Living with your scent was something else. As soon as the first night, the air shifted. You had trailed a sweet perfume through the house, that honey scent; it turned me bear. I’d rip your scalp clean for that sugar if your hair didn’t burn so bright. It was pretty fire. It smelled like the maiden incarnate. It made me hard.

I followed my nose into your room, bare-assed, morning wood at full attention. Kinda jerked it in front of your sleepy face and put myself past your pillow lips. It woke you up, so I held your head down and nutted with a tide of whimpers and a bit of teeth on my cock. “Good girl,” I told you, pulling out and pressing your lips shut with my thumb. “You swallow my pups, understand?”

You did. I kissed the bandage on your forehead. You asked for the ladies’ room.

I tailed you inside because your little bird piss turns me on. You didn’t want to shit because your ass hurt. “Show me,” I said. You cowered on the toilet. I wrestled you over the lip of the tub, lifted your dress, and yeah, there was hairline tearing on your hole. Brown flakes of blood. Didn’t use enough tallow. Put some neosporin on it instead. Looked like I’d have to wait another while to get it in, damn me.

The whole process had your knees knocking and water going down your cheeks. I tried to dry them up with a square of toilet paper. They kept coming. “You want breakfast?” I asked.

“Yes, please. My tummy hurts.”

I put out a plate of twinkies for you and fixed myself five sausages. Brewed stovetop coffee, burnt to shit, best paired with a shot or two of moonshine. You looked at your plate and said your head hurt too. I was thinking it was the booze or maybe the pills, so I gave you a plain glass of water. You drank it all and asked for more.

“When you need to piss, you tell me,” I said after putting down your third glass. “Don’t want to have to mop this off the floor later.”

“I’m not a baby,” you moped. “Like I haven’t wet the bed in ten years. And I need bigger clothes. The sleeves are digging into my arms.”

Sure as shit, your little biceps boasted deep red rings right where the bands of the puff-sleeves sat. I thumbed the marks, thinking. “If we find you a bigger dress, would that cheer you up?”

“I think so,” you answered.

We tried on all the dresses in your closet, but my sweet girl had grown up. That took us to Ma’s wardrobe, but her dresses were too big in the waist and bust. I settled for putting you back into one of my flannels, with the sleeves rolled up. I had gotten hard watching your little fashion show, and pawed at my bulge some, but didn’t take it further—I remembered something.

Sure as shit, Ma’s sewing table was down in the living room. It was the kind that stowed away. I had put a doily and a vase on it but cleared it off to inspect the machine. It needed a little derusting and re-greasing, but she still had all her needles and thread, and a drawer full of pretty patterns. I could spruce the thing up no problem.

“You know how to sew?” I asked.

You shook your head. I plunked the yellowed manual on the table. “You’ll learn. Starting now.”

I shoved a chair under your ass and you fell into it. “Oh, um, okay, can I—can I have a dress?”

I brought down a whole armful. It ought to keep you busy. You read your little book while I fetched some tools from the shed and detailed the gear guts of the machine. I stooped over you to work. I kept thinking of how perfect things were like this. The sunshine filtered through lace curtains, kissing your dewy face and igniting your curls. Got in a lot of good sniffs. When the thing was cleaned up, you got the thread and needle adjusted proper. I plugged it in, and what do you know? Still functional.

“It works!” you cried. You smiled your first smile since coming home, but just as soon as you aimed it at me, it fell. My morning coffee ripped through my gut.

“Gotta shit,” I grunted. “You stay put, you hear?”

It burned liquid flame on the way out. I blamed the booze. Wolfed down half a loaf of bread in the kitchen to calm things down. Back in the living room, you had spread a pattern on the floor and hacked at a length of fabric with a pair of scissors. Good girl.

“You gonna try anything funny while I get some work done?”

“No, Ser. Um, Sandor. Sorry.”

I let it slide.

See, we were gonna run the farm together. I was through with work. Slaving away for piss wages while the bosses took home wads of cash. I was through dealing too, though that brought in the most money. No, with my little bird, I was gonna make an honest living. Wasn’t gonna grow a single poppy. Well, not in the fields. Maybe a few up front, for decoration. I’d let you figure out the flowers.

I needed to prep the fields.

