If they found him, his head would roll faster than Ned Stark's. He didn't relish this idea, but the disconnected thought of Joffrey's face if he found out did amuse him. He did find himself wishing that Cersei and Jaime Lannister had produced a more reasonable bastard for the seven kingdoms to have to contend with. There was another treasonous thought. They seemed to be all he could come up with of late.

These days that were briefly punctuated with bright light- with auburn hair and the bluest eyes. Small kindnesses on his part brought him more reward than he could ever imagine. The Stark girl saw him as a sort of anti-hero, one of her stupid fucking storybook knights gone astray. He was not these things that Sansa Stark imagined him to be. He was more rotten at his core than she would like to think. But he took her tentative trust and built on it. He diverted the King's attentions when he could.

"It's true, Your Grace. What a man sows on his nameday he reaps all year."

He tried to convey his goodwill when he draped his stained white cloak around her shoulders the day the King had stripped her in front of the court. He dabbed blood from her lip, found himself drunkenly spilling his darkest secrets to her as he led her back to her rooms one night at the King's bidding.

The death threats were the wine talking, but she seemed to take that in stride as well.

"You won't hurt me."

"No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you."

He wasn't sure when the line blurred. When offhandedly trying to protect the girl turned into hanging drunkenly around where he knew he would run into her. Where his threats and confessions turned into conversations, and when the first time he ended up in her chamber, sitting on her bed while she sat, terrified, against her pillows, and he had kissed her. He had felt that she was afraid then, but when he left her alone for a few days after that and she began to seek him out, he thought she didn't seem as afraid.

It happened again. He was in her bedchamber. He wasn't even that drunk this time. She let him kiss her. Let him caress the purple skin on her cheek where Ser Ilyn had delivered a blow the day previous. Sandor had not been present.

"If I could, I'd protect you all the time." He heard himself growl in the girls soft seashell ear. Her skin prickled with goosebumps.

"You cannot directly defy the King." She answered, trying to let him off the hook. She knew he could not protect her as he wanted to.

"If I could I would slice them all up for you, one by one, till there was no one left who would ever do you harm." The words were coming from his lips but they sounded and felt foreign. He had not been this intimate with a woman for years, talking like this, touching, excepting whores, but that was just fucking.

This was different. Every fiber of her being seemed to hum in his presence she was so alive and he could hear her pulse, feel the warmth coming off her skin. He tingled, too, and the urge to touch the little highborn girl sitting in the fourposter bed became unbearable.

He kissed her white throat. He let his tongue dance on her skin, sucked ever so gently. A mark would be a death sentence for them both. So would the loss of her maidenhead, he reminded himself, feeling the laces of his breeches tighten.

He pulled away to look at her eyes. He would not force himself upon this girl. He'd decided that a long time ago. Even if he had somehow managed to oddly seduce her. (He still wasn't sure what she felt or how he had managed this, but her pupils were blown and her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen.)

"Will you let me touch you, Little Bird?"

His blunt question made her whimper. She was trembling.

"You can't take... When I wed The King.. they'll know..." She stammered.

"Not your maidenhead, girl. I will leave you visibly untouched." He promised, stroking her cheeks and tracing his fingers to her collarbone. His hands looked huge on her, his skin dark and calloused next to her milky smoothness.

She was thinking over his offer. He was sure she didn't quite understand. She gave a breathless nod, and he kissed her mouth, tasting her lower lip and giving it a little nip. He knew she could feel the burnt side of his face, but she was not shying away.

Every whore he had fucked he took roughly, quickly, interested in his own release which seemed paramount after the rush and blood of battle. He could not take Sansa Stark in this way, he knew, and for some reason her astonished little mewls and whimpers and sighs gave him more perverse pleasure than ravaging any whore ever had.

He let his hands ghost over her shoulders, pulling her nightshift down over her perfect little breasts. He took one pink nipple in his mouth, let his fingers tease at the other until they were pert little points and Sansa was a quivering mess. He let her nipple fall from his lips and pushed her back by her shoulders to recline on her pillows. His armor was noisy, probably intimidating to her, and uncomfortable as he repositioned himself beside her, lifting her skirts up past her hips. He wore it from dawn until dusk, though, and it would seem out of place or him to be wandering the castle without it.

She stared at him, waiting for his next move, breath coming fast and shallow. Her skin felt like cream as he massaged her little white thighs, kissing them fervently and tracing his fingers ever so lightly over her smallclothes until he could feel a faint wetness there. Gently, he tugged the nightshift off her body. Then he pulled her smallclothes down, coaxing her to lift her hips for him to slide them off her. She was naked. He drank in the sight of her, thankful that he was sober in order to properly see and remember. Her small waist, her hipbones, her silky thighs and small, high breasts. The way her red hair splayed behind her on the white pillow, her face both anticipating and afraid. He kissed her thighs again, little chaste kisses more adoring than any he had ever given

He growled at her. "Don't be afraid, Little Bird. I've got you. I won't hurt you."

She whimpered and ground her hips into the coverlet. He liked that she was aroused. He felt his own arousal in his breeches but for the moment ignored it, knowing he would have to use his fist to come later, with the image of a naked Sansa Stark preserved behind his eyelids. He wished more than anything he could unlace himself, fuck her bloody. It took every ounce of self control to follow through with the plan.

"Relax." He muttered, trailing his kisses to the crop of silky curls between her thighs, positioning himself to drive her knees apart. She blushed furiously.

He heard her gasp, heard her fingers dig into the blankets at her side as he began to softly kiss her there, slowly licking the length of her wet slit. He spread her soft pink folds with his large calloused fingers, found her slick clit with his tongue and began to paw at it insistently, slowly at first and then harder, faster, responding to her breathing and the helpless little whimpers of pleasure she was making into the darkness.

He wanted to slide a finger into her, make her come hard around it, but he was afraid of tearing her maidenhead. He had heard highborn girls often lost them to horseback riding, but he'd rather not see if the maidenhead story would go over with Joffrey when it would cost them their actual heads.

Instead he kept using his mouth on her, toying and licking and holding her hips still when she began to squirm and buck. He laced his fingers and rested them over her taught little belly, anchoring her. He never tasted anything so sweet as Sansa Stark, he thought as he suckled her sensitive flesh. It was not long before she peaked, gasping and thrashing, her muscles contracting and spasming, and he wondered if she had ever come before, if she had done it to herself with her fingers. When she finished he kept this mouth on her, humming his satisfaction and licking her wetness up like honeywine.

"Do you feel better now, Little Bird?" He asked gently.

She looked drunk herself as she nodded incredulously, reclining back on her pillows with her eyelids drowsy, cheeks still flushed from pleasure. He pulled her covers about her, brushed her hair back with his hands.

"Sleep now, Little Bird." he murmured, kissing her bruised cheek and standing to blow out the candles that burned low by her bedside.

He turned to go and she called for him.

"Yes, girl?"

"Don't I need to... do something for you?"
He ground his teeth. His own arousal was nearing a painful intensity, and he intended to go care for himself, leaving Sansa Stark to be sleepy and comforted, which was the point of the entire thing.

"No, Little Bird. Sleep now." He answered, turning again to leave her chamber and seek his own release in his quarters.

When he came, it was with the sweet taste of her still in his mouth, and the image of her perfect face as she came, her parted lips and little gasps and the way her thighs shuddered around his ears. He was content with these memories, didn't want to sully them by seeking out a whore to spill into. He fell asleep thinking of her perfect skin, and the smell of her hair, and the adoring way she looked at him after he had given her pleasure, so unlike the looks of terror she had always given him before.