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Part 23 of A Slow Burning Fire, Tended With Care
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2025-07-24
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Flowers for the Night

Summary:

“Speaking of heirs and councils,” Jon started after a moment’s silence. “I would hear your opinion on something.”

“Of course. What are you working on?”

“My will.” He replied simply, motioning to the parchment.

“Your will?” Satin asked, eyes widening.

“Aye. I need one.”

(Satin returns to work with the help of a new face. Jon prepares his will and makes good on his promise to find a way to keep Satin safe more officially. A trip to the Glass Gardens seems a good place to start.)

Notes:

Part 23! Satin returns to work with a little help! And we continue to deal with the fallout of Warm, Safe, and Welcome and Jon's promise to find a way to protect Satin!

A reiteration of my update and notice from last 2 fics: I will be updating every OTHER Monday for at least July and maybe August! Don't worry, I am still VERY much passionate about writing this and have not lost interest! I'm participating in Artfight (artfight.net/~Emalyn-Freya, if there are any other artists reading who wanna fight me 👀) this July so I won't be able to spend my every free moment writing these like I usually do as I will have to spend at least some of it drawing. And then taking it easy the first bit of August to recover from Artfight lol

Enjoy some fluff and a lil bit of flirting, some Tenderness and Yearning, a healthy dose of PLOT, a new face and some familiar ones, and Jon doubling down on Satin's place in Winterfell!

This one was supposed to go up next Monday but I was so excited for this one I just blew through it so it's a little early! Heck yeah!

ALSO between this series and the 2 non-series canon smut fics, I have officially written and posted over 200,000 words of JonSatin since MARCH! 🥳 That's..... WILD! ehehehe And lots more still to come ^.^

If you catch any grammar/spelling errors, feel free to let me know! I tried to catch them all but I am only one woman!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Jon was at his writing desk tonight, hunched over a long scroll of parchment with a quill between his fingers. Satin listened to the almost hypnotic scrapping of each carefully drawn letter, the drag of the pen, and the clicking as Jon dabbed it back into the inkwell when it needed refreshing. Beside him, Satin pruned the flowers he’d placed in a small vase on the desk with his good hand. “To freshen up the room.” He’d told Jon with a shrug when he’d raised a questioning eyebrow. It was a simple collection of blooms; a few white peonies mixed with lavender and iris. The old master gardener Malryk had given them to him that afternoon as he passed the glass gardens, flagging him down with a swing of his cane and a call of ‘my boy’. Cuttings, he’d told Satin, to inspire new growth, and better enjoyed by someone than thrown away. Satin had accepted them with a smile and a bow. They were nice, after all. Jon didn’t seem a man who much cared for flowers, but a pretty thing was a pretty thing, so their presence couldn’t hurt.  

“Where’d you get those?” Jon asked, glancing up from his mass of parchment and ink. They were different from the ones Malryk had brought him during his recovery. Those had long since wilted over the week that had passed. These were new and fresh, of a vibrant color and strong smelling with a sweet scent. 

“The glass gardens.” Satin answered, fiddling with the petals until they sat prim and plump. “Malryk gave them to me.”  

Jon made a sound in his throat, tapping the metal tip of his quill on the desk a few times. “Malryk is giving you flowers? That’s twice now.” 

Something in Jon’s tone made him laugh. There was a flatness to it and a vague feigned casual curiosity. Satin turned to face him and leaned against the desk with his hip, looking down at his long sullen features with a smile on his lips. “Jon,” he said with amusement. “oh, please, he’s nearly seventy. He’s a lonely old man I take tea with sometimes. You do not need to be worrying about him.”  

Jon made a sour face. “I’m not worrying. I’m just asking.” He grumbled but it only made Satin chuckle again.  

“As you say.”  

Jon returned to his work, scraping his quill on the parchment until the ink ran dry, refreshing it, and doing it all over again countless times. Satin returned to his flowers, listlessly arranging the blooms until he was happy with how they sat, how the colors looked beside one another and how the petals fell against each other. It was pointless, useless even, but it was something he could do with his one clumsy hand.  

Satin didn’t feel there was much at all he was capable of with his one clumsy, stupid hand even now. He had returned to his duties nearly a week ago with the Maester’s approval on the strict condition that he not use his right hand for at least a month. Those conditions ruled out most of his work as Jon’s steward, but he refused to let that stop him. And with a little help, the work still got done.  

Lord Glover had generously offered the aid of his ward, Larence Snow, and Satin had come to find him to be rather fine help. The boy was quick to learn and eager to be seen as competent. His literacy and calligraphy skills were better than Satin’s even at his young age of four-and-ten, and he was meticulous in the keeping of notes. Everywhere he went, he kept Satin’s portable wooden writing desk, piles of parchments, and quills and ink. If something needed noting, the boy was often already doing it before Satin even signaled for him to do so.  

Jon had taken to asking him each night once they retired to their room what Satin thought of Larence. “Do you think the boy clever?” Jon would ask. “Do you find him rash? Obedient but not weak? Has he his own mind?” He wanted to know as much about the boy as he could, it seemed to Satin, and he could not help but feel that Jon was testing Larence somehow. He told Jon each night what he thought; that the boy was capable and good mannered, intelligent, and strong-willed. Satin had even come to like the boy.  

At first, he did not want to admit, Satin had resented Larence’s presence. But he knew it was nothing the boy had done, only that Satin had not wanted to need his help at all. He had felt rather useless this past week, as though his job was to stand there and look pretty. He could not even write. He had tried to practice with his left hand during the evenings of his three days on bedrest. He had wasted many a sheet of parchment, nearly a full bottle of ink, and three accidently snapped quills before Jon had ordered him to call it quits with a soft but firm voice. He could not carry much either, just what could fit in his good hand. Any amount of weight or pressure on his right caused a sharp shooting pain so severe he’d cry out no matter how hard he tried not to. So, if he could not write the king’s notes, could not carry the king’s things, could not pour wine evenly without feeling like to spill the jug into the king’s lap, Satin was not sure what he’d actually been doing.  

Larence did most of the work at Satin’s instruction, like he was his very own page boy. He fetched Jon’s drinks, his papers, carried things for him and for Satin, and ran letters to the rookery. Satin felt he mostly just led Larence around and pointed at things for him to do. It had made him miserable, aggravated, and mopey though he had tried not to show it. But after a few days, he found that having the boy trailing behind him wasn’t so bad.  

He was a quiet sort, a little sullen and dour like most Northerners Satin had come to know, and maybe more than a little melancholy. But Satin thought him eager to please and eager to learn, and he liked that. Once Satin put the boy to a task, there was no stopping him for he was a stubborn thing. He supposed that shouldn’t have surprised him. Larence was base born but his late Lord-father had been a Hornwood. Righteous in Wrath, Satin remembered from his lessons, a bullmoose readying a charge. Stubbornness was likely born into the boy. Stubbornness, Satin thought, and a need to prove himself. But Satin figured that was the bastard blood in him. It’d had the same effect on Jon. The desire to be respected, included, accepted, and to be seen as worthy. That desire seemed to bid Larence ask questions when he didn’t understand and dutifully follow instructions with a quiet chorus of “Yes, steward.” and “Right away, steward.” 