I got cocky again though, reckless. Like leaving you untied in the trunk. I went back to the garage to see the state of Pa's old tractor. Had just torn off the tarpaulin and lifted the hood when I caught a flash of red through the dust and grease-streaked window. You had fluttered upstairs, you stupid, silly birdie. I hauled ass inside taking the steps five at a time. Found you rifling through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Piss luck—nothing but crumbling bandaids and antibacterial cream in there.

You froze deer-like as I drew close, nostrils flared.

"I—I—my head hurts," you sputtered. I tried to sniff out a lie. Yanked the box of bandaids outta your hand and crushed it underboot. You looked there. "And I—I have to go number two. I don't want it to hurt. Please don't hit me. I'm really sorry."

I wasn't expecting it but you reached out a little moonbloom of a hand and pressed it to my belly, fingers spread. You took a handful of my t-shirt. "I'm really embarrassed. Please, Sandor. I just—I just need a minute."

"Fine," I grunted. You stank and I was weak. Not so weak I didn't check the medicine cabinet and cupboard one last time, or keep my ear pressed to the door while sad little snakes sunk into the toilet. "You need the ointment?" I asked after you flushed. I had stuck it in my pocket, being the daddy and all.

"Yes," came the world's quietest peep.

There weren't tears this time. You spread your cheeks without prompting. But you did ask, "Why would you put your penis there? It's so nasty."

"Because it's tighter than your cute little cunt." Shoved my finger in there for emphasis. You winced. "And I was giving your cunt a rest besides. You should thank me, girl."

"I don't want to be raped at all," you pouted. "I hate it so much."

And I hated when you put it that way, because I wanted you to like it, like always. Didn't want the fight. I tugged your panties back over your hips and pulled the flannel down. "We'll talk about it later," I said. "For now, you're sticking with me."

That's how you got a tour of the rest of the place. The four-wheeler worked fine, just needed to be topped with gas. I had you straddle the seat behind me as I whipped around back through thigh-high yellow grass. I explained the rest of my plans to you as we drove. I'd grow fieldfuls of barley. Put up a greenhouse for hempweed. Thought I could get into hydroponics or some shit, that's what all the pros were doing. You asked what hydroponics were. I explained what I remembered about Timmet's operation in the Vale. He raked in the cash, never had pigs come snorting.

"Pigs?" you asked.

"Cops," I shouted back over my shoulder. "Fuck 'em."

We rode on the old deer trails into the woods. I told you how we'd go hunting. I'd catch a stag no problem, we'd be eating good for two moons. The best part about having you behind me was that I couldn't see any of your silly little faces or hear your sad noises. Nah, I just felt your cute arms wrapped tight around my gut, your cheek stuck to my spine. Maybe you were feeling as good as I was, ripping forty on rocky hairpins like a bat out of seventh hell. Wind cut my skin and fucked my hair, but it was air. Couldn't hurt me none. Smelled like death and life at the same time. You know, plants creeping up and plants sinking down. Real peaceful. I was almost laughing. Just this tickle in my throat, like moths going for the sun, carrying me with them.

I didn't intend to, but we landed at my favorite spot, round the back way to the overlook, what where you could see the river far below like a strip of silver ribbon.

"Woah," you said when I ground to a gravel-spitting stop.

"Used to come up here a lot," I said.

"It's pretty."

"Prettiest spot in all of Westeros."

"Well, you obviously haven't seen the Godswood at Winterfell."

I turned one-eighty to eyeball you. "Sure have. Don't give two shits about the gods, old or new."

You turned your button nose up at me. I pawed my hair back into place.

"Daddy kept the old gods," you huffed. "I believe in all of them. Besides, how can you look at something so pretty and not believe? It's not like men can make mountains!"

You gestured experastedly past the cliffside so I looked. It wasn't Gods, it just was. Science and shit. Millions of years of wind and water and fire. Millions more tons of rock shifted and oceans filled. If you sped it up, yeah, maybe, just maybe, it might look like something bigger did it. Invisible forces. Bigger things that crushed littler things. That was the way of it.

"It's really pretty," you said again. "Everything can be if you think about it."

