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"The free folk would say you are kissed by fire," the queen says. Sansa's hair falls through her fingers more like water than flame, the candlelight catching off the ripples and making them shine a bright copper. "I had that from your brother, Lord Snow."
"Jon knows a little of the wildlings and their ways, your Grace. He…he spent some time among them," Sansa murmurs. Words have never felt so clumsy upon her tongue. A warm tingle glides out from the roots of her hair to the base of her neck, down her spine, settling in her belly. The queen's fingers work through a tangle and the tug on her scalp is sharp and sweet. Her hand slips down to cup her cheek, and her palm against Sansa's skin is so very warm.
"Sansa," Daenerys says, her voice soft like bells. "I would like to kiss you. But only if you wish me to."
Sansa cannot find the words to reply, can hardly move for fear of startling away that cherished warmth, so instead she slips her eyes closed. Waits and counts three fast heartbeats in her chest before Daenerys's lips are there upon her own, softer and sweeter and warmer than anything she's ever known. Her lips part with a sigh; she licks at Daenerys's lips and they part as well, giving Sansa's tongue entrance.
This, she thinks, this is being kissed by fire.