Author's Notes: there's a lot of background stuff in the first half of this chapter, I'm sorry if it's not as fun to read as the "good stuff". BUT! Let me know what you think!

Thanks for all the reviews/faves/followers. :)

Vampires are not mythical creatures, they did exist and there is hard proof. There are even training schools for people who want to hunt vampires: members of the endangered species list though they are.

Sansa's previous home in Winterfell did have much to do with the undead, preserving the decaying bodies of the zombie nation just north of the border, but vampires were not one of their citizens. Vampires didn't like the cold much: made them turn to blood ice, too stiff to move. Little that Sansa ever paid attention, though, even if some of her family guarded the wall against an invasion.

Even after they had moved to King's Landing, where Vampires were more likely to appear, she had not paid too much attention. But ever since the incident with Joffrey, "vampire" was all she could see/hear/think for the next few weeks. She even looked on the computer for articles and reports of local vampire occurrences. She had plenty of time, what with her "post-traumatic stress disorder" discharging her from school.

Seemingly, King's Landing, most notably the "Flea Bottom" section, was cursed with a vampire; or blessed, depending on who you asked. According to Sansa's research, Joffrey had been one victim out of many such incidents: most "victims" had been charged with a previous crime, or in the middle of one; sometimes both. They ranged from misdemeanors to homicides. A startling percentage of them, spanning ten years of research, revealed that the vampire saved victims of attempted assault and/or rape.

She thought of the vampire, "Sandor" as he called himself, often. His coldness, his strength, his eyes, the way he talked of restraining himself, and the way he blended into the shadows... she very well could believe all the failed attempts at capturing him were not the police's fault, he was that good. He didn't even have to hurt them to get them off his tail. Though they doubled their efforts now to capture him, since Joffrey was the darling son of a prominent family, and she herself was no cheap prize either, Sandor had yet to be cornered, let alone caught a glimpse of.

The police questioned her; once they found out she was the saved victim after running tests on her blood found on his class ring. They called her father, and he was eager to assist the police, eager despite Joffrey's mother's words that Joffrey wouldn't even hurt a fly.

Sansa had to admit to it all, and it led to more tears then she wished, from herself and her mother. The shame she endured, self-brought and inflicted was hard to bear. But the punishments, they were less then she thought they would be, and the hugs and kisses of her parents, they were the strongest bandages upon her weary soul. Her sister promised to avenge her, despite the fact that Joffrey was no more, and her brothers, as always, made sure to assert their protectiveness.

But earlier, as she sat in the dingy police headquarters answering their inquiries, was when she recalled Sandor's looks and realized how much danger she had been in, without even knowing it. And she had heard some things she never knew before about vampires.

In answer to their questions, she described his eyes, his stature, his strength, and his burns. She blushed when they asked her if she was attracted to him, and though she said no, they told her not to be too ashamed. Vampires, after all, had the ability to attract prey, made them want to be near death. More than one vampire slayer fell to their charms...

She claimed she was more fearful than anything else, and they believed her. He was scarred after all: probably negated that special talent. Though one rookie cop, a woman, quipped that the vamp's muscles could probably do it for some; Sansa blushed even more.

A month after the incident, her research slowed to a halt, and she prepared to go back to school. Yet still she perused the articles in the newspaper. He was not captured; he was not cowed, and continued with his deeds. He killed a college professor this time, as he attempted to do perverted things to a young boy. There's disgust at the world over that, that a smart man with a respectable profession, could fall so far for such... depravity. Then there's a small smile on Sansa's face. Sandor: he was a monster, but only to other monsters.

Another month that goes by and she's almost back to her perky self. Almost. There was one other thing that clouded her happiness from that night: Joffrey. Nothing could erase the sight of seeing Joffrey die in front of her. True, she had conjured every mean thing he had ever done after he died to make herself feel better. But still, she witnessed his death; any death would have done the same. It chills her, and causes her nightmares, no matter how much he may or may not have deserved such.

At times, she remembers their nicer dates, his beauty and gentlemanly behavior, his attentions, his wildness, his promising future. It is those times she hopes Sandor is captured, and when she cries the bitterest.

And then one night, Sandor is there. One moment, she's staring into a photo of her and Joffrey; him with his possessive arm around her shoulder, her with a soothing hand on his chest. They laugh, her little sister photo bombs the picture, it covers his rude hand gesture, and Sansa keeps the photo anyway.

Another moment, a shadow falls on the photo frame, throwing Sansa out of her reverie and causing her to gasp. Sandor shoves her to the bed, one hand over her mouth, the other grasping her hip as he leans over her. "Don't scream." he rasps.

