Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Men aren’t supposed to be in here—!” 

Satin didn’t stop his stride as he side-stepped the midwife with a flippant wave of his hand. “You have no idea how many birthing rooms I've been in.” He said as he slipped through the door passed the stuttering woman. “Hells, I’ve helped pull babes from their mothers. This is nothing I’ve not seen before. How is she?”  

The midwife gaped at him for a moment and then at Maester Dallin following quickly in behind him. “She-she’s doing well, milord. No complications as of yet. She’s hearty and strong. The babe’s about ready to come, I’d say.” 

The long, pained groans and deep, haggard breaths Satin could hear from within told him the nurse’s conclusion seemed about right. He looked over his shoulder to Dallin and gave him a nod. “If you wouldn’t mind?”  

A moment’s pause passed between them as the maester regarded him, his chain clinking as he walked. There was a flatness to his tone that grated at Satin when he replied. “As you wish, my lord.” 

Satin had been in Jon’s office when it began, with Rickon sat upon his lap as the boy moped and whined and pouted. He’d been recovering well despite his moods, the wound on his cheek slowly beginning to knit itself back together and the daily draughts of antidote Dallin had been giving him slowly combatting the lingering effects of the poison. But Rickon had proved a miserable patient, and he’d been in a terrible mood the entire week since Littlefinger’s head rolled. He’d clung weakly to Satin for most of it, crawling into his lap to be rocked and have his head stroked whether Satin liked it or not. Oh, little prince, Satin would coo into the curls atop his head, it’s all done now. It’s all okay. It had not become an uncommon sight for him to be seen carrying the prince about the castle on his errands in a desperate attempt to stay another meltdown. Oddly, for a reason Satin could not understand, the prince had been cold to Jon. He did not want his attention, turned away from him often, and clung to others instead. Tonight had been no exception. Rickon had been in his lap, his little wolf plush in hand, and resting his head on Satin’s chest when there had been a knock on the door to Jon’s solar.  

Edvinn the steward had presented himself with a deep bow to the king and a smaller, perhaps slightly reluctant one to Satin. He’d never much liked him, Satin knew, and the feeling had been mutual. Jon naming him a lord had only made Edvinn’s distaste for him grow and he didn’t hide it particularly well. Still, he managed a bow and delivered the news he’d been instructed to give. The Lady Jeyne, he’d informed them, had caught him in the halls and bid him come fetch her brother.  

“Is it time?” Satin had interrupted, his excitement wider than his smile was able to show. At Edvinn’s nod, he’d risen and spun little Rickon about. “Oh, at last!” He’d exclaimed. “Fetch the maester, please. I’ll make my way there at once.” 

A terse smile pulled at Edvinn’s face. “Perhaps you are unaware of the traditions within a castle but the maester is not usually called for such... things. He attends the labors of the high born. There are birthing women and midwives who see to the servants. There is no need to waste the maester’s time by calling him to attend a... person of such low station.”  

In the words low station, Satin heard only ‘whore’. It scratched at something in the back of his mind. Within days of Littlefinger’s trial it had seemed all of Winterfell had heard the confirmation of Satin’s past, and he’d felt the increase in stares and the stiffness in the tone of some of those who spoke to him. He could hear the increased disdain in Edvinn’s voice and he was growing rather tired of it already. Satin placed Rickon down into his chair and turned back to Edvinn with a blatantly fake smile on his lips. “And I,” he said curtly. “the lord of House Poole, have just said to have the maester fetched. So, if you would be so kind, please fetch the maester.”   

“Maester Dallin is sworn to House Stark, my lord.” Not to you, Edvinn didn’t say and didn’t need to. Satin heard it anyway.  

“Maester Dallin is sworn to Winterfell.” He replied in a short, clipped tone. “Now, have him fetched.” 

Edvinn had the gall to turn to Jon, to look to him for permission or some sort of ruling. Jon simply glanced up from his papers and frowned. “I believe Lord Poole just gave you an order.” 

The steward had wanted to say more, Satin could see, to let a sour grimace come to his lips, but he managed to mask it just enough. “As you say, your Grace.”  

With Edvinn gone to do as he was bid, reluctantly or otherwise Satin did not care, Rickon had pouted and looked up at him. “Where are you going?”  

“To meet the babe.” Satin told him. “Remember? I told you my friend Aloisya was having her baby soon. It’s today.”  

“I want to come! I want to meet the baby!”  

Satin gave the boy a smile. “And you will, sweet prince, but not today. A birthing room is no place for a babe.” 

“I’m not a babe!” Rickon insisted hotly. “I’m a man grown! Handsome and heroic! You said!” 

Satin had said that, when the boy had stared at the still-healing scar on his cheek in a looking glass while the maester had been refreshing the bandages. His eyes had filled with tears at the sight and his bottom lip had begun to wobble, but Satin had stopped that in its track. It’s a battle scar, he’d told him. It makes you look fierce and formidable, strong and scary. Just like Jon’s scars do. Don’t they make him look so handsome and heroic? When yours is all healed, yours will too. I promise. Rickon had taken to repeating the phrase over and over ever since.  

“Well, his Grace is handsome and heroic and he’s not coming to the birthing room.” Satin countered as he gathered his things. “It’s no place for men.” 

“I thought you were a man?” Rickon asked with a tilt of his head. “Jon made a big deal about it, remember? I’m not allowed to say the two ‘W-Words' anymore because of it. Am I allowed to say them again?” 

“No!” Satin said immediately. Woman and wife were most certainly still off limits for the little prince. “Well...” Satin made a noise in his throat. “I am a man, but it’s... different.” 

“Why?” 

“Don’t worry about that.” He said quickly. “Why don’t you sit with your brother, hm?” 

“Noooooo!” Rickon whined and crossed his arms. “I don’t want to sit with Jon!” 

“I think his Grace would like it if you did. You two can be handsome and heroic together.” 

“No!” 

“You should be nice to your big brother, my prince, I think he misses you.” 

“No, no, no!” 

“I’m right here, you know.” Jon said flatly from his desk.  

In the end, in Satin’s rush to get to Aloisya, he’d given up and they’d agreed to have the nanny come take Rickon back to his rooms for cuddling-with-Shaggydog time and some much needed rest as his body was still weak. Before the maid took him away, Rickon had pressed his little wolf plush toy into Satin’s arms. The babe could play with it, he’d said, as long as Satin promised he’d get it back. Satin did just that and bid the prince goodnight with a smile. As he’d finished gathering his things to leave, he’d caught Jon’s eyes lingering on the door and the frown on his face.  

“He’ll come around.” Satin promised softly. “Whatever’s wrong...” 

“I know what’s wrong.”  

“What do you mean?” He’d asked, confusion pulling at his face and a faint feeling that he knew where this was going starting in his chest. 

“I failed to protect him.” 

“Jon...” Satin sighed. “I don’t think that’s it.” 

“He got hurt and I wasn’t there.” Jon said simply. “He was getting poisoned under my nose by one of my own men and I didn’t even notice. Shaggydog was trying to tell me and I missed it. He attacked the man who was doing it. He tried to rip his throat out. He knew. The direwolves always know and I... just pushed it aside as him being aggressive. Of course Rickon is upset with me.” 