The boy had struggled for the first few days with how to address Satin. He had fumbled his words, and multiple times had ended up calling him ‘my lord’. After correcting, he’d awkwardly moved to Ser, which had made Satin laugh.  

“I’m no knight.” Satin had told him with a chuckle and gestured to himself, all feminine features and skinny limbs. “Clearly.” 

“Well, aye...” Larence said. “But I’m serving you. I have to call you something.” 

“My name suits me just fine.”  

Larence had only made a face. “That feels a little disrespectful, doesn’t it? Aren’t I supposed to respect my betters?” 

“Your betters?” Satin scoffed with a raised brow. “You’re the son a high lord of the North and the ward of another.” 

“A bastard.” He’d corrected, scowling. “A Snow. Of course you’re my better, you are the Head of the Royal Household and Steward of Winterfell.” 

And a Southron former whore with a whore for a mother and no father at all. But who's counting? “Well, his Grace was a Snow once. Would you say his name with such a bitter tone?” 

“Of course not!” Larence sputtered. “But he’s a Stark now.” 

“Yes, now. But not always. So, if you would not speak his name with such rancor don’t say your own that way. Certainly not so loud. What if he heard? You know...” Satin had said, leaning down slightly and dropping his voice so only the boy could hear.  “He asks me every day what I think of your work.” 

The boy gaped dumbly up at him, eyes widening. “...His Grace the king asks about my service?” 

“Oh yes.” 

“And... what do you tell him?” 

“That I’m very impressed.” Satin assured him.  

“Oh.” 

“He might not like to hear of this, though, that you would speak so lowly of yourself... But, here, how about this?” Satin offered him a small smile. “You promise to keep that tone off your voice when you speak your own name and I’ll simply... not mention it.”  

Larence thought for a moment and then nodded, bringing himself back to his head held high, his back stiff, and his face meant to look all aloof. Gods, he does remind me of Jon, Satin thought and kept his smile at bay. “I promise.” The boy said with a firm voice.  

“And what is your name, boy?” 

“Larence Snow, my lord.” His voice had been proud and firm, and he had puffed his chest.  

“Good.” Satin smiled. “But I’m still not ‘my lord’, Larence Snow.” 

The boy made a face. “Right. Sorry. If not my lord and if not ser, I’ll call you steward. By your leave, of course.” 

“Steward, then.” Satin had agreed. 

And back to ‘steward’, Satin had gone, and most happily for it. The evenings of his little hiatus he had enjoyed. Sharing supper and quiet hours together and then crawling into bed, Satin had liked that. It had felt almost like normal, even through the ache that was becoming a rather permanent fixture in his right arm. And he would have enjoyed his days, too, had Jon been with him. It wasn’t the work he cared for, not truly, it was being at Jon’s side. He had let himself think of it sometimes. If on that first day Jon had simply not made them rise from the rug by the hearth and simply not left to face Whoresbane and the council, if they had simply sat there together as the sun rose over Winterfell and then set again with Satin's head still lolling back on Jon’s shoulder. He would have liked that. But the fantasy of a day or three in Jon’s arms, unaccosted by duties and etiquette and rules, by roles and by stations, by cans and cannots, was just that – a fantasy. So, if he could not have that, he wanted to work. And he had been relieved to return to work. Back to the world, he’d thought, back to life, back to sense, back to Satin the Steward. 

So, Satin the Steward he’d returned to. He still felt rather useless more often than not, with the dutiful young Larence serving rather literally as his right hand, even nearly a ten-day from the incident but he was working and work made the days pass faster and the pain a little duller. It kept him at Jon’s side, and that was where they both wanted him.  

Satin was at his side now, though it was well into the evening, standing to the left of his desk and fiddling still with the flowers in the vase. Jon wrote in silence for a long while, the scrape of his pen and the rustling of parchment the only noises shared between them, until Satin heard him sigh and then the sound of him resting his quill in the inkwell.  

“Have you noticed,” He started with a strained breath, “that Lord Flint’s daughter – what was her name again? Annaline?” 

“Lady Annalys, I believe.” 

“Right, her.” Jon nodded with pursed lips. “Have you noticed that she seems to just be in every room I walk into? It’s as though everywhere I look, there she is.”  

Satin had noticed that. She was a slight girl with sandy brown hair and blue eyes, dressed finely in black, white, and grey, and always seemingly just around. She smiled sweetly at Jon and giggled whenever he so much as said anything. She annoyed Satin, like a persistent niggling itch he couldn’t scratch. “I have.” He answered carefully. “She’s... pretty enough.”  

Jon fixed him a narrow-eyed look, made a face, and shrugged as he waved a hand with a dismissive sound.  

“Ouch, Jon.” Satin laughed. “Tell her how you really feel, why don’t you!”  

“Well, I’m not going to say that to her! She’s fine. But I’m no fool. I know her father is trying to parade her in front of me.” 

“Mm.” Satin agreed. “And she’s recently gotten a wardrobe upgrade, if you hadn’t noticed. Much nicer dresses these days. Way more cleavage too. He’s investing in this little parade.” 

Jon pursed his lips into a frown. “It’s not going to work.” He said flatly. “Even if she was the most beautiful woman in all the world and it was all I could do not to fall at her feet in reverence, I wouldn't marry her. And let Lord Flint become my good-father? Not a chance in the Hells.”  

Satin could not help but laugh. “You’ll have to pick someone, you know. Eventually.”  

Another sour expression crossed Jon’s face. “Not for a while yet.” 

Satin smiled but it was a bit tighter. It was an eventuality they both knew was coming. Jon would have to wed, take a wife, and make her his Queen. It was the way of things. Most days he tried not to think of it, of what it meant, and what it would do to the delicate balance he and Jon had. To that thing between them that was not a thing at all. But Lady Annalys Flint was not the only woman trying to catch the king’s eye. Every eligible maiden, and even some particularly socially ambitious widows, wore their best to court, tried to stand near him at events, spoke with him where they could, and flattered him often. Satin hated it. Jon even more so. 

The Lady Val sought him out from time to time, too, and more often than was necessary for meetings and politics. She smiled and called him King Crow and looked at him through her lashes. Sometimes, she made Jon’s lips quirk up into a smile. It was more than any of the other ladies who sought him out received. Val was a beauty, too. Satin may not have been moved by women, but he had eyes with which to see and that was all it took. She turned heads everywhere she went and rightfully so. Jon’s too, Satin thought. He’d as much as told Satin so, once, that he had been tempted when the late King Stannis had offered him Winterfell, the Stark name, and Lady Val to wife. Satin could not fault him that, even if her bold smiles and plainly given looks itched and itched and itched at something in the back of Satin’s chest. He wondered what Jon was waiting for. If he was to pick someone, surely Val – beautiful, willful, and fierce – and the securing of the alliance with the Free Folk was the best option.  

“The council will want an heir...” Satin said when he could think of nothing else to say.  

“Well, they have one. Rickon is my heir, as far as they are concerned.”  

And as far as Rickon is concerned, you already have a wife, Satin wanted to jest, but he doubted Jon was in the mood for it. Satin wasn’t either. “As you say.” He said instead.  

