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Satin did his best to keep Rickon distracted but the boy’s shoulders were slumped and his bottom lip was pouting. The godswood was cold, a bitterly sharp wind blustering through the thick canopy of trees and rippling their cloaks and furs, mussing up hair, and biting at their cheeks and the tips of their noses until they were red. Satin had kept him busy with stories and games of tag at the beginning, but as Jon and Sansa’s argument had worn on, their voices grown tighter and a little louder, the boy’s willingness to play had faded. So instead, Satin found himself sat up against the trunk of a large oak with Rickon in his lap, wrapping the boy with his cloak, as Shaggydog and Ghost pressed to him on either side to keep them warm. He gently patted Rickon’s back with his good hand as the boy sulked.  

“Are they mad at me...?” Rickon asked him quietly, voice small.  

“Oh, sweet prince, no.” Satin reassured him. “They aren’t mad at you. They aren’t even angry, not truly. They’re just... talking.” 

The boy didn’t seem to buy it, his little round face pulling into a frown. “They sound angry...” 

“Sometimes, when adults care about something or someone a lot and they talk about it, they sound angry. But they’re not. They're just emotional.” 

“Emotional just means angry.” Rickon muttered with a huff.  

“No,” Satin insisted softly. “It just means there’s big feelings. Any feeling – be it anger, sadness, or even nice ones like love and happiness – can become hard to talk about if it becomes big enough. And when things are hard to talk about, sometimes it comes out sounding angry.” 

Rickon’s brow furrowed as he thought very hard, considering Satin’s words like he had never heard of such a thing. “Like when Jon yelled at the Greatjon when you got hurt?” 

An almost-awkward chuckle fell from Satin’s lips. “Yes, little prince, like that.” 

Jon and Sansa had been at it most of the morning. The family had come out to the godswood after breakfast at Jon’s insistence, just the Starks, their direwolves, and Satin for prayer and for discussion. Littlefinger was a problem, Satin and Jon both knew. But proof of his crimes and schemes was needed if they wished to do anything about it. Jon had spoken with Sansa about him before, last week after their revelation of what had been done to Jeyne, but she had given him little to go on, mostly just things he already knew and polite if distant smiles. This morning, Jon was more insistent, needling her for information on why he’d brought her home and why he’d betrayed a seemingly prosperous alliance with the Lannisters to do it, what he hoped to gain from it and from Winterfell. The Lannisters held the iron throne, surely they were the more advantageous partner with their gold mines and bountiful harvests and plentiful allies, not a war-ravaged northern kingdom in the midst of winter.  

What had started as polite conversation, a search for answers, had devolved in what Satin could only call bickering and the airing of grievances. The argument was cyclical and seemed to go nowhere. Jon pushed, Sansa pulled, and no ground was given by either party. Sansa didn’t know, she insisted, why Baelish had brought her home, only that he had rescued her and protected her. His plan, she told him with an air of annoyance, had been slashed anyway. By Jon. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore!” Sansa said hotly. “You’re here. You’re king. I was supposed to marry Harry the Heir, and we were going to rally the Lords of the Vale to take Winterfell in my name. That was what was supposed to happen, Jon. I was going to be Lady of Winterfell, but then you came south and crowned yourself king so I suppose I’m just here now.” 

“Crowned myself king?” Jon echoed incredulously. “I was legitimized and named heir by Robb’s will. I didn’t crown myself. Is that what this is about? Being Lady of Winterfell?” 

“No!” Sansa’s voice was tight, rising higher and higher over the howling wind. “But even when they told me you’d become king, I was still told I’d be your heir. I’d be important. I’d matter!” 

“Matter? Of course you matter!” Jon paused and drew in a breath through his nose. His voice was lower, calmer, when he spoke again. “You’re my sister. And now that Tyrion is dead and you’re a widow, I’ve re-inherited you. I told you that. Just after Rickon. A brother comes before a sister, you know that.” 

His attempt to reel in tempers seemed to do little. “You still disinherited me!” Sansa cried. “You cast me aside. How could I matter when you cast me aside?”  

“Robb disinherited you, and I upheld it.” Jon said firmly, holding his ground with an even tone. “If I hadn’t and I died, the Lannisters could have laid claim to Winterfell. I couldn’t take such a risk. It was not you I was casting aside; I was trying to protect our home.” 

Sansa had not been able to mask her heartbreak when she had heard Jon tell her of her disinheritance. Satin remembered watching her face fall in the council meeting where Jon had signed the document restoring her to the line of succession. To learn she needed to be restored at all had made her go silent and her eyes water. She had said little for the rest of the meeting, only muttering thank you, your Grace when the document was notarized and filed. She had left not long after, with a stiff curtsey and little else. Jon’s grimace and the heavy hand he’d dragged down his long face once they were alone spoke volumes. He’d been trying to grow closer to her since her return. He found time in the day to take her hawking and riding. He complimented her dresses and urged her to befriend the princess Shireen. He tried and tried and tried, and it had been working. Jon thought it had been working. But from that day it was as if what warmth had grown between them had been slashed and Sansa, still, seemed to be waiting for him across a bridge that Jon simply could not build.  

The princess regarded him in silence for a long, lingering moment, her face tight and lips pursed. From his place under the nearby oak, Satin could see Sansa’s lower lip wobble as she swallowed heavily. She looked on the verge of tears, poor thing, like a thousand small cuts had come to the surface. Satin barely heard her next words over the wind and rustling of the trees around them, so small and fragile was her voice. “...Did you even look for me?” 