“You cannot blame yourself for that.” Satin said softly. 

“I most certainly can.” He retorted haughtily. “I’m his big brother and I let him get hurt.” 

“You should talk to him, Jon, rather than jumping to blaming yourself.” Satin insisted. “If he’s angry, let him be angry. If he’s sad, let him be sad. Maybe he needs to let it out into the open air, to say it aloud instead of just keeping it all inside. He nearly died. Twice. He’s sick and he’s scared. Whatever’s wrong, he’ll come around.” 

“Aye, I know...” Jon had sighed though Satin could sense there were words on his tongue that he chose not to say. “Aye, I’ll talk to him. Now, go on. Go to Aloisya. I pray it's a smooth delivery. Give her my best.” 

And so, with Dallin at his back, summoned whether it was tradition or not, Satin found Aloisya where he expected he would. She was in the apartments Jon had gifted her on her wedding night, propped up on a pile of pillows with countless towels and rags piled up on her bed under and around her. Her forehead shone with sweat and her dark curls clung to her wet skin as she breathed through the pain and clutched at Cedren’s large hand with such intensity that his skin had passed beyond turning red to turning white. Her husband was at her side offering what comfort he could, rubbing her back with one hand and letting her squeeze the other in a way that must have been painful. If it was, Cedren knew better than to say anything. It couldn’t have been even a quarter as bad as what Ally was enduring. Breathe, sweetling, he whispered softly into her ear and then kissed the sweaty skin there, you’re doing so well.  

“You came!” Ally managed to smile when she saw him, her voice breathless and shaky but strong as Satin crossed the room and took her free hand in his. “Gave poor Lady Jeyne a right fright, I did. I broke my water all over one of the fancy plush chairs in ‘er chambers. Sorry about that, by the way, love. I bet that’s real expensive. I just needed a sit and she said go ahead. So I did. And then the babe was comin’.” Ally’s shaky laughter faded to a hiss of pain. She grit her teeth, breathed deeply through it, and continued. “That chair’s ruined now, I figure. I tried to apologize but Lady Jeyne got all wide-eyed and frantic. I can’t blame ‘er for that though, can I? I mean, I was screamin’ and all. The pain ‘adn’t even started yet, I just panicked! It’s started now though; I’ll tell you that! I knew it would ‘urt, but FUCKIN’ HELLS!” 

Satin couldn’t help but laugh. Even giving birth and you're still rambling on. Never change, sister. “Sod the chair, Ally. I can buy a new one. How are you feeling?” 

“Like there’s a battle ragin’ and the field is my body!”  

“You’re doing well.” Satin assured her, but she fixed him with an almost comical dry look. 

“Yeah, yeah, everyone keeps bloody tellin’ me that. Sure as ‘ells don’t feel like it!” 

“That’s normal.” Dallin said calmly as he stepped forward and ushered Satin to the side so he could examine her, checking under the sheets between her legs to see how far along she was. 

“Gods!” Ally exclaimed, eyes wide. “Is that the fuckin’ maester? Who am I, Satin? A bloody princess?” 

Satin wanted only the best for Aloisya, for her to have as simple and as easy a birth as was possible. Growing up in a pillowhouse, he'd seen countless births and countless babes come into this world. Some had perished, dying before they ever truly lived, and some had taken their mothers with them. He knew the risks. He wanted Dallin there to minimize them, Seven be damned if Ally was ‘only a servant’. 

“You, Aloisya, are my little sister. Of course I called the maester.” Satin said softly. “The king gives his best, by the way.” 

“The king askin’ after me and the royal maester tendin’ me? Gods, what has my lif— ah!” 

Another hiss of pain stole the rest of Ally’s reply as Maester Dallin and his apprentice moved in to take over for the midwives. Satin was permitted to stay though he was relegated to a place along the wall of the chamber so the maester could have room to work. Cedren, too, was allowed to remain despite prompting from the midwives that he may wish to step out. “That’s my wife!” He said vehemently. “What pathetic excuse of a man abandons his wife at the birth of their child?” He stood steadfast in his place at Ally’s side the rest of the ordeal. No one dared to mention that Aloisya had been with child before she and Cedren had ever so much as met. But the fierceness of his words made Satin smile. Aloisya truly had found herself a good man.  

The birth was a smooth one and she actively labored for only a few hours, somewhere between two and three. Cedren held her hand through each ear-piercing scream of pain and exertion, and Satin did his best to help guide her breathing. It wasn’t long at all before the maester pulled the babe from her body with practiced hands. Dallin said her wideset hips were a blessing and Satin could not disagree. He had seen far worse births back in the pillowhouse even from older, more experienced women, ones that had torn the mother apart or left them dead in a bed of blood. For it being Ally's first birth, Satin thought she’d done remarkably well. The midwives made sure Aloisya was alright as Dallin hurried the babe away to clean it of blood, to swaddle and wrap it, and pat its back until it began to cry. The sound was a piercing one, loud and echoing off the walls as it gasped its first lungful of air and let out its first wails like proof of life. Hell of a set of lungs on that one, Satin thought, like mother like child.  

When the babe began to scream as newborns were want to do, Ally looked over with wide eyes. “I-is he okay?” She asked frantically. “Let me see him! Is he alright?” 

“Healthy.” The maester assured her as he inspected the squirming, screeching bundle in his arms. “She’s healthy and hearty. Everything seems in order.” 

Ally slumped back against the pillows in relief, exhaustion seeming to catch up with her all at once. And then, Satin saw her face fall. “...She?” Ally asked quietly.  

“Aye, lass, she’s a girl.” Dallin said. 

“Oh.” Aloisya muttered softly. “I thought...  I was certain it was... You’re sure?” 

The maester almost chuckled. “Aye, I’m sure.” He pulled back the swaddling blanket to the babe’s waist and then recovered her. “She’s a girl alright.” 

An odd expression crossed Aloisya's face. Her eyebrows knitted together and her lips pinched in a way that looked so foreign on her usually smiling features. She turned to Cedren at her shoulder with an expression that was almost worry, as though she feared to see disappointment or anger upon his face. No such look was found as Cedren rubbed reassuringly at her back.  

“Take her.” He encouraged with a soft smile. “She needs to be at her mother’s breast.” 

She blinked one more time and then slowly reached out to accept her daughter into her arms. There was something like hesitation in the way she moved, Satin thought, a hesitation he hadn’t expected. She’d been nothing but excited and eager for this babe since the moment she’d arrived in Winterfell. Her reaction would have worried him but the very instant the infant was in her hands and held against her chest, all hesitation was gone. “Oh...” She whispered like some revelation had come to her. Tears began to pour from her eyes as the biggest smile Satin had ever seen pulled at her lips until it was so large it must have made her cheeks ache. “Hello there, my sweetling. Look at you... Gods, look at you...”  

Satin watched from his place along the wall with a fond smile pulling at his lips as Maester Dallin approached him, drying his freshly cleaned hands upon his robes.  