“Spring.” Jon said tightly after a moment. At the raising of Satin’s brow, Jon continued. “I told the council I would marry come spring.” 

“Oh.”  

“I’ve no time to focus on anything besides winter and war right now. Certainly not on finding a proper bride and arranging a wedding. With Rickon here, there is no rush.” 

Satin supposed spring was still a long way away. We can have a little longer, then, as whatever we are, Satin thought with relief. It would have to end once Jon wed. Three could not be in Jon’s bed. Satin knew he wouldn’t allow that. Nor would he dishonor his wife so. So it all ends come spring, then. So be it. But there was still time, for now.  

Jon sighed and returned once more to his long parchment. “Speaking of heirs and councils,” he started after a moment’s silence. “I would hear your opinion on something.”  

“Of course. What are you working on?”  

“My will.” He replied simply, motioning to the parchment. 

“Your will?” Satin asked, eyes widening.  

“Aye. I need one.”  

An awkward chuckle fell from Satin’s lips. “Is there something you haven’t told me? Feeling alright?” 

Jon let out a huff of something akin to amusement and shook his head. “I’m fine, but we are at war. There is no telling what will happen. I could fall in battle. I could be assassinated. I could trip on a snow-slick stair and break my neck.”  

“Jon.” 

“What? I could. And there’s no red priest here to change it this time. So...” Jon motioned to the paper again. “A will. I’m maintaining Robb’s decision to disinherit Sansa, as she’s married to Tyrion Lannister and I shan’t see Winterfell fall into Lannister hands. That much is certain. With Arya missing and Bran likely dead, I’m affirming Rickon as my heir. But he’s six and... wild. He would need a regent. I have a lord in mind, but I would have your thoughts.”  

“Mine?” Satin blinked, chewing at his bottom lip. “Jon, I’m not trained in matters of state.”  

“Aye, but I would hear them nonetheless.” 

Satin considered the lords of Jon’s privy council, all men of power and legacy. He went through each one in his mind as Jon watched him with patient but expectant eyes. “Not the Greatjon.” He said after a moment. At Jon’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “He is a strong, seasoned warrior... but he’s rash and impulsive. Quick to anger and quicker still to see a slight where there isn’t one.”  

A small smile played at the edges of Jon’s lips as he nodded slowly. “I agree.” He motioned with a hand for Satin to continue.  

“Not Lord Flint either.”  

Jon made a sound of consideration in his throat. “And why not?”  

“Because I don’t like him.” 

“Ha! Agreed.”  

Satin chuckled, leaning against the desk and fiddling with the flowers he’d arranged there. He considered the rest for a time. The other Umbers were too like their cousin, too volatile. It would not be Hother Umber, what much was for certain, and he doubted Jon would put even an inkling of trust in his brother, Mors, after what had happened simply out of caution. Howland Reed was a plain man but something about him made Satin uncomfortable. His weird knowing eyes or the fact that he seemed to say as little as humanly possible, perhaps? Satin wasn’t sure what it was, but he worried Reed would be mousy as regent, someone the other stronger lords could overrule and overpower. Lyanna Mormont was barely older than Rickon, and a girl. The others would not like that. His mind fell to the only man remaining that he thought fit for the job. 

“Lord Glover.” Satin said finally and Jon raised a brow to prompt him to continue. “He was one of the first to answer your raven when you called your banners and he has been here since. He’s calm, stolid, and even tempered. He thinks before he acts and acts with great care when he does. He’s a little stern and more than a little dour, like any good Northman, but I can’t hold that against him. He would be a good choice.”  

Jon’s smile widened. “We are of the same mind. He is loyal and seasoned. Respected amongst the others. Steady.”  

“Boring.” Satin supplied.  

That made him laugh. “Aye, that too. But I would rather a boring man help my wild brother rule than one just as fiery to plunge the whole North into turmoil. I trust Lord Glover as much as I would trust any man who is not my family, which is to say, only as much as I must. But I must choose someone and he without doubt the best of them.”  

Satin smiled. “Then, Lord Glover it is.” 

“Aye.” Jon agreed and took his quill in hand again. “Lord Glover it is.”  

Satin hiked himself up to sit on the edge of the desk as Jon kept working. He watched him write in his neat scrawling hand and listened to the scrape of the pen against the parchment as he fiddled absentmindedly with the flowers from the glass gardens. They were pretty things, indeed. Useless things, but pretty, and Jon had smiled when he saw them so he supposed they were good for something. Satin hummed a familiar melody in the quiet that followed, a slow melancholic song he remembered from the night of the feast. It had become a favorite of his. He heard Jon’s pen stop mid stroke. A beat passed as Jon took in a breath and then continued each careful letter. Satin bit back a closed lipped smile and continued his song.  

They passed a long while that way, Jon writing, Satin humming. Eventually, Jon’s quill came to a stop, and he saw Jon glance up at him. He looked at Satin for a moment, his grey eyes seeming to search for something in his face, taking in each feature as if deep in thought. His eyes dropped his throat, to the green and yellow bruise that still marred the flesh there, then further to the cast around his right hand, the thick white plaster and dried linen keeping it stiff and straight. They lingered there for a moment, his mouth twisting into a grimace before he rose his eyes back to Satin’s to search his face one more time. Satin raised an eyebrow, a light tired smile toying at his lips. For a reason he didn’t know, it made Jon chuckle and he turned away to look back down to his paper. He pursed his lips and sighed lightly though his nose then nodded to himself and brought his pen back to the page. Whatever Jon was writing, he wrote well into the night.  

It was long past midnight when the tiredness pulling at Satin’s eyes grew too strong to resist. Jon still seemed intent on working, so Satin figured he’d give him a bit more time before he coaxed him to bed. He started their nightly routine. What once took him just a few minutes – change into his bed clothes, lay out Jon’s, brush and oil his hair, brush his teeth, help undress Jon – took him far, far longer now. And some of it, he couldn’t do at all. And months more to go, he reminded himself with a frustrated sigh, before this stupid splint comes off. His clumsy left hand set to work pulling at the laces on his doublet. Those were easy enough, time consuming and tedious but completed without too much difficulty. It was the numerous buttons that caught him. That dexterous twist and push that came so naturally to his right hand did not for his left. He sighed heavily through his nose when the button at his collar put up a fight and simply refused to slip through the hole. 

“What did I tell you?” Jon said after Satin had struggled for a moment, placing his quill to rest in the ink jar and standing with a tired groan. “Come here.” 

“I’ve got it.” Satin argued haughtily.  

“Come here.”  

Despite the order, Jon came to him and replaced Satin’s fingers with his own. Each button came open with ease, the belt cinching the waist too, as Jon worked his way down the garment with meticulous efficiency.  

Satin fidgeted restlessly. “You needn’t keep doing this, you know.”  

“You’re fussing again.” 

Satin made a face at him. “Of course I’m fussing. I’m forcing the king to help me with my buttons...” 

“Your friend is offering to help you with your buttons.” Jon corrected firmly.  

Satin sighed and acquiesced. Jon had been a good help this past ten-day. Each morning, he laced Satin into his doublet, helped him with his hair, and fastened his cloak for him as though Jon was the steward and Satin the lord. Each act made Satin’s heart soar in the same breath as it made him grumble.  