Jon blinked at her. “What?” 

“Had you given up on me?” She asked in a hoarse whisper. “Because I heard the report during council that you have men looking for Arya. Did you have men looking for me? Or did you not care?” 

A sour look pulled at the features of Jon’s face. “I sent men south for you and Arya. But by the rumours I’d heard, you’d fled King’s Landing with Tyrion across the Narrow Sea to gods know where. I sent ravens.” 

Jon had looked for Sansa it was true, and Satin knew it, but it had not been with the same zeal as he had for Arya. He’d accepted Sansa wasn’t coming home, that she was gone and lost to the Lannisters or across the Narrow Sea after the assassination of Joffrey Baratheon. Jon had looked for her but not like he had Arya, like he still did for Arya. He knew it. Jon knew it. Sansa knew it. Satin could only imagine how that had to sting at Sansa’s heart, and felt a pang of pity in his chest for the girl. In his lap, Rickon sniffled and buried his head in Satin’s shoulder.  

“Ravens?” Sansa repeated, voice sharp and tight in her throat. “Arya gets multiple groups of scouts, and I get ravens?” 

“What do you want me to say?” Jon exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I thought you were gone, hiding in some Free City manse with Tyrion Lannister. Had I known you were in the Vale, I’d have boarded a ship and come to get you myself. Had I heard even so much as a whisper of where you were, I’d have come at once. Do you truly think so little of me?”  

“What I think,” Sansa said, voice cold in a way that reminded Satin so much of Jon when he was angry. “is that I came all this way for nothing.”  

Is that what you think, Satin thought as he patted Rickon’s back and soothed the prince in his arms, or what Petyr Baelish has told you that you ought to think?  

Jon’s frown deepened, lips pulled tight and brow furrowed under the weight of his crown. He stared at his sister incredulously with a slow shake of his head. “You didn’t come all this way for nothing. You came all this way to come home. To your family.” 

“And do what?”  

“Be home. With me. With Rickon.” Jon sighed heavily. “How could you have expected to be heir with Rickon here?” 

“I didn’t even know he was here!” Sansa told him earnestly. “He told me only after we arrived that he’d heard rumors Rickon had come home but he didn’t want to tell me in case they were false, and he’d break my heart for no reason. He was surprised to see him too; he told me so.” 

Satin wasn’t sure he believed that and Jon didn’t seem to, either. “He? Was it he who told you you’d be my heir? Petyr Baelish?” Sansa looked away, eyes on the ground, and that urged Jon on. “Aye, he did. I’m sure he tells you much. I’m sure he says a lot of things. Kind things, good things. And then some bad things too. About me, perhaps? They're not true. We’re family, Sansa. We need to trust each other, not some mockingbird in the ear.” 

A sadness sat heavily in Sansa’s blue eyes and her bottom lip quivered. “...I just want to matter. I’m not some stupid little girl anymore. I know politics, I know the game, I know how to hold my own. I don’t want to just sit there and look pretty and smile like I’m some bird in a cage parroting back pretty words. I thought I’d be something when I came home.” 

Jon fixed her with a long, searching look before sighing. “I know you think you want to be... what, my heir? Queen after me? Lady of Winterfell? But you don’t. You don’t want this, Sansa. It is sleepless nights, war, winter, bank loans, ledgers on bushels of wheat and salt beef stores until your brain goes numb and your eyes burn, and greying hair at eight-and-ten. You don’t want this.” 

Sansa frowned at him, brows knitting together as she shook her head almost incredulously. “But you do.” 

“I don’t.” Jon told her plainly, and Satin could hear the weary tiredness that clung to his voice. “I never wanted it and I never asked for it. But Robb’s dying will was that I wear this crown and it was my duty to accept it.” 

“You must have wanted it. You broke your oaths to the Night’s Watch to come here.”  

Jon seemed to almost flinch. “What?”  

“You broke your vows.” Sansa repeated hotly. “You say you died and were resurrected. And the rumors everywhere say the same. The Northmen call you the ‘Wight Wolf’, the Baratheons call you Azor Ahai, and the Wildlings look at you like you’re some risen savior back from the dead to make it all better. But look at you! You’re fine. Your body’s not rotting and desiccated; you still look just like you. Just like father! And everyone loves you! You’re alive and fine. People don’t die and come back. Those are just stories people tell to make themselves look good. I know the game.” 

Jon was silent for a long moment. “I died.” He finally said.   

“Come on, Jon.” Sansa pressed, annoyance and disbelief dancing with her sharp tone. “Tell what tale you must to the rest of the world, fine, but I’d ask you not to lie to me! I’m your sister. What happened to ‘we’re supposed to trust each other’ like you just said? You can’t ask me to trust you and then lie to my face!” 

“I’ve told you no lies.”  

“So, you expect me to believe you died and just, what, woke up again?” Sansa’s face was nearly as red as the hair whipping about in the wind, hands at her side slowly balling up into fists. “That’s like a song, Jon! Some fairy story! I learned the hard way the world isn’t like the songs! The hero doesn’t just come back! Stop lying to me! He told me you would! He told me!” 