“Mother and babe both are well.” He reported and told Satin the next steps. He listened and nodded though he knew them already. When Satin asked for salves or elixirs that might aid in her recovery, the maester gave him a slow nod. “Well, aye.” He said. “There are medicines I prescribe to the noble ladies of Winterfell after their deliveries but they have pricey components, especially in the winter.”  

“Charge them to House Poole.” Satin said with a wave of his hand and instructed him to have he and his apprentice check on her periodically until she was fully recovered. Satin would take no chances and cared not for the expense. He’d spared no other expense anyway, so what was one more handful of coin? From fur-trimmed blankets and bedding to clothes and toys and anything else a babe could need and a new mother want, Satin had not once balked at the cost before seeing them delivered to Aloisya’s apartments. Ally had floundered at each new gift, trying to refuse it but Satin had refused her refusals. With all the coin I’ve spent on this babe, he thought with a faint hint of amusement, half of Winterfell must be starting to think the child a bastard of my own... Let them, he figured, one more rumor was one more rumor.  

“As you wish, my lord.” Dallin said with a stiff bow and saw himself out.  

Satin gave the new parents some time alone with their babe, choosing instead to linger by the door and watch them quietly. Ally’s lovestruck eyes were shining with tears as she stared down at the tiny little bundle in her arms, and Cedren seemed just as enamored with the babe as Ally did, bending over his wife’s shoulder to see her with his own wet eyes. Satin watched with a smile as Cedren pointed out the babe’s features individually like they were the loveliest things he’d ever seen. Your eyes, he whispered, I’m so glad she has your eyes. And we can say she has my nose. It’s close enough. And there’s a coppery hint to her hair. We can say that’s from me, too. All was well, Satin thought with a warmth in his chest. The babe quieted with time, her cries fading away to soft little noises and sounds of contentment as she fed at Ally’s breast and rested easily in her mother’s arms.  

Eventually, Aloisya raised her eyes to see Satin and seemed to remember he was even there for the first time since the babe had come. She laughed as she waved him over and Cedren excused himself, giddy with each step to tell the good news to his friends and family. Satin took a seat at her bedside and peered over at the babe in her arms.  

“Look at ‘er, Satin...” Ally said, voice filled with wonder. “Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she the prettiest thing you ever saw in all the world?” 

Satin took the tiny bundle into his arms when Ally offered her to him and moved the blankets with a finger to get a good look at her face. She had warm skin like her mother, with ruddy, chubby cheeks and a pudgy nose. Cedren had been right, Satin saw, she did have her mother’s eyes – green and pretty in the firelight – and surprisingly thick tufts of hair. She looked much like her mother, he thought, a near perfect copy if not for the hint of copper-red in her hair. Whoever her father had been, he’d left little of himself in his daughter. Satin could not help but smile. Oh, he thought to himself, you’re going to have me wrapped around your finger, aren’t you, little one? “Oh Ally, she’s perfect.” He whispered. 

Aloisya watched him with a soft smile on her lips. “You’ll take care of ‘er, won’t you?” She asked. “If something happens to me and Ced?”  

“Of course.” Satin responded at once, as if Ally was a fool for even needing to ask. “She’ll want for nothing.”  

“She’ll ‘ave a lord for an uncle...” She said almost dreamily, as though the words were ones she still couldn’t quite grasp. Satin couldn’t blame her for that. “And if you’re ‘alf as good an uncle as you are a brother, she’ll be spoiled as rotten as a fish in the Oldtown sun.” 

He pressed a quick kiss to the top of the babe’s head and grinned down at her. “You’ll grow up in a castle, won’t you? You’ll learn your letters and pretty words and etiquettes from the best teachers, you’ll wear dresses of fine fabrics and wrap yourself in only the warmest furs; anything your little heart desires, you’ll have. I plan to be a very good uncle. I promise you that, sweetling.” 

“And she’ll ‘ave a lady for an auntie, too.” Aloisya said with a smile. “Lady Jeyne’s already sewed the babe a blanket and promised a sleepin’ shift too, kind 'eart that she is.”  

That brought a fond expression to his face. The two girls had become fast friends and only grown closer since he’d made Ally her handmaid. It seemed Jeyne still didn’t always know what to make of Aloisya’s wild personality and consistently open mouth, but she enjoyed her company even so. She had been a rock for Jeyne during her self-imposed confinement to her rooms and then again in her slow, hesitant steps back into society since Littlefinger’s head had rolled. When Satin couldn’t be with her, Ally could, and that comforted him. He had a feeling it comforted Jeyne, too.  

Satin returned his gaze to the babe in his arms as her words reminded him of something. “Speaking of gifts, look, love, look at what his Highness the prince said you could borrow?” He showed the babe the plush wolf toy Rickon had passed him, wiggling it before her and watching her eyes follow the movement. He let it rest with her in the crook of his arms. “Isn’t that sweet of his Highness? He can’t wait to meet you. He’s so excited you’re finally here. I think he thinks he’ll be able to play with you right away, but he’ll see he has to be gentle.” 

“A gift from the prince...?” Aloisya gaped at him.  

“Well, it’s on loan.” Satin added with a chuckle. “He wants it back. Oh, but his Grace did tell me that you may consider a visit to Winter Town’s toymaker on him should you wish it. But should you need something else for the babe instead, to let me know and he’ll make a gift of it.”  

A shock of laughter spilled from her lips. “The king already gifted me a home and a crib for the babe! ‘e can’t mean to give me more!”  

“A toy won’t bankrupt the realm, sweetling. Nor will assigning you chambers or pulling a cradle from storage. Let him give you something. It’s how he shows he cares, even when he doesn’t say.” 

Ally watched him for a moment before she laughed incredulously again. “A lady and a lord for an aunt and uncle, a prince for a playmate, and a king as ‘er… uncle’s... somethin’ or other. Gods, she’ll be the luckiest girl in all the kingdom!” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Oh.” She paused, looking back down at the babe as she scratched her head. “I was going t’ name the babe after his Grace. But I can’t very well name a girl after 'im now, can I? I mean... Can I? A girl can’t be a ‘Jon’, right?” 

“Probably not, Ally.” Satin laughed.  

“Damn. What about… Jonelle then instead?” She offered.  

“Like the Lady of House Cerwyn?” 

Ally frowned. “Maybe not, then. Jonette?” Satin scrunched up his nose. “Mmm, yeah, you’re right. That’s not it. Joana?”  

“Not really Jon-based, is it?”  

“Good point. Jonnyra?’ 

“You just made that up.” 

“All names are made up!” Aloisya countered with a giggle. “Someone ‘ad to ‘ave made them up at some point! Did the names just pop into existence? No! Someone made them.” 

“Sure.” Satin said with a roll of his eyes. “Jonnyra still sounds made up though. I stand my ground.” 

Ally stuck her tongue out at him. “Fine.” She thought again. “Jonnah?”  

Satin made a considering sound. “It’s not bad. A little plain, but nice.” 