Once it was done, and Satin was in his sleeping clothes, he coaxed Jon from trying to return to his parchment, his quill, and his will and into bed instead. Jon drew in a slow breath, sighed it through his nose and, tired and weary as he was, went surprisingly easily to their furs.  

_____________

“Steward...” Larence said quietly as they briskly crossed the courtyard back towards the council tower. They were returning from a trip to the library and Larence’s hands were filled with piles of parchments and scrolls and tomes, books of ledgers and histories for Jon and his council to consult. Satin’s good hand carried a few as well, but Larence held most of them. They moved quickly, hustling over the snowy cobbles and trying to bury their faces in the furs of their cloaks. It was far too bitterly cold today to linger. “Did you hear what Maester Dallin said?” 

Satin glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Maester Dallin said a lot of things. Which part?” 

The dark-haired boy shrugged in a way that was trying to make himself seem aloof and detached. He was a brave thing, from all reports, but Satin’s observant gaze caught a hint of apprehension in his pale green eyes. “That the days are too short.” 

Yes, Satin thought, Maester Dallin did say that, didn’t he? The words had made everyone in the council room’s jaw clench. Jon’s lips had pursed, and many of the lords had shared glances amongst themselves. The days are too short, Dallin had told them and displayed a chart of calculations and timings and reports from the citadel, for how early into Winter we are. The sun rises too late and sets too early. Not by much, he had assured, but that it was something to be mindful of. Jon’s face had been stoic as he nodded gravely and thanked the maester for his report, but Satin knew his tells by now. Jon was worried and Satin did not have to wonder why. The dead rose at Castle Black in droves, according to word from Lord Commander Edd. The Others moved beyond the Wall and Satin remembered Jon telling him of a coming Long Night the Free Folk feared where the world would be plunged into eternal darkness. Satin did his best not to shiver against the cold or against the thoughts. “I think... Winter is going to hit hard this time. We had such a long summer, and I hear they say a long summer means a harsh winter. But don’t worry,” Satin gestured around the castle with his good hand. It was a bright day, and the winter sun shone strongly down on the grey stones of Winterfell glinting like gold along the snow and icicles. “There’s still lots of sunshine.” 

“I’m not worried.” Larence said at once in a way that reminded him of Jon again. “Just interested is all.” 

“If you say so.” 

The boy pursed his lips and kept his head held high. “I do. I do say so.” 

Satin did his best not to chuckle and glanced behind him. Larence trailed him like second shadow. Or rather, a third. Everywhere Satin went, Larence followed at his left and Ghost prowled at his right giving lingering cautious stares with his blood red eyes at any who got too close to Satin. If the boy had been nervous around the direwolf taller than him by a solid foot, Larence hadn’t shown it. But still the boy kept a respectful distance between himself and the beast. Satin thought that was a sign he had good sense. Especially with Ghost seemingly on such high alert these days. He’d bared his teeth and snapped his jaws in warning at more than a few guards and at some passing servants who Ghost deemed hadn’t made way for Satin fast enough or who walked by too closely. Satin had told him each time to quit it in an exasperated voice, but Ghost didn’t seem keen on obeying that particular request. Each time it happened, Larence eyed the beast cautiously and then would glance at Satin with a mostly disguised raised brow.  

“Come on, Larence. Don’t fall behind.” Satin called, not unkindly, though the boy had been keeping up just fine. 

“Right away, steward.” He answered dutifully and redoubled his pace.  

When they returned to the council room, they found Jon in the depths of a meeting with a few Queen’s and King’s Men that had once been part of Stannis’ army. Many still remained in Winterfell, most having pledged to King Jon Stark as their new Azor Ahai reborn. Ser Davos Seaworth nodded to Jon, bowed, and led the men out of the room and down the spiral tower stairs.  

“Are you sure that is wise?” Lord Flint crooned once they were gone. 

Jon glanced his way. “Aye.” He said simply. 

“Can we afford to continue sending such large quantities of grain to the Wall, your Grace?”   

“Aye.” Jon answered again.  

“I understand you’ve a fondness for the Wall, my king.” Lord Flint said with a honeyed smile. “It is a given after your many years of service there. However—” 

“Ser Davos and his entourage will go to the Wall to collect the dowager Queen Selyse and the Princess Shireen and bring them to safety within Winterfell’s walls, as per the request of Lord Commander Tollett. I will not send men to the Wall to fetch them empty handed.” 

“They are surely safe enough within Castle Black.” Lord Flint said again. “Need we play host to Southron royals without a crown or a throne? Southron royals cost money.” 

Jon fixed him with a cold look. “Castle Black is no place for women and children, certainly not any longer. The dead are rising faster than they can be burned at the Wall, so the letter says.” 

“So the letter says.” Flint repeated and Satin saw Jon very carefully mask down a flash of annoyance as his fingers rapped once against the table.  

Jon pulled the supple doe skin glove from his right hand and dropped it to the council table. He presented the scarred burned flesh that wove its way along his fingers and palm, pink and stretched across his joints, to Lord Flint. “I’ve seen them myself; the risen dead. Wights. Burned my hand killing one. And the Free Folk aren’t running south because it’s chilly. They’re running because they’re terrified. Because they’ve seen what’s coming. Disbelieve Lord Tollett’s letters all you want. But I won’t. If he needs aid, I’ll send it. The last thing we need is an army of the dead slipping past the Wall. I’ll hear no more of it. We’ll send the grain, some good steel too, and we’ll take the Queen and the Princess off his hands. And if on their way back, any more Free Folk wish to come and pledge their support and their spears to me, they may do so. Now, shall I be forced to repeat myself again, Lord Flint?” 

The blue eyes of Lord Flint cast down at the table with a bow of his head. “No, your Grace.”  

“Good.” Jon’s eyes turned when he noticed Satin hovering in the doorway with Larence at his heel and Ghost behind. “Ah. The tomes, thank you. Bring them here, if you would.”  

Satin bowed and greeted him with a quiet “your Grace” and he did as he was bid. A few eyes followed him as he did so, a little awkwardly and slightly clumsily with his one good hand. The Greatjon’s eyes he felt the most, and Lord Flint’s too. Jon’s eyes were trained on the parchment he’d been handed, rather than on him. He never let his eyes linger on Satin more than was necessary in the council room, not like he did when they were alone. Such a thing was for the best, Satin knew. Still, he felt the urge to scratch at the slowly fading handprint bruised into his skin at the column of his throat from the watchful eyes that weren’t Jon’s that looked at him. The mark left behind by Whoresbane’s choking fingers had turned so dark it was nearly black for the first few days, but it was slowly beginning to lighten. It was purple now, outlined and tinged with shades of yellow and green. It was a nasty looking thing, but the Maester had said it needed to breathe so couldn’t be wrapped in and hidden by bandages anymore. It meant every man and woman in Winterfell got to see it, the echoing proof of what had happened, and Satin often felt them looking at his neck rather than at his eyes. It annoyed him more than it should have.  

With the tomes piled high atop the council table, Satin signaled for Larence to copy the ledger that had been made whilst they were away. How many bushels of wheat were going north, how many swords and axes and other supplies too, and to note down what orders the king had given to Ser Davos. Larence did so quickly, with a fine elegant scrawl on the paper. Satin himself simply stood along the wall and awaited further orders.  

