Work Text:
Jon awoke with a start, a sound dying in the air as soon as his eyes opened. His cell was cold. The fire had gone out long before, leaving only barely smoldering coals for Ghost to curl in front of. Jon could not quite remember the dream that he had awoken from, flashes of heat and flame, red skies, sparks and flame. Red hair. Blood in the snow. He took a long unsteady breath, and shuddered. He must have been thrashing, and the furs had slid off the bed, leaving him with nothing but his woolen underclothes between him and the frigid night air.
There was a quiet rapping at the wooden chamber door. Jon clenched his fist for a moment, half expecting to hear more evil news, more death and war and famine. But instead he heard Satin’s soft voice, just above a whisper in the darkness.
“Lord Commander? Are you alright?”
“I-” For a moment Jon searched for his composure. “I’m alright, yes.”
It was quiet for a few heartbeats.
“May I come in?”
“If it please you.”
The door opened without a sound, and Jon could just make out Satin’s silhouette, face wrapped in the scarf Grenn had knitted for him. His eyes were shining in the small bit of moonlight that made its way through the thick and murky windowpane. Jon, a little embarrassed to be seen so indisposed, tried to pull the blankets off the floor without Satin noticing. He had been bare in the cold for long enough that his fingers had gone numb. He fumbled for awhile before pulling his bedding into his lap.
“Your fire.” Satin knelt at the edge of the hearth, Ghost shifting dutifully to make room for him, and began to blow life back in the coals. Jon watched as the slowly building flame brought color back to his face, cheeks now brushed pink, and dark ringlets coming loose from beneath his wrapped scarf.
“It’s alright,” Jon said ruefully, always nervous to be fussed over. “I don’t even feel the cold anymore.”
“Everyone feels the cold.” Satin had the fire steady now, warm shadows darting across the stone walls around them. “It’s warmth you don’t feel anymore.”
Jon didn’t know how to answer. Satin gestured to the furs beside where Jon sat, asking silently to sit with him. It wasn’t proper, Jon would have never been so familiar when he was steward for Lord Commander Mormont, but in that moment Jon didn’t think about propriety. He nodded his ascent, and Satin sat cautiously, knees together, like how Sansa and her friends would perch on the garden walls and gossip.
“I see it in the way you move, you know. You’re stiff. You let yourself freeze all night, and you pay the price in the morning.” Jon could already feel the difference in the air now that the fire was alive. His skin was prickling a little as heat returned to his limbs.
“I look weak?”
“I only see it because I watch for it, my Lord. You’re overburdened. You don’t need to punish yourself like that.” He pulled off one of his mittens, tucking it under his other arm, and held out his bare hand, palm up, to Jon. Jon could see the pink in his fingertips and the pad of his palm, sunset soft against the dark leather of his sleeve. Without really thinking, Jon placed his own bare hand within Satin’s, and Satin folded Jon’s fingers within his own.
Satin didn’t have the same velvet skin he’d had in Oldtown. The fingers on Jon’s were rough, calloused from bow and brick and cold, the way a man of The Night’s Watch’s hands should be. But his touch was gentle, and his skin so warm it almost hurt. Jon began to pull back, but Satin wrapped his other hand over Jon’s before he could, pulling him close to his chest.
“You should try harder to keep your hands warm, my Lord,” Satin whispered. “The Watch has lost many a valiant finger to frostbite.”
“It feels strange,” Jon said. He hadn’t touched someone’s bare skin since Winter began.
“That’s the blood returning.” Satin raised Jon’s fingers to his face brushing them against his cheek for a moment. “You’re still cold. You were shivering when I came in.”
“Why did-”
“I heard you cry out.” Satin moved closer, Jon’s hand still in his, pulling a leg up onto the bed so they could face each other, and undid the first few clasps of the fur-lined tunic he wore, pulling away his clothes with practiced ease. “Here,” he said, and guided Jon’s hand under his clothing, pressing Jon’s palm flat against his chest.
Jon knew he needed to pull away, that this wasn’t a liberty proper for the Lord Commander. But the body heat against his skin felt wonderful, soothing aches he didn’t realize he’d been carrying. As necessary as the first sip of water after training in the yard. He heard his breathing hitch despite himself, almost whimpering. Satin smiled, and pulled Jon’s other hand in as well.