She nods, and he slowly releases her. But not before leering at her skimpy clothing, a camisole with short shorts. It is nearing summer after all, and Sansa is used to colder weather...

"Why are you here?" She blurts, stunned that the object of her daily musings has appeared, finally, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Couldn't get you out of my head." He replies, staring at her chest. Abruptly, he turns and looks around her room, stopping every now and then to look at her knickknacks, photos, even her bookshelf.

"I'm… in your head?" She asks.

"Yes. Gods be damned, you ingrained yourself; what with your sweet words, your sweet scent."

There's nothing she can say to that, so she doesn't. Instead, she curls into herself, hugging her legs close and wrapping a bed sheet around her. He finally looks at her again and nods, as if to approve her fear. "Yes, keep the vampire at bay at all costs. He'll hurt you otherwise." He sneers. "I won't hurt you, haven't I said?"

"I know... I mean, this isn't... I'm uncomfortable with you..."

Lifting an eyebrow, he doesn't help her situation at all.

Huffing, she exclaims, "You can't leer at a girl, tell her she 'smells sweet' and expect her to be OK with that!"

Barking a laugh, he nods. "Fair enough: it has been a while since I've talked to a girl, though."

A small smile breaks on Sansa's face, grasping for any normal thing to talk about. "Yeah? How long has it been?"

He thinks about it for a bit, reaching to touch one of her school projects, before he answers, "About a hundred years or so."

Her smile falters. "Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh.'"

She contemplates the years he has on her, on any living being, probably only younger than a turtle, unless he was older, and how ridiculous it is that such an old being would come into a high-schooler's room, a silly girl's room. There was not much they could talk about.

"Why me?" she finally asks.

He looks at her, then away, going to the window again and breathing in the night air from outside. She recalls how he had once breathed in a lungful of her scent. Before she can blush at the memory, he answers her, "That night. You thanked me. You wanted my name. You were so close to being ravaged you didn't even know it, and yet you thanked me for your life and you wanted my name." He grabs her windowsill, his knuckles going white, and he leans his chin to his chest. "I have been thanked. Rarely, but it's true. There have been other women, beautiful and sweet smelling, it's true. But no one, not one, has ever asked for my name."

He turns towards her again, and slowly stalks closer again. "I saved a boy recently. I didn't get the same satisfaction saving him as I did you. He looked at me in fear, and I had no chance to tell him I wouldn't hurt him, before he scampered away to hide from me. The police came, and the boy's first statement was to mention me, the monster." He reached Sansa's bed, and leaned down again, causing her to fall back, bed sheet opening up around her. As Sandor settled himself over and around her, he continued: "I have been asking myself for years why I do this. Save the worthless, the needy, and the fearful. They'll all die eventually: I am just a butcher after all, and you all are the meat."

As he continues his story, his eyes leave hers, following his hand as he traces her hair and caresses her cheek. "I had a brother once. He made me thus, and I swore never to be as monstrous as he. When the bastard finally died, the reasons to be partial with my meals became muddled and faint, more so as the years went by."

He grasps her neck, not helping her fears in the least, and looks towards Sansa again, eyes blazing in a fury that seemed... lost, as if he were not really there in the room with her. "Perhaps I should just give in to the vampire instincts. They can't catch me. They're all afraid of me. They'd best leave me, or I'd kill them. And you! You girl, had best stop being so..." And he leans down further, pinning her down with hands, chest, and pelvis, making his hardened member quite known to her.

"Perfect." He rasps.

She gasps. She doesn't know what to do with this information, with the fact that she's a temptation, or why he believes her perfect. She's just a teenager, trying to earn good grades and make her parents happy. Tears start to fall from her face, and then she's jolted even more when she feels sharp fangs scraping along her neck. Not enough to break the skin, but she shudders in fear.

And arousal: she knows not why, but his member and his teeth awake something within her she hadn't felt since Joffrey had kissed her: wanting. He feels deliciously hard, a promise of pleasure, even as the knowledge of possible death lingers near. She remembers it is a talent of vampires, to lure in their prey.

Surprisingly, she then feels, instinctively, that Sandor had the same ailment, an attraction that he did not want. It is not knowledge, but a tingling sensation: "You won't hurt me." She whispers. At once, Sandor stops his movements. She moves her previously immobile hands from her sides to his chest, and gently pushes at him.

He complies with her body language, just as easily as he could have ignored it, and moves away. "No, Little Bird." he states dejectedly, "I won't hurt you."

And he leaves her for the second time, still alive. Confused and scared, but alive: for a few months more, at least.