Work Text:
“Have you ever been kissed, ser?”
Sansa asks the question as she is finishing off a letter to Princess Arianne, outlining the details of Rickon’s upcoming fostering in Dorne. The wintry sun has only just finished its descent, and the light in her solar is now provided by the dancing fireplace and the gas lamps mounted on the walls. Complaints of cold nights are upon every lip in Winterfell, but Sansa prefers the keep in the dark, with winter’s fingers curling around it like a lover. Summer is long gone, and it had brought her no solace.
As she seals the scroll, she realises that Brienne has yet to answer her. She looks up, and the Lady Commander of the Queensguard is ever at her post at the window, but her cheeks have turned a ruddy shade of red.
Sansa smiles, apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning into the high-backed chair that had once been her father’s. “That was impertinent, I—”
Brienne hurries to interject. “No, Your Grace, you could never give offence.”
“A thought just occurred to me,” Sansa says, feeling as if she should explain herself. “Rickon will be leaving soon to spend his year in Sunspear, and I remembered something someone once said about Dornish girls, and how quickly they mature. Probably nonsense, but then my mind wandered a bit, and…” She trails off, waving a hand. “The question came to my lips without asking leave of my mind, forgive me.”
Her knight nods to show her understanding. She looks a bit less discomfited, but her face is still slightly red. It should be at odds with the noble figure she cuts in her splendid white armour, but Sansa has long learnt that the woman from Tarth, despite all she’s been through, is still an innocent in many ways.
They settle back into silence, easy and comfortable. Sansa pulls another piece of parchment to her, and begins another missive, this one destined for the Crownlands. Light shadows cavort along the walls, and in the distance, she can hear the night’s shift of the work crew in action, continuing the rebuilding of the Library Tower.
“I have.”
Brienne’s voice is soft, haltingly so. Sansa lifts her chin in surprise; she had thought the conversation to be over.
“I mean, I have been kissed, Your Grace.” A bit of the blush slinks back onto Brienne’s freckled face as she speaks.
Sansa lays her quill down on the desk with a whisper of sound. She wants to tell her knight that she does not need to say anything more, that she is sorry for ever having broached the topic, but she can sense that Brienne wants to get the words out. She wonders if she has opened up some proverbial floodgate.
“How did you find it, if I may ask?” Sansa poses the question with an encouraging smile.
Brienne seems to give real thought to her reply; it comes after a few moments of contemplation. The rising moon makes her armour seem as if made of silver, and then pearl.
“The first was upon my hand, and more than any young girl could hope for. The second was a proper kiss, I suppose you would call it. It was… pleasant,” she finally decides on, with a faint furrowing of her brow.
“Pleasant is nice.” Sansa makes her palm into a cradle for her chin, leaning forward. “Ballads have been sung for less.”
It is Brienne’s turn to smile; a shy, rueful little thing that jerks at Sansa’s heart.
“That story was not meant to be a song.”
Sansa nods, and watches as Brienne’s lovely blue gaze directs itself out the window. There is much that her lady knight has yet to tell her of the time she spent with her mother, the time before she rescued her from the Vale. Five years is a long time, but it is short enough to them, who have had to live lifetimes eclipsed into months. Sansa has her secrets as well. There will be time enough in the years ahead to discover all the wounds beneath their veils.
This peace was well-earned.
Somehow, Sansa does not want to stop talking yet. She leans away from her writing desk, abandoning her letter writing for now.
“I have had my fair share of kisses,” she confides, taking a sip from the mug of honeyed mead beside her. It has gone lukewarm by now, but still leaves a pleasant heat in her chest.
Brienne seems unsure of how to answer for a moment.
“Were they also…?” Her tone is cautious, as is her custom, not wanting to offend. Sansa considers.
“Pleasant? Well… Sandor Clegane kissed me once, in King’s Landing.” The memory is a hazy one. “Joffrey had his share when he wanted. My second husband kissed me before he died; my first never really had the chance. And there was Petyr, of course.”
Her knight’s fist creaks and clenches dangerously, just with the mention of the name. If Brienne could kill Petyr for her a half a hundred times more, she would, but the sweet, dizzying relief of the once had been enough for Sansa.