“Well sure, but ‘Jon’ is a little plain anyway. It’s going to be plain if it's after ‘im.” 

“Hey, that’s his Grace’s name you’re talking about.” He chided playfully. “Weren’t you the one calling it ‘kingly and fine’ like he’s some heroic knight in the songs?” 

Aloisya almost had the decency to look sheepish but then her eyes widened and a large smile bloomed on her face. “Oh!” She exclaimed and ushered Satin to return the babe into her arms. “Oh! Oh oh oh! I’ve got it. Jonquil, just like the songs. The prettiest maiden in all the lands... A pretty name for a pretty girl. And—” Her words stumbled over her own sudden burst of giggles. “—His Grace told me I ought to name the babe after you. Isn’t Jonquil’s song about ‘ow she bathed in a pool? Pool, Poole, you see it! You can tell ‘is Grace that I somehow managed to pull off both!”  

And so Jonquil was her name. Ally rocked her carefully in her arms, cradling her to her chest like she was as precious as porcelain and as fine as silk. Jonquil slept, woke, fussed, fed, and slept again. Of all the babes Satin had ever seen – and he’d seen plenty – he was certain Jonquil was the most precious of them all.  

It wasn’t long later that the door to Cedren and Aloisya’s apartments creaked open again, and a slim figure slipped in. It was Jeyne, they found, fiddling with her fingers with a small smile on her face. Aloisya wasted no time waving her over and introducing her to the babe that would be Jeyne’s new niece whether she liked it or not. She ushered the sleeping bundle of blankets into Jeyne’s arms and cooed over how sweet they looked together, how lovely they both were. Satin watched Jeyne smile and it warmed his heart.  

It was good to see her smile again. When Satin had gone to see her the day Littlefinger died, she had been oddly quiet and much the same as she had been the day before. It was almost as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. She simply thanked him, gave him a small smile and a hug, and said she needed rest. She slept for well over a day. Her body had needed it, he figured, and she had emerged from her rooms the next morning as if the world was just a little less heavy than it had been the day before. But the beds of her fingernails were still picked raw and red and the ever-present dark circles under her eyes still made her look sallower than he’d liked. But she was coming out of her rooms more. They were tentative, tip-toeing steps, but they were steps nonetheless. She smiled more, too, just a bit. Though he could still sense something pulling at her from the inside. A fear or a lingering pain, but Satin understood. It never went away, he knew, not truly. Even so, better sleep and an easier smile were good enough for Satin.  

Jeyne held the babe for some time, admiring her cute nose and her thick head of hair. “She’s so pretty...” Jeyne murmured. “She’ll look just like you.”  

‘Just like me...” Ally echoed quietly, a strange tone slipping into her voice. 

She was surprisingly quiet as Satin and Jeyne sat with the babe. Her exhaustion seemed to have caught up with her and she slumped back in the bed, sweat drying on her skin and wild curls still plastered to her forehead. Her eyes lingered long on the bundle now in Satin’s arms, a soft, thoughtful expression on her face. She blinked as her brows slowly knit together, her eyes beginning to shine with the beginnings of what looked like tears, and her bottom lip starting to quiver. 

“Aloisya...?” Satin began, concern lacing his words.  

“I was so afraid,” She whispered. “that the babe would be a girl... Terrified right down to my blood. I went to some midwife near the Neck when we was coming North and asked ‘er for somethin’ to make sure it was a boy. I ate the foods she told me to eat, drank the drink she gave me. I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. Make it a boy, I begged. Gods Old and New, make it a boy. Then I ‘ad another midwife in Winter Town tell me my belly was ‘anging the way a boy-belly does. I was so relieved...”  

Satin’s brow furrowed. “I suppose that’s something that unites smallfolk and nobles alike, praying for sons.” 

Aloisya didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes watched the girl in Satin’s arms as she released a shaky, unsteady breath. “You 'ear about the sons of whores all the time.” She said, the words seeming to spill from her like water through a broken damn. “They carry the weight of it their whole life – whoreson, people spit – but they ‘ave them. Lives, they ‘ave them. They go on and do things, you know. Most leave the pillowhouse by twelve or thirteen; go off and apprentice somewhere or get work on the docks or fishin’ or somethin’. It’s a ‘ard life but it’s somethin’. They have lives and wives and they live, Satin, they live. They 'ave a chance.” A quiet sound, something between a shudder and an attempt to gather breath, spilled from her lips. She brought her eyes to meet his and Satin thought they looked sad. Sad, and familiar, so devastatingly familiar. “I know you stayed. But all those other boys, our cousins, they left as fast as their little feet could carry them the moment they were strong enough to carry pails of water or lift a hammer.” 

“Ally...” 

“But you know who you don’t ‘ear about? Who no one talks about?” Ally continued, eyes falling again to the sleeping Jonquil in his arms. “Daughters of whores. Because a whore’s daughter is just a whore... My mum was a whore. ‘er mum, too. And ‘ers. I thought...” She faltered, chin wobbling. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely more than an exhalation of breath. “I was so scared she’d end up like me.” 

Satin felt an aching in his chest. The first thing Ally had ever told him about her pregnancy was that she was certain it was a boy. Mother’s intuition, they’d called it. A boy, a boy, a boy, she’d said giddily. A mother’s desperation, Satin thought. “Oh, Ally...” He said softly. “We’re not in a pillowhouse anymore. It’s done. You’re a married woman and a mother, here and safe in Winterfell. There’s no more bawd, no more men who are going to beat you for running your mouth, no more hiding your disgust when a man you don’t want decides he wants you. Your babe is going to grow up healthy and strong, and she’ll never have to set foot in a pillowhouse in all her life. She’ll have anything she wants because she looks just like her mama and I never could say no to her mama.” 

Ally’s eyes were wide as she stared at him and Satin saw doubt in them. It was a familiar doubt, one he’d felt in himself that first night he’d offered himself to Jon and countless nights after that. Doubt and disbelief.  

“It’s done.” Satin promised her again. 

The wetness in her eyes began to grow, shining in the firelight as tears began to well up, cling to her lashes, and threaten to fall. “...It’s really done?” She asked, her voice small and shaking, and at once Satin could see her age. Only six-and-ten, he remembered. Barely six-and-ten. Barely more than a child, and now with a child of her own. The disbelief, he saw, the sheer inability to quite grasp the reality of how it all had changed, was still there after all this time. After a whole new life in Winterfell and a man who cared for her and treated her gently. Even through all of that, the disbelief was still there. Satin could not help but understand completely. 

“Aloisya.” He said, voice firm and soft all at once. “It’s done.” 

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she cried. It was happiness, relief, and exhaustion, Satin saw, sadness and mourning too. Heartbreak, joy, and love all mixing into one release of emotion. Satin let her cry, let her breathe through it as she needed.  

“There you go.” He said again as she sniffled, moving Jonquil to the crook of his arm and leaning forward to wipe the tears from her cheeks with a gentle hand. “It’s done.” 

