worse, get a disease.
“I’m clean,” is what Sandor says to that. “And I’ll pull out. I’ve done it hundreds of times, and it’s only failed once."
That’s reassuring. If I made a baby, Uncle really would kill me.
But I’m Sandor’s girl now. My heart belongs to him. He’s the boy who treats me nicest. Like I’m actually worth something.
The happiest day ever is when I get an A+ on my Lord of the Gnats paper. My thesis was how violence was human nature, but only for boys, and Mrs. Melcolm wrote Very well done! at the top of it. I run to Waxley’s after school and practically leap into the truck.
“Look,” I beam, putting my paper in Sandor’s hands. He grins, then grabs my chin and sticks my mouth to his.
“I’m proud of you,” he sexily rasps. He looks at me with low-lidded eyes, famished. “How about I take you out to dinner this weekend?”
I gulp down air because I know what he means. “Yes, please,” I answer.
So it’s settled: we’ll go to Palisade Town on Smithsday. It’s an hour and a half away, no chance of seeing anyone we know. Nell will have a sleepover with her cousin.
When we come home, we’ll have the house to ourselves.
I have to pretend I’m just babysitting to Uncle, so I can’t get too dolled up. I wear my goldencup yellow gingham dress, empire waisted, with a bodice that’s just a big bow. It’s spaghetti strap and a little short (six inches above the knee) so I put a white cardigan over it, for now. I weave a crown of plaits and fix it with hairpins tipped with golden roses. I put on my glossiest mint-flavored lip balm and my one inch heel white sandals.
Sandor texts me on my real phone: Ready?
I kiss Uncle in his study, kiss Robin in the TV room, then flee.
Sandor stands tall against the passenger door. He’s dressed as usual: black polo, black jeans, black boots, freshly polished. His big muscles are scrumptious, swollen against cotton and denim. His hair is combed neatly over his scars.
He’s holding a bouquet of blue roses.
“For you, little bird,” he says. I blush hard, look up over my shoulder to Uncle’s study window, but take them anyway, and breathe them in deep. I’ve never gotten flowers from a boy before.
But Sandor is a knight.
“They’re lovely, thank you,” I courteously say.
Sandor’s lip twitches. He glances up to the window. “Let’s get going, sweet lady.”
Sandor helps me into the truck and roars down the driveway. I hold my flowers in my lap and he holds my thigh, like an entire thigh, in one of his gnarled hands. When we pull into the parking lot of Longthorpe’s Steakhouse, we have a little makeout, just a small one, in the yellow glow of street lamps above. Sandor gets in a few long kisses. He slurps my lip gloss off and gets rid of my cardigan. “Part of my meal,” he says. He holds my hand as we walk into the restaurant.
It’s the kind of place Daddy would have liked. He loved steak and potatoes and brown bread with butter. Not like Uncle, who eats salad and sushi all the time. No, in here, it’s like a hunting lodge, with iron chandeliers hanging from thick crisscrossing wooden beams, and taxidermy animal heads mounted on the wall. The host seats us at a plush leathery booth in the far corner, per Sandor’s request.
“A daddy daughter date?” she quips, one eyebrow raised.
“Aye,” Sandor gruffly answers, opening up the menu. “My little bird got an A+ on her Lit paper. I’m treating her.”
I blush and Sandor does all the ordering. He gets a double of Donniger 55 and a very dark beer for himself. I get a cherry coke, only when the drinks arrive, and the waiter leaves, Sandor dumps half his whiskey in my drink. “You’ll like it,” he says, pushing my sweaty glass back over the glossy wooden tabletop. It’s illegal, I want to say, but that would be dumb, because I’m sitting here with my thirty year old boyfriend.
“What if it tastes gross?” I ask instead.
Sandor smirks. “You won’t taste a thing.”
I hate how he’s right. The only difference is after each delicate sip from my straw my head gets floatier and floatier, like I’m a cloud, sodden and lighter than air. I giggle a bunch, and my cheeks glow red hot. Sandor and I talk about silly things—like the time Stranger stole five ribeyes off the grill (“I had dry-aged them for three fucking months.”) or the time that my family went camping and Theon convinced us wights were real.
