The Vision
Becoming is a bit clumsier than Sansa expected; one of her escort walks quicker than she can manage and she stubs her toe which she even feels through the heavy engineer boots. There's a disgruntled hmph and mumbled apology. The quick hint of pain in her toe is a reasonable distraction from the thrumming of her heart.
Sansa can't decide if she's ill or excited, but she wants to find out for sure. She can't see but she can catch scents on the air; a dark sweaty muskiness, the lemony scent of oil soap (there must be a lot of woodwork and Sansa finds that her stomach growls at the scent, treacherously thinking of cake and reminded it's been a long time since she's eaten) and entwined about it all, leather and an icy sliver of chrome.
This is a very different place than with her lions and Sansa's suddenly very aware of herself, how different she feels, even as her escorts steady her. She thinks of her Ser and puffs out her chest with pride, thrusting herself forward and not caring about the harness.
She hears a soft chuckle. “You can tell she's Jaime's; had to get that cockiness from somewhere, hmm?” Sansa responds by lifting her chin, keeping her head high and there's a friendly squeeze on her shoulder. “You'll be all right, sweetling. Other bois have come through and they've been just fine.”
A hot whisper on her ear, scratch of stubble. “Well—needed a cushion for a few days.” She quivers with fear and excitement as there's a stop, then a gentle tap on the back of her knees. Sansa kneels, her head spinning, knowing this must mean that her Ser is nearby. She straightens her spine to keep her chest thrust forward, perfect, elegant and lovely; a little too aware that she doesn’t have a skirt to flow around her knees and Sansa's only a little self-conscious as she rests her hands on her thighs, palm up just as her Ser has taught her.
A voice; warm, sultry with a hint of a smile. Like caramel. Sansa thinks and then of course she's hungry again which makes her blush even as she's trying not to squirm from excitement.
“This is the boi who would join our august company?”
Sansa nods.
“Speak.”
“Yes, Ser. I do.” Her voice sounds loud in the room even though she's speaking low and firm to cover up a tremble in her voice. She hears a shuffle of boots and the creak of well-worn leather (and is suddenly worried about how new her ensemble is. Can she earn them? Sansa briefly wishes she were back at the Fairmont with Ser and Lady, laced into one of her deliciously familiar corsets and balancing on dainty heels instead of heavy black boots.)
“Good.” The voice soothes Sansa's nerves, warm and gentle, with a hint of amusement.
“Guards, do your duty.”
“Strip.” Sansa hears hissing in her ear and her hands tremble as she tries to reach the buckles on her harness, unzip her shorts. There's a hand on each elbow, helping her balance and one of her guards holds her harness still so she can unbuckle, though it's hard to manage from the shaking of her fingers. Soon she's naked as her nameday, gooseflesh rising on her lower back and inner thighs, where there's suddenly nothing to protect them anymore. Somehow she's folded them without her blindfold coming off, lifts her head as if she's looking for approval though she can't meet anyone's eyes yet.
There's a hush of solemnity with sweetness; Sansa feels her skin prickle with the cold, her nipples harden. (Her body feels alien right now, nothing anymore to mark her as a girl, no lashes or lipstick or wisps of lace that make her look like spun sugar, it's just her and her skin. Sansa also knows she doesn't look like a boy and maybe that's a problem, but that will make things worse and so she bites her lip and waits, patient, hands and feet posed elegantly, yet firmly so she's balanced. Ser Jaime taught her that, that she needs to be solid on her feet before anything else.
She hears three claps, ringing through the air.
And in rich, smoky caramel tones that make her quiver, Sansa hears
“Let there be light.”
Someone slices her arm ties, the blindfold's gone and Sansa has to remember how to open her eyes, a sliver at a time.
Then suddenly light so brilliant even though as her eyes adjust it's low; candles and lanterns and tiny white lights. As her vision swims, she sees them all; what seems like an army in perfect black leathers, chaps
harnesses and high boots, jodhpurs and patches all shined like dragonglass. The Sworn Brothers—and at the centre, in an armchair bright as fresh cream, a vivid brushstroke of white, luminous as moonlight on snow and at the centre, twin glints of amethyst.