Jon stared at her, grey eyes wide and face void of any emotion at all until finally it pulled down into a frown and something that was almost anger crossed his features. After a long moment's silence passed between the siblings, tension and heavy breaths the only thing shared between them, Jon reached his hand up to the iron wolf’s head clasp that held his cloak fastened about his shoulders and yanked it loose. The thick wool and fur fell heavily to the ground in a pile with a muffled thump as his hand moved to the ties at the neck of his doublet, pulling on them until they began to loosen.  

“What are you—”  

Jon tugged at his laces just enough so he could yank the doublet up and over his head, tossing it and his undertunic aside to the snow without care for the cloth or for the cold. The gasp that fell from Sansa’s lips was harsh and guttural, one of shock and horror and disbelief. With Jon’s chest bare, Sansa could see the echoes of the night Jon had been murdered as plain as the day upon his skin. The scars Satin had taken such care to close with needle and thread were not pretty things, even now. They were killing blows each one, at his chest and just below his neck. The risen pink gashes were visceral wounds, even healed over as they were. They were not something a man received and survived. Satin pressed Rickon’s face into his shoulder so he couldn’t see, though he doubted he’d understand even if he did. Satin’s eyes lingered on the scars and remembered them open and dripping with blood. He remembered cleaning them until all that blood had been wiped away and his fingers had ached. He remembered kissing Jon’s lips as cold as this morning’s wind. And then he remembered him waking, alive, alive, alive.  

“I died, Sansa.” Jon said, his voice thick with emotion and memory, the way it was what he was forced to remember that which he didn’t want to. “I died and I came back and it wasn’t like the songs. It was bad and it hurt and it still hurts. And I’m not a hero, I’m just a man. But I broke no vow to come here. I swore to serve the Night’s Watch until I died and I did. And now I’m here, serving as king until I die too because those are the vows I took. And whatever things that man is whispering in your ear about me, about what I’ve done to get here, about who I am, how I don’t care about you, how you don’t matter to me, are completely, irrevocably, false. I’ll tell you all of it, every gory detail if you want it. I’ll tell you how it felt to die and how it felt to learn what it is to breathe again, and about the flames that pulls at my mind even now.” He took a step forward and took Sansa’s hand in his, bringing her palm to rest on his chest where his heart still beat despite having died. She gasped again when she felt his skin under hers.  

“You’re burning up...” She muttered in something that was almost awe. “You have a fever...”  

“I don’t.” Jon told her. “I have fire in my veins now. I don’t know why and I don’t know how. But I woke to salt and smoke. That is what I know. I’ll tell you every bit of it. But I just need you to trust me more than you trust him.” 

Sansa stared at him with wide eyes as her hand slowly fell away from his chest. The deep chill of winter had no effect on Jon as it never did anymore, and as the sharp blustering winds hit his bare skin, he didn’t shiver. He simply stood, as still as one of the statues in the crypts, almost steaming from the heat he radiated. Sansa blinked a few times as her mind seemed to catch up with her eyes.  

“I... you’re...” 

“I know.” Jon said softly. “It’s okay.” 

“But that’s not... real.” 

“It is.” 

“Magic isn’t real...” 

“It is.” 

“Oh.” 

“I know.” 

The wind howled between them and the trees swayed above, the countless red leaves of the weirwood like reaching bloodied hands rustled their strange song. Under the watching eyes of the Heart Tree, Sansa’s gaze fell to the ground, unsure and unsteady. 

“He’s protected me...” She mumbled. “He’s the only reason I’m alive and here. Cersei Lannister... she’d have killed me if he hadn’t taken me away. So many times... I’d have been dead without him...” 

“I know.” Jon repeated, stepping closer and catching her gaze intently. “And you can be thankful to him for that and trust me at the same time. Can you do that?”  

Sansa seemed to think for a long moment, watching Jon with eyes that struggled to understand, struggled to see. After a long while passed in silence as she thought, thought more, and came to a conclusion, she finally spoke in a whisper that was as fragile and delicate as porcelain. “...I was never your favorite little sister.” 

“And I was never your favorite big brother.” Jon answered, not unkindly. “But we’re what we have now. You, me, and Rickon, we’re it. We mustn’t squander that. Can you trust me?” Sansa nodded slowly, growing more resolute and surer with each up and down of her head, until she was nodding with conviction. Jon took her head in his hands and tilted it forward to leave a soft kiss upon her brow. “Good.” 

Jon redressed himself and then sister and brother talked a while longer, their words softer and slower. Sansa did not know much about why Littlefinger had rescued her, but he had been a friend of her lady mother’s. He had loved her, Sansa told Jon, for all this life he had loved her and he could not let the daughter of the woman he loved die. Jon thanked her for the knowledge and bid her be cautious. Be careful, he told her, of anyone who isn’t us. Our family are the only ones we can truly trust. Sansa nodded and she, to Jon’s tired sigh, gave him the very same advice.  

The divide between them was vast and seemingly near insurmountable but as they spoke together before the weirwood, the Old Gods looking down upon them, the divide seemed to Satin just a little smaller than it had been this morning. One more stone had been lain in the bridge they were building to cross the gap, another pick had cracked the wall. That space between them, however, could not truly be traversed until Littlefinger was gone, Satin figured. The mockingbird of a man had clearly gotten his talons into Sansa, poisoning her thoughts against Jon and making her think they were her own. Between his manipulation of Sansa and his abuse of Jeyne, Baelish seemed to have a habit of using little girls to his own ends. Two little girls he had been close to. Two sisters, one for Jon and one for Satin, both used by one man. Satin didn’t like that much, and he liked it less with each day that passed that Littlefinger’s head had not rolled.  