“He dressed up in a sheet and snuck up on our tent!”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“Oh, it was. I nearly peed my pajamas! And Arya laughed at me!”
Sandor orders a medium rare porterhouse for us to share. It’s huge so he’s in charge of cutting it and feeding me little bites dipped in garlic herb butter. I nibble fresh rolls and creamed spinach. Sandor eats a pile of fries. He shares a few of them but only if I make puppy eyes and open wide. My belly is so full by the time the food is gone—Sandor makes sure we don’t leave a single morsel. I slump back on the puffy bench cushions and run my sandal against his calf. He reaches for my hand across the table and holds it for all the world to see.
I don’t even mind. I don’t even think his scars are ugly right now. I think he has a very manly face, so square, and sharp, and harsh. I think button noses are for babies. His nose is nice, especially the way it prods my clit when he goes down on me. Mostly I like his eyes. I like the way he looks at me, like he’s looking past my dress and skin and bones, down into my heart.
Like he’s really looking.
“Are you ready for dessert, sweet girl?”
I smile wide with no effort. Nothing has ever felt more right. “Yes, please.”
Sandor drives us to the main street, a cobbled stretch sandwiched between tightly packed old-timey shops and businesses. We get ice cream first, homemade, from Lipps Parlour. I choose a double scoop of lemon cookie in a waffle cone. Sandor gets a triple (seriously) of mocha chip. Then we go for a walk, holding hands and eating our treats, looking into storefronts at artisanal wooden knick-knacks and hand blown glass sculptures. I ask Sandor for a taste of his ice cream, dumb idea, because he mashes the sticky mess all over my mouth and chin. It’s an excuse for him to kiss me, right there, in the street.
When I finish my cone, he licks my fingers clean.
He buys me a book from a cramped and dusty bookshop: Dust. “A science fiction classic,” he says. “Everyone should read it.” It's funny that he likes books so much. He's kind of a nerd, but obviously he's a jock, like, look at him. I think that makes him cooler. I think I like reading too.
Sandor also gets me a necklace from a jewelry shop, a golden heart locket.
“We can put your picture in it tonight!” I say, smiling up at him.
His eyes are romance hero sparkly, but he replies, “Probably not the smartest idea.”
Right. I must be tipsy or something. But I don’t have anything else to put inside it. Maybe Nell, or her namesake, Elinor.
By the time we make it back to the truck, I’m kinda sleepy. Sandor chain smokes and I doze, tucked beneath his arm, hugging his belly.
When he pulls into the garage I wake up to a fluttery tummy.
Sandor fulfilled his promise. It’s my turn now.
—
He holds my hand and leads me inside. When he collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, he doesn’t say a thing, I just drop down and undo his boots automatically. “Good girl,” he says when I finish, but can’t find the courage to stand up, especially not when he takes my cheek and stuffs his thumb into my mouth. I don’t know what else to do but suck. He tastes like cigarettes.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I nod.
“I can tell,” he says. “You’re giving me big blue doe eyes.”
That makes me blink, and try to think of how to make my eyes be normal. Sandor stands and leaves me alone on my knees. “Let’s have a drink, then.” He grabs a beer for himself then pulls out a few liquor bottles. He comes back with a pint glass full of a milky caramel colored liquid. “A butterscotch Northman,” he says, tugging me to my feet, foisting the drink into my hand. It tastes the way it looks: butterscotch cream. I can’t believe there’s any alcohol in there.
“Wow,” I say.
“Pretty good, huh?” Sandor strokes my inevitable blush. “Let’s take it to the den.”
I know for certain we’re not going to do it down here, so I don’t mind sitting on the couch while Sandor puts music on, music for dads from a decade ago, something by Tom Sevenstreams that starts off, Hey little girl is your daddy home? We drink for a while and just talk about life, like we usually do. I feel like I can tell him anything when I'm nestled under his armpit, sheltered by his muscles, but tonight he wants to tell me why President Baratheon is a neoliberal hack. I'm more interested in how warm he is, like his body, but also his voice, the way the raspiness is really nice when he gets all heated about politics. He keeps his hand wrapped all the way around my bare thigh and thumbs the softest pudge by my panties. I'm wet. He has a boner already.