I revved up and tore down the trail, not caring about the branches that whipped my arms and chest. That way they didn't get you. I was big enough. I helped you down when we pulled back into the garage. You had to stay put while I took a look at the tractor. Might be you were feeling more spritely the way you peeped at my toolboard, wrenches and screwdrivers and sockets. My hammer and handaxe, back saw and hacksaw. You climbed up into the tractor seat and observed me like a little queen on the throne, asking about this tool and that tool. You asked about my stores of gas in gallon drums and rusty tins of pesticides. The taxidermy lion’s head freaked you out when you pulled the tarp off it. One of Grandad’s scores, came with quite the story. “What story?” you asked. “Nothing,” I answered, tossing the tarp back on. I hated lions so I stashed it in the dark, where its golden mane would never mimic the sun again. I stopped you before you got handsy with the distillation equipment.

You frowned, looking tired, and asked for lunch instead.

I was made for this life. That's what I was thinking as I made us salami and mayo on whitebread. I even fished the half-drunk can of sweet tea outta the fridge for you. "Don't you have vegetables?" you asked.

"You'll have to grow them. You'll be in charge of the vegetable garden."

I polished off three sandwiches and chugged a Blue Rose tall boy. Smoked a red while you gnawed the crusts and sipped your tea. Got hard the way your lips did work on the metal rim.

"Stop playing with your lunch and help your daddy out."

The chairlegs screeched against the floorboards as I pushed back. I undid my zipper and grabbed my cock, so you knew what was what. I was ready for your frown.

"On your knees, now." You didn't budge. "It's this or your ass, and I don't feel like giving you a pill." Still nothing. I hated it, the way you made me understand why does went stiff. I ashed my cigarette on my mayo-slicked plate. "Look," I reasoned, beating myself slow. "You're a real pretty girl, you know that? It fucks with my head. That's why you're here, and not sucking your Uncle off. I've never felt like this for a girl. Like I'd do anything to have her. Worse, I know you're a good girl. I know you've got manners. Might be I could practice mine. I don't think either of us want you to get hurt. But if I don't get off the way I like, I won't be able to restrain myself. We're gonna have a little repeat of a couple nights ago. I think if you're a sweet little birdie, and do what I ask, I'll be nice right back. So I'm gonna say it one more time: get your pretty ass over here, and beat me off. Won't even use your mouth if you don't want. Don't even need you to stroke me hard. Just wanna feel your little hands on my cock. I think I'd like that a lot."

You prodded the soft heart of your sandwich with one little fingertip. "Uncle says I wasn't good at handjobs."

"Your uncle's full of shit. Now he's dead. I swear to all your Gods it'll be the best jerk of my life. How about you don't even touch it if you don't want? Just get between my legs. I'll get you an aspirin after. You can pick another movie. I'll make green beans for dinner."

That got your head up. "Really?"

"Yeah, I got some in the cellar. Got three bean salad too, if you like that."

"Mom used to make it."

"Mine too," I got out, teeth gritted. Didn't like thinking of her with my cock out. "Hurry up, little bird," I grunted. Then, even tighter, "Please. I need you."

Like a sentence to the stocks, you came over and knelt. Couldn't deny how good it felt to have your upright self mere inches from my meat. Didn't think you had ever kept your eyes open with him out. "He's so big," you said, which just about did me in. "No wonder I'm hurting."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You sighed. "I wish you were gentler."

"I can be gentle."

"I hope so. You promised."

I strangled the bottom of my shaft to keep my nut in. The rest of him turned purple. "Oh gosh," you puffed. "You're hurting yourself!"

You curled your icy fingers around mine and I let you pry them off. "That's better," you said. You trailed your fingertips up a vein and my cock jumped, big time. "Yikes. I hate boners. They're like ugly monsters."

"That's not very sweet of you." I put my hand at your collarbone, thumbed the hollow of your neck where your bruises spiderwebbed purple.

"You're not sweet either," you said.

"I'm gonna try."

Your hand wrapped below my tip, not all the way around, barely half, and cold as sin besides. Like you were a snow angel or something. An angel who gave me timid tugs and eyes blue as seventh heaven. "How long does it take you to come? It always took Uncle forever."

"You want me to come that bad?"

"I mean, yeah, I want this to be over. My headache is really hurting."

"Look at me when you say that." I forced up your chin with my thumb. "Tell me what you want."

"Medicine."