Soon, he reminded himself as his soothed Rickon in his lap with gentle pats on his back, patience. Let him come to you.  

_____________ 

Nolla gave him a grin, a wink, and a wave as she and her fellow spearwife, Svanna, took their leave. The Free Folk women were strong, capable warriors in their own right, and having them flanking behind he and Jeyne as they’d walked through Winterfell that afternoon had brought Jeyne some relief. The two men Jon had granted Jeyne as guards for her protection were good, but they still worried her and, upon learning from Orland Grafton that there were guards serving both House Poole and House Stark under a certain mockingbird’s employ, they worried Satin too. In a swallowing of his own pride, he had sought out Val in the Free Folk’s encampment and requested a small favor; a handful of her most trusted spearwives to serve as guards for Jeyne. The Free Folk were loyal to Jon to a fault, of that Satin had no doubt, unable to be bought and uncaring of Jeyne’s history with the Boltons. And, above all, the spearwives were women. Satin hoped that would ease Jeyne’s nerves, without having to fear being alone with a man and not knowing his intentions towards her after all that had been forced upon her in King’s Landing.  

“Is it the King Crow who makes this request of me?” Val had asked, looking him over with her keen grey-blue eyes as she walked through the camp with Satin trailing after her. “Or you, ‘pretty bird’?”  

“It is I.” Satin said, ignoring the moniker Tormund seemed to have spread through all the Wildlings by sheer force of will and repetition.  

“I see.” Val smiled. “This girl, she is important to you?”  

“She is my sister.” 

“Is she? She does not look to me like your sister. Your skin, your hair, are nothing alike. Only those big, sweet eyes of yours. Dark, pretty things, aren’t they? Those, you share. Nothing else.” 

“Our looks are irrelevant, my lady.” Satin insisted. “I only want for her to feel safe. And there are none better than your spearwives to ensure it is so.”  

Val paused her stride, letting him fall easily in line with her. A slow smile spread across her comely face and something in his words seemed to please her. She slipped her arm into his, linking them at the elbow, and continued walking forward with him now in tow. “Well, if that is so I suppose I could spare a few of my women for our favorite king’s favorite...” She craned her head towards him with an assessing glance. “What is the southern word for what you are to him?” 

“Steward.” Satin supplied.  

“Steward.” Val repeated slowly, as if testing and tasting the word on her tongue. Her thick accent, almost Northern like Jon’s but far stronger and with something altogether its own, made the word sound almost new and foreign to him. “For our favorite king’s favorite steward, I will do this. Consider it... a token of friendship between us, pretty bird.”  

Her smile had been wide and sharp, and her eyes sparkling with something playful as she led him through the camp, arm in arm all the while, and back to Jon who was speaking with Tormund. A moment’s surprise had crossed Jon’s eyes at their conjoined arrival and that had only made her grin grow.  

The Lady Val had made good on her promise and delivered to Satin four spearwives to serve guarding Jeyne in shifts of two. For the last week, they had stood sentinel at her door and accompanied her through the castle on the rare occasions she managed to leave her rooms. It had been a slow process, getting Jeyne to come out again, but one that was becoming just a little easier with each day that passed. First it was a walk around the old keep that housed her rooms, with Satin’s arm grasped tightly in her hand with each step. Then it was a trip to the kitchens for a sweet, and then to the godswood. She was still too afraid to leave her rooms without Satin and her spearwives and still refused to go anywhere near the Guest House which currently hosted many of the Lords of the Vale, Littlefinger included, but each step she took was little braver than the last. And that, for Satin, was enough until he could remove the cancer that was Petyr Baelish from Winterfell’s walls once and for all.   

Today, Jeyne had felt strong enough to manage a visit with the princesses Sansa and Shireen to sew and take tea together. She had insisted Satin stay and join them and while he couldn’t hold the needle for long before the dull ache in his almost-healed wrist bid him rest and put it aside, he enjoyed the evening anyway. He’d watched Jeyne slowly begin to smile and laugh with the other girls until his own smile had grown at the sight. 

As the sun had begun to set, hanging low in the sky and casting Winterfell in a haze of dim purple and orange light, the princesses took their leave back to their rooms, but Jeyne and Satin did not return to theirs. Instead, he had dismissed their spearwife guards with a smile as they made their way further into the Great Keep rather than across the courtyard to the building which held Jeyne’s chambers. He trusted Nolla and Svanna, but he figured any meeting between Jon, Satin, and Jeyne on the topic of Littlefinger ought be kept as secret as could be. 

In the secrecy and quiet of Jon’s solar, they spoke at length together about what was being done and what could be done, Jon looking for any information she might have had that could still be relevant even without her testimonial at a trial. She didn’t know much, but she told what she could of his ties to the Lannisters and the plot that sent her north in place of Arya Stark. Jon listened, nodded, and tried his best to corroborate her knowledge with other information they’d been given by Orland Grafton and by Jon’s newest ally, Yohn Royce. 

After learning of the Valemen’s distaste for Littlefinger, Jon had promptly ingratiated himself with the Lord of Runestone. He was a large man, with grey eyes and the darker complexion of a First Man despite being from the Vale, with a booming voice and a proud jaw. The hulking older man who dressed himself in bronze plated doublets and mail was fierce yet somber, staunch and yet courteous, and wise from his years. Jon had met him as boy, he’d told Satin, when Royce had come to Winterfell to escort his youngest son to the Wall to voluntarily take the Black. He’d been friends with Eddard Stark and Jon, young as he was then, had thought well of him. Royce, it seemed, thought much the same. 