“They were experiences,” Sansa finishes, lifting her shoulder in a half a shrug. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Was there no one…” Brienne trails off again, awkwardly. Tonight seems to be one for unfinished sentences.
But Sansa does understand her, and the thought stirs up a cloud of memories. There had been someone from whom a kiss would have been welcome, a world away when Sansa was yet a little girl. We could be like sisters, had been her words, but it had not been sisterly feelings that stirred within Sansa’s breast.
Now, that girl is as lost to her as Sansa’s own bloodsister had been for so many years. Daenerys treats her as a ward but everyone knows her to be hostage, and the rest of her family has been torn apart like so many petals from a stem. Sansa hasn’t thought of Margaery in a while; it still stings to.
“There was, once,” she offers in reply to Brienne, and takes another fortifying swallow of her mead. “No longer.”
There comes the scuff of boot against stone; Brienne takes a step towards her, then pauses. Uncertainty lines her face like words in a hymnal.
“I apologise, my Queen, I should not have pried—”
“Sweet ser, it was I who forced us upon the topic,” Sansa reminds her. Brienne blushes; as always, it is a sight to see in someone as tall and strong as she is. She looks as if she is fumbling for words, in a way she never would for a sword.
“Nevertheless, I am sorry that your experiences have been so… lacking. Would that I could rectify that.”
Sansa smiles to show her gratitude, even as a sudden tingle runs hotly down her back. Brienne holds herself at attention, not aware of having said anything particularly significant.
Sansa does not look back upon the past with regret; she tries her best not to look back at all, lest she lose her way. It does not stop her from wondering what it might have been like, what it would be like: a kiss from someone she desires and trusts. Brienne is back to looking out of the window at the scene in the lit courtyard, so Sansa observes her now. A paragon of goodliness, warm, true, and the first constant thing in Sansa’s life since she had been delivered from her mountainous prison. Ideal in many ways.
Sansa pushes the girlish thoughts from her mind before they can go any further, and prove her to be more child than queen. She turns back to her letters as the night grows cooler, and resolves not to think on it further.
But her resolve is not as strong as she would like to think. For the next few hours, as she completes her correspondence, Sansa finds herself considering the supposed sanctity of first kisses, considering whether or not stains on the lips can be pressed away by another’s. It distracts her from her work; she makes so many mistakes on her letter to Arya and Jon that she finally has to start anew on another piece of parchment.
The object of her thoughts remains close at hand; they have made it custom for Brienne to be at her side when she does business in the solar, and Brienne takes her duty as seriously as the grave.
Moonlight is leaking in to paint the walls by the time she finishes. Sansa organises the letters before locking them in her strongbox; on the morrow, some will be sent to the maester’s turret to be delivered by raven, others must be entrusted to a messenger.
Brienne walks her to her chambers, as she does every night. It is another custom they share, the kind of familiarity that gives Sansa comfort. She looks in on Bran and Rickon and the Jeynes first, sharing a few words with her siblings and friends. Arya’s room stands empty; she will be at the Wall for yet another few weeks.
Afterwards, Brienne walks her to the rooms that once belonged to her mother, waits without as Sansa’s maids prepare her for bed, and then ducks in one last time to bid her goodnight. She does not stand guard tonight; that duty falls to Lyra Mormont, long-legged and solemn with her morningstar belted at her side, holding her post in the hallway.
“Sleep well, my Queen,” Brienne says as the chambermaids file out. Sansa is seated at the foot of the bed, a sleeping robe draped over her shoulders and the long nightgown beneath it.
“Tarry a while, ser,” Sansa says, and beckons her forward. She sees Brienne hesitate a bit before she shuts the door and walks fully into the room. The Lady Commander only wears her light armour, but even that provides some small amount of discomfort within these warm walls. Lady Catelyn’s rooms have always been the hottest part of the castle. It is where Sansa feels the most at home, but even in the thick of winter it can sometimes prove to be a touch too warm. The Starks are made for the cold, her father used to say, and perhaps some part of that is true.
She crosses to the windows briskly, and opens one of them. When she turns, Brienne is standing at the foot of the bed, looking alert, if a bit bemused. A thrill of nervousness shoots to Sansa’s stomach and nestles there, and she suddenly feels like a fool. What could she possibly hope to say to her?
