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Satin rose from the chair beside the fire when he heard the door to he and Jon’s shared chambers creek open and turned to see Jon slipping in. The door closed behind him with a quiet latching, and he watched Jon stand there, still and unmoving for a long lingering breath. Satin gave him time and a moment to steady himself, to process, to let it all sink in. He needs it, Satin thought, after the day he’s had. He came around to stand in the center of the room and waited. He heard Jon bring in a deep breath, then he turned to face him.
“Satin...” He said slowly, his voice distant and almost awestruck in a way Satin had never quite heard from Jon before.
He offered Jon a soft, kind smile. His voice was gentle when he asked: “How are you feeling?”
Jon thought about his question, really thought about it as though he had not even considered that yet, and Satin watched his brow furrow as half a dozen small expressions crossed his face. That raw awe returned again, grey eyes wide and almost shining in the hearth’s firelight. “...I have a brother...” Jon whispered. “I... have a brother.” His face broke into a smile as he repeated himself with more conviction and surety, disbelief fading away at long last as a burst of a harsh bubbling laughter fell from his lips. “Gods, Satin! I have a brother!”
Jon crossed the room with long quick strides, scooped Satin up into his arms, and spun him around as he laughed with giddy delight. He laughed, really truly laughed, like a boy and not a king, a boy as free and wild as any. Satin’s stomach flipped as he hung on to Jon’s shoulders for dear life and let himself be swung and turned about madly until he was dizzy. Jon’s cheer was infectious, hearty, and full, and Satin’s own laughter joined his in chorus.
Jon had a brother, a living, breathing brother. They had been in the council room this afternoon, in a meeting with various Northern lords, when the door had opened and a man Satin had never seen before entered flanked by half a dozen wide eyed Stark guards. He was a slight man, neither tall nor short, with plain weathered features and a graying scraggly beard. It was not the man who was of interest however but the boy he carried in his arms. A tiny little thing he was, in loose ill-fitting furs and leathers and wrapped in a cloak emblazoned with an onion on the flag of a ship, with his auburn hair and bright blue eyes. Jon had stilled, looked at the boy, and stood. Satin remembered the silence in the room. It had been a heavy one, thick with uncertainty and pause as Jon studied the boy. If Jon had not been sure of the boy’s identity after so many years apart, the massive direwolf that trailed ominously behind the Southron knight with its thick black fur and shining green eyes alight with suspicious alertness would have washed away any doubt. Jon rose so abruptly, so forcefully, that his chair had toppled back and clattered loudly along the stone floor.
“Rickon?” He asked in quiet disbelief, voice tight with a restrained hope Satin’s heart had ached to hear, and the boy had clambered so aggressively out of Ser Davos Seaworth’s arms that the knight had nearly tumbled over as Rickon kicked and shoved to get himself to the ground. They met in the middle as Jon fell to one knee and pulled the tiny wisp of a boy into his arms. Jon did not cry or weep with joy like the boy did as he scrambled up Jon’s body to get impossibly closer and clung to him with ferocity. Jon had managed not to let his tears fall, there were too many eyes staring at them – Lord Glover, the Greatjon and multiple Umbers, and Lord Flint among them – that Jon could not have allowed himself to cry. He was a king, and a king did not cry. But Satin saw his back spasm and shake for a moment as Jon took in a shuddering breath and saw that his grey eyes were filled with emotion, misty and glistening in the light pouring in from the windows, when he pulled away to hold little Rickon’s face in his hands.
Satin’s shock had left him speechless, along with almost all the other men gathered in the council chambers, but he had stared down at the newly found Stark prince with a mouth hung open until a smile had replaced it. He smiled until his cheeks and jaw ached from it. You aren’t alone anymore, Satin had thought as his heart swelled to see brother hugging brother, another wolf has come home.
Ghost, as he oft did, did as Jon did and so approached his own long-lost brother. The white wolf greeted the black with slow hesitant sniffs, circling one another cautiously as they refamiliarized with one another. And then, out of nowhere, Ghost jerked down low, head coming to the floor and hind quarters raised in something akin to a bow. He jumped back up, bounced on the spot in a burst of manic excitement, and pounced on his brother as they rolled to the stone floor together again at last. Shaggydog was a loud thing, squealing and keening and howling with each lick and nuzzle they gave one another. Ghost was silent as always, but he didn’t need noise to express his joy. His panting lolling tongue, wide shining red eyes, and eager tail did that for him.
Brothers reunited. Direwolves in name and direwolves in form both. Satin had to subtly wipe his tears away with the edge of his sleeve.
Rickon had been only three last time Jon had seen him and so must have been six now, but he was small as though barely any time had passed at all. He was scrawny and frail like he was little more than skin and bones, his curly auburn hair wiry and matted in massive wild clumps atop his head, and he seemed to be missing a few of his baby teeth. He was a wild thing, Satin came to know. Wild and feisty, scared and quick-tempered, and, above all, confused.
Father, Rickon had called Jon when the embrace ended and despite Jon’s insistence that he was his brother – Jon, he said, I’m Jon, you remember me. We used to play and you'd chase me around the courtyard and ride on my shoulders. You remember, you must – and that their father was gone, Rickon did not seem to understand. He only looked up at Jon, with his dark Northern complexion, deep brown hair, and tired grey eyes, and called him father. Jon corrected him each time, softly, but it was no help. Even so, Rickon clung to Jon the whole day through, and Jon had not thought to stop him. Jon went about the rest of his day with little Rickon either clinging to his trouser leg with each step, playing with Shaggydog and Ghost at his feet, or being carried in his arms with the boy's tiny tear-streaked face buried in his neck. Jon had not complained once, had not seemed even the slightest bit inconvenienced, as the echo of a faint smile never quite left his face until the sun went down.