“I never had the pleasure of meeting your son on the Wall,” Jon told him. “But I know he died a hero’s death while ranging. Lord Commander Mormont told me so. Rest assured he did his duty and upheld his vows until the end.” 

Royce had thanked him with a quiet, solemn nod. “He was a good lad.” He paused, eyes lingering on Jon’s face for a moment. “You look much like him, your Grace.” 

Most of their meetings were private ones, held without Satin in the privacy of the king's solar, but Jon always kept Satin informed of what had been discussed. Lord Royce had tried, he told Jon, to court Lysa Arryn in the hopes of marrying her and bringing the Vale into the War of the Five Kings in support of Robb and the North, but he had been refused instead for Petyr Baelish. He had also tried to take the young Robert Arryn to ward in Runestone, but that too had been denied in favor of Baelish. And when the Lords Declarant had gathered in the Eyrie to oust him, Baelish had maneuvered his way into the regency on technicalities. Royce told him that the new Lord of the Vale was weak, sickly, and confined for the last few moons to his chambers. The year of regency Littlefinger had negotiated was nearly at its end but Royce worried it would not stop there. He was a weasel, Royce had said, and he’d find a way to maintain control. Jon took the knowledge of Royce’s displeasure with Littlefinger as an advantage and admitted he felt much the same.  

“You were friends with my lord father.” Jon had told him when he offered Royce a seat on his small council. “Come, let us too be friends.” 

Slowly but surely, between Orland’s reporting, Jeyne’s history in King’s Landing, and Yohn Royce’s knowledge, a picture of Littlefinger was beginning to form, one of a man with a finger in every pie and a knack for ensuring events played out in his favor. They’d have to be careful if they were to be certain that, this time, he did not get so lucky. 

The meeting between he, Jon, and Jeyne had gone longer than planned and now it was late, well past sundown, as Satin led his sister through the corridors of the Great Keep. No direwolf trailed behind them tonight, as Ghost and Shaggydog had ventured out to the Wolf’s Wood for a hunt not long before supper. Her hand at his arm gripped him firmly, in searching of a steadying, calming presence, and Satin did his best to give it. It was quiet and otherwise empty in the dim torchlit halls as they took the stairs from Jon’s solar and towards the family wing and Satin’s rooms. He’d purchased her a new pair of gloves while visiting Winter Town with Jon, a thicker, hardier pair now that the more decorative ones she usually wore were not quite warm enough for the deep chill of winter. Jeyne slid the white gloves lined with white rabbit’s fur on her hands with a smile and let him lead her onwards.  

They passed he and Jon’s rooms as they went, Sansa’s room as well, and chatted quietly as they walked, careful to keep their voices down due to the late hour. It was as they came towards the end of the hall, ready to round another wide set of stairs to take them down and out of the Great Keep, that Satin heard a heavy thumping sound, a rustling, and a scuffling from behind a nearby door. The commotion, he realized, was coming from Rickon’s room. He heard a woman’s voice he recognized as the prince’s nanny, Sofyna, muffled through the door but just clear enough to hear. Stop it, she said, her voice high and strained, don’t! Beneath her words, Satin could hear a child’s crying – Rickon, he recognized – and he could hear him hiccupping, trying and failing to speak through his tears in the blubbering, incomprehensible manner he did when he grew too upset.  

The sounds didn’t particularly surprise Satin. Rickon was a whirlwind of emotion at the best of times, quick to anger and prone to fits of crying. Especially at bedtime and especially on the rare nights that he was without Shaggydog to soothe and calm him. There were times, even all these months after Rickon had come home, that Jon had to be called for in the middle of the night when the prince grew so unruly and so worked up that his big brother was the only one who could bring him back down. Satin wondered if this was to be one of those nights.  

“No!” Sofyna shouted, her voice raw and visceral even despite the heavy muffling. “You can’t—!” 

That made him frown. The nannies weren’t supposed to yell at the prince, and certainly not so harshly. That wasn’t the way things were done. A servant was not to yell at or discipline a member of the royal family. They were meant to watch and to care. If there was something worth disciplining, it was supposed to be brought to Jon. He’d have to have a word with Sofyna, and with Jon, about raising her voice at Rickon.  

Another loud bump and a series of quick thumps came from behind the door, along with another shout that sounded just a bit too much like pain for Satin’s liking. He sighed heavily and glanced to Jeyne. 

“A moment, sister, I do believe the prince has just bitten his nanny. Again.”  

Slipping his arm from hers and crossing to Rickon’s door, Satin reached for the doorknob. He’d pull the prince off her, he figured, and set the boy right for the night. Rickon never bit him and had not so much as tried to nip him since Ghost had ‘told’ him and Shaggydog that Satin was off limits. Rickon was not ‘allowed’ to bite him by his own strange wolf-rules and Satin knew he wouldn’t. He’d soothe the boy, send Sofyna to the maester, wait for another nanny to come, and then see Jeyne to her rooms. It was better he do it then need to have Jon sent for. He rapped a stray knuckle at the door to announce himself before pushing it open.  