Meetings continued well past lunch. Dallin’s news, the too-short days, and Jon’s burned hand that signaled the threat of the risen dead hung heavily over the meeting. Jon dismissed his council not long before sundown – a sundown they all now knew would come just a bit too early. It unnerved Satin to know that. This was his first true winter. He’d been too young to remember the one that had passed when he was a boy but he’d been told it was a mild one. And he had been in the south for it, not here in the North where winter was harsher than anywhere else. Maester Dallin warned them all that this would not be a mild one. The temperatures were already lower than they should be too, he’d said, for this early into the season. Satin had thought this was simply the way of winter in the North or that his thin Southron skin had still not adjusted to the bitter cold. But apparently reports were beginning to indicate this was irregular even here. He did not like the thought one bit.  

Jon descended the stairs with Satin, Larence, and Ghost in tow and stepped out into the courtyard. They met Jeyne on their way across the yard on her way to supper, and she greeted each of them with a curtsy and a smile. There was an odd moment where Satin watched her pause, fiddle with her doe skin glove, and look up at Jon almost expectantly as though she was waiting for something. Whatever it was, it didn’t happen and eventually Jon bowed, told her good day, and bid Larence escort Jeyne to her destination and then be dismissed.  

“Come.” Jon said, turning to walk on as an awkward Jeyne and a dutiful Larence disappeared into the Great Hall. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go this evening.”  

Satin raised an eyebrow at the peculiar interaction but followed with a nod. Jon needed a break, it seemed, to take his mind from the meetings and the winter ahead of them. He wished to visit the crypts tonight, he told Satin. Robb’s statue was complete and had been erected in its place at the end of the hall next to Eddard Stark and Jon’s aunt Lyanna, and he wanted to see it. 

“But first.” He said as he led them in the direction opposite the crypts. “We need roses. Blue winter ones. For my aunt, like you suggested.” 

The glass gardens were a welcome respite to the winter cold. The thick glass panes that made up the large structure kept the heat and humidity within as hot as Oldtown in summer. He and Jon had shed their cloaks and their thick furs at the entrance way. Even still, a thin layer of sweat had quickly begun to cling to Satin’s forehead and under the collar of his doublet. Satin had wanted to say a quick hello to Malryk but it seemed the old man was not around this evening. Satin assumed he was taking his supper in the dining hall, but he doubted the old man would mind if he and Jon stole away with a few flowers.  

The sun hung heavily in the sky. The bright oranges, pinks, and purples of sunset glittered though the glass panes and cast the gardens in beautiful warm tones and long, lingering shadows. He and Jon walked between the planters and raised beds of loamy soil slowly. The vegetables were coming along well, many of them productive and flowering and heavy with the fruits of Malryk and his gardeners’ labor, and they appreciated them as they moved along.   

They talked as Jon led him to the small section at the back that housed the flower garden. Large rows of all sorts of blooms lined the rich ground and hung in heavy earthen pots. Iris, edelweiss, lavender, snowdrops, and countless others grew strong and hearty with bright pops of color. And, of course, there were roses. Deep red ones, brilliant white ones, and the blue winter variety so beloved by Jon’s late aunt grew in flowering bushes on raised platforms.  

They picked a few and Satin carried them. He could not carry much, but a few roses laid in the crook of his right arm were easy enough and left him his good hand to gesticulate as he talked, a Southron habit he’d never lost. Jon cracked a few more blue winter roses at the stem and placed them into Satin’s pile.  

“They smell different.” Satin told him. “Than normal roses, I mean. It’s sweeter, almost like the petals were candied. And a little crisper, too, like cold air.” 

Jon paused, bringing a blue one up to his nose and drawing in a deep breath. “Aye.” He agreed. “I suppose they do. Which do you prefer?” 

Satin considered for a moment. “I like this, too. But I admit it’s hard to deny the classic red rose, isn’t it? Though perhaps I am biased, what with my perfume and all?” 

A quiet humming noise came from Jon’s lips and he took a few steps forward to the next flowering rosebush that bloomed proudly with vibrant red petals. He bent one at the base of its stem and snapped it off, offering it out to Satin with a gentle press of his hand. Satin stared down at the flower extended to him for a moment as a small, slow smile began to pull at his lips. Oh my sweet love, he thought as his heart soared, you never fail to surprise me. He reached out to take it gingerly, careful to avoid the thorns along the stem, and let his fingers brush Jon’s as he did. His smile widened still as he brought the rose up to his nose and inhaled its sweet floral scent. It was as familiar as the back of his hand. He’d worn rose oil in his hair and dotted along his skin for years, and the smell made him happy. It was a smell that trailed after him everywhere he went and, these last few days, after Jon too. It lingered on his hands from each time he’d helped Satin oil his hair, even though he always tried in vain to wash it away. Something about that left a pleased, satisfied feeling in Satin’s chest, like a cat snoozing after drinking an entire bowl of cream.  

Satin, head tilted down from smelling the rose before him, glanced up at Jon with a warm smile that he knew just barely bordered on coy. Jon’s own lips pursed slightly in response, and Satin saw the tips of his ears redden.  

“For the pile.” Jon said quietly. 

“Of course.”  

Jon’s brow furrowed. “It is.” He insisted.   

Satin finally drew his nose from the petals, chuckling to himself. “I know. I agreed with you, didn’t I?”  

“...Right.” 

He could not help but laugh as he laid the singular red rose among the pile of blue ones. He’d take it with them to Lyanna’s grave, but this one wasn’t for her. It was his. Maybe he’d slip it into his doublet before they left and bring it back to their rooms. Maybe he’d dry its petals between the pages of a book. Satin thought he’d like that. He’d really like that. 

They were quiet for a moment as Jon seemed unsure what to say. Satin eventually took pity on him and offered him a smile, moving back to the bush of blue winter roses and plucking another with delicate fingers. “It’ll be nice to take these to the crypts. I’m sure it’s been a long while since anyone brought her flowers.”  

Jon nodded and seemed grateful for the given mercy. “Likely not since my father went south and I went north.” he said somberly. He paused, glanced down at the small pile of roses in Satin’s arm, and nodded again to himself. Something, perhaps the mention of the crypts, seemed to remind him of something as a serious expression once more settled on his long face. “I’ve been thinking...” He said after a moment. “Of what happens to you.” 

“To me?” Satin cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”  

“If I die.” He elaborated and Satin’s eyes widened. Jon continued before he could say anything. “I’ve noted in my will that I would have you be appointed steward to Rickon until he comes of age when he may choose one of his own. But he seems rather fond of you, so he may simply choose to allow you to maintain your position even after, should that be your desire. But in the event he doesn’t, you are to remain in Winterfell as a guest of the Royal Household for as long as it please you. Will you accept this appointment?” 

Satin blinked up at him dumbly. “I...” He stammered, then swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, I accept.”  

“Good.” Jon said firmly. “Onto other, more important matters then. I would have your opinion on another matter of politics.” At Satin’s hesitant nod and a promise to try despite his lack of training in such things, Jon pressed on. “There has been a subject of conversation that has come up in a few meetings of late, and a few lords have even spoken to me privately about it. They’ve been asking about Jeyne.” 