When night had fallen and a maidservant tried to take the exhausted and half-asleep Rickon away for bedtime, things had gone rather poorly. He wanted father, he screamed, mother too. Robb and Sansa and Arya. Where was Bran he asked, Jon too. Greywind and Summer, Lady and Nymeria, all of them. His wolf pack, he wanted them and he didn’t want to go to bed without them. Satin had watched from along the wall of the corridor as the boy threw his tantrum. Jon too, unsure what to do as he shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Rickon had screamed and cried and more than a few of the servants attempting to wrangle the boy had ended up with bitemarks from the young prince. One maid had been pinned to the floor by Shaggydog, and the woman had sobbed in terror as the direwolf growled at her and drooled viscously down onto her face. Jon had been forced to step in then and took Rickon back into his arms to shush and soothe him. Shaggydog had obeyed when Jon ordered him off the maid sharply, but whether that was because Rickon had calmed enough for the beast to calm too or because Shaggydog was willing to listen to Jon on his own was unclear. He dismissed the servants and watched them go.
“You may be dismissed for the night as well, Satin. I shall see Rickon to bed myself.”
The prince in his arms seemed to slump and relax with Jon’s words, wrapping himself tightly about his neck and holding on as if for dear life. Jon gently readjusted Rickon’s clinging hand from his throat to better be able to breathe.
“Tired...” The little boy whined.
“I know.” Jon soothed. “Come, brother, let’s go. Say goodnight to Satin.”
Rickon blinked drowsily, as if realizing someone other than Jon was there at all. Bleary blue eyes looked up at him, seeming to focus in on Satin for the first time since the boy had arrived in Winterfell. His little face was red and splotchy as he wiped snot from his nose with the back of his hand. He looked to Jon with a wide-eyed and suddenly shy expression, searching for reassurance. Jon gave him an encouraging nod and Rickon turned back to Satin with a lazy flicking of his fingers in something barely reminiscent of a wave. “G’night...”
Satin gave the child a sweet smile and looked at the two of them together. Rickon had none of Jon’s coloring. He had the Tully look, Jon had told him once, like Robb, Bran, and Sansa. But there was something of the Starks about him too, Satin thought. His face was long and his nose prominent. Satin wouldn’t be surprised if he looked quite a bit like Jon one day, coloring aside. He gave Rickon a deep rolling bow with a playful swirl of his hand. “Goodnight, little prince.”
Jon gave him a small smile and turned to take Rickon to bed. Satin heard him promising the small twig of a boy in his arms as he walked down the long stone corridor that Rickon would not be alone, that Jon would stay with him as he went to sleep. The boy had sighed deeply to hear the words, as if he could finally breathe again after his fits of screaming. Satin watched them go with Shaggydog trailing behind them like a shadow until they turned a corner, then saw himself back to their rooms. Well more than an hour had passed before Jon had finally returned to their chambers to sweep him off his feet and up into his arms with a burst of unadulterated joy.
“A brother!” He shouted as he spun them through the room, blurring the world around Satin as his head swam in time with each turn about the room. “My brother is alive!”
He had never seen Jon this happy. Pure exuberance and elation seemed to almost roll off of him in waves. It was an infectious joy and Satin’s heart pounded in his chest with his own excitement. He wrapped his arms around Jon’s shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly as they twirled across their room. He looked young again and free. How he ought to look, Satin thought, how he deserves to look more often.
Another spin came and Jon’s footing faltered. Jon tried to right himself despite carrying Satin’s weight and stumbled with a bark of laughter. He did his best to catch them, but Satin saw by the widening of his eyes that Jon had realized he wouldn’t be able to. That, or he didn’t particularly care to. Jon staggered and moved them a few quick steps forward and allowed them to tumble into the bed with a loud oof as the air was knocked out of them. Neither cared. Jon’s weight atop him was solid as Jon steadied himself through breathless laughs. It was nice, Satin decided, so he simply readjusted himself back up against the pillows and brought a hand to the nape of Jon’s neck to lead him to rest against him. Jon did so, strewn loosely half atop him with his chin pressed to his sternum as Satin gentled his fingers along the line of Jon’s shoulder blade. Jon was still smiling brightly, breathless and grinning with a happiness so wide and all-encompassing that Satin was sure his cheeks must have ached. Occasional little chuckles would spill from him, as if there were small bubbles of cheerfulness that could not be contained within him. Jon seemed to bask almost mindlessly in the joy of it all, a brother come home, a moment’s peace amidst war and winter, a light in a world so often plagued by darkness.
Satin looked down at him with a warm fondness bubbling in his chest. Without thought, his hands came to find Jon’s cheeks and cup them in his palms. His thumb felt the rough drag of the day’s stubble as it moved across his jaw, abrasive and yet almost hypnotically calming all at once.
“Joy looks good on you.” The words slipped from him before he could care enough to stop them.
Jon blinked, his laughter slowly trailing off into something soft and quiet. “Does it?”
“It does.”
“It feels good.” Jon admitted “Joy.” He closed his eyes then and rested against Satin for a time, breathing slowly. His face was almost slack, not nearly as tight and pursed as Satin usually saw him. He could feel Jon’s lazy smile through the cheeks he held in his palms. Relaxed, he looked, at ease. It made Satin smile to himself. After a long moment's silence, Jon’s voice sounded again. “I like this way, too.”
“Mm?” Satin prompted, unsure of his meaning.
“Like this.” Jon repeated, and flicked a lazy hand between them as he let more of the weight of his head rest on Satin.
That was all it took for him to understand. He hadn’t held Jon to his chest like this before. In the year they’d shared furs and a bed, it was always the other way around, always Jon on his back, always Satin’s head on his chest. But tonight, it was Satin who played the part of the pillow. This is nice, he thought contentedly. The weight of Jon there was steadying and the heat that poured off of him was comforting as it seeped into every inch of Satin’s body. “Me too.”
“Would you...” Jon began sheepishly after a moment had passed. “That thing you did at the Dreadfort. Would you do that again?”
Satin recalled their short time in the Dreadfort and could not think of anything particularly special or different that had passed between them. He had held him, when Jon had become king and had sought comfort, but Satin was holding him now and that didn’t seem to be what he was asking for. “You’ll have to elaborate. What thing?”