“Was there… was there something that you wanted of me, Your Grace?”
“I…” She sits above the covers, an arm’s length away from Brienne. “It’s nothing. Forgive me, Brienne, I have delayed your rest for naught.”
Gentle blue eyes blink down at her for a moment, flickering briefly with the moon’s light.
“You have done nothing of the sort, my Queen.”
“You are kind. Good night, Brienne.”
She wants it to be a dismissal, but Sansa’s voice sounds inviting to her own ears. Brienne seems not to know what to make of it either. Usually, she is almost painfully prompt when it comes to carrying out orders. But she hesitates, passing one of her large hands through her hair.
Finally, she folds to one knee in front of Sansa. The position leaves them almost eye to eye.
“If you are sure there is nothing I can do for you, Your Grace. You have been… distracted all evening, I’ve noticed. Are you sure naught is amiss?”
Sansa has to smile. It is so like Brienne, to not miss even the littlest thing like that.
“Amiss is not the word I would use, no.”
“Then which ones might you use?” Brienne prompts. She rests her forearm on her bent knee, looking up at Sansa earnestly. Her freckled face is so young, so smooth and guileless. Sansa has seen her in the roar of battle, with men’s guts and blood spattered upon her, but even then, she would be of a sight and a form fit for tales. A truer, gentler knight there has never been.
Rather than answer her, Sansa takes an easier route. Heart beating recklessly, she makes sure to keep her movements unhurried, so that Brienne may stop her at any moment she wishes to. Using both hands to cup her knight’s face, Sansa draws her in closer, seeing Brienne’s eyes widening but never closing her own. The pattern of her freckles is blurring and Sansa slips into a sea of warm blue even before their lips touch.
The kiss is a chaste one. It starts with Sansa brushing their lips together, continues with Brienne’s warm breath and slight pucker, and ends when the knight pulls away. She does not go far; Sansa grips one of her gloved hands, and Brienne holds back, without ever tearing her eyes away from Sansa’s.
“My Queen…” she whispers with wonder, cheeks flushed with her surprise.
“I was thinking,” Sansa says, resisting the urge to touch her fingers to her lips, tracing the spot where Brienne had just been, “that maybe you could rectify it.”
Flabbergasted would be a kind word for it; Brienne’s mouth hangs open slightly.
“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Your Grace.”
Sansa squeezes her hand tighter, smiling. “You have just given me my first kiss in years. I think we can afford to be a bit more familiar.”
The statement throws Brienne; she blinks uncertainly for a moment before starting again.
“What… what does my lady mean?”
The honorific, while still formal, makes Sansa shiver; it takes her back to nights around a small campfire, huddled against Brienne’s big body to share her warmth. Brienne would drape her dusty cloak around them, and whisper the oath she’d taken under her breath, assure Sansa that she would get her to safety. She had, and from then on, has always kept her safe.
“I meant my experiences,” she says, pitching her voice to a whisper. “Our experiences. We could change them, together.”
Blood rises in Brienne’s cheeks, and she finally glances away.
“If… if you wanted to, of course,” Sansa adds, a little curl of mortification growing in her chest. It fades away at the look that Brienne pins her with, though; that is not quite the look of a wavering or coerced woman.
“Whatever I may want is neither here nor there, my lady. It would not… it wouldn’t be proper.”
Sansa leans closer with a rueful laugh.
“Look around you, Brienne. I am a woman occupying a seat that has always been dominated by men, surrounded by lady knights and former prisoners of war, ruling from a castle that is still half broken, in a land that is still learning how to heal. There is much and more about me that defies convention.”
There is a stillness in the air, as if stiffened by salt. Brienne’s thumb skips across her knuckles, counting four seconds of time. Perhaps she is thinking of her oaths.
“And is this another rule that you would like to bend?”
“I would not be the first.”
Brienne’s blue eyes are intense and deep, but her face is still flushed, and she looks quite the maiden. Sansa wants to kiss her again. She has to wonder how long she has wanted this without ever realising it; how long since Brienne first formed a picture in her mind that she cannot now erase.
“If you would truly like to…” The redness has yet to leave Brienne’s cheeks, but she is still balancing a look of nervousness and complete surety.
“I would.”