After he drains his beer, he drops down to kneel at my feet. He unbuckles my sandals and starts giving me a foot rub. It makes me giggle, because I’ve never gotten one. The last time someone tickled my feet it would have been Daddy like ages ago, when I was little. Now it’s my new daddy, and these aren’t technically tickles, not the way he’s touching me, breathing heavy. He mashes his knuckles against my arches and digs his thumbs in. He squeezes my toes one by one, then he gets weird.
He uses his mouth.
I mean, yes, I took a bath before our date, but he didn't show me any videos of boys sucking on girl’s toes! That’s what he does! He also licks my soles, and kisses down to my heel, up my ankle, then back to my toes. Weirdly, because Sandor is so weird, I feel that tingle of warmth in my flower. I don’t mean to, but I whimper all turned-on, which only makes Sandor kiss up my calves to my thighs. I press my hand to his head before he can sneak under my dress.
“Bed,” I say, breathless.
Sandor launches himself upright and nearly tosses the empty glass from my hand. “The little bird is ready for bed,” he says, hoisting me by my waist. I wrap my legs around his backside and my arms around his thick neck. His boner presses against my panties. I've actually noticed it three times tonight and it feels so nice, the way he throbs through coarse denim. I’m suddenly starving, like look, here’s this huge hunky man! I mimic his hungry hound kisses on his neck down into the crevice where his polo is unbuttoned to reveal slivers of hairy pec. His cleavage. I kiss up his scruffy jaw and hollowed out good cheek. I kiss his lips and his big nose. I put timid pecks on his scars. It would be rude to ignore them.
He drops me into bed. I didn’t realize we had been moving. At first I’m just laying there a little spinny on his man-smelling covers, expecting him to pounce, but he’s actually going around the room, lighting thick yellow candles that weren’t there before: three on his dresser, one on each of his nightstands. I sit up on the edge of the bed and watch him put his pistol in a drawer.
He notices me staring and smiles his naughty dog smile. My flower flutters when he slowly comes to stand in front of me, shielding me in shadow. "How about we let your hair down," he says, plucking a rose pin from my plaits. I give him a little nod; he picks all the flowers, lines them on the nightstand. He combs my curls loose with his thick fingers.
"You have the prettiest hair of any girl I've ever known. You’re the prettiest girl of all."
My heart melts, like literally I turn to a puddle of hot sugary goop on his bedding. "You're the nicest boy I've ever met," I reply, sweetness overflowing.
I wasn't expecting it but Sandor drops to his knees again. He gives me a hug, laying his head in my lap. I pet his hair, extra soft and fluffy tonight. "Like you're way cooler than the boys at school, and way hotter," I go on. I pick Sandor up by his jaw so I can admire him, touch that little patch of bone, a preview of how handsome his skeleton is. "Your face is so manly. It's sexy in a scary way. Or scary in a sexy way. Either way I like it." My eyes wander further down, where his polo gapes. "And your muscles," I say, transfixed. "Don't even get me started. That's my favorite part. They're huge! Like, your boobs are bigger than mine!"
"Do you want to see them?" Sandor asks.
"Yes, please."
Sandor whips off his shirt. I haven’t seen him topless before, so um, omg. He’s so meaty and messed up he looks like he belongs in a butcher shop. He has tattoos, three hounds over his heart, dog tags on his ribs, flowers sneaking up between. But he has bullet holes too, on his left shoulder, and a long healed-up gash just above his belt. No hair grows there but the rest of him is black and fuzzy. He looks very dangerous, like a killer. A killer who lets me run my fingers over his faded name, Sandor Clegane, to the puckered sucked-in scars, deadly. Sandor should have been dead by now. He told me that once, late over the phone: “The Stranger was keeping me for you. For Nell.”
“I’m glad you’re alive,” I say now.
It must have been an invitation for kisses. Sandor backs me on to the pillows, simultaneously kissing me, lifting my hem and unzipping me, easily slipping my dress past my toes. I wore my matching satin bra and panties, ice blue. “Pretty,” Sandor says. He rises up between my legs to unbuckle and shuck his jeans. His hard-on is even more obvious in his boxers, like it can stand up on its own and hover, but I only see it for a second before he swallows me up for a makeout.
