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A pair of blue eyes and a tongue as wet as the Narrow Sea are what killed me.
Arys met her a month ago at the nightclub we do security for off Steel Street, said he pulled her aside when she tried to get in with a fake ID.
“It’s my name day, ser,” is what she told him in that sweet, sing-song voice of hers, “my twenty-first.”
It was only her eighteenth.
He handed back her ID and let her in anyway; I know why. Because after last call she went home with him.
To me.
I wasn’t doing anything when I heard the door open that night: on my sixth beer, maybe my seventh, and watching highlights of a football game on a droning television, wishing that I was dead.
She walked in, as elegant as she was ruthless, and granted me that wish.
Her cheeks burned the finest scarlet when she saw me sitting there with my legs apart, slouched and shirtless, beer staining my drawers. She looked away, down at her feet, and I could feel my cock swelling with blood. A pretty little thing, pale and slender, with blue eyes that burned like the hottest part of a flame and auburn hair that fell in loose curls to her waist. And young, half my age—jailbait, maybe—if drunken eyes were any judge. Innocence seemed to exude from her the same way I knew my BO was exuding from me.
I dropped an empty bottle of beer on the floor to attract her attention. All she did was stiffen.
Arys came in behind her, dressed out of his uniform, and locked the door, introduced her to me and me to her. I thought she’d make a break for it, turn and run for her goddamn little life, but she set her fancy purse on the kitchen counter and slipped off even fancier heels. Wordless, Oakheart poured shots of Dornish whiskey, two for each of us. The girl took hers with no chaser, then looked directly into my face with infinitesimal, almost imperceivable hesitation, proving me wrong.
He led her to the couch.
It wasn’t the first time Arys brought home a girl for us to share. He has a thing for it—double-teaming pretty girls—has since we moved in together. But the girl clinging pitifully to my thighs as Arys takes her from behind is more than just pretty. She’s pretty and courteous, pretty and generous, pretty and eager to please. So eager to please that she sucked us both off the first night she came over. She’s the sort of pretty that angers you, the sort of pretty that you want to fuck real hard, real fast, real raw, in hopes that by the end of it she’ll resemble something real, something flawed, something broken, just like the rest of us.
She never does.
It’s been four weeks since that first night, and nothing has been the same since. I did die, but not in the way I expected. Only the part of me wanting to die died, and now I find myself living for a pair of blue eyes and a tongue as wet as the Narrow Sea that belong to an eighteen-year-old girl named Sansa Stark.
She comes over every Saturday, in those strange, ephemeral hours between midnight and dawn. Not long after she walks through the door, a medley plays. It’s a vicious blend of three bodies grinding together, of Oakheart moaning “Seven hells,” me grunting “Fuck,” and Sansa Stark crying out, enthusiastically, “Oh gods! Oh gods! Oh gods!”
Tonight she’s wearing a little white dress with lemons—tight on her tits, thin and short, so fucking feminine it enrages me.
Neither of us takes it off her. I yank down the front of it and watch her perky tits pop out, pull her onto my lap and suck on nipples pink as her pussy lips, while Arys sits beside us and sticks his hand between her thighs. Sansa rocks her hips forward and back—I can hear the squelch of his fingers as they move inside her—but it’s me she’s watching through heavy-lidded eyes, it’s me who feels the soft caress of her hands on my bare shoulders, on my chest.
Arys doesn’t notice these things, but I do. Like how when she works our cocks at the same time, it’s always mine she sucks first. Her moans are small with him—half-hearted, artificial moans—but when it’s me inside any of her holes, she’s singing, crying, and praying to the Faith. I notice everything. I see the way Sansa lets his cum drip out the corner of her mouth, but when mine hits her tongue she swallows. Swallows.
I notice it all. Most importantly, I notice how she wants me more than she wants him. But it’s not enough; I want her to only want me.