“That thing.” Jon mumbled halfheartedly, and Satin saw the tips of his ears starting to redden as his lips pulled into an abashed frown. “With— with your fingers. You know.”
He chewed his lip in thought but came up with nothing. “Sorry, Jon,” Satin said with a light chuckle. “I really don’t.”
Jon huffed and Satin could see the redness moving down his face to his cheeks. His face scrunched up as if he were debating taking it all back before he finally grumbled. “...My hair.”
“Ah!” Satin exclaimed and remembered. It would be my pleasure, he thought with a soft smile as a heavy warmth and affection swirled deep in his chest. Come, love, let me make you feel good. He brought his hands to the top of Jon’s head where it rested upon his chest and gently scraped his fingernails through the strands of his lovely white and grey streaked hair. He massaged Jon's scalp deeply, carding his long, well-manicured nails through his hair and scratching at the sensitive skin there. Jon relaxed against him with a heavy appreciative sigh that Satin echoed with a dreamy little sound of his own. He felt as comforted by the repetitive movement as it seemed Jon did. It was a simple and easy motion, lazy almost, but it was what Jon wanted and it seemed, what he had asked for. Asked for, Satin realized, and the idea that Jon wanted something and had asked for it filled his chest with another surge of warmth.
Silence passed them by comfortably. The dim light of the flickering candles and the hearth cast a faint orange glow across each surface in the room. The world was quiet as Winterfell slept peacefully around them. And Jon was happier than Satin had ever seen him, content to lounge in quiet rest with him, relaxed and breathing easily. Jon had a brother, a rambunctious and wild little thing, alive and well despite having been believed to be dead. He wasn’t a Stark all alone in the world anymore.
“Tell me of Rickon, of the before.” Satin said quietly, though Jon had passed hours at his side before in days gone by doing just that. Jon smiled softly against him and did as he was bid.
_____________
Satin had always considered himself good with children. He had grown up in a whorehouse and whores were notorious for having heaps of children. For women in the business, it was simply a consequence of the job. As a young boy, he had been one of at least a dozen children in the pillowhouse at any given time. And as he had grown older and his friends had started becoming mothers, he’d started helping care for their babes on occasion. He liked when they had chubby little cheeks and starry-eyed expressions, when they laughed at a silly face he made, or when they babbled back incoherently when he spoke to them. But he also liked being able to hand them back to their mothers when they cried and make a quick exit. But children had always liked him, so he thought, at least the babes of his pillowhouse sisters always had. And he’d bounce them on his knee and tickle them until they squealed. Rickon Stark, however, was not one of those children. And Satin had a feeling he did not much like him. Mostly, Satin figured with time, Rickon did not much like anyone who wasn’t Jon.
Rickon was a clingy little thing. But Satin supposed he could not blame him, after all that had happened. Ser Davos and the wildling woman he’d brought with him had told them enough of the harshness of Skagos and the wilderness he had spent the last three years enduring despite his youth until Lord Manderly had apparently sent Ser Davos to fetch him. He’d spent so long with only Shaggydog and the woman, with his family lost for reasons his young mind could not understand, that Satin supposed it was only natural that now that he had a family again, he would be adamant not to let them slip through his fingers. Rickon did not ever, ever , want to be apart from Jon. He followed him around like Jon’s own shadow. Another shadow, Satin supposed. For now, with Ghost at his heels, Satin by his side, Rickon clinging to his leg, and Shaggydog prowling behind, Jon had become a man of many shadows.
Jon did his best with the rowdy, half-feral little boy that seemed determined to somehow climb into his skin. He carried him around the castle and even let him ride on Ghost. It didn’t seem to do much. Rickon wanted to be in the council meetings. He wanted to eat all his meals with him, for Jon to sleep in his room with him, and above all, he wanted constant unwavering attention. But Jon only had so much time. He was a king in the midst of winter and war. He had too much to do to play knights with a little boy at all hours of the day. So, he’d be forced to say no to him. That was where the problems started. The princeling was prone to flashes of anger and explosive bursts when he did not get his way. And, all of Winterfell had come to learn, Rickon Stark had a habit of biting. The revelation had caused Jon to more than double the pay of the maidservants and nannies assigned to the young prince.
Those poor women had their hands full, and Satin often found them chasing after the little prince as he careened through the halls as fast as an arrow shot from a bow or trying in vain to wrangle him from a tree. Shaggydog’s massive intimidating appearance was not helpful in this, as the dark formidable presence of the irritable black wolf kept the nannies from just grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off to wherever he decided he didn’t want to go this time. To his bath, to his lessons, to his naptime. Jon made sure these women were paid well but no one could be paid enough to risk being disemboweled by a direwolf for touching its master.
At first, Rickon mostly ignored Satin; in fact, he ignored most anyone who wasn’t Jon. On the rare occasions Rickon did look at him, if Jon prompted him to say goodnight or if Satin directly addressed him, he rarely got more than a glance or a few huffed words before the prince was toddling off somewhere with his wolf or hiding behind Jon’s cloak. Satin was good at children, he told himself, so he had hoped to win the little prince over. He brought him a sweet once and offered it to him with a smile, but Rickon had only looked at it suspiciously and shook his head. Satin left it on the table for him and found it gone next time he had returned.
It was only a few days after Rickon’s arrival that the little prince had nearly knocked Satin to the ground as he took a corner too quickly and slammed directly into him. He had been running errands for Jon, Ghost trailing lazily behind him, when it happened and Rickon, it seemed, was running away from his nanny with Shaggydog at his heels. The force of the boy slamming into him had nearly knocked him to the floor, and he had scrambled to catch himself and Rickon, to stop them from tumbling.
“I’m sorry, my pr—” He had begun to say as he took the boy by the shoulder to steady them both, just barely managing to keep them upright.
Little Rickon’s temper flared instantly. He lurched, twisting his head to try and bite at Satin’s hand but the angle caused him to miss. “Get off!” He shouted and shoved Satin in the belly with a surprising amount of force for a child so small.