Satin listened with a furrowed brow and lips pressed into a thin line. House Poole was on the verge of collapse, Jon explained. Jeyne’s father had died in King’s Landing, none of her brothers had made it past the cradle, and her last remaining uncles all died fighting for Robb in the Trident. All that remained now was an unmarried girl who had just turned three-and-ten. All of House Poole’s lands and incomes, all of its duties and responsibilities, they all sat stagnant, Jon told him. And the Northern Lords were beginning to take notice.  

“They wish her to remarry.” Jon told him with a frown.  

“To remarry?” Satin parroted back as a sinking dread began to settle in his chest. “But she’s—! Jon, she’s been through enough. They cannot expect her to wed again, not after what Ramsay did to her!” After what countless men and their reaching groping hands did to her, his mind added but he did not say. It was a truth that still was not his to tell. 

“Aye, I agree.” Jon said. “I’ve spoken with her on the matter more than once. She does not wish to wed again. I even offered her her pick of almost any lord in the North should there be someone she fancied, and still it is not her desire. I’d not seen her so… afraid since we reclaimed Winterfell. She shook the whole time we spoke and picked the beds of her nails until they bled.” Jon sighed. “I do not wish to force her, but many of the Northern Lords are circling like carrion crows in the hopes of claiming House Poole and its resources as their own if they were to take her to wife. She is the only heir, and the very last Poole left; the only child of a lineage that has survived standing proud at the side of House Stark for thousands of years. And now there is only Jeyne.”  

“But she’s just a child...” Girls of three-and-ten married all the time, Satin knew. Girls of three-and-ten became whores all the time, too. Many even earlier. Still, Satin could only see a child when he looked at Jeyne, with her big brown observant eyes and long face, a child who had been hurt enough already. 

“I know you two are friends.” Jon said. “So, perhaps it is less your opinion I want than it is your answer to an offer.” 

“An offer?” Satin watched as Jon glanced away for a moment and couldn’t help but think that he looked oddly sheepish or embarrassed. He searched his mind for what Jon could possibly offer that would make him so and then frowned. “You’re not trying to... marry... me to Jeyne, are you?” 

Jon blinked and drew back in surprise. “What? No!” 

“Oh. Okay, good. Thank the gods.” Satin breathed in relief. “Then...?” 

A slow inhale drew in through Jon’s nose. “Lady Jeyne has no male relative. She either needs to marry, or she needs a male relative.”  

“She doesn’t have one, as you said.”  

“No.” Jon agreed. “But she could.” 

Satin’s confusion only deepened. “I’m not following.” 

“I shall speak plainly.” Jon said. “Her father went south with my own in Robert’s Rebellion about eighteen years ago. They did pass through the Reach. If you were, say, a year or so younger than you are, the timeline would match. Luckily, you look young.” 

“…What?” 

“I was planning to offer you a name of your choice – a last name – and a small piece of land attached to it as a formality. To entitle you. To make certain you are covered if something happens to me. But I realized that perhaps I can help Jeyne at the same time. Instead of allowing you to simply pick a last name, I would name you Vayon Poole’s natural son by your mother during his time in the south. That would make you Jeyne's brother. This way she could keep her lands, her wealth, and she would not need to wed unless you bid her do so. And I trust would not do so against her will.” 

Satin sputtered and his mind reeled, bursting into incredulous laughter because he knew not what else to do. “Wait— I... I don’t understand what you’re saying. A name? Land... Why?” 

“It would let me reward you for all your service.” 

He scoffed. “I don’t need a rewa—” 

“And it would let me protect you.” Jon said firmly, his voice dropping low and solemn. “I have made it clear in my will that you are to be a guest here, should I die. But a will can be lost, or a line struck or blotted out with ink and ignored. I would hope Lord Glover a good enough man to follow my will, but should he perish too, who knows who ends up in control if there’s a power struggle. And who knows how that person feels about you? If you are some nameless steward, you could be cast out. You could be sent back to the Wall. Edd would welcome you but what about the man that comes after him? The Wall is a dangerous place right now and men are dying like flies. Whoever is Lord Commander after him could view you as a deserter and see you hanged even despite the pardon I gave you. But had you a name? Legally, you would be protected. You would not just be a line in a will the council could choose to ignore. Not if you had a name. Not if you were Vayon Poole’s son.” 

Satin gaped at him. “But I’m not... I’m not Vayon Poole’s son. I don’t know exactly who my father is but, Jon, I would bet every penny I have that it’s not Vayon Poole. You and I both know that.” 

“The truth, as you have told me, if what we make it. By law, you would be his son. And I’ve already spoken with Jeyne. She has offered to attest at court that her father told her of a son in the south.” 

“But she knows that isn’t… That would make me...” 

“A bastard, aye. For today. But tomorrow, I’d legitimize you and make you a lord in your own right.” Jon said and Satin couldn’t stop the incredulous bubble of laughter that spilled from his lips.  

“A lord...” Satin mumbled, mind almost having gone numb. Vaguely, he felt the pile of roses in his arms tumble to the ground between them. “Me? You can’t...” 

“I can.” Jon said simply. “And I will. I told you; I did not give you the protections I should have. And this...” He motioned to Satin’s broken wrist. “...this wouldn’t have happened if you’d been a lord. He wouldn’t have dared. I should have done this moons ago. I only didn’t because... because I thought they’d all see it in the wrong light. I should have known it wouldn’t matter, and they’d think such things anyway. So, I’m going to make it right. With this, no one will dare to touch you again. Even if something happens to me, you’ll be safe.” 

“Jon—” He tried to argue, to tell Jon he couldn’t accept such a thing, that he of all people could not be a lord of all things but Jon did not allow him to speak. 

“Let me keep you safe.” He said, voice fierce and soft all at once. “Accept this. Think of it as a gift.” 

“A gift?” He scoffed on a sound that was almost a laugh. “This is more than a gift... Jon... This is too much.”  

“It would please me if you accepted it.” Jon pressed. “If not for you, then for me. It would ease my mind. I have spent too long this past ten-day imagining what could go wrong if I don’t do this. Accept it, please.” 

Satin’s heart raced in his chest as he blinked up at Jon. He was sweating, and he was no longer sure it was the heat of the glass gardens causing it. He swallowed the heavy lump in his throat and said the only thing he could think to say. “As it please you...” 

Jon released a heavy breath. “Good. Now, you can choose to just pick a name and form your own House, if that is your wish. There’s small bit of land two day’s north of here with a small old holdfast on it. It’d be yours. It is yours. And that can be the all of it. You don’t need to be Vayon Poole’s bastard. But I thought, well, I thought you might want to help Jeyne if you could.” 

A Northman’s bastard, he thought, and Jeyne’s half-brother. That wouldn’t be so bad. “If it helps Jeyne...” If it keeps her from the hands of a man she doesn’t want to touch her. “I’d do it that way.  

Jon nodded slowly. “I’m sorry to make a bastard of you.” 

“Oh please.” Satin waved his hand as if to brush the thought away. “I care not for that. I’m already a fatherless whore’s son. A nobleman’s bastard would be an upgrade.” 