Another Saturday, three in the morning—a tempest is brewing. She’s sucking my balls and jerking me off when Arys sticks his cock in her. The soft vibrations of her moan massage my sack and move up, rattle my brain. I can feel it again, the searing rage, and run my thumb down her flushed cheek; she knows to look up at me when I do that.
“You like that, don’t you?” Sansa doesn’t say anything, but I can see it in her eyes, in the way her fine, sculpted brows knit together, so I tell her: “Keep sucking, little slut.”
Her pussy clenches when I call her that—I know it does. Arys’ sudden grunt is all the confirmation I need, that fucking motherfucker.
Oakheart pushes a lock of light-brown hair out of his face, continually thrusting. I find myself studying him as he grunts behind her, as equally bitter as I am obsessive. He’s smaller than me, shorter and leaner, but huge compared to her, and every muscle beneath his skin seems to undulate like waves in a surging sea as he moves. I’ve known him for years, almost twenty, and yet it’s only now that I notice he’s built like a warrior.
But not like me.
His handsome face perspires. I watch it crinkle with pleasure when her pussy squeezes him just right, when those little ridges stimulate his cock just as they do mine.
Arys leers at her ass as it jiggles, cursing; his jaw clenches tight.
I have an idea.
Sansa’s dry-heaving on my cock when I brush her cheek, stained with mascara. I die each time those blue, dewy eyes find me—they see me, every part of me. She’s the only one who ever has.
“Are you going to be a good little slut and let my friend come in your pussy?” I ask her.
I blink, and two pairs of eyes are staring at me with equal horror. There’s a sudden awkwardness between them, a sudden change in his movements. Arys pulls out, gets his cock sucked instead. Now it’s my turn—I’ve won.
“What the fuck was that about, Clegane?” Arys asks me as soon as Sansa leaves.
I squint at him, babysitting my first beer of the night. I only fuck Sansa stone-cold sober, but Arys doesn’t notice that either.
“The fuck was what about, Oakheart?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. “You saying that shit about me coming in her.”
“Just a little dirty talk,” I respond dismissively. “She likes it.”
“I don’t think she likes it at all. I think it makes her uncomfortable.” Arys dares to puff out his chest. “I think you make her uncomfortable.”
It takes all the self-restraint in the world to not bash in his pretty head on the granite countertop. I take a long swig of beer, then I laugh. “Her? Or you?”
I could taunt him more, I could taunt him worse, but if I push him too far I might never see the girl again. He could tell her not to come through, he could bring a new girl home—can’t do that. Among the many things Arys doesn’t know, I’ve decided I want to be monogamous. And someday, Sansa will too.
On this particular Saturday night, with Sansa perched nicely on my cock and leaning forward while Arys takes his turn plowing her ass, he blows his load on her back in less than a minute and then rolls over on the bed. Lights out. Must be that shot of gin I gave him fifteen minutes earlier.
Sansa’s lying on top of me, pussy pumping me greedily for cum with frequent little squeezes. Her braid drapes over her shoulder when she takes a quick glance over at Oakheart and then at me, mouth open, panting. A sheen of sweat beads on her forehead. “S-should we go to your room?” she says, as bashful as a maiden. “I don’t want to wake him.”
A courteous little slut, and all mine. If I were a praying man, I’d thank the gods.
My cock bobs up and down as I walk behind her down the narrow hallway. The cum on the small of her back glistens in the fluorescent light, drips down her reddened ass. All I’m having are intrusive thoughts. I consider going back into Oakheart’s room and cutting off his cock, but as soon as I walk through the door, she’s on her knees and sucking her residue off my shaft with such eagerness I have no choice but to yank her up by her braid and throw her onto my bed before I come in her mouth.
I beat her fucking walls loose, fuck her like she’s mine because here together inside my room at four in the morning it feels like she is. For once, I choose to believe a lie; it’s too goddamn sweet. The vicious medley becomes something more refined, something lyrical, a harmonic exchange of words.
“You pretty little slut,” I moan, my mouth an inch away from hers. “My slut.”