Satin pulled his hand from the young prince’s shoulder and moved to step back, to offer an apology, but had not even made the first motion before Shaggydog had pounced forward, fast as a dark whirlwind, and snapped at Satin’s hand with his massive drooling maw. He only barely managed to yank his hand away in time to avoid losing a limb to the long dirty jaws of the big black beast as he staggered backwards. It had been a close call, he realized with a dawning sense of fear. He had felt the direwolf’s spittle spray across his flesh, his hot rank breath on his fingers, and the sharp razor-like graze of his front canine along the back of his hand. Satin didn’t need to look down to know it had broken the skin there as he felt the first rush of fresh hot blood begin to spill down the length of his fingers and drip to the floor. He had yet to even register the pain of the cut yet but the fear that surged through him made him gasp. It was time to run, he decided, but did not have time to turn and flee before a massive blur of white overtook his vision.
Ghost was on Shaggydog in an instant, pinning his little brother to the ground with his massive paws. He put the smaller direwolf on his back, snarling silently and baring his own sharp teeth down at his brother. Shaggydog snarled back at him, howling and growling wildly, anger burning like an inferno in his fiery green eyes. There was only ice in Ghost’s blood red ones. Shaggydog snapped at him with his jaws and Ghost returned the bites with his own. It was a violent display as two colossal direwolves fought before them in the narrow corridor. A dangerous thing to be next to, Satin realized, but it wasn’t himself he was concerned for. Rickon was right next to the wolves, watching them seemingly unphased by the violence before him, as if he were no stranger to it. A swipe of Shaggydog’s large paw missed Ghost’s muzzle and went wide, just barely not connecting with Rickon in the wild force of the blow. Satin ran, foolish as it might have been, closer to the brawling direwolves and grabbed the boy under the armpits with his bloodied hands. He pulled the boy away and staggered back, holding Rickon behind him to keep another barrier between the prince and the fight.
“Ghost!” Satin called after a particularly nasty bite had sent Shaggydog squealing in pain and a moment’s panic filled him that this was going to end very badly and very bloodily. Shaggydog was a vicious thing, untamed and half-feral. But was a Stark direwolf, Rickon’s direwolf, and Satin didn’t want him to die.
But neither beast was drawing blood, Satin realized with relief as he watched them fight, each snap of their jaws not quite piercing the other’s thick hide. It was a battle for dominance as they surged against one another viciously, drool and spittle and the loud thuds of them slamming into each other filling the echoing corridor. Shaggydog was all fire and rage, but Ghost was bigger, stronger, and it wasn’t long until Ghost had him pinned with his jaws at his little black brother’s throat. Shaggydog was forced to go limp beneath him and, at last, surrender.
Stillness came to the corridor. Satin regained his breath as his heart pounded in his chest. He kept a protective hand on Rickon’s arm as the boy watched on with a strange look on his face. For once, it wasn’t anger or some wailing sorrow as he cried. It was something else entirely, something Satin couldn’t quite place. But his furrowed brow and thin pressed lips reminded him of Jon.
Eventually, Ghost pulled off his brother and Shaggydog rose to stand once more, shaking off. The black beast eyed Satin for a moment, warily and still unsure, but Ghost bared his teeth again. Shaggydog’s tail sunk between his legs and his head slumped in defeat. Rickon untangled himself from Satin’s grasp and threw his arms around the black direwolf’s snout. After a moment’s nuzzling, the two wandered off down the hall without word and Satin let them go.
Ghost padded over to him and pressed his muzzle to Satin’s bloodied hand, licking away the crimson with a gentle, careful tongue. Satin glanced down at the wound. It was just a cut, he found to his relief, across the top of his hand near the meat of his thumb. It looked worse than it was and bled more than it needed to from the pounding rush of his own heartbeat. Ghost pressed his head into Satin’s belly and nuzzled there, the ice in his eyes having long faded to something soft and sweet. Satin leaned forward to kiss him between the eyes.
“Are you hurt, sweetness?” Satin asked him and checked him over for any signs of injury or pain. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found none. “Thank you, Ghost.” He cooed at the beast. “Once again, you are my knight in shining armor. Come, love, let us see the maester and get this cleaned.”
The next morning, Satin made his way through the long granite corridors of Winterfell once again, Ghost not far behind at his heels, to fetch a book from the library for Jon before an early afternoon meeting. He tensed his left hand against the freshly changed bandages wrapped right around it. He felt clumsy, his clever fingers bound up and useless, but the maester had told him it would heal in but a few days if he kept it clean and covered.
“Your hand.” Jon had said last night in their chambers when he saw the bandages.
Satin held up the gauze covered limb with a shrug. “Shaggydog.” He said simply by way of an explanation. “It’s only a scratch.”
Even so, Jon had bid him sit down so he could unwrap the bandages, only slightly tinted brown and red with a few drops of dried blood from earlier, with slow careful movements. It was unnecessary. The maester was only a call away, the cut not grievous or painful, and the bandages clean enough to last until morning. But Satin did not argue, only smiled and let Jon take a knee at the chair before the fire to delicately clean and apply some salve to the wound. It was a superficial cut, only about two inches long and Satin hoped it wouldn’t scar. He’d made it so much of his life with unblemished soft hands. He hoped he wouldn’t mar them now. Jon inspected the wound once it was clean, his calloused thumb running softly along its edges, and the touch had seemed to Satin so tender, so delicate and warm that his breath had caught in his throat with a hitch.
Jon raised his eyes to meet his. “Pain?” He asked but Satin only swallowed the thick emotion stuck in his throat and shook his head. A moment of relief had crossed Jon’s long face as he set to rebandaging the cut with methodic practiced motions.
Come morning, he had changed them for Satin again, as carefully as he had the night before. Satin flexed his hand against the long thin sheets of linen and thought that a cut from a half-feral direwolf wasn’t so bad if it meant Jon would keep doing that.
He continued his way through the hall, heavy leather-bound tome in hand, and crossed the courtyard to the Great Keep. When he turned the corner there, he found little Rickon and Shaggydog once again. He paused when he saw them, and Ghost wrapped cautiously around him. It was unnecessary, however, it seemed as Rickon simply bounded over to Satin to stand in front of him. The princeling looked up at him with his big blue eyes and cocked his head to the side.