A solemn look came over Jon’s face. “Before you make that choice, know that even a legitimized bastard carries associations. The other lords see bastards as power hungry and lustful for being born of base needs. They’re seen as lesser, untrustworthy. Sinful, even. It will be an association that will follow you wherever you go, if you choose this route.” 

An association that is false, he thought. All Bastards cannot be so, for you are not like that at all. Satin offered him a smile and a shrug. “Oh yes, sinful and lustful and manipulative and power-hungry. Those are nothing at all like the traits people associate with whores.” Satin gave him an expectant look, and Jon seemed to acquiesce with a nod. “I think I can handle it. There is little worse they can think of me. And I am already a bastard. My parents were not wed, so am I not by definition a bastard? But it is only you noble-made bastards that get the fancy last name. Though, I suppose now I can lay claim to one. Gods...” Another sound of disbelief fell from his lips as a smile began to spread across them. “Satin Snow...” 

“Satin Flowers.” Jon corrected with the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You’re from the Reach so you’re a Flowers. But only for the night. Satin Poole, come dawn. If you accept.” 

When have I ever been able to refuse a gift from you, my love? “People will talk, you know. You keep raising me higher and higher. And now to nobility of all things. This will raise eyebrows.” 

“Aye.” Jon agreed. “But on the morrow, I’m granting a few other men lands and titles for loyal service. I’ll also be legitimizing Larence Snow and granting him his father’s name and lands as his own. He’ll be a good Lord of the Hornwood. I’ve no doubt of it. The Lord of Woolfield also wrote and asked me to legitimize his baseborn daughter Sarana Snow, and I have agreed. I shall do yours at the same time. It’ll look less like favoritism that way.” 

Satin could not stop the toothy smile that crossed his lips. “Is it?” 

“Is it what?” 

“Favoritism.” Satin smiled innocently. “Am I your favorite?” 

Jon scoffed and let out a loud huff. A hint of a smile tugged across his mouth despite himself before he schooled it back into a frown. “Enough of that.” Jon muttered and gestured brusquely to the dropped roses scattered at their feet. “Gather your flowers, Satin Flowers. We ought to head to the crypts.” 

Satin quirked a brow at him and looked about the glass gardens, warm and bursting with floral scents and bright colors as blooms of all kinds grew around them. “Is that why you brought me here? To have this conversation surrounded by flowers?” 

The scowl on Jon’s face deepened into what Satin could only call a pout. “...No.”  

Satin’s toothy grin erupted into laughter. “Oh, it was! I see you, Jon. I’m no fool!” 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He said vehemently.  

“Of course you don’t.” Satin grinned and leaned in playfully, so they were almost nose to nose. “Well, I liked it. A lovely ambience. Thematically fitting, too. Poetic, even.”  

“There you go again, talking nonsense.” Jon grumbled as he tried to walk away, but Satin stepped to block his path. Jon’s nose scrunched up at the interception. “I never know what you’re talking about...”  

“You’re sweet.” Satin teased in a soft voice dripping with fondness as he gave his arm a gentle squeeze.  

“Don’t call me that.” groused Jon with an almost petulant tone, the redness in his ears moving down his face and neck. He huffed as he shrugged the hand from his arm and side-stepped Satin, moving through the raised garden beds and the hanging planters with long quick strides. When he reached the front entrance, he grabbed his cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and marched almost haughtily out the door without looking back.  

Satin laughed heartily, leaning down to pick up his fallen pile of one red rose and nearly a dozen blue winter roses. He carefully slid the red-petaled one into the lining of his doublet for safe keeping, a warm smile settling on his face and an even warmer feeling settling in his chest, and made to follow Jon as he disappeared down the pathway back towards Winterfell proper. 

“My boy.” A gravelly voice called. “A moment of your time.” 

Malryk stepped through the door from his inner chamber, leaning heavily on his cane, and Satin only barely managed not to gape at him. He had not been here when they arrived, and he hadn’t heard the old man return. Satin swallowed.  

“Ah!” He forced a smile to his face. “Forgive the intrusion. Just gathering some flowers for his Grace's visit to the crypts.” 

Malryk’s face was serious, his lips pressed together and his wrinkled brow heavy. “Might I offer a bit of advice? From an old, learned man who has been through much and seen even more?” At Satin’s hesitant nod, Malryk continued. “You must be more careful.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Your eyes, my boy, they show too much. You cannot look at the king like that. Not where others can see. You must learn to mask them better.” 

Satin’s heart began to race in his chest. How long had Malryk been there, he wondered. How much had he seen? “I—”  

“I had heard the rumors.” The old man said with slight shaking of his head. “I paid them no mind for I thought it couldn’t possibly be so. I knew his Grace as a boy so I would not have ever thought it. But I saw how you were with him when he had that strange episode here. I heard what he did to Lord Umber when he hurt you. I saw him enter your rooms without so much as a knock. And I saw enough of today. My boy... I have seen more than you should have let me see.”  

“I’m not his whore.” Satin insisted. For what else could he say? He could not deny any of what Malryk had seen. They were all plain and true. He had called him Jon and touched the king gently when he’d been stuck in the flames. Jon had nearly killed a man for the crime of touching him. And he had been far too familiar with Jon today, had touched him, had spoken to him sweetly. What could he say to any of that? “I’m not.” 

“I believe you.” Malryk said and Satin blinked in surprise. 

“You do?” 

“Aye. But I do not believe you are only his steward, either.”  

“The king has never touched me like that.” Satin whispered fiercely, clinging to what scraps of truth he could find that might convince him. 

Malryk nodded slowly. “If you say it is so, I’ll do you the decency of believing you. You’ve earned as much. But that does not change the love that pours out of your eyes too freely, my boy. You cannot let them see you look at another man in such a way. You know that, Satin.”  

Satin’s eyes widened and he understood. “You...”  

“Aye.” The old man nodded again, fiddling with his cane. “I loved a man many a year here in Winterfell. He was a cobbler, and he was gruff but sweet. He passed a few years ago. Naturally, from age. It was sad and I miss him still, but I’m content with our lot. We had more than most men like us get to have. When we were alone, it could be love. But in public? My eyes never lingered a moment too long, and none ever suspected a thing.”  

Satin cast his eyes to the ground, looking at the flowers and the rich soil that surrounded them. He tried not to love Jon where other people could see, and Satin had thought he hid it well enough. That his eyes didn’t linger like they shouldn’t. That he didn’t stand too close or smile too strongly. He tried to be professional. He tried to be Satin the Steward when they stepped beyond their chamber door. He tried, and tried, and tried. “It’s... it’s not—” 

“I’m not telling you not to love him.” Malryk said, taking a step forward and resting a wrinkled hand on Satin’s shoulder. It felt heavy like iron, and somehow it nearly toppled him over. “I fear it’s far too late for that. The seed has germinated, the stalks grow, and the flowers bloom.” He gestured with his cane to his plants. “What has been sowed can only be reaped now. I am only telling you to be careful. Of what you show. But also of how much you give.” 

“What do you mean?”  

