Brandon is twenty and Lyanna is three-and-ten when she confronts him in Winterfell’s courtyard and commands, “I want to learn how to kiss.”
Brandon merely laughs; a haughty, bellowing laugh that echoes in the empty courtyard. When he catches his breath once more he stares into her pretty scowling face and asks, “Why? Want to impress your new betrothed?”
“No!” Lyanna insists, crossing her arms stubbornly. “Besides, Robert doesn’t even know me. He’s infatuated with me and he just seems too…pompous.”
Brandon rolls his eyes. “And how do you expect to learn the art of kissing, sweet sister?”
She stares at her feet and fumbles with the edges of her sleeves. “I…I was hoping you could help…and, you know, teach me.”
He chuckles. “Me? Why not Ned?”
She smacks his arm with her little hand. “Honestly, Brandon.” Her eyes soften. “You’re my big brother, and Ned wouldn’t approve. Besides, you know you’re my favorite.”
Brandon laughs. “Say that again.”
“No, you idiot, I won’t. Now would you please teach me?”
He licks his lips and looks at her. Surely there’s no harm in enlightening his sister. No one has to know.
Brandon nods. “Alright. Meet me in the godswood after lunch, then.”
Lyanna breathes deeply. “Thank you.”
Lyanna’s lips are soft and warm.
There is something deep inside Brandon’s soul that knows that his feelings are wrong but gods, she tastes like baked apples and sugar and the skin of her neck is smooth and beautiful. When she begins to bit his lip, he has to mentally kick himself to remember that this is supposed to be a lesson.
“No, no, you shouldn’t bite so hard.” He says. “If you’re trying to be soft, bite softly.”
“What if I’m not trying to be soft?” She raises a single dark eyebrow.
He shakes his head in amusement. “And it’s too quick, it’s clumsy. Go slowly, tenderly, and then quicken it progressively if you must.”
She bites her lip and he wants to groan. She nods and moves toward him again, placing a small hand on his chest before placing her lips back on his.
Lyanna does much better this time, he notes. He breathes deeply through his nose as her lips mold with his, and he is astonished at her audacity when she bites lightly and sucks on his bottom lip. Then she opens her mouth and their tongues meet, silky and smooth and perfect and he has to stop.
She pulls back with a smirk on her face and she looks at him. “How was that, then?”
“Good,” he says simply. She grins and stands up, brushing her skirts, and strolls away from him.
"Oh and Brandon?" She turns for a moment. "Please don't tell Ned."
"I won't tell a single soul." He responds, and she smiles gratefully and continues to leave.
He sighs, ashamed of his own reaction. They weren’t the bloody Targaryens, and both of them were betrothed. He must forget about the entire encounter.
It was too good; too sweet.
And yet whenever he practices shooting crossbows in the courtyard, or sword-fighting, or goes on hunts with Ned, or sleeps, Lyanna’s kiss is all that Brandon can think about.