“Ghost likes you!” Rickon said brightly, still panting from running wildly through the halls to evade his nanny and the guards meant to be following him. They were currently nowhere to be seen. “Shaggy said so.”
Satin blinked down in surprise but masked it quickly and gave the boy a hesitant smile. The wolf said so? He thought incredulously. Children and their imaginations. “I’m... glad to hear that, my prince.”
“Mhm! And he said Ghost said you’re off limits. So, now, we aren’t allowed to bite you anymore. So, we won’t! If Ghost likes you, we like you.” Rickon rambled as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “Sorry Shaggy tried to bite you... That wasn’t nice of us.”
“It’s... okay, young prince. Thank you.”
Rickon fiddled with his hands, too much energy building up in him from standing still too long. “You’re Satin, right?” At his nod, the princeling continued with a wide wolfish smile. “Okay! Hi!” He waved eagerly and Satin returned the gesture with his bandaged hand, perhaps a little awkwardly.
The sound of two sets of footsteps, haggard and running, along with panting breaths coming from the hall Rickon had come in through made the prince’s eyes go wide. One set sounded soft, the other clamored with the clanging of metal on metal. Satin recognized it as armor. “Bye!” Rickon shouted and took off at full speed down the hall passed Satin with Shaggydog at his heels. A moment later a breathless guard in Stark livery and one of the prince’s many nannies came hurdling into the corridor. Satin simply pointed in the direction Rickon had gone, and the exhausted pair continued their relentless chase.
Rickon seemed better with him after that. He waved to Satin in the mornings and bid him goodnight without needing prompting from Jon. He even asked to be carried once, as they walked along the walls of Winterfell. Satin had mentioned to Jon, a few steps ahead of them, that the repairs and rebuilding of Winter Town were going well and that multiple cabins had been raised just in the last few weeks alone. Jon looked over the wall down at the bustling town below and saw the smoking chimneys and bustling square. The town looked like it was thriving, even despite winter’s arrival. It made Jon smile.
“Up.” Rickon demanded as he pulled on Satin’s cloak. “Satin, I wanna see.”
Who was Satin to refuse the prince? He chuckled to himself as he reached down and took Rickon into his arms, resting him on one side at his hip. The boy looked out over Winter Town eagerly and Satin pointed out the new constructions to him. He heard a chuckle from Jon and turned to see him watching them, the corners of his lips pulling up softly as he looked on. Satin thought he saw warmth in his grey eyes as he returned the smile over the boy’s messy mop of auburn curls.
_____________
It took a few weeks for Rickon to understand that Jon was his brother and not Eddard Stark. It was a confusion that ran deep, and he had been so young when it all had gone wrong. Jon had looked younger then too, baby faced and barely four-and-ten. Now, he’d grown into a man and his hair was streaked with grey. All the North seemed to agree he was the spit and image of their father. A disoriented child could be forgiven for mistaking one for the other. His confusion was understandable, Satin thought, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less to witness it. One by one, his family had left Winterfell for reasons beyond his understanding. One by one, they had never come back. And then, he too had been taken from his home to endure only gods know what. Poor child, Satin thought often.
Every day little Rickon asked for the other missing or dead Starks. “Where are they, father?” He’d demand petulantly. “I want them! Bring them!” Jon would sigh each time as though the question pained his heart to hear, remind him he wasn’t his father, and tell him they were never coming back.
It was a few weeks after his return, that he finally understood. The five of them were taking a morning walk in the godswood; Jon and Rickon at the front, Satin trailing a few steps behind the brothers with Ghost at his side and Shaggydog not far behind. Rickon seemed to like it here, liking to play between the trees with Shaggydog or sit at Jon’s knee during prayers before the weirwood. This morning, as they came upon the heart tree, Rickon fell quiet and looked up at Jon.
“When’s mother coming home?” He asked with a hint of desperation in his voice.
Jon took a knee beside him and touched his shoulder gently. His brows knit together heavily, long since familiar with this new dance by now but dreading it just as much as the first time. “She’s not coming home, Rickon. Like I told you, she’s gone. She died down South. With Robb and father. I know it’s hard. I know it’s scary. But she’s not coming back. She can’t.”
“I want her!” He stomped his little foot and sent puffs of snow scattering across the mossy cobbles. “Now!”
Jon sighed. “I told you—”
The screaming started then and had gone on for well over ten minutes. Rickon punched and kicked at Jon, who tried his best to steady him and pulled the boy to his chest in a hug. Jon didn’t know what to do when Rickon was like this, he’d confessed to Satin before. He didn’t know how to comfort him, if he ought to scold him or not, or just let him work through it himself. How do you help a child, he asked Satin one evening as they were abed, when everyone he’s ever loved is dead or gone? Satin only sighed. The only way you can, he’d said though he didn’t know how any more than Jon, just be there for him. And love him. He needs that. So, when Rickon fought and screamed and hit Jon in his fits of rage, Jon tried to do just that. This morning, he simply held his brother fast against the onslaught of wrathful kicks and punches.
Shaggydog prowled closer, snarling wetly at Jon in tune with his master’s symphony of rage, but Ghost stepped between them with his hackles raised. The direwolves stood unmoving and unyielding, both stuck in a deadlock waiting for the other to move. The moment had been tense, and in the commotion Rickon had gotten a good bite in on Jon’s arm, but Jon had not pulled away. He only held his little brother tighter. Suddenly, Rickon’s anger melted away to quiet cries as though every drop of rage had been torn from him in an instant. He went limp for a moment and then pulled back to look at Jon.
“I want Robb.” He sobbed, voice small and fragile.
“He’s gone, Rickon. You know that.”
“Bran?”
“Gone, too.”
“Arya...”
“Rickon...” Jon said, brows knitting together in a deep frown. “Not her, either.”
The boy’s chin wobbled. “Sansa then. I want Sansa, too.”
“She’s down south.”
“Well, send a raven for her.” Rickon pleaded with him. “When is she coming home?”