‘It’s done...” Jeyne echoed, her voice quiet and distant. She’d been silent this whole time, sat beside them still and unmoving as she watched. But her dark eyes were shining too and her bottom lip was quivering. “Done...?” 

Aloisya’s eyes, observant and knowing even through her tears, turned to meet Jeyne’s, took her in for only a moment, and then understood. “Oh, my lady, not you too...” She whispered, opening her arms and inviting her closer without a second’s hesitation. “Oh, sweet Jeyne, it’s over for you too. Come, sister, come here. It’s done. It’s done. Gods, it’s done.” 

Jeyne fell into her embrace and wept. Deep, wordless, wretched sobs that shook her whole body, like a violent purging of poison from the very blood in her veins. Ally’s arms were around her, holding her tightly as she cried too.  

“Was it that wicked man?” Ally asked into her hair. “Gods, it was. He’s dead now, love. He can’t hurt you. You’re free. We're free. It’s done.”  

Jeyne called for Satin a moment later, in a quivering voice that reminded him of how he used to call for his mother when he’d scraped his knee or had a bad dream, motioning him closer on the bed with a reaching hand. He and Jonquil joined them, the four of them pressed together on the bed with the babe in the middle. Satin leaned his head against Jeyne’s shoulder, rested his hand on Ally’s, and whispered words of comfort. Reassurance that it was over, that they’d been so brave, that they could let it out now, anything he thought would help. He rested there with them for a long time, until their cries faded to quiet and their breathing evened out. 

“Gods...” Ally began eventually as she took Jonquil back into her arms and cradled her to her chest. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realize that it’s done. I think it just hit me. I saw ‘er and it hit me. You said it and it hit me. It’s really done. I’ve been ‘ere for months. I got married. Me! And I still just realized it. I don’t know ‘ow I didn’t see it until now...”  

“Me too.” Jeyne whispered. “Ramsey’s gone. Littlefinger’s gone. But even when his head rolled, it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like it was over. But to have it said so plainly... That makes it feel real.” 

Ally gave Jeyne’s hand a squeeze before she turned to Satin. “What about you, brother? When did you realize it was done?” 

Satin drew in a slow breath. To tell you that for true, he thought, would be to admit to a thousand things I cannot say aloud. Even to the two of you. “When Mariussa was banished from Winterfell.” He settled on when he could find no better answer. It wasn’t a lie, he figured, not quite. “To be able to look her in the eyes and know she didn’t control me anymore, I realized then.” 

The four of them laid together, three former whores and a babe in their arms. The tiny little bundle that was Jonquil began to squirm but Ally rocked her gently. The child soothed after a few moments. The three of them watched her as she settled, eyes heavy with sleep. Satin began to hum a soft melody in the quiet that followed. It was an old song, slow and melodic, a ballad he hadn’t heard in years but remembered the tune well enough. Six Maids in a Pool, the tale of Jonquil and her sisters and Florian the Fool. He looked down at the pudgy face of the babe in Aloisya’s arms and smiled. She really did look just like her mother. Like her mother, he knew, but not her mother. Nor her mother’s mother. Nor her mother before her. By the time his melody ended, a song hummed in time with his sisters’ quiet sniffles, he had tears in his eyes.

It’s done, he thought, and for you, sweetling, it’ll never start. He’d make sure of it. 

_____________

Jeyne’s arm was in his as they mounted the steps up towards the Great Keep’s family wing and back towards his rooms. They’d sat with Ally and her babe for a long time until Cedren had returned home and the fatigue and the exhaustion of giving birth took the last of Aloisya’s energy.  

“Will ‘is Grace come meet the babe?” She’d asked before he left, a tired hopeful smile on her lips. “He ought to see how pretty she is. I named ‘er for ‘im, after all. It’s not every day a man gets a babe named for ‘im, even a king.”  

Satin had laughed. “I’m certain there will be a slew of babies named for his Grace in the coming years. A dozen variations of the name Jon running rampant all over the North.” 

“Sure, but I was the first.” She’d exclaimed. “And ‘e should remember that! Will ‘e come, do you think?” 

“It would be... inappropriate for his Grace to come to your birthing room. But in a few days, when you’re on your feet again, bring Jonquil to my chambers. He can meet her that way. The prince, too, if you like. His Grace can use the conjoining door to slip into my rooms unnoticed.” 

A grin had curled its way across her face at that, a playful gleam shining in her eyes even through her exhaustion. “Oh, I’m sure he can...” She waggled her eyebrows.  

“Oh shut up.” 

He’d said goodnight to her with a roll of his eyes and a kiss on the forehead. Jeyne had decided to walk him to his rooms and bid him farewell there. She seemed lighter as they walked, as though her feet didn’t weigh nearly as much. Her eyes, though red and swollen from her tears did not look so weary as they did before. Her arm in his felt steady, strong, her grip solid and firm without feeling like she clung to him in desperation. This was not fear. This was comfort. The smile on Satin’s face as they walked was an easy one.  

At the door to his chambers, she stopped him as he turned to go. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, searching his face for something.  

“It... is done, right?” She asked quietly, a delicate worry in her voice. “For you, I mean. Is it done? If it is so, I would hear you say it.” 

Satin looked down at Jeyne as her eyes glanced beyond the door to his room, the servant’s quarters that attached to Jon’s, to the entrance to the king’s chambers proper further down the hall. He had never moved rooms when he became a lord even though by rights he should have large apartments of his own in the keep, something befitting the station Jon had seen fit to give him. But the idea of moving there was a bitter one that sat wrong and heavy in his belly. Still, he knew how it looked. And he knew the rumors Jeyne had heard, the things he had admitted to at trial, and the jokes Ally made at their expense. Satin’s expression softened and he offered Jeyne a small smile.  

“It’s done.” 

Jeyne breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods...”  

He found Jon in their chambers after Jeyne left him with a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand. He was sat in his armchair by the fire with a writing desk in his lap as he worked, but he set it aside as soon as Satin slipped in through the inner door. He joined him in his own chair, pulling it up beside him, and told him about the delivery and the babe. Healthy, hearty, and named Jonquil after him. Jon had smiled softly, if a tad uncomfortably, to hear it but he promised to meet her when Satin told him of Ally’s wish.  

“She’ll want you to kiss the babe, you know that right? Isn’t that a thing kings do, kiss babies on the forehead?”  

Jon made a face. “I’m not some holy man. A kiss from me isn’t going to bless the baby or something.”  

“I don’t think she cares about that.” Satin laughed. “It’s the thought of it; a king’s approval of her child. How could a mother want anything less?” Jon shifted slightly in his chair, but Satin gave him a look. “Come now, I did it. Surely you can, too. Would it be so bad?”  

A good-natured sigh came from Jon as he nodded. “Fine.” He grumbled. “If it please you, I’ll kiss the babe.” 

Satin regarded him for a moment and raised a brow. “Not a fan of babies?”  

A frown settled across Jon’s face. “I wouldn’t say that. They’re just... I suppose I feel awkward around them, especially when they cry. I held my siblings after they were born but Lady Stark always said I was doing it wrong and snatched them from me whenever they’d cry or fuss. I figured I was making some mistake or that I just wasn’t good with children until they got a little older.” 