“My prince, how many times have we said—” 

Satin froze. There was a puddle of blood on the floor and Sofyna was laying in it. It was slowly seeping from her, the crimson liquid looking almost black in the dim room lit only by a dwindling hearth, and pooling around her more with each passing moment as it spilled from the grisly gash splitting her open from neck to breast. A horrible gurgling sound spilled from her lips as blood bubbled up in her mouth. But in that moment, Satin wasn’t looking at Sofyna. There was a man standing above her, dressed in black leathers and a hood. The blade in his hand dripped with red ichor and glinted in the firelight. The hand that did carry his blade had Rickon by the mouth.  

“Quit trying to bite, you brat.” The man spat gruffly. In his grip, Rickon struggled, grasping at the man’s arm with his pudgy little hands and trying with all his might to snap his teeth at the hand currently gagging him. Rickon’s wide and terrified eyes met Satin's and he let out a terrified muffled sound that, even though the hand and Rickon’s tears, Satin knew instinctively was help me. The man with the blade turned at Satin’s arrival, head whipping around over his shoulder. His eyes, beady and brown, widened to see him.  “What’re— Who’re you?” 

Satin’s heart raced in his chest as he realized what was happening. A thousand thoughts shot through his head like lightning. Confusion, panic, fear, but then determination. He didn’t have time to falter now, not when Rickon’s life hung in the balance. Satin kept his voice even and steady. “Let the prince go and you’ll be shown mercy.” 

“Supposed to be only a woman here with the boy.” The man muttered darkly. His voice was one Satin didn’t recognize and one that wasn’t from around here judging by the lack of a Northern accent. He couldn’t place it further, not then, not in the moment of desperation and adrenaline as he stared at the scene before him and at the fear in Rickon’s eyes. “No wolf and no one else.”  

“Let him go.” Satin said again firmly, voice low and slow. “I’ll let you walk right out of Winterfell’s gates. I won’t even tell the king you were here as long as you let him go.” 

The man huffed, roughly yanking Rickon forward to place the small slip of a boy between Satin and himself. He brought the blade up to Rickon’s throat, touching it to the underside of the boy’s jaw and cheek but not applying enough pressure to draw blood. Just enough however, Satin figured, to sting. A sob of fear escape Rickon’s lips that was masked by the hand over his mouth. The sound shot another shard of adrenaline through Satin’s heart. “So you can shoot me down as I run? No, thank you. I’ll take me chances with a little girl and a lady-boy, methinks.” He glanced beyond Satin to Jeyne, who he could feel behind him just a step away. “Don’t you move, girl. Run and I kill the boy.” 

You seem intent to kill the boy, anyway, Satin thought, but nodded over his shoulder to Jeyne to keep her still. He heard her draw in a shaking frightened breath, but she stayed put and did not run. “Is it money you want?” He asked. “However much they’re paying you, I can double it. Triple it.” 

Something akin to consideration seemed to pass the man’s face, a flash of greed, a flash of hunger, and then a frown. “And get an assassin sent after me next? Not bloody likely.” 

“Let him go.” Satin pleaded in the hopes of buying time. Quick and clever, he reminded himself. Satin had a dagger at his hip, one he carried at Jon’s insistence but the man had a falchion. Longer reach, sharper blade. If the man was fast, Satin would be dead before he and his dagger could get in range to do any good. He was decent enough with it at the best of times, but his wrist was still healing. He could wield it but he doubted he’d last long if it truly came to blows. If he called for guards, Rickon’s neck would be slit. Keep him talking, Satin told himself. Find a way. Free Rickon, disarm the man, kill him, survive. In that order. “Please, he’s just a boy.” 

“A feral, half-mad thing, you mean.” The assassin spat. “More beast than boy. This is a mercy.” 

A dread began to sit heavily in Satin’s stomach as his heart pounded in his chest. There was no Jon, no guards, and no chance, Satin realized. Only a child with a blade at his face, an unarmed girl, and a weak boywhore with an injured wrist. His eyes fell to Rickon, the tiny boy of only six staring up at him, face red with the tears and snot that streamed down his face. Pure terror was in his blue eyes, pupils so constricted they were barely even pin pricks. Help me, his eyes begged. He hoped his own told Rickon he was trying. “Go walk with Shaggy.” Satin told him, begged him in truth. Go away inside, he thought. Don’t be here for this. Please, sweet boy, don’t be here for any of this. “Please, Rickon, go walking.” 

Rickon’s blue eyes seemed to glaze over at his words, taking on that white, milky appearance that, between Jon and the prince, had become a familiar sight to Satin. Good, Satin thought. Whatever happened now, Rickon didn’t need to be here for it. For good or ill, he thought, let him be with Shaggy for it. But then Rickon blinked, eyes blue and fierce and wild with anger again. A sound that could only be a snarl sounded from behind Rickon’s teeth and the boy, with strength a six-year-old should not have been capable of, yanked his assailant’s arm to the side. Rickon’s head snapped out as he bit down with wild ferocity on the hand attempting to cover his mouth. The assassin cried out in shock and pain, the blade in his other hand flinched, and Satin saw a spurt of red blood.  

Satin moved before his mind even managed to comprehend what was before him. His body knew it was now or never and so he moved and did not stop moving until it was done. He didn’t remember drawing his dagger nor how he managed to cross the expanse of the room in what felt to him like a single step, but Satin found himself right where he needed to be. His left hand took Rickon by the arm and yanked him away, tossing him to the side with as much force as he could muster, blood trailing behind the prince as he moved, and Satin's right hand swiped out with a frantic upward slice at the man’s sword arm. It connected just as the assassin was drawing his hand back to raise his falchion, and Satin’s dagger – quick and clever, disarm, kill, survive, quick and clever – slashed the man’s wrist open.  