“She’s not.”
“What about Summer and Greywind and Lady and Nymeria?”
“No.” Jon said simply because there was nothing more to be said. It had all long been said.
Rickon was silent for a long time, his chin wobbling and his eyes brimming with tears. Finally, after a long lingering moment filled only with the sounds of the little boy’s sniffling and the wind rustling through the tree branches above, he asked: “Jon?”
“I’m right here.” Jon promised him and finally, finally, Rickon seemed to understand. The boy reached his hands out, grabbing for Jon with clinging searching hands, and Jon brought him into another embrace. The boy cried for a long time, silent hiccupping sobs wracking through his little body, until he had worn himself out to exhaustion and fallen asleep in Jon’s arms.
He rose to his feet with the boy in his arms and looked to Satin. His grey eyes were sad and heavy. Jon was missing his pack too, Satin knew, so he reached out to lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
_____________
Satin darted his hand out and grabbed the dashing Rickon by the arm to swing him up into his own. The boy had been barreling through the corridors, laughing wildly as one of his maids chased him, half dressed in his sleeping clothes and half naked as his name day. The maid, one he recognized as a northern girl named Sofyna, gave him a thankful look as she came to a stop nearby and caught her breath desperately. The sun had almost completely set and the corridor was dim, lit only by candles and torch sconces along the walls. Satin pulled the young boy securely into his arms as he wriggled against him.
“And just where do you think you’re going dressed like that, little prince?”
Rickon pouted. “I don’t want to go to bed! Shaggy and I aren’t done playing. Tell her, Satin! Tell the maid we can keep playing.”
Satin gave a little shake of his head. “You and Shaggy can play again come morning. Maybe your wolf needs some sleep too.”
“No!” Rickon insisted. “Shaggy never tires. He told me.”
“Maybe he did but everyone gets tired sometimes. Come now, my prince, your nanny made your bed all soft and cozy for you. The hearth is burning bright and warm so the room is toasty. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it would be a lovely place to sleep. And Shaggydog can even join you, right? And think about it, the sooner you get some sleep, the sooner you and Shaggy can play. It’s too dark to play right now.”
Still, Rickon only pouted. His blue eyes were bleary and heavy with sleep, but he fought against his own body stubbornly. “Nooo-oo... It’s not too dark yet. We can still see. We’ll be careful.”
Satin only chuckled, glancing over the boy in his arms and to the maidservant waiting a few steps from him. “How about this, hm? You let Sofyna take you to bed and tuck you in, and you can have two desserts tomorrow after supper?”
That seemed to intrigue him, and the little boy chewed his fingers in thought. He screwed his face up in concentration as he came up with his counteroffer. “Double dessert and Jon comes to tuck me in!”
A bubbling laugh fell from his lips. “What a little negotiator you are! Well, here’s the deal, double dessert and I’ll go ask your brother his Grace if he can come say goodnight. Meanwhile, you go nicely with Sofyna. Okay?”
Rickon went willingly as Satin passed him carefully into the maidservant’s arms. She mouthed a quiet thanks to him as she led the half-naked little prince back to his room to finish getting him ready for bed. Satin kept his word and saw himself up the large tower that served as the chambers for the privy council. He let himself into the door and found Jon and Lord Glover discussing something within. It seemed the meeting was wrapping up, as most of the tomes and papers had already been set aside. He bowed to them both.
“Your Grace.” Satin said formally.
“News?” Jon asked, face long and solemn, weary and tired from another long day’s duties.
“Only that your brother, his highness the prince, has requested a goodnight kiss post-haste.”
A small huff of amusement slipped from Jon’s lips as he turned to Lord Glover. “Then you shall have to excuse me, my lord. We have gone late as it is. We shall reconvene come morning.” He rose stiffly from his chair, bowed his head to Lord Glover, and left to tuck his brother in for the night.
Little Rickon had not forgotten Satin’s promise when suppertime came the next day. Dinner was held in the formal dining room that night instead of simply in Jon’s solar or one of the smaller halls as tonight's evening meal also doubled as a council meeting. Jon sat at the head of the table with Rickon in a chair at his right. The Greatjon, Lord Glover, and a handful of other Northern Lords sat around the table as well.
As it was an official meeting, Satin had been expected to attend to aid Jon as was necessary. As the meal started, he took his place along the back wall nearby with the other servants – the cupbearers, Rickon’s nanny, and a handful of guards – to await orders.
“Why are you standing over there?” Rickon blurted out as the first course of barley and pork soup came out, rising to his knees and swiveling in his chair to face Satin, interrupting the Greatjon as he spoke loudly about some tax issue.
Satin blinked as the eyes of the gathered lords cut to him. He tried to be silent in meetings unless Jon otherwise addressed him, but he could not rightfully ignore a question from the king’s brother. “This is my place, my prince.” He whispered politely. “I’m supposed to stand here.”
“That’s stupid.” Rickon said, and hopped down from his chair to come grab Satin by the hand. He pulled him insistently to lead him to the table despite his resistance. “Come sit.”
“My prince—”
“You eat with us all the time. And you don’t stand at the wall then, don’t be stupid!”
Satin did his best not to grimace. He frequently took his supper in Jon’s solar with him, mainly on quiet evenings when Jon was free from meetings. They’d thought little of allowing Rickon to join them at the table. The boy wanted to be near Jon and Satin got to keep their dinners together, a tradition dating back to their first days as lord and steward on the Wall. It had felt a win-win situation. But children had big mouths. Rickon, Satin was coming to learn, especially so. “Well, that’s—” What could he say? Different? A secret? Not to be spoken about in public? He searched for words to save this that wouldn’t cause Rickon to only say more that he shouldn't or to get upset and throw a tantrum. The strength with which the boy was gripping his hand and yanking him forward told Satin that was a very real possibility.
Jon must have seen it too, because he had the grace to intercede. He addressed one of the maids on the Wall with a polite measured smile. “Have another chair brought in, please. And a place setting for my steward.”
