Work Text:
When stunted hand earns place with man by mere monstrosity
Alarms are struck and shore is shook by sheer atrocity
A cure I know that soothes the soul, does so impossibly
A moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on
Sansa whimpers as Shae bends over her. She knows this is monstrous, she knows that ladies do not do this with their maids. Yet when Shae first offered to give her pleasure, Sansa practically begged for her touch. To feel something kind, something good, something she could go away and think of behind her lady's armor when the Queen is cruel, when Joffrey has her beaten.
Me and my babe relax and catch the manic rhapsody
All reason flown, as God looks on in abject apathy
A squall, and all of me is a prayer in perfect piety
A moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me
No one questions a lady and her maid returning to her chambers to fix a torn gown. No one is there to hear Sansa's gasps of pleasure as Shae laps at her core, her tongue dancing over Sansa's pearl. No one is there to interrupt their worship when Sansa kisses over every inch of Shae's body, her blue eyes wide and reverent as though Shae is one of those trees she worships, or the Maiden herself.
Sansa's breasts are fuller than Shae's, though she is two years younger. Shae helps Sansa hide them under her dresses, concealing her curves from the men who already haunt her steps with hungry eyes. But Sansa welcomes Shae's hunger, her need to cup those lovely breasts, to press them against her own. Sansa's nipples are rosy pink against Shae's dusky brown. Shae likes when Sansa lays atop her, straddling her waist and leaning down so Shae can suckle at her pretty pink nipples, kissing them, then nipping as gently as possible. Shae can feel Sansa's cunt pressed against her belly, her slickness a sign of further pleasure to come.
When the meaning is gone
There is clarity
And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me
It shouldn't work. A Lorathi whore and a Northern lady (truly, a Queen, Sansa sometimes thinks, when she is hidden deep within herself, singing her courtesies to Joffrey while her heart howls its rage, the wolfblood demanding she remind this boy king that she is the last wolf and a Queen of the North has claws and fangs to rip a stag apart. Perhaps Lady lives on within her, perhaps Sansa was the wolf all along.)
Yet neither of them care. They are too far gone for that. This is the only time they can be themselves, when they are skin to skin, no titles, no courtesies, just gasps and sighs and silky skin drenching with sweat and slick. Everything falls away, and nothing matters but Sansa's lips on Shae's shoulder, kissing, suckling, biting as Shae pants, and she runs her hands through Sansa's flaming hair that falls and drapes over their bodies.
"My pearl," Sansa gasps, as she trails kisses down Shae's chest, for Shae is precious to her, more precious than jewels or silks or gold.
And it's easy done
Our little remedy
And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me
Shae does not understand how this became so easy, the dangerous game they play. Sansa's practiced courtesies arouse no suspicion when she pleads a headache, cramps from her moonblood, any excuse to hide away in her chambers with her maid. The Red Keep believes Lady Sansa is sickly, distraught at her loss, wasting away alone in her rooms. Oh, they forget that maids are people too, and Sansa is never alone. With Tyrion dead in the Battle of Blackwater, there is no one to remember Shae, no one but Sansa and her eager tongue exploring Shae's folds, lapping, teasing, growing ever more skilled at pleasing her.
Sansa has begged Shae to take her maidenhead, to fill Sansa with her clever fingers the way Shae has taught Sansa to pleasure her, those long pale fingers stroking inside Shae until Shae nearly weeps with ecstasy. Shae refuses, for her tongue is all she needs to show her love, and she will not risk suspicion if Sansa is shackled to some man before they can make their escape. Shae's maidenhead was gone long ago, but Sansa's is of political importance, no matter how stupid Shae finds it.
For now, Shae keeps licking, soothing away all Sansa's troubles and her own, until nothing remains but this heat, this joining, this sacred cure for all their ills. As she comes, Sansa whimpers Shae's name as though it is a prayer.
What yields the need for those who lead us oh so morally
Those that would view the same we do through their deformity
Who view the deed as power's creed, as pure authority
This moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me
Sansa is always listening. She has heard Septas whisper of maidens ruined by wanton desires, abominable pleasures found not with a young man, but with each other, exiled from their families, forced to become silent sisters. She has heard men japing about the lord's kiss, about how it can be used to trick a nervous maiden into a brutal fucking.
Sansa may only be a stupid girl , but she knows the Septas and the men are wrong, as wrong as if they claimed fish could fly and ravens could swim. What Sansa does to Shae, what Shae does to Sansa, is the only pure thing in this cursed city, the only part of Sansa's life that is not rotten or tainted. How could Sansa have ever thought it monstrous, what they do in secret? The monsters are everywhere, except in her bed.
Shae's dark eyes are bright and deep, her lips are full and pink, her gaze burns like holy fire when she bends over Sansa, dipping her head to Sansa's maiden's place, her cunt , Shae's waves of dark hair brushing against Sansa's thighs.
Since it all begun
To its reckoning
There the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me
Shae knows there will be a reckoning. Someday, some nosy servant, some sharp knight, some little bird will realize what she and her lady do, and use it against them. Sansa's fate will depend upon the politics of the moment, whether the foul Lannisters think it better to sell her and her claim off to a husband or shame her before the whole city and strip her of her claim.
Most of all Shae fears that Baelish will be the one to discover their secret worship. Shae hates and fears him most of all, his greedy eyes when they linger on Sansa. He does not see her lady, he sees only a thing, a ghost, an object of hate and lust and opportunity. He does not see a frightened girl with a spine of steel, a wolf in hiding, a survivor. He does not see the maid who still thinks in poetry, who calls Shae her pearl because pearls are made from bits of sand, turned precious by time and torment.