The pain in his own wrist didn’t even register. Blood gushed from the man’s wound, spurting out and covering them both in crimson. Satin’s strike had been delivered with such adrenaline-fueled force that he had felt the blade slice through the tendons and even into the bone beneath them. Unable to maintain his grasp on the blade with a hand that would never work again, the falchion clattered to the floor and slid across the granite tiles. Disarm, kill, survive, he reminded himself. He mustn’t leave a job half finished.  

The man looked ready to dive for his sword, to rearm himself and go down fighting, but Satin did not give the man the time to do so. He threw his entire weight forward, leading with his dagger, and buried it deep into the man’s chest. If the man cried out in pain or made any noise at all, Satin didn’t hear it over the mad rushing of the blood in his ears. Without pulling the blade out, he dragged the dagger down and split him open from breast to naval. There was a sickening squelch and a thick wet plop as something bloody and fleshy fell to the floor between them. Satin didn’t have time to see it or have time to feel nauseous at the sight of the man’s innards pooling between them. When the assassin began to fall backwards, Satin went over with him, landing a top him with a grunt. Satin pressed one of his knees to the man’s arm, the one trying in vain to reach for his wayward sword, and pinned it to the ground.  

“Jeyne!” He cried. “The blade!” 

He hoped she obeyed, thought she did somewhere in the back of his mind, but did not truly see it for himself. He was too focused on the man below him. On freeing Rickon, disarming, killing, and surviving. He drew his bloodied blade from the man’s belly, causing another spray of blood to cross his chest, and held to it to the assassin’s neck. The man was bleeding heavily from his wrist and even worse from his disembowel gut, but he hadn’t died yet. There was still light in his eyes. Satin pressed the dagger along his throat just enough to draw blood but not enough to kill.  

“Who sent you?” He demanded, voice shrill and harsh through his gasping breaths. The man below him gave no answer but a groan and Satin’s anger flared. “I’ll show you mercy if you tell me!” 

“What... mercy?” The man croaked out a laugh, chocking on his own blood and sputtering droplets onto Satin’s face. “I’m dyin’. Ain’t no mercy left to show me.”  

“I can make this much worse for you.” Satin promised through gritted teeth. “Or I can make it quick. Your choice. Tell me!” 

A glob of blood splattered across Satin's face and in his mouth and eyes as the man spat at him. He died then, from his wounds, from blood loss, or simply from spite, Satin was not certain. He stared down at him as the man’s eyes glazed over, hollow and empty and lifeless. “Dammit.” He cursed, panting to regain his breath but in the end it didn’t matter. Only Rickon mattered. 

The boy was not there when Satin looked to his left where he had tossed him. Satin called out for him by name, not bothering with titles or honorifics, voice desperate and afraid. He’d seen blood, before the commotion had begun. A spurt of blood when Rickon had bitten the man and there had been a blade at his throat. He called for him again and beneath the deafening sound of his own blood rushing through his veins and the pounding of his heart in his chest he heard quiet sobs coming from beneath the bed. Alive, his heart sang, Rickon was alive.  

Satin pulled the boy from under the bed and into his arms. He frantically took Rickon’s little round face in his hands, youthful and chubby and far too innocent, and found it was covered in blood on the entirety of its left side. His cheek was split open, gushing crimson ichor down his neck and onto his rumpled sleeping clothes. The cut crossed him from his ear to his upper lip, but the slice was thin and clean.  

“It’s okay...” Satin promised the boy, pulling him to his chest and cradling him there. He felt Rickon’s little hands twisting into his blood-soaked doublet as the child clung to him and shook in his arms. “Oh, sweet boy, it’s okay. It’s done. You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here, little one.” 

Rickon wept into his chest, body wracking and shaking with each sob as fear and adrenaline seeped out of his little body. “Mama...” Rickon cried, and Satin didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t here, that she’d never be here again, that his mother wasn’t coming to comfort him. He simply shushed the boy and rocked him in his arms.  

The sound of a shaking breath drew his attention, and he found Jeyne standing over the man’s lifeless body. The falchion was in her hands and her new white gloves were stained red with blood. Her eyes were wide, staring down at the man’s corpse. She slowly drew her eyes from the gory sight before her and met Satin’s gaze. That was all it took to bring Satin back to himself. 

“Get Jon and a maester!” Satin called. “Quick as you can! Rickon’s bleeding!”  

The blade tumbled from Jeyne’s hands as she turned and ran, hiking up her skirts with her bloodied hands and sullying them too. She was gone down the hall in a flash as Satin listened to the sound of her heels clattering along the stones in quick, hurried steps. He heard her voice echoing off Winterfell’s granite walls as she screamed your Grace! Jon! Your Grace! with all the strength her lungs could manage.  

Satin’s eyes fell from the open door to the nanny Sofyna, who still laid unmoving in her pile of blood. It had stopped spilling out now, having pooled and grown still. He would have hoped she was alive, but he knew at a glance that she wasn’t. She was gone, died having tried to save Rickon despite being unarmed and untrained. He wondered where in the Hells Rickon’s guard was. There was always one posted on the little prince’s door, to stop his escape attempts and keep him safe in the event that something terrible happened. Something terrible had happened tonight, or almost happened, and there had been no guard. Satin pressed a kiss to the top of Rickon’s mess of bloodied curls and stroked his back. The boy still wept, crying and bleeding onto his already soiled doublet. But that didn’t matter. None of it mattered as long as Rickon was alright.  