The meeting and meal had otherwise gone well. Satin had sat beside Rickon at the prince's insistence and tried in vain to keep the boy from any further interruptions. He felt a few eyes on him from the Northern Lords, Lord Flint and the Greatjon in particular, but he did his best to ignore them as he ate daintily. It wasn’t his place to sit among lords as an equal, to share their table, their meat and mead, but he couldn’t exactly refuse. Eating meals with Jon was simple, familiar by now. It was always a quiet affair; words shared between them flowing easily interspersed with moments of comfortable silence. This was far from that, instead awkward and heavy, but Satin forcibly maintained a pleasant smile as he ate and did his duties when Jon asked.
Midway through the third course, Rickon had seemingly found himself rather bored. He started swaying on his chair, but Jon quickly instructed him to stop. He played with his food too, pushing it around his plate with a pout.
“I want dessert now.” He said loudly. “Two desserts.”
Jon raised an eyebrow, pausing his conversation with the Greatjon for a moment. “I think one is enough.”
“Well, she said I could have double dessert. So, I want two.”
Jon’s brow furrowed. “Who said?”
“She did.”
“Your nanny? Well, I’m telling you just the one.”
Rickon groaned loudly and shook his head. “No, not my nanny.” He turned to point at Satin in the chair beside him. “She promised. We made a deal.”
Satin blinked down at the prince in confusion as understanding very slowly began to dawn on him. Oh, he thought, okay... Interesting. An awkward silence came over the dining table and Satin had a niggling feeling that certain lords in attendance were trying not to snicker with laughter.
“Rickon,” Jon finally said flatly. “Satin is a man. He said, you mean.”
The prince cocked his head to the side, turning to look again at his brother with an expression of pure perplexity on his face. “What?”
“Satin is... a man. You know that, right?”
Rickon’s confusion only deepened. He looked back to Satin with an almost comical expression on his little round face, back to Jon, again to Satin, then stared down at his plate. “I thought...” The boy glanced back at Jon. “I...”
Rickon scooted himself off the chair to stand at his brother’s side, pulling on his shoulder to have him lean down. He whispered something in Jon’s ear, who listened to the boy’s words with a furrowed brow.
“No, Rickon.” Jon shook his head down at the prince, the barest hint of a sour look coming to his face.
The boy whispered something in his ear again. Jon’s eyes widened and he suddenly cleared his throat aggressively. Satin thought he might be covering up a cough.
“No.” Jon’s voice was oddly tight. “He is my steward.”
Rickon pulled away from his ear and scratched at his head. “So, Satin’s not—”
“Eat your supper.” Jon snapped. The sharpness took Satin by surprise; he had yet to hear Jon take such a tone with the boy before. He looked between the two brothers in confusion.
“But I thought—”
“Actually.” Jon said abruptly and cut Rickon off from saying any more words, standing and grabbing the boy under the pits to pull him up in his arms. “I’ve changed my mind. Supper is done. Let’s get dessert. Two of them, even. Come, brother.” Jon threw the little prince over his shoulder and exited the room with long rapid strides, gone in barely more than the blink of an eye.
The gathered lords all watched them go in awkward, unsure silence. No one dared say anything. Whatever it was Rickon had said into the king’s ear, whatever misunderstanding the boy had come to, it didn’t matter. It had been about Satin and that was enough for the minds of the men at the table to begin turning, Satin was sure. Leaving and following after them immediately would look worse, he figured, so he picked at his plate for a few more bites. He lingered hesitantly until he felt he’d waited long enough at the table he knew he was unwelcome at now that Jon and Rickon had gone before excusing himself as well with a polite, if stilted, bow.
He found the king and the prince in Winterfell’s large but mostly empty kitchens. A maid was working in the larder, he saw, and recognized her as his old pillowhouse sister Ally, dressed now in the modest uniform dress of grey wool and a white apron and not the revealing attire of a whore. The swell of her belly could be seen protruding from underneath. She waved to him as he entered, and he could see a sly self-satisfied smirk on her face. He returned the wave with a waggle of his fingers and gave her a questioning look. She only motioned him further into the kitchen to find Jon. He was stood at one of the counters before a large bowl of sweetened cream with candied fruit atop it to his left and a spiced apple tart to his right. Rickon was licking a silver spoon clean with eager enthusiasm.
Satin announced himself with a quiet “Your Grace.”
Jon turned to see him but before he could say anything Rickon pulled the spoon from his mouth with a pop and spoke first. “You look like a girl.”
“Rickon.” Jon scolded but Satin only laughed, coming to join them at the counter.
“Thank you, my prince.” He said flatly.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you look like a girl?”
“Some boys look like girls and some girls look like boys.” Satin explained. “That’s the will of the gods. The gods made me this way.”
“Why?”
Satin sighed through his nose, glancing at Jon with faint amusement. “I don’t know, my prince. Next time we are all in the godswood praying, let’s ask them. But I have a feeling I know what they’ll say.”
Rickon’s eyes widened with intrigue. “What will they say?”
“Nothing at all. Like always.” Satin told him, taking the spoon from his little hand and dipping it into the cream to give the prince another bite. Rickon opened his mouth for it eagerly. “It is not the place of us mortals to know why the gods do things, young prince.”
Rickon sucked the spoon again happily for a moment. “I thought you were a girl.”
So have many, many people, Satin thought. You are not the first and not the last. He gestured down to his clothes, bringing Rickon’s attention to the grey and black doublet he was wearing tonight and the trousers tucked into his knee-high leather boots. “Am I not dressed like a man, my prince.”
“Well, yeah, but sometimes Arya stole Bran’s breeches and wore them when father and mother weren’t looking! So, I thought, you know. Maybe you were like Arya.”
Satin laughed. “It is not so, little prince. I’m just a man.”
Rickon seemed to contemplate his words for a long time, looking Satin over with his wide blue eyes. “You’re really not Jon’s wife?”
“Rickon!” Jon hissed as Satin froze in place. “We talked about this. That was one of the words I explicitly told you not to use when you talk about him.”
“I said not your wife!”
“And I said you can’t use the word at all!”