“Your slut,” she repeats, and for a moment, the shortest fucking moment, I think I’m going to tell her that I love her. “Oh gods, yes, come inside me,” Sansa mewls beneath me, her slender arms wrapped tightly around my neck. “Please, I want your cum!”
I knew it.
I pull out and thrust the head of my cock in her asshole, made ready for me by my doped up roommate, and give her it all, drill her ass full of cum until she’s writhing and coming and crying on top of my sheets. My tiny little pretty slut. My Sansa.
She falls asleep in my bed afterward, belonging there, and I doze off beside her while breathing in the scent of us—euphoric. When I wake with a start to an intruding ray of sunlight, red through my closed eyelids, I look over and find that she’s gone.
Two weeks go by and I don’t see her. I’m losing my goddamn mind, in the throes of a withdrawal so brutal I consider hitting up Bronn for some blow. I’ve already searched for her online—did that the first night I met her—but her social accounts are all set to private, giving me nothing, fucking nothing. I could make an account, I think, an anonymous account, request to follow her…
Hours later I head to Steel Street. Oakheart and I are working the same shift tonight. He hasn’t been around much—always out, always missing each other, always less miserable than me. He daps me up outside the club and I anticipate it, wait with false patience to hear about Sansa, about where she’s been, about when she’s coming over.
Then Arys tells me he’s getting serious about her.
They’ve been texting a lot, because he has her number and I don’t, because he asked for it and I didn’t, because if we’re not sucking or fucking then she’s cleaning herself up and getting dressed or falling asleep in my bed and evaporating the next morning with her ass full of my fucking cum.
“Sansa’s a sweet girl,” Arys explains to me, as if I can’t see that. “She’s been through a lot—lost her parents, her brother. Has an abusive ex. I feel bad about what we’ve…” He trails off, scratches his perfectly trimmed stubble.
Arys fucking Oakheart. We called him the White Knight back in high school—sixteen years ago now—because of his upright conscience. Whenever he does something wrong, he gets this look on his face, a contrite look, and rubs his jaw. Conscience be damned, it hardly ever stops him. At the end of the day, Oakheart will do what he wants to do.
And in this case—that’s Sansa.
I can barely hear the rowdy bass tumbling out of the club over the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears. If I look at Oakheart, I’ll kill him. I turn away and check out a young, curvy brunette flashing her ID to Balon Swann. Months ago I would have fucked her brains out right behind this club, but now I can only count the differences between her and Sansa; there are too many.
I can feel myself splitting in half. I wonder which part of me is dying now.
Has Oakheart been fucking her all this time?
Without me?
Behind my fucking back?
“The two of you are dating now, is that it?” I finally ask him, more murmur than rasp, only pretending to not give a shit.
“Yeah, she’s my girl.” Arys strokes his face again—strong, no scars—spies the brunette out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not going to be weird for you, is it? Seeing her come through?”
I laugh abruptly. “I don’t give a fuck. Is it going to be weird for you?”
Arys doesn’t respond.
I’m a living corpse. If I’m not working, I’m somewhere stumbling through the streets of the capital, cross-faded and useless. When I’m at work, if I decide to show up at all, I’m only stoned; I think about quitting. What’s the point of this—of working, of living—without her? What was the point of any of it before her? Has there ever been a point?
I don’t know anything anymore.
I avoid going home if I know he’s there—Arys Oakheart—fearing what I might do to him if I see them, hear them together. Sansa chose him, I need to accept that. He makes her happy…he must. But my rage has festered into something even uglier than me.
How the fuck could you have been so wrong? I interrogate myself, as I gaze lifelessly at a stripper dancing on a pole. Why the fuck does she want him? You fucked her better. So what if he’s good-looking? Your cock is bigger. I’m laughing to myself, drowning myself in liquor I can’t afford. Just before I blackout, I ask the topless dancer who is suddenly sitting on my lap: “Why can’t she just want me?”