Mentions of Lady Stark were few and far between. In all the time Satin had known Jon, he could count on one hand the times he’d spoken of her. Jon's nose crinkled and brow knitted together every time he did, which was almost never. Satin could hear the faint sharpness in his tone when he said her name, a hint of bitterness he couldn’t quite mask. She had been no mother to him, that Satin knew well enough without Jon needing to say it.  

“Babies cry.” Satin said. “It’s what they do.” Surely, she could not blame you for that. 

“Aye, I suppose.” Jon shrugged and then let out a sound that was almost a huff of laughter. “Father said I was the most miserable babe he’d ever known. I screamed for near two years straight, he said. And then there was Robb; calm and sleeping through the night by the time he arrived in Winterfell. Not me. Father told me once he thought I was ill I cried so much. But Maester Luwin checked me over and over and found nothing. Just a ‘bastard’s temperament’ he called it. I was such a handful, father said, that I went through half a dozen wet-nurses before I mellowed out.” 

“You sound as bad as Rickon.” Satin chuckled and Jon huffed again.  

“He wasn’t that bad as a babe, actually. He had his tantrums and threw his fits from time to time like any but he was a smiley baby. Always wanting to be in a lap or be carried, especially by me. During the feast when King Robert came to Winterfell, before I went to the Wall and father went south, Rickon ran right up to me at the lower tables during the procession. He didn’t care about the rest; he just wanted to sit with me.” A seriousness settled heavily on Jon’s long face. “I spoke with him. While you were gone, like you suggested.” 

“And?” Satin prompted softly, a feeling of relief washing over him when a small smile pulled at Jon’s lips.  

“Do you ever tire of being right? Surely it must be awfully frustrating.” Jon sighed. “He yelled and screamed and tried to bite me but, in the end, he told me the problem. It wasn’t anything to do with him getting hurt or the poison at all, not really, he just really didn’t like that I’d ‘walked with Shaggy’. He said only he’s supposed to do that, that he didn’t like it because it made Shaggydog’s ‘mind feel like it was tied in knots’, whatever that means. I promised him I did not like it much either. Slipping into Shaggy’s mind had felt so... wrong. Viscerally wrong as though my skin was on too tight. It felt wild and savage; nothing at all like warging into Ghost. I hadn’t realized it had upset him so.”  

Rickon and Shaggydog were as close as two creatures could be, Satin knew. Whereas Jon controlled much of he and Ghost’s bond, controlled the exchange of emotions, thoughts, and actions, Satin did not think it was always so in Rickon’s case. They were far more merged, melded, and blended into one where it was not always clear where boy ended and beast began. It was something the Wildling skinchanger who gave them lessons was working on with the prince – control and differentiation – lest he lose himself to the wolf within him.  

As of last week, Jon no longer attended those lessons at the instructor's order. When Jon had told her of what happened between he and Shaggydog, she had thrown her head back and laughed but then froze when she realized he was serious. You took control of another warg’s bonded animal? She'd asked incredulously. And not just any beast, a direwolf of all things... A skinchanger may claim another dead skinchanger’s animal if they’ve power enough, but to take that beast while they’re still alive? To overpower that bond with your will? And by accident at that? Your lessons are done, King Crow. There’s nothing left to teach. You are beyond me. Hells, you must be beyond Varamyr Sixskins. You ought to try more animals. Who knows how many skins you could wear?  

Jon did not seem interested in other skins. Nor did Rickon, who only seemed interested in his beloved Shaggydog. And Satin could not blame him for feeling as though Jon had intruded into something sacred.  

“I imagine you would not much like it if he took control of Ghost.” Satin said after a moment.  

“Aye, he said the same.” Jon nodded. “I told him why I did it and that I didn’t do it lightly. I promised that I wouldn’t do it again so long as he kept Shaggydog under control. I even apologized. It’s oddly humbling, you know, apologizing to a boy of six, but he was right. Shaggy isn’t mine to control. He calmed after a while, tired himself out from his screaming, and asked me to read to him. I just got back not long ago. He made me read it to him twice over.”  

A warm smile came to his face as he pictured the two of them together, Rickon snuggled up on Jon’s lap as Shaggy and Ghost rested on the floor before them. His mind offered him a slew of memories, of Rickon playing at Jon’s feet, sleeping in his arms, and riding his shoulders. He remembered him climbing into their bed and snuggling with them, too, and how Jon had welcomed him. Stiff, he was, but gentle. Reserved, but kind.  

“Awkward with babes you may claim to be, but you are rather good with children.” Satin said softly. 

“Maybe I just feel out of practice.” Jon shrugged. “Not many babes at the Wall other than Gilly’s and Mance’s sons. And the Night’s Watch’s vows are rather explicit about children so... I hadn’t thought I’d ever need the practice either.” 

Satin’s lips pursed and suddenly there was a question on his tongue before he thought to stop it. “Did you... want children? Before the Wall?” He asked delicately. And now, he thought, now that you're free of your vows? Now that you’ll need an heir? 

An odd look settled on Jon’s face. His brows were furrowed like he was frowning but his lips twisted in a strange way. His eyes, as Satin so often found, were unreadable. “I thought I’d given all that up when I took the Black – a son or a daughter of my own. But I admit, it was something I thought on from time to time. Something... I wanted when it was offered to me. Even when I refused it.” 

The Stark name, Satin remembered, and Val to wife. Stannis had offered him those things back at the Wall, Jon had told him once. And that he’d been tempted. Val to wife, he remembered, Val to wife. She can give you a son, he thought, and there was a bitterness in it that he’d not expected. Something I could never do. The thought was a foolish one at best. He couldn’t be Jon’s wife. He was a man.  He couldn’t do as a woman did, couldn’t be one, and he didn’t particularly want to be. He just wanted Jon, to keep him. If he’d been a woman, he could keep him, some traitorous part of his brain told him. Jon could marry him and keep him in return. There would be no need to wed Val. It wouldn’t matter if Satin had been a whore in Oldtown. Who could stop the king from marrying a woman of his choice? Common whore or lady, it wouldn’t matter. A marriage was a marriage and an heir was an heir. Not for the first time, something in the back of his mind told him it would all have been so much simpler if Satin had been born a woman. But we would never have met, he reminded himself. I would have been in a pillowhouse, having the bastards of Southron men I hated, not at the Wall serving Jon and warming his furs. It would not have been so simple, either. When, he supposed, had anything between he and Jon ever been simple?  

“Well…” Satin said slowly, voice feeling tight in his throat. “In spring.”  

Jon’s brow furrowed, pulling down and knitting together tightly. “Aye.” He grumbled. “In spring.”  

May spring take its sweet time coming, Satin thought. Maybe the winter would be long. Maybe Jon could stay his for years and years before Val and babes and the weight of the crown stole Jon from him. Maybe he could have him just a while longer and the cold winds wouldn’t feel so cold.  

“And you?” Jon asked, after a long moment had passed in heavy silence. “Did you ever want children of your own? You are more than good with them. They flock to you, it seems.” 