Shae is not sure what her fate will be. Do they kill lady's maids for this, or send them to a whorehouse? Either way, they will take her from Sansa. Shae tucks away scraps of food, the coins she can gather, a change of clothes. She will run before she is taken, she will flee and find her way back to Sansa when Sansa's fate is sealed. No one will hunt for a maid when they have the lady in their claws.
Be thankful some know it lovingly
There the reason comes in the common tongue of your loving me
In the end, it is Varys who discovers them. Some little bird figures out what Sansa and her maid do in their nest. Sansa is preparing for bed, Shae already gone to her own sleeping quarters (they must keep up appearances), when Varys appears in her chambers.
"I pity you, my lady," Varys says. "I know what it is to love in a way that is... different."
Sansa gazes at the eunuch, recognition passing between them. Varys may not have man's parts, but he is still a man. There is much that can be done with tongues and fingers, Sansa knows this now. There are many places to touch besides the place between her legs, and surely it is not so different for a man to find pleasure in the rest of his body.
"I have done many cruel things, my lady," Varys says, sighing as he gently cups her chin in his hand. Sansa watches him carefully, waiting for this new trap to be sprung.
"Once the Hound thought you might be his salvation. Foolish man, he did not see how fiercely you burn beneath those smiles and curtsies. His lust for you overwhelmed his sense. I do not suffer that affliction."
Sansa meets Varys' eyes, unafraid. He will do what he will, but she will keep her dignity.
"There is no salvation here for me, but I shall do for you what I could not do for sweet Elia," Varys says. Sansa's eyes widen just a fraction, her mask slipping due to her surprise.
"Listen well, for time is short. I have sent a bird to summon your maid. A ship waits at the docks, bound with a cargo for White Harbor. I know the captain, and he awaits a northern merchant's daughter and her maid. Rooms are prepared and paid for, a few trunks of suitable clothes already delivered. The captain sails north as soon as the merchant's daughter arrives."
Sansa laughs, as quiet and deadly as a knife, her mask falling away as though it never was.
"Shall I believe you do this all for pity, my lord Spider?" Sansa asks. "Did you pity my father?"
Varys does not flinch, but he steps back, letting go of her chin.
"I tried to save Lord Eddard," Varys says with a sigh of regret. "He was to take the Black. I will do right by his daughter, for pity, yes, but for my own reasons too." Sansa raises an eyebrow.
"The North convulses, and the tremors shake the realm. They will accept no one but a Stark of Winterfell. All I ask is that the Queen in the North treat fairly with the Spider one day, and remember the gift he gave her."
Varys reaches into the deep pockets of his robes, and withdraws a crown of bronze. It is a harsh thing, carved with the runes of the First Men and topped with nine black iron longswords. Sansa has never seen it before, yet somehow she knows it as though it were graven on her heart.
"You bring me Robb's crown," Sansa says slowly, as Shae slips into the room, cloaked and readied for a journey.
"It is your crown," Varys says, bowing deeply. Shae stares at Sansa, her brown eyes wide as Sansa takes the crown from Varys, examining it a moment before she places it on her head.
Like a heathen clung to the homily
Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me
Shae does not recognize the Queen who stands before her, clad in a nightgown the color of the moon, her hair flaming in the dying firelight, her eyes as blue and stormy as the sea. The crown reflects the flames of Sansa's hair as though the crown is dipped in blood. Shae curtsies deeply, for she has worshipped Sansa so long that she does not know how to stop. Something flickers in the Queen's eyes, and Shae sees Sansa, her lady, so fierce and yet so scared.
Shae worships no Gods, but she will worship this Queen, for her lady is still within. And what other whore could say that a Queen once worshipped her?
So summon on the pearl rosary
The Queen of the North stalks the ship's cabin like a wolf, muttering the names of the northern lords who are faithful, the names of their sons and daughters, their keeps, the number of men they can raise. Her crown may be hidden in a trunk, her gown may be the garb of a merchant's daughter, but she is a Queen as surely as Sansa is Ned Stark's daughter, as surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
Shae sits on their only chair, hemming a gown. Sansa patiently taught Shae how to sew in King's Landing, and soon will begin showing her how to embroider the Stark sigil on the plain white banners hidden in one of the trunks. Sansa does not know if Varys had any special intent for the gown of white she found in the very bottom of the trunk, made with wool in the northern style. But Sansa will embroider it herself, cover it with all the thread she brought with her in her small bag of things from the Red keep.
Direwolves will race across the sleeves. Weirwood trees will bloom across the back, with red leaves falling down the skirts like drops of blood. Each stitch will be a promise, a reminder that the North remembers, that the last Stark will be a Queen of Winter.
Yet over the heart, there will be one more promise. With white thread on white cloth, nearly invisible, Sansa will stitch a pearl. For Shae, for herself, for the worship that Sansa cannot, will not give up. Her hunger only grows the longer they are confined to their cabin, able for the first time to sleep in each other's arms, Sansa's body curled around Shae's, her nose in Shae's soft hair, her hand clasping one of Shae's lovely breasts. Sansa breaks her fast not with water, nor wine, but with Shae, drinking from her cunt as though it were the only thing that could quench her thirst.
A Queen does not beg, but Sansa does, and Shae finally takes her maidenhead with her fingers after a week of storms. The blood on Shae's fingers is another promise, Sansa's maidenhead freely given. Shae fucks Sansa with her fingers until she almost weeps, overwhelmed by sensation, then cleans Sansa with her tongue, Sansa's blood smeared across Shae's lips as Sansa comes again and again until her body cannot stop quivering. Sansa sucks her own blood from Shae's fingers before they fall asleep, legs entwined.
Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me
Shae has done many foolish things in her life. Perhaps teaching Sansa what maidens could do with their tongues was one of them. As Shae worships her insatiable Queen, her lady, her love, Shae does not care.