I love this part. I’m used to it, Sandor humping my achy flower like his life depends on it, trapping me in a cage of bulging muscles. I latch onto his pecs and go along for the ride. It’s fun to paint swirls in his body hair while we both watch the way our privates look clothed and combined. Sandor distracts me with a tongue-kiss while he unhooks my bra from behind and frees my boobs. He slurps them and nibbles, growls, “I love your little tits so goddamn much.”
He only gets a few more thrusts in before he stiffens up and swears: ”Fuck’s sake.” He sticks a hand between us. “Look what you do to Daddy, sweetheart.” He rises up so I can see a big wet splotch in his boxers. I'm really good at making him orgasm. My clit jolts sympathetically.
Sandor must be a mind reader. He scoots back to stick his face by my soaking wet flower. He prods my center through my undies. We probably match. I've been turned on since we planned our date and tried to keep my dew in all night.
“Your poor thing,” he grunts. “Do you want your daddy to make it better?”
“Yes,” I puff. “I need your help, please."
He's such a good daddy. That's all I can think about when he puts two fingers inside me and licks my bud at the same time. He picks me up from school every day. He calls me, sometimes twice a day, and he texts me whenever I'm in private. He helped me get my A+! And this is my reward, getting treated like a princess, being a treat myself, like I'm for sure delicious, the way Sandor sucks and slobbers on me. It's okay to get eaten like this, inside and out. He can be my dad and my boyfriend. It's the perfect combination.
"Oh," I whimper. "Oh my gosh." I brace for just the best orgasm ever, holding two fistfuls of Sandor's dark hair. "Daddy, I'm so close, I'm going to—"
But he stops.
When he rises back up, his boxers are off. His boner is out, super engorged, bobbling at waist level. He plops it onto my raging flower and it's so heavy I swear my clit might explode.
"Daddy," I whisper, grabbing his forearms when he takes my hips, basting himself in my dew.
"What is it, little bird? I need you to use your words."
I didn't know what I was gonna say. I should have probably called out to the Maiden instead because I'm for sure not married and about to go all the way. I can't take my eyes off Sandor's glossed up cock. I size it up and I'm certain it could go through to my heart. It's wrong, I'm too small, too craven, too frigid. My lip wobbles as I think up a thousand excuses, but the only thing that comes out is, "D-do you love me?"
That's the most important part about having a daddy: being loved. Being loved unconditionally, having a strong man look at you like you're an angel fallen to earth, cup your cheek in a big hand, rough, but soft when it's on you.
"Oh, little bird," he growls, low. He swipes his thumb over my trembling pout. "I know I’m old as shit. I know run down dogs don’t end up with pretty birds like you. You're so sweet to me. No one else treats me like you do, like I might actually be worth a damn. I can't get you out of my head. It eats me up. It's love, Sansa. It's fucked. But I'm stupidly, hopelessly in love with you. You have my whole damn heart."
Sandor pushes into my mouth. I suck on his thumb because I'm daddy's little baby bird, the most special girl in the world. His other thumb strokes the jut of my bare hip. "I'm going to fuck you now, okay?" All I can give him is doe eyes as the tip of his cock sinks into my soaked flower. I bite down on him because it stretches me but aches in a good way, like something I was missing is returning. Even so, my insides want him out; I clench hard everywhere.
"Easy, sweet girl," Sandor says, stroking my belly. "I need you to relax. Take a nice deep breath."
I inhale through my nose, and when I exhale, I loosen up enough for him to shove in the next few inches. "There's a good girl, taking her daddy's cock." And I am, because he starts his strokes, half-in, then out, a nice little rhythm. Yes it hurts, but I realize he's putting his heart in me. Like this is the most you could ever love someone. "My baby girl feels so good," he grunts. "You have the tightest flower, shit—" he slips too far and I gasp, nails sinking into his tensed up arms. When I dare glance down, there's blood on his veiny shaft. "Look at that," he groans. His cock bounds up and down inside me. "Daddy took his little girl's maidenhead. It looks pretty on my cock, doesn't it?"