Satin pushed his errant, foolish thoughts aside and shook his head. “It’s not something I’d ever thought for myself. Certainly not back in Oldtown.” He paused and let himself imagine it. A child of his own in his arms; a son running wild through the halls, laughing and playing pretend with a wooden sword. Or a little daughter with soft hair he could brush through with his fingers, smiling up at him. The image was hazy at best no matter how he thought on it, only sharpening into something recognizable when the boy’s face took on a familiar mix of round cheeks, blue eyes, and auburn curls and the little girl in his arms looked up at him with sweet green eyes and a tuft of coppery brown hair. When he tried to picture a babe of his own, with his own features, his mind came up blank every time.  

“There are enough children in this world in need of love. I don’t need to bring any more into it just for them to be of my own blood.” Satin said after a moment. That traitor in the back of his mind, fool that it was, bid him imagine a child with raven ringlets and grey eyes, but he banished it before the image fully formed. “There are things more important than blood. And to have a child of my blood, I’d have to marry and I’d... prefer not to.” Satin swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Unless I am otherwise ordered.” 

Jon’s eyes cut to him and lingered there. “I shan’t order you to wed.” 

“Then I fear I shall have to remain an unmarried man and be no father to any babe of my own.” He paused, caught on his own words. Of my own, he’d said. It was an important qualifier, he supposed. He drew in a slow breath and sighed it through his nose. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke again. “I feel as though I’ve half-raised half a dozen or more already. I’ve helped pull babes from their mothers and listened to their first cries. I’ve carried them, bathed them, and rocked them to sleep. I watched them when their mothers had clients and I didn’t. I helped teach two to walk and I don’t even know how many I helped go from babbling to talking. There was one girl, Elorna was her name, I was teaching her her letters as best as I was able before I had to leave for Gulltown. She was smart, clever, and sharp; you could see it just looking in her eyes. She’d have surpassed my reading capabilities in no time. And, gods, she was so much better than me at sums then at nine years old. She was just a girl then but so, so smart. She must have gotten it from her father, whoever he was, because her mother was dumb as a post.” Her mother... He remembered her mother with her straw blonde hair and her vacant false smile. Gods, how many children did she have again? Six? Or was it seven? He remembered how dark bags always clung to her eyes and how she always had a too-full glass of the cheapest wine coin could buy in her hand. Satin’s face fell slowly. Elorna had been her youngest girl, and her brightest. “She’d be eleven now...” Satin muttered softly, his voice catching in his throat. “A whore by now, no doubt. There were fifteen children in the pillowhouse when I left. How many of them followed in their mothers’ footsteps, do you think? All the girls, certainly.” 

Jon's long face pulled into a somber frown. “Satin...” He started softly, and had Satin not been so lost in his thoughts, he’d have heard in it an attempt at comfort, but he barely heard him at all.  

“Ally’s girl.” He continued. “Jonquil. If Ally hadn’t come to Winterfell with Mariussa, she’d have been a whore one day. But for her it’ll never start, not like it has for all those other children I helped raise. It’s done before it’s even begun.”  

Jon listened as Satin told him of Jeyne and Aloisya’s tears, how’d they cried and held one another when they realized it was truly, finally, done. Done, he thought to himself. A thousand moments passed his mind of a thousand men and a thousand reaching hands. And now it was simply over. Ended, because he had met Jon. A cycle that had once seemed so insurmountable was history for him now. All because of one man. It was the same for Ally and her babe, who stumbled upon them by chance in Winter Town and met Jon because of it. And Jeyne, too, saved from a life that could only be called torture by the arrival of Jon Snow. When did you realize it was done, Ally had asked him. He tried to think of it, of one singular moment, and his brain supplied him too many all at once. All of a sudden, he felt as if his heart was in his throat. 

“May I tell you something? A confession?” Satin asked quietly. It earned him a curious look in return, but Jon nodded. Satin drew in a shaky breath, stared into the fire before them, and continued. “The first night you took me to steward, back at the Wall... I waited. I sat awake in my bed and waited for your knock at my door, for you to come and take what was yours. Surely, I thought, that was to be the way of things. How could it be any other way? But you didn’t come that night. Or the next. Or the next. I thought maybe you were too tired or working up the nerve... but in all that time I never once thought you weren’t coming. It took me weeks to realize you had no intention of ever knocking on my door.” He could feel Jon’s eyes on him as he spoke, that familiar tingling on his neck. He’d felt it from that very first day, when Jon had watched him work in his solar with those unreadable eyes that had once felt so unfamiliar to him. He still often could not read them, but they no longer disquieted him. He knew the man behind the unreadable eyes now, in ways he’d never known a man before. And Satin had known a great many men. “And then you invited me into your bed for the first time... and I thought ‘Oh. Here it is. It’s now.’ I was so sure. Beyond sure, even. I’d have wagered any amount of money that you would have had me that night. And you still just didn’t. I offered. I offered, Jon, I offered. You could have... You had every opportunity to have me as you pleased. I wouldn’t have stopped you. If you had... if you had reached for me, if you’d tried, I’d have let you.” 

He finally managed to tear his gaze from the fire and raise his eyes to meet Jon’s. They were watching him closely, intensity and inscrutability dancing together in his grey eyes. Grey like the winter sky, he thought, grey like steel. He watched the lump in Jon’s throat bob as he swallowed. “...I know.” He finally said, his voice thick with something Satin couldn’t quite place.  

“Then why?” He asked. “Why didn’t you?” 

Jon regarded him for a long time, eyes darting across his face as if studying him. Satin watched him think and it seemed to him that a thousand tiny expressions flickered across his face for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds. He didn’t say the easy answer, the simple lie. I didn’t desire it, he could have said. I didn’t reach for you because I didn’t want you. That would have been the simple thing to say. Instead, Jon breathed slowly through his nose, brow furrowing as he seemed to come to only one conclusion. “I don’t know.” He admitted. “It... it would have been wrong.” 

Satin's chest felt as though it had never been tighter, like he had to force each breath to fill his lungs. “Thank you...” He whispered and Jon’s lips twitched at that.  

“You’re not—” Jon paused, seemed to think, and then continued. “That’s not what you are to me.”  

“I know.” Satin said, because he did. He did know. The fact that he knew almost made him laugh. “It’s done.” He whispered aloud, more to himself than to Jon. Done. Done, done, done, done, done.  

“Aye, Satin.” Jon assured him. “It’s done.” 

“Gods...” He murmured. “I know it’s done. I know it and have known it. I remember the moment I truly knew it, realized I knew it. But I keep realizing it again, and again, and again. I think I’ll still be realizing it for the rest of my life. Moment to moment, a thousand realizations until I’m old and grey.”  

“If I may ask,” Jon began carefully. “when did you realize it?”  