"Not that, tell me—" A six-feet-under groan cut me off. Your fist had locked around my tip. I was gonna die like this—cock so cold it burned, in the place where heaven met hell. You blinked the whole damn sky at me.

"You should come, Daddy."

My thumb slipped past your lips to your silken tongue. "Baby bird," I got out, spilling my miracles on your fingers.

"Yuck," you whined. You tried to shake it off but I caught your wrist.

"Easy, girl," I warned. "It won't do to make a mess."

I pulled my kerchief out of my back pocket. Wiped your fingers one by one.

"Better." I swiped spit across your cheek. "Let's get your medicine."

I really was a daddy. My bird needed an aspirin and a potty break. I checked your forehead bandage too—decided to pull it off and let it scab. You didn't like the look of it in the rotted mirror, all droopy-lipped and leaky-eyed. Hells, I didn't like it either. Not right to damage my own doll. Any cunt of the street knows they're best kept in mint condition. Not that I was gonna sell you. I wondered what the damage cost anyway.

I reached for the gummy gash but you flinched. Ran a hand through my hair instead. "Shouldn't have done that," I grumbled.

"You shouldn't have done any of this," you answered plainly.

"Careful, girl." I shifted to make the Brightroar against my hip more obvious. Didn't know what point I was proving. Maybe that dolls were born dead. That a little bit of chemical treatment and stuffing and I could keep you pliant forever. "I don't like you talking like that. You remember that lion's head?"

You nodded.

"I can do the same to you, sweetheart. Wouldn't regret it."

"Dead girls can't give blowjobs."

"Yeah, but they can't peep none either. Besides, you were begging pretty for a bullet back in the truck. I'll grant your wish, and I'll hump you bone-dry to bits for the next sixty years."

"They'll catch you before then. You're going to die in prison. Probably on the electric chair."

I stole your throat two-handed and stuck my nose to yours. I was bent half-over. Your toes dangled. "Little bird," I growled as you wheezed and reddened. "Don't talk like that. I told you I'm gonna do right by you. No more assfucking or pistol whips. Just be sweet to me, please." I spit the please into puckering fish lips, then helped myself to a wet kiss. "You want those damn vegetables or not?"

I relaxed my grip enough for you to get out a lame, "Yes, please."

We were gonna have a nice evening. I set myself up in the armchair with a fresh pack and a tall boy. Turned on an old favorite, Morton Pyle and the Sevenly Chalice. Just something to get shitfaced to. Maybe laugh some. You did some work on the floor in front of me, cutting something to a pattern, working with your little tongue jutting from your lips. I thought I might jack off but by then I'd had another beer. Enough daylight shot through the dusty window for you to get started on the machine. You hummed. I could barely hear it over the movie so I heaved up and twisted the volume knob down.

That was good. I cranked the lever on the side of the chair and dropped back. Stuck my hand under my belt to scratch at my half-chub and left it there. Wasn't working it none. I smoked with my eyes shut and listened. I recognized your tune: Florian and Jonquil. Kid shit. Stuff for little girlies with their heads lodged in fantasyland. But you were my girlie. Maybe a little lady. Yeah, you could be her; she bathed and you swam. It made me a knight. A fool, but a knight. Did you think of me like that? I sorta hated it. Yeah, I did some fool shit. A sloppy kill and obvious getaway. You were right that it wouldn't be long before the law came knocking. I was trying to remember how the story ended. I was thinking if they had pups or not. I was thinking of your little belly quickening and going ripe. All knights were fools. Butchers, too. I was thinking of butchering. I could cut down a thousand more men for you. I liked thinking like that. That you'd be here, a song on the wind, safe. And the bodies would pile up and wouldn't matter because you'd be swollen with my babe. I was chivalrous. I was doing something right, I—

"Fuck. "

My butt burnt a smoking hole in cheap floral polyblend. I doused it in flat beer.

Through acrid steam I realized you had gone.

I shot up to my feet, dizzy with drink. "Little bird?" Nothing. "Sansa?" Nothing.

I patted my back pocket for my burner, found it. Charged the Brightroar and listened.

Nothing but the wrong birds and a shit breeze.

Down the hall, the driveway cam sounded. Gave me the special alarm for one kinda car in particular: a pig mobile.