She tugs on Brienne’s hand, pulling her up to sit on the bed next to her. Their fingers are still linked together; Sansa looks down at how Brienne’s hand swallows her own. Her heartbeat kicks in her chest and pounds in her ears. Once again, she moves slowly, so that Brienne can push her away if she wants to, but the push never comes.
This kiss is more urgent, a little harder. She has to lean up, and press her hands against Brienne’s chest plate. Already, there is a palpable difference between this kiss and all the others she’s had in the past. Brienne doesn’t seek to take; she lets Sansa dictate the pace, and holds willingly still. For a long moment, she limits herself to the simple press of lips, for it is all she knows.
Then, she moves with instinct. Brienne’s lips part for breath, and Sansa kisses the lower lip and then the upper, taking them gently into her mouth. She sucks, and can taste the leftover honey on her own tongue, mingling with the flavour that she poaches from Brienne. She hears a sigh, feels the quiet expelling of breath.
Brienne’s eyes are closed, and she might be like a statue if not for the warmth of her body in the already warm room. Cool air wafts in through the open window, and Sansa is nudged closer to her. She winds an arm around Brienne’s neck, crushing her front against the firmness of Brienne’s chest plate. She feels an answering arm going round her waist, securing her and bringing her even nearer.
The kiss moves and breathes. This is far past known territory for Sansa, but she plunges on regardless, tentatively bringing her tongue into play. Just a few swipes at first, gently licking at the parting of Brienne’s lips, venturing just a shadow’s breadth inside. Brienne stiffens, and then presses against her all the more ardently, touching Sansa’s jaw with a tender gloved hand. Her first attempts at kissing back are soft and slow, no more experienced than Sansa, but passion and power lie beneath, emanating faintly from some untapped source.
Sansa breaks away to cup her cheeks again, to look up at the dear, broad face that she loves. Brienne’s pupils are blown, the black slowly encroaching into the blue, and she is smiling with a sort of nervous affection. She takes Sansa’s hand, and eases a kiss across her knuckles. Sansa sighs; it sends a tingle all the way to her stomach. More kisses come, travelling the length of her arm up to her neck and higher, until their lips are slotted together again.
Brienne goes slow, in the same way that Sansa did, giving her the chance to back away. She only presses forward. It seems right to open her mouth for Brienne’s tongue, and so she does, shuddering deeply when it licks shyly against her own. She clutches at Brienne’s upper arms, feeling her solid warmth and strength that anchors her down.
They learn each other, bit by bit. Oft-times Brienne is sweetly clumsy, giving her apologetic little kisses when she bumps their noses together a little too hard, or squeezes Sansa a bit too firmly. Mostly, she is full of gentle ardour that is all too easy to return, to learn as if it were a lesson upon a page. Sansa kisses her until her mouth feels bruised, swollen, and aches in the sweetest way.
She’s panting when they pull apart. One of her hands has somehow become tangled in Brienne’s hair; she extricates it carefully, trailing her fingers down her nape.
Brienne is truly beautiful, she thinks, looking up at her knight. She only wishes she had thought to kiss her sooner.
“My Queen,” Brienne starts, and Sansa presses her lips together to stop from smiling, and shakes her head wordlessly.
“My lady,” she tries again, and though it rolls off her tongue like an endearment, Sansa vetoes that as well, eyes shining. Brienne looks back at her with understanding. She bites on her bottom lip in a way that is so familiar to Sansa, it’s painful, but the hurt is a good, healing sort.
“Sansa,” Brienne says, and Sansa holds her by the hand, pressing a pleased kiss to her palm. The sound of her given name in that voice sends a happy thrill shooting up to her mind. “Was that… do you believe it worked?”
“I cannot think of half the people I might have been trying to forget,” she replies truthfully. Her heart is still imitating the boom of war drums behind her ribs. Any person who is not Brienne seems very inconsequential right now.
Brienne smiles, terribly sweet and playfully solemn.
“Think you that you might be able to forget the rest?”
“I do, ser.”
Sansa gives her another kiss across the palm, like a promise sealed with living, breathing wax. The newness of what’s sprung up between them gives her untold shivers, but somehow, she feels that she can place her confidence in it. This is just another custom in the making.
Her knight kisses her lips once more, and though it is just a chaste one, it is far more than pleasant. This could be one for the songs.