Satin paused and eyed Jon for a moment. They’d never spoke of what happened, never said it aloud. It was just another of those things they didn’t speak about. The touches they shared, the kiss he’d stolen from Jon in the ice cells, the liberties they took in their closeness but always under the guise of something else. There were things they just didn’t mention and it kept their delicate balance. “It was the night we reclaimed Winterfell...” Satin finally said, because it was the truth and Jon had asked for it. “...When you were in search of comfort. When I said no and you didn’t keep going. When you let me say no. I knew then it was done. Truly, irrevocably done.” 

A stiffness passed over Jon with each word. Satin watched his face tighten and screw up into a deep frown as he stood from his chair. He crossed the room to the window, cracked the shutter open and looked down into the courtyard below as if he was suddenly interested in its stonework and the torch sconces that lined its walls. Don’t run, Satin had said the morning after it had happened and he had covered him in kisses everywhere but his lips. Still, even now, Jon wanted to run from it. Even if only to the window. The empty space in the chair beside him felt like a heavy presence in and of itself.  

“I’m sorry.” Jon said tightly, flexing and unflexing the fingers of his burned hand. 

“I’m not.” 

Jon pursed his lips in a shame Satin did not want to see on his face. “I think often of that night.” He confessed like he’d committed some grievous crime. “That I dared to... I was not myself but that is no excuse to...” 

To what? To seek what little comfort you could when your world had collapsed around you? To what? Accept my refusal and stay at my side even so? To what? Make me fall in love with you? “I don’t regret that night.” Satin said softly. “Not a moment of it.” Down to each kiss I gave you, I don’t regret any of it. “And don’t you remember, Jon, that I forgave you already? Wholly and fully.” 

“Aye...” He said slowly. “But I have not forgiven myself.”  

Oh, my silly, silly love, Satin thought, you are not the kind of man to forgive yourself anything. “May I come closer?” 

Jon almost flinched and turned back to face him, brow furrowing in confusion. “...What?” 

“Might I come closer to you?” He repeated simply. “I’d quite like it if you held me. Would you?” 

Jon blinked at him, as if his mind was trying to grasp his meaning. It wasn't something Satin ever asked for with words, to be held, it was only something that happened. An unspoken action between them. Tonight, Satin asked for it aloud. Slowly, Jon nodded and Satin rose from his chair. He met him by the window and slid the shutter back into place, closing off their room to Winterfell, the world, and any prying eye in the courtyard. He stepped in and rested his head gently against Jon’s shoulder. His warmth spread through him quickly and he could not hold back the sigh that came to his lips. Jon’s arms slowly snaked around him, pulling into the embrace he’d asked for.  

“Like this?” Jon asked. 

“Mmmm...” Satin hummed into his shoulder, his own hands finding purchase on Jon’s upper back. It was what he wanted, what he needed. He released a slow breath. It was like a balm against all the emotions of the day, being in Jon’s arms – grounding and reassuring and welcoming. They were quiet for a time, simply breathing against one another. Satin could feel each inhale and exhale of Jon's chest against his, could feel the warmth of each of his fingers pressed to his back. No man but Jon had ever held him like this. Gently and sweet and without ulterior motive. He didn’t need to be surprised anymore that Jon’s hands didn’t wander from his back down lower to grope at his ass or think Jon was going to use their closeness to grind against him. Such things didn’t even need to cross his mind anymore. Jon’s hands on him were welcome and wanted, and oh so warm. Oh, he thought and it was somehow yet another realization. “It’s done.” He mumbled, the words almost lost to the thick fabric of Jon’s tunic but he seemed to hear them. “Gods, it’s over...” 

The hands around his waist tightened and pulled him closer. “It is.” Jon promised him and Satin could do nothing but believe him.  

“Every other man’s hands make me feel so sick now...” Satin confessed breathily, the words tumbling from his lips without thought. “I made Orland put his hand on my thigh so one of Littlefinger’s maids could see and I nearly retched. I can still feel Whoresbane’s hand on my neck if I let myself think about it too much. Even just Maester Dallin tending my wounds... He’s completely professional and still I can’t stand it anymore. Every other man’s hands... feel so wrong now. I cannot bear to be touched by anyone else.” 

Jon tensed against him. Satin felt his fingers flex and falter where they rested on his back as if they were suddenly unsure. Where only moments ago they had pressed to him steady and firm, Jon’s hands seemed to flinch away slightly, return, and then flinch away again. To pull away from him, Satin realized but that was the last thing he wanted. He caught Jon’s hands with his own as they moved and slowly rested them back on his sides, pressing them gently but firmly against him with his palms. “Other men’s hands.” Satin repeated and gave the hands at his waist a delicate squeeze. “Never yours, Jon. Not even once.” 

Satin felt him swallow where his head was pressed to the crook of Jon’s neck. His hands settled and once more found their way to where they belonged. Instead of pulling away, they returned to Satin’s back. At first to the small area between his shoulder blades that Jon had always permitted himself. “Is this okay...?” He asked quietly and Satin nodded. His hands traveled down, dragging along the length of his spine and up again to the nape of his neck in a familiar pattern. “Still okay?” Satin nodded again. Jon’s grip was firmer now, hands cupping his skin more fully and running down along the full length of his back well beyond what Jon had ever allowed himself. His hands explored each angle and curve Satin’s back had to offer; they cupped the sides of his hips and moved up his ribs, dragging the soft fabric of his tunic along with each stroke. Vaguely, Satin wished the barrier between them was gone and it was Jon’s skin on his for true. “And now?” Jon whispered into his ear. Satin shivered and nodded again.  

He wasn’t sure how long they passed like that, stood together by the hearth with Jon’s hands dragging across his back, up along his hips and sides, and down the lengths of his arms. It very well could have been hours as he basked in it, in the simple ecstasy of being touched by the right man and the right hands and knowing there would be no other anymore. His eyes fell shut as he felt Jon’s hot breath on his neck. It seemed to warm him to his very core. At last, something in his mind told him, at last... He smiled against Jon’s shoulder.  

“Tell me again.” Satin implored in a voice that was barely even a whisper.  

“It’s over.” Jon promised into his skin. “It’s done.”  

“Gods, Jon...”  

“I’ll tell you as many time as you need until you believe it.” He said like a solemn vow. “No one will ever touch you like that again.”  

“Like that?” Satin echoed slowly.  

“Against your will.”  

There was a fierceness in Jon’s voice that made his chest ache. “And if it was my will?” Satin whispered. “To be touched like this until morning comes?” 

Jon pulled away just enough to look down at him. His eyes flicked across Satin's face, searching his expression for something. Whatever it was he was looking for, Jon seemed to find it because he gave Satin a small smile – the private one Jon saved only for when they were alone. Closed-lipped and soft. Gentle. Fond. Sweet. “If it was your will,” He said slowly. “I would not deny you.”  

He guided Satin the few steps backwards needed to reach the edge of the bed, helped him undress down to his undertunic and smallclothes, and laid him down. He pulled the canopy curtains tight around their bed, deadening any stray sounds from beyond their chamber door and making it feel as though they were the only two men in all of Winterfell or Westeros or the world as he took Satin into his arms. Jon held him close, pressing them chest to chest.  

His hands rested heavily on Satin’s back and they did not leave him the whole night through.