This story was originally written for the LJ community Game of Ships' Porn Battle II. The pairing is Sandor/Sansa, the prompts used are: cloak, monster, lady, not a hero. Title is from the lyrics to the song Ropes by In Flames.

Content Notices: underage, large age difference, smut, mentioned physical abuse

He finds her in his bed, huddled under his white cloak and he knows even before she raises her face to him that she has been beaten again and for a moment he hates himself even more than he already does for not being who she needs. He is not her hero and never will be, he will never slay the monsters that harm her daily. And yet she keeps coming to him, seeking his presence and what little comfort she derives from it. And he is no less a monster than the rest of them, only kinder and that's why he doesn't tell her to stop her nightly visits.

He unwraps her carefully, the white of the cloak only slightly paler than the naked skin it hides. He traces the map of brutality left on her skin, his touches as gentle as he can make them. He licks the blood from where her skin has been torn - a gauntlet, he guesses - and then he descends on her breasts, only licking because teeth would hurt her more still and he might be a monster but he is a kind one and won't add to her pain.

She gasps and sobs and wriggles around, still unused to the feelings his attentions wake up in her body but he holds her easily down with one hand while the other slips in between her legs. She has not been hurt like that yet, and he doesn't push far, moving his fingers along her opening without pressing inside and he finds that one place that makes her forget the rest of the world for a while.

He teases her mercilessly, wanting her to take as much pleasure from this as she can until she is coiled like a spring and he abandons her breasts to bury his head in between her wide spread thighs. Her muscles quiver under his touch and he laps at her thoroughly, like a dog he is, keeping his fingers rubbing at the top of her mound at the same time. When she releases, he pulls away and only observes her in the aftermath, finding it fascinating how he, with his scars and darkness, could bring this noble-born girl to this flushed and incoherent state.

She is a vision of perfection, her auburn hair is spread over the white of his cloak and so are the drops of blood that have dripped from her wound. She looks pure and good and far above anything he can have and he grows angry with her for being like this and he's angry with himself, too, for not being good enough for her.

She watches silently when he rips open his breeches and pulls out his cock, already hard. He strokes himself with quick, sure movements as he watches her in return. She is real, warm blood and flesh, not a fantasy conjured by his imagination and it's almost more than he can bear and he spills himself all over his hands like a green boy taking his pleasure for the first time.

She crawls to him after he cleans himself up and tuggs him down to lie with her and curls into him like a wolf cub seeking warmth and he pulls the cloak over her, thinking he would walk her to her room later on. But her warmth - which has nothing to do with her body and everything with her soul - seduces him into a deep sleep, a monster and a maiden lying together under the stained white of false ideals.

She is gone in the morning, leaving behind nothing but the memory of her taste and a bloody cloak.