Satin stared wide-eyed and unmoving between them. Jon looked ready to march back north to the Wall specifically so he could throw himself from it and Rickon looked petulant. Wife, Satin thought, mind moving so fast it was almost blank as he felt his heart pound in his chest, wife... How did you arrive at that conclusion, little prince? He heard the faint sound of a muffled snicker from the other side of the room. Aloisya, he realized, and he turned to shoot her a glare until she scurried from the room as she desperately tried not to laugh.
“Um...” Satin began hesitantly, feeling his cheeks warm. “No, my prince. Why...?”
“Well, you look like a girl and you follow him around all the time. Like mother used to follow father around. That’s what wives do!”
“I see...” Satin said in a strained voice, looking up from the prince to Jon. His ears were red and his lips were pulled into a thin line like he’d just tasted something sour. Satin wasn’t sure he’d ever seen embarrassment quite like this on Jon’s face before. “Well, let me clarify it for you. I am your brother’s steward. Not, uh, not his wife. Do you remember Lady Jeyne’s father? Vayon Poole?” At the boy’s nod, Satin continued. “I do for your brother what he did for your father. I help him.”
Rickon seemed to consider his words again and then shrugged. “Okay!” He held out the spoon to ask for more and Satin numbly took the utensil from his hand, scooped up more cream, and gave it back.
Jon pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I apologize about... him.”
Satin shook his head and made a faint noise in his throat as he released a puff of air. “No, it’s, it’s fine. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
As the three of them stood in the kitchens, Rickon in Jon’s arms eating any and as many sweets as he liked, Satin wondered just how wrong the boy actually was. Jon’s face, flushed with embarrassment he was failing to mask, was stiff and tight. His eyes were adamantly cast away from Satin. Are you imagining me as your wife? He could not help but wonder and something in Jon’s inability to meet his eye told him he was. Have you for some time? Or perhaps did Rickon’s words make you think it only now?
Some traitorous part of Satin deep in the back of his own mind, the Fool or the Whore perhaps, thought unbidden that it wouldn’t be so bad, impossible as it was, to be Jon’s wife.
_____________
Satin roused from sleep slowly, groggily. He was pressed closely to Jon’s chest, held tightly to him with a heavy hand on his back and another across his waist in a tangle of limbs and warmth. It was still dark, he found as his eyes lazily blinked open. The only light in the room came from the dwindling hearth, hooded and dimmed by the thick canopy pulled around their bed.
He felt a dip in the foot of the mattress. Ghost, he figured, readjusting or rolling over so he paid it no mind. The tips of his fingers were cold so he pressed them to Jon’s back, seeking his warmth. The movement came again, closer this time, with a heavier dip in the feather bed.
“Ghost...” He muttered. “Settle, sweetness.”
It wasn’t Ghost. Satin gasped when he glanced down expecting to see a white direwolf and instead saw Rickon slowly crawling his way into the bed, pushing the furs aside. Dread washed over Satin immediately.
“Jon!” He hissed as he shook his shoulder and felt him jolt awake beside him. Jon blinked as his consciousness came back to him and then again as he saw what was happening.
“Rickon...” Jon said slowly, breathing mechanically through his nose as he moved to sit up. Jon knew as well as he did; there was no explaining this away.
Satin’s heart pounded in his chest. Caught, he thought. But he had locked the door, he knew he had, he must have. Satin always locked the door. How Rickon could even have gotten in here, Satin could not understand. He pushed the canopy curtain wrapping around their bed to the side to catch a glimpse of the entryway. In the dim flickering firelight, Satin could see it was still barred. The door to his adjoining room, the servant’s quarters he technically occupied, however was wide open. Satin knew he had not left it that way. That room did have an external door to the corridor, he remembered. He had not even been in there all day and had not double checked its lock before bed. A maid could have come through in the afternoon and left it unlocked on her way out. Caught, he thought, caught again due to another damned unlocked door. He cursed his carelessness.
“Bad dream.” Rickon said, seemingly unbothered by Satin’s presence as he crawled into the newly formed space between he and Jon and wrapped himself up in their furs. He snuggled up against Jon who was still frozen in his surprise. “I was down in the crypt.” The boy murmured. “And there were three of you. Three statues and three tombs. And there were leaves and snow falling down there, too, even though there were no trees and no sky. Ghost and a crow were there. And they were howling and cawing like a song. Robb and Father were there too, but they weren’t singing. Only watching. It made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. It made me scared.”
Jon drew in a deep breath, looking over his brother at Satin. Caught, they both knew. He watched Jon think for a moment, come to some sort of conclusion, and then nod to himself. Satin watched him slowly lay back down, pulling his brother a little closer and patting his back.
“It’s only a dream, Rickon.” He said soothingly. “It’s okay.”
“Jon...” Satin whispered. What are we going to do? He saw us. Tell me what to do. He wanted to say but couldn’t find the words.
Jon motioned with a hand for him to calm and lie back down. He didn’t say anything. It could be discussed later and certainly not in front of the child. Satin did as he bid, reclining back against the pile of pillows, and watched Rickon snuggle sweetly in against his brother as he sought comfort and closeness.
There would be time, he supposed, to talk about what they would do. They would have to tell Rickon something. Maybe they would tell him it was a secret and bribe him with sweets to say nothing. Maybe they could tell him it was for warmth or that it was a normal steward’s duty people weren’t supposed to talk about. Satin wasn’t sure yet. His mind was reeling. The rumors were bad enough. They didn’t need this one coming from the mouth of the prince himself.
Satin laid down next to Jon once more, Rickon laying between them. Ghost rested his head on the edge of the mattress with a contented sigh and Satin could see the hulking shadow of Shaggydog curling up at the foot of the bed in a heap with his brother. Slowly, his heartrate came down from racing to resting as he calmed once more. The bed was warm and comfortable, and the image of young Rickon cuddled up to Jon was sweet. It was hard to worry. Worrying could be left for tomorrow. Tonight, he rested with Jon and the wayward brother come home at last. Tonight, he rested in a den of four direwolves and felt completely safe.