Ser Arthur Dayne regards her, trying not to smile and keep his face stern. His snowy leather trousers gleam, an ivory pearlescent leather jacket as pale as his long hair thrown on casually over his bare chest, platinum rings shimmering on his long pale fingers, his boots bone- white against Satin's back. (Satin does make a charming footrest, though Ser Arthur reminds himself that he really should have been more specific with Satin about one's best; however, given the state of his ebony with rainbow sparkles jock Satin doesn't mind his position at all. Ser Arthur digs in his heel just a bit for the sharp, lovely intake of Satin's breath, the delicate squeak of the top of Satin's black oilslick latex stockings as they rub against each other. Besides, putting Satin on the floor just means the sweet hustler flashes the red bottoms of his high-heeled boots. Ser Arthur knows that's a courtesy.)
Ser Arthur slowly adjusts his legs to add a bit more pressure to Satin's back and brings what he's been holding forward; it's a whip thin, beautiful cane bright as the inside of a star, almost opalescent in its whiteness, holding all the colours of the world and of course it's drawn blood. Ser Arthur Dayne's fingers curl around the silver repousse Art Nouveau handle and as always, it feels like an extension of his arm, warm and living.
Sansa's head is still dipped down politely. (Inside her heart hammers that it's him it's him, the Sword of the Morning and she feels something unknot within her, as comforting as when her Ser unknots her hair. She will face whatever ordeal this may be. With grace.
One of her guards lifts up her chin. It's vivid and beautiful and she almost doesn't want anyone to move. She catches a wink of emerald and a grin and Ser Jaime tilts his head back into position till the Lord of Starfall is ready.
Ser Arthur will deal with Jamie in due time. In the meantime, one of his court helps him to his feet (with a sigh of disappointment from the ever-dramatic Satin, though if Ser Arthur didn't enjoy it, Satin would be down at the Golden Company—and Ser Arthur couldn't abide seeing Satin in gold leathers anyway. Not when pearl makes him gleam.)
Sansa thinks the walk will take forever and then slower than she thought and quicker, the Sword of the Morning is at her side, then walking slowly around her, admiring. Her nostrils flare; she catches leather and the rich velvety scent of Tabac Blond; smoke and sugar and elegant delicousness and she's swooning too. But being a good boi, she's still and quiet, not even the flutter of her chest betraying her.
Ser Arthur's hand on her shoulder is firm yet gentle. Idly his hands move down her spine, slowly over to her sides. Sansa stares straight ahead, lifting her arms, lacing the fingers behind her neck to display her breasts and posture just as her Ser has taught her. From the corner, there's a smile and wink before Ser Jamie sets his face stern again. She can relax a bit because she's doing well and Sansa lets herself enjoy the warm, sparking touch of Ser Arthur's fingers. It's electrifying, all of them watching her, his fingers now tracing her lips (will he peek at her teeth like she's a prize horse ?), testing his treat.
Sansa thinks of Ser Jamie behind her moving his hands too so she's between him and Ser Arthur. She feels almost faint, but maintains her posture, looks over at the bar, the framed pictures, the white lights dancing over the faces, reflecting the honeyed tones of the liquor glass beneath them.
Like being a lady, being a brother seems to have its rules and its beauties.
“Very good.”
Sansa hears a click, feels the cool blade of a knife brush across the back of her neck. She's brave, but Ser Arthur only cuts the ribbon at the base of her hair, letting it flow.
“ Lovely. I do so enjoy a boi with beautiful hair.” There's a whisper with a warmly wicked edge. “ Also good to grab; some of the brothers don't mind a rough ride from time to time. “
Ser Arthur lifts her chin to look him straight in the eye and Sansa feels so exposed, so open that her breath nearly squeaks and she shamefully feels her cunt slicken, warm and wet, then the ghost of a chill on her thighs.
Ser Arthur looks, leans to her ear. “I've heard you don't mind a bit of one either, boi. I know Ser Jamie wouldn't have it any other way.” Sansa blushes furiously, mottling her creamy skin with red and Ser Arthur's lips crinkle almost to smile, but then he's smooth and cool as ivory again.
“Neither would I.”
A chuckle and Ser Arthur's moving her hands from behind her head, down in front of her till they're folded as Jamie has taught her. Ser Arthur looks at her, and without a word he's almost to her lips, warm enough to feel his breath on them
(What would it be like to kiss my Ser's sire? What if...we both did?)
and Sansa's red and white as a winter godswood.
Ser Arthur smiles now, true pleasure and elegance in the unveiling of his beautiful teeth. He's unearthly; her lions are of the sunlight, but he is of the stars and all Sansa can think of is the intertwining of gold and silver, light beyond light and pleasure beyond all reckoning. There's a tiny gasp and she recognizes it as her own.
Ser Arthur laughs softly. He'll enjoy this and from her blushes, so will she.
It's going to be splendid.
“Well, boi. Shall we begin?”