He wasn’t touching Satin’s skin directly. There were at least two layers of wool between Jon’s fingers and Satin’s body, but when he splayed his fingers he could feel the outline of the muscles in Satin’s chest, the softness of his belly, feel his heartbeat, the pull of breath in his lungs. His hands buzzed as sensation returned, and he became more aware of his body as warmth returned to him, and noticed that Satin’s knee was laying beside his thigh.
Satin had been a whore in Oldtown. The body beneath his touch was one used to pleasing men, and Jon could see memories playing beneath Satin’s features when he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply against Jon’s hands. Jon pulled closer even as he spoke, running fingertips along the seam of Satin’s shirt, where it clung to his ribs.
“You don’t have to do this,” he told Satin. “Don’t feel like you have to serve me like this. You’re-” Satin had fought for the respect he had at Castle Black. When he’d first come he’d been spat on, called names. He’d never reported anything directly to Jon, but he’d heard the stories anyway. Satin had been propositioned by many brothers, even the same ones who disrespected him in front of the other men at the dining hall. He’d had to fight back against some of them. If he accepted others, he did so discreetly, though Jon had noted that somehow the best fletched arrows always went to Satin, and he never lacked for soap or scents from the storeroom.
Jon knew people talked about them. Rumors that he hoped most men dismissed. That Satin earned his rank of Steward in the Lord Commander’s bed. Jon had broken his vows before, why not do it again with the prettiest man in Castle Black. Why not keep him all to himself too, sleeping outside his cell and stoking his fire. But Jon didn’t care. Satin was smarter than men older than him, and braver than those who called him names. That’s how Jon thought of him, one of his most valued men.
He noticed sometimes though. He couldn’t help it. Catching from the corner of his eye Satin blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes. The smell of him when he bent close to lace Jon’s armour. The way he remembered where Ghost liked to be scratched. The taste of mulled wine, when Satin had gotten Jon extra cinnamon, the way he liked it. If he had been on the Wall a few years longer, been a little longer without touching a woman. One could grow close to a man like that. But he hoped he kept his thoughts well hidden. He didn’t want anyone to think that such idle fantasies were why he kept Satin around. He especially didn’t want Satin to think so.
“I don’t want this from you,” he finally said, starting to lean away, reluctant to leave behind the warmth of Satin’s body. Satin caught his wrists.
“I’m not coming to you as a whore, and you as my mighty Lord. I’m coming to you as a Man of the Night’s Watch. I’m coming to you as a friend, Jon.”
“As a friend.”
“Don’t run from comfort tonight. Please.”
“You’re asking me?”
“I want to serve you, Jon. And I want to help you. Let yourself be warm. At least for a moment.”
He drew in nearer, and Jon didn’t pull away, and Satin’s lips grazed Jon’s cheek. Jon shuddered at the sweetness of the sensation. He could smell Satin’s hair, clean washed wool and woodsmoke and a hint of allspice.
“Do you trust me, Jon?”
Jon shivered again, and The Lord Commander finally left him. He pulled his arms tight around Satin’s waist, and buried his face in Satin’s shoulder. Satin’s hands, his hands so warm Jon could barely believe it, moved across Jon’s shoulders and back, bringing heat back into him. One touch strayed down, finding Jon’s hips and thighs, and at that Jon finally shook his head.
“Not that. Stay with me, but not like that. Not tonight.” Jon was as hard as he had ever been, but Satin pulled his hand away immediately, and raised it to stroke Jon’s hair.
“Lie down with me,” Satin asked in a whisper, and lowered Jon back into the bed, intertwining their legs and pulling Jon’s furs over the both of them. They faced each other in the warm dark coccoon, working only by touch while Satin rubbed Jon’s shoulders and arms, pulled his hips snug to his thigh. Jon clung to Satin’s clothes a little feebly, not remembering how to do this, and overwhelmed by the sensations. He hadn’t been touched so softly since Ygritte, and when Satin kissed him he moaned, and pulled himself in closer, until neither could move much. Satin’s lips moved on Jon’s cheek and neck, and when Jon began weeping he licked the tears away before they hit the pillow.
Jon kept opening his mouth to explain why he was crying, but each time he realized it wasn’t necessary, that Satin understood without speaking. When he finally ran out of tears for his brothers, all of his brothers, and Ygritte, and Arya, he was exhausted. Satin nestled Jon’s face against his chest, their arms around each other, and Jon slept the easiest he had in weeks.