A soft yet stern look fell across Malryk’s face. “You can love the king, child, and he can even return it. And he very well might, if the warmth in his eyes is any indication. But you can never be everything to him as he will be to you. There will always be duties and obligations he will need to put first. To be a man and love a man is a hard enough thing. To love a king is another. Guard your heart, my boy. Jon Stark is a good man, but he will break it. There is no other way.” 

Satin swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. He thought of the coming spring, when Jon would take a wife. He thought of Val and her forward smiles. It would be her. It would have to be her. It would all end in spring. The sand in the hourglass was already slowly slipping through the neck and it was only a matter of time before it was all gone, and it would be spring. There would come a night where he would sleep in Jon’s bed for the last time. And then it would be over. It just might break me, he thought, and, gods, I think I’ll let it.  

“I...”  

“You don’t need to explain yourself, my boy.” The hand still on Satin’s shoulder gave him a gentle reassuring squeeze. “I just hope you listen. If you must love him so strongly, and I fear you must, don’t let others see. Promise me that much.” 

Despite the unsteady feeling in his legs and in his chest, Satin nodded. “I promise...” 

Malryk gave him a kindly smile, thin and almost watery and filled to bursting with understanding and compassion. “Good.” His hand rose from Satin’s shoulder to take him gently by the chin and raise it so he stood straight. “Now put your shoulders back and your head high. I hear you’re a lord tomorrow. Lords don’t slouch.” Satin chuckled despite the heaviness in his chest and did as the old man bid. “Now run along, my boy. Don’t keep his Grace waiting. He needs you.” 

Satin glanced over his shoulder through the glass panes. Jon was waiting for him. He stood off in the distance, lingering near the gate that led further into the courtyard that would take them to the crypts. The last lingering rays of the sunset, all deep purple and faded orange, lit him in a warm hue. The blue winter roses in Satin's arms felt heavy and the red one hidden in his doublet felt heavier still. He would press that one, he decided. He’d dry out the petals between the pages of a book and keep it. That way, even when this all ended – and it would, he knew it would – he’d still have this. Satin smiled to himself softly.  

“Thank you, Malryk.” He whispered as he looked at Jon. He slipped his cloak about his shoulders, graceless with his one good hand, and steeled his face. Satin the Steward, he reminded himself, Satin the Steward who serves Jon Stark the King, not Satin the Man who loves Jon Snow. When he was certain he had masked the love in his eyes, he stepped out into the cold and walked briskly up the path. The king was waiting for him, after all, and a steward mustn't keep his king waiting.  

_____________

It was not a grand ceremony. It was all rather quotidian really; just another day at court. Jon sat atop the large dais in the old granite chair engraved with countless heads of howling direwolves that served as his throne. His own direwolf, though silent and never howling, rested at his feet as Jon took petitioners, made rulings, and did as kings do. Jon did as he said he would and awarded a few men titles and plots of land or other honors for loyal service. A few new noble Houses were made, minor ones for Free Folk of import who had served and bent the knee to him, and a few for some Southron men who had once served Stannis Baratheon but had sworn themselves to him now. He announced each one, stamped the bill with his seal, and simply moved onto the next.  

Satin stood along the wall in his usual spot. It was far enough back so as not to be in anyone’s way and close enough for him to be at Jon’s side in a breath should the king call for him. Jeyne filtered in as the day progressed and she came to stand at his side, greeting him in silence with a curtsy and a nod as a small knowing smile pulled at her lips. Satin returned it. 

During a short recess, as lords and ladies talked and moved about the Great Hall, Satin leaned over and dropped his voice so only Jeyne could hear his barely-there words.  

“I’m rather interested about this child you’re willing to attest your father had.” 

She cut her eyes to him and only smiled. Her voice was hardly more than a breath when she replied. “It is the truth.” 

“Oh?” 

“The king’s truth. And that is the only truth which matters.” 

“His Grace bid you say them, then?” 

“No.” Jeyne said as she glanced about to be sure they were unheard. No one, it seemed, cared to listen in to king’s whore-turned-steward and the disgraced former wife of the Bastard of Bolton. That suited them both just fine. “But I could see his Grace wanted me to say them, though did not say as much himself. So, I said them. And now, they are the truth. Isn’t that so, brother?” 

Satin schooled the smile from his lips and bowed his head to her. “I suppose it is, sister.” 

When court reconvened, Jon called Larence Snow to the center of the room. The boy, caught unaware, scurried forth and knelt, bowing his head deeply. “By the request of your guardian, the Lord Galbart Glover, and at my own discretion for your services and deeds, I, King Jon Stark II, do hereby name you Larence Hornwood, the trueborn son of the late Lord Halys Hornwood and bestow unto you his name, his titles, and his lands and all their incomes as befitting his son and station. You may rise.” 

Larence rose a new man with his chest puffed with pride and his head held high as Jon stamped the bill and passed it aside to be filed and notarized. “Thank you, your Grace.” The boy said, and Satin could tell he just barely managed to keep his voice from warbling with emotion. 

Jon nodded politely and dismissed him with a quiet “My lord”. 

When Larence returned to his place standing beside Lord Glover amongst the gathered men, his eyes caught Satin’s and they shared a smile. Satin felt a surge of pride in his own chest for the boy.  

Jon called him next. He knelt in the center of the room as Satin, Satin Flowers, before the dais. His was much the same as Larence’s and it would be much the same as one after his too. Jon did not linger on it or explain his reasoning before some of the wide-eyed gathered lords who had not ‘known’ Satin to be a bastard at all. He simply read the proclamation.  

“By the request and attestation of the Lady Jeyne Poole, head of her house and your half-sister, and at my own discretion for your services and deeds, I, King Jon Stark II, do hereby name you Satin Poole, the trueborn son of the late Lord Vayon Poole and bestow unto you his name, his titles, and his lands and all their incomes as befitting his son and station. You may rise.”  

“Thank you, your Grace.” He rose as Satin Poole and kept his head bowed deeply, hand over his heart. “My king.” 

Jon looked down at him from the dais, his long face a mask of propriety and neutrality and his inscrutable grey eyes boasting only the faintest hint of warmth that Satin knew only he’d be able to see at all. There was no sign in either of them, as there shouldn’t be and mustn’t be, that they had woken in each other’s arms this morning, that Jon had seemed almost a little nervous as he helped lace Satin into his doublet and helped coat his hair in rose oil, and that Satin had squeezed his hand in reassurance.  

“My lord.” Jon echoed firmly in reply as the King in the North bowed his head in respect to a boy who had once been a whore in Oldtown.   

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated of course! ^.^!

Hoooooo I've been waiting for this one! Ever since I first introduced Jeyne I knew this was my destination! Happy to finally be there! Satin's a fancy boy now! Yay! And my own little take on all the Satin Flowers truthers

ALSO I know I said in reply to a comment that Shireen Baratheon was dead (burned "off screen" as per the show) but I take that back! Since it wasn't in the canon fic text, I feel I can retcon that. I didn't want to deal with her originally but then there was an idea and now she's coming in lol And we can assume she's been chilling at the Wall with her mom.

If anyone has anyone has any ideas or thoughts for interesting moments for our sweet boys, you can tell me about them here or come yell them at me on tumblr at @back-on-my-nerd-shit and I may very well find places for them to go in the series! <3 <3