Arys is gone, at work, and I’m emptying a brand new bottle of Qartheen gin when I hear the unmistakable sound of the door opening.
I hold my breath, listen. I know who it is at once—the atmosphere bends in the shape of her, sweetens with her presence. She flutters inside like some little bird.
The TV is off, the lights are off—it’s pitch dark. Sansa uses her phone to light her way around the corner and into Oakheart’s room. She doesn’t see me sitting here on the couch, slumped, naked, nut drying on my stomach after jacking off to a video of a redhead being DP’d by two big, hulking fuckers.
She’s tiptoeing out the room and towards the door when I clear my burning throat.
“Where are you flying off to, little bird?”
In the same instant, my hand finds the controller and I turn on the TV, mute it. The room blooms blue with flickering light. Everything is spinning. My stomach rolls.
Sansa gasps at the sound of my voice, at the blinking television, at the nickname I’ve just given her on some strange impulse. A drunk, troubled mind conjured that one up. I decide I like it. Little bird—it fits her. Better than “girl,” even better than “little slut.”
My little bird holds up a thin laptop. “I-I just came to get my…” Then she trails off, words escaping her when she sees the empty bottle of gin at my feet and my cock jutting up between my thighs—hard.
I know she drove here, the keys in her hand glint in the light coming from the muted screen, but I ask her anyway, noticing her eyes linger a second too long on my cock. And I hope…
“Need a ride?”
I’ve stolen her breath. “N-no, no, ser, I—”
“Ser?” I snort. “I’ve nutted in your asshole and you’re calling me ser?”
She clutches the laptop to her tits, furrows her brows. “You’re awful,” Sansa says decisively.
I can hardly breathe I’m laughing so hard. I’m awful! But when the door slams shut behind her, I vomit on the floor and cry.
Friday evening the door opens just before I head to work—to grab all my shit and quit. There’s a sweetness in the air, but the atmosphere doesn’t change like it’s supposed to; it’s not the little bird.
I almost can’t believe my eyes when Oakheart’s ex struts in, her thick black curls bouncing as she greets me with a hug and a simpering smile before walking into Arys’ room. Arianne has been fucking Darkstar for years. Last I heard the two were engaged, or close to it. I wonder if he knows…
Arys enters and closes the door, sheepishly.
I scrutinize him, my mouth twitching.
“One not enough, Oakheart?”
“Sansa’s out of town,” he tells me, scratching his chin. There it is again, on full display—his conscience. But it’s not enough to keep him from double dipping. Arys lowers his voice. “Keep this between us, alright?”
I’m sweating, feverish, sick as fucking dog; all I can think about is Sansa. To take her away from me, to have her to himself, to cheat on her. There’s another medley playing, one far more vicious than the other, a raucous blend of my blood boiling, Oakheart stroking his stubble, and Arianne Martell calling out from the other room: “Come on, babe!”
I give him a measured look, smile. “Keep what between us?”
Arys lets his breath go in a huge sigh, relieved.
I go to work.
I stay the entire shift, don’t quit.
Time passes…
A week later the cops come by to inform me that they’ve found Oakheart's body inside a dumpster in the heart of Flea Bottom, the poorest, most lawless slum in this shit city. Turns out he was mugged in an alleyway—face cut up, arms broken, cock nowhere to be found, ass torn and bleeding. There was bleach involved, no DNA evidence. Premeditated murder and rape. When questioned whether anyone had anything against him, I tell the fuzz: “He was sleeping with Gerold Dayne’s girl. Could be it was him.”
Another week goes by, and it’s my favorite day: Saturday. I’ve never been more grateful to be alive.
Sansa leans into me, presses her tear-stained cheek against the crisp black sleeve of my suit.
I stare at the casket before us—white and silver, as befits a White Knight—and listen to the tranquil medley of pattering rain and a murmuring septon.
A pair of blue eyes and a tongue as wet as the Narrow Sea are what killed Arys Oakheart too. Killed him dead. Killed him bloody.