A tear slips down my cheek by accident. I think of the beast, of being gutted and going to hell. I wiggle backwards only to bump my head hard on the headboard. "Daddy," I whimper, knowing full well how messed up this is. "It’s t-too big."
Sandor refluffs the pillows behind me and arranges my curls at my side. "You're alright, sweet girl." He brushes my tears with his thumb then feeds them to me. "I know my cock is a lot for a little thing you. I won't take long. Be brave. I know you are."
He drops down so I can hold his neck, smell his skin, slick with sweat and familiar, but then I'm really having sex, because Sandor's pumps get stronger and force pathetic noises out of me. I don’t feel brave. He's really big inside of me and ultra hot. I wish Lady was here, soft in my arms. Without her I whimper, “Do I feel good?”
Sandor’s first response is a rumbling groan, paired with a lunge of his cock inside me. “So good, little bird. The best. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to be inside your pretty little cunt. It feels like heaven in here. A dream come true.” I love his words. I love his throbbing. I think my flower actually wants him here, even though my tummy feels like molten stew, like everything’s slipping out. But I want it that way. I feel very important. I’m helping Sandor now more than ever. He really needed this, because of how pretty I am.
I'm helping.
I try wiggling my hips and squeezing Sandor on purpose, but his cock goes even wilder. “Little bird,” he warns hotly in my ear.
“Did you—are you—”
“Not yet. But I can’t last much longer.”
He reaches between us to rub my achy clit. I almost forgot how close I was to coming before, but I remember now, as fireworks spark below. “Daddy,” I whine.
“Say it,” he rasps.
“I want to—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby girl. I want to come too. I want you to come on my cock, can you do that for me?”
I think so. I don’t think I can stop whatever my heart is doing, bouncing out of my skin, thrumming towards a single strong note. Sandor taught me how to feel this way. He was always my first. I need something to hold, so I find his cheeks. Rivulets run from his forehead down to his chin. I can feel how bad he’s shaking, how tense he holds himself. He only hit my owie part once, my cervix. Now he goes halfway in and out, nudging that spot—that special spot—oh—
“S-Sandor,” I moan.
“I need you to come, Sansa. Be a good girl and come on your daddy’s cock.”
I nod, too gushy for words. I’m half-melted into the sheets, head cradled so I don’t soften my skull any worse. I have a daddy again. I’m not alone. I know him by the ripples in his cheek, the cracks and the blisters, the harsh ridge of bone. I know him by the stare he's giving me right now, brow furrowed and eyes shining, intense as a dying star. He's desperate and in love. I’m a precious seashell, and he’s the beast who broke me gently, because I wanted him to.
“I love you,” I say, as the world goes angel white. My heart swallows his. They’re the same, pounding.
“Oh, fuck,” Sandor groans above me. His cock slips out; warmth spills onto my flower. “I love you too,” he rasps. “I love you so fucking much. Goddammit. I love you, Sansa.”
I dazedly open my eyes to see a pinkish puddle in my maidenhair. No babies, not yet.
Just blood and guts. I stare hard at the mess as Sandor gets out of bed and grabs a towel. I’m ruined now, forever. The evidence is the pink smudge on the towel when Sandor wipes his softened boner and his pile of come. The remnants crust in my maidenhair. My throat swells and my eyes sting. I sinned terribly and there’s no going back. It’s my fault.
“Come now,” Sandor says as he climbs into bed. “No need for tears.”
He bundles me in his strong arms, so I can make a pillow of his pecs and damp chest hair. I like him better shirtless. I sniffle into his dog tag tattoo.
“I’m ruined,” I whisper.
“You’re not ruined. Maidenhead doesn’t mean shit. You’re the same girl you were before.”
I pull away to pout up at Sandor. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t special?”
His lips twitch. “That’s not what I said. It’s special with you. I loved being your first. I never want anyone else to stick their cock inside you, understand?”
I nod. One cock was enough for me, and besides, being slutty is worse than being ruined. I burrow back into Sandor and breathe in his BO on purpose.
“Does that mean we’ll be together forever?”
“Yeah,” Sandor answers. He sweetly kisses the top of my head. “I think I’ll marry you, how about that?”
I smile hard against his skin. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good. You’ll make the prettiest little wife. And the sweetest mom for Nell.”