Shouting and loud, heavy footsteps in the hall drew his attention only moments later. Jon’s voice, he recognized at once, barked orders at guards. “Secure Sansa! Lock Winterfell’s gates! No one comes in or out!” Men scrambled to obey. There could be others, conspirators, Jon shouted as his voice grew louder with each step closer. The castle was to be searched, guards were to be at every door, and all lords and ladies were to be checked to ensure their safety. And it was all to be done now.  

Jon practically careened through the door, eyes wide and inhaling sharply for air with each ragged breath. Frantic grey eyes darted madly about the room before he settled on Satin and Rickon together in a heap upon the floor. Satin could only imagine how they looked; covered in blood and kneeling in a puddle of gore next to two corpses. Jon drew in another breath, haggard and heavy, as he stared. Gone were his usually unreadable eyes. They were as simple to read as a page in a children’s book now. Fear, Satin saw, as plain and as clear as a cloudless sky.  

“It’s okay...” Satin whispered, to Jon or Rickon he wasn’t sure. “It’s all okay now.” 

A few hurried steps more brought Jon to them and he dropped heavily to his knees, gathering them both into his arms and ushering them against his chest. Satin slumped forward with a sign of relief as Jon held the two of them close. He could feel Jon’s blood pulsing and hear his unsteady breaths, a fear so visceral that Satin had rarely ever seen on him before. It made him want to take Jon in his arms too, to cradle him, and run his nails along his scalp until he calmed. But they weren’t alone. He could hear the guards not far behind, hurried steps and shouts as the bells began to ring out in the courtyard. Alarm was being raised and the castle would soon be swarming with people. He could not do that now, could not comfort him as he wanted. Rickon, caught between them, twisted and curled up against Jon, one little hand clinging to him and the other on Satin’s hand. Jon held them both tight for a moment, breathing heavily and slowly as though bringing him back to himself. They were alright. They had lived and now Jon had seen it with his own eyes. It was as though Satin was watching him learn how to breathe again.  

Jon pulled away and looked over Rickon’s head at him. “You saved my brother’s life... Satin...” 

Maester Dallin’s arrival stopped his response before it could leave his mouth and he pulled away quickly, letting Rickon rest in Jon’s lap. The maester set to work at once. He looked over Rickon, struggling to pull him away from Jon long enough to tend him. Rickon had bruising on his arm and shoulder and a gash on his left cheek, but he would be alright. The prince sat on Jon’s lap, the only place he’d allow himself to be, as Dallin fed him a thimble-sized dose of milk of the poppy and stitched and bandaged the wound. The cut was clean rather than jagged, by luck, and in a thin straight line. It would take to stitches well, Dallin hoped. When it was done and Rickon’s sweet face was all wrapped in linen and herbal salves, the boy slept heavily in Jon’s arms in his drug induced state. That was better, Satin figured, than the pain, better than having to be scared. At least for the night.  

Maester Dallin checked Satin over, too, at Jon’s insistence. He was fine and his wrist was alright. It had healed enough, the maester said, that the pressure he’d put on it with his blade had done him no damage. He had gotten lucky. Sofyna the nanny, less so. Her body was taken away and Jon ordered her to be given a funeral with honors for her sacrifice and her family to be paid handsomely for their loss.  

The castle was searched. No accomplices were found, no additional assassins, and guards reported that all people of note – from Sansa to Shireen to Royce and Glover – were accounted for alive and well. The guard who was supposed to be on watch at Rickon’s door tonight was eventually found but he was in no state to stand trial for leaving his post. He was found in a closet, his throat slit and his trousers down around his ankles. It was unclear what exactly had happened but something, or someone, had led him from his post without fuss or alarm and he had died for it.  

The assassin himself was stripped and searched. Other than a pouch of coin on his person and a scarp of parchment with a crude drawing of the family wing marked with a circle over Rickon’s room, there was nothing of use. No identifying marks or instructions. The man was plain faced, of brown hair, with dark brown eyes, and of a standard height. He was nothing special at all, clearly of common stock. Within the coin pouch they found one hundred and fifty silver stags and three gold dragons. Three and a half dragons, Satin thought, was what someone had deemed Rickon’s life worth. Three and a half dragons. It had nearly made his blood boil to hear it. Is that all Rickon is worth to you, Baelish? Satin thought. For he had no doubt it was Baelish behind this. He had no proof and no doubt. His gut simply knew. He knew and knew and knew and all the rage and animosity he already felt towards that man for what he did to Jeyne only multiplied. You have just signed your own death warrant, he thought. It will not come tonight. But we’ll find proof. You’ll slip up. All men must. And when you do, Jon will take your head. He promised me so.  

With the bodies taken away and the castle on high alert, Jon relocated them to his personal office. He sat at his desk with Rickon curled up on his lap, hands clinging to Jon even in his poppy-milk induced sleep. Jon called for one of his guards to have Sansa brought to them and then sighed deeply. Satin slumped heavily into a chair as the adrenaline of the night slowly faded from his body. He felt heavy, sticky with drying blood and with sweat. His face, his hair, and his entire torso were stained red with gore and viscera. He felt disgusting and the coppery metallic scent of the blood made him want to be sick, but he swallowed it down. Jeyne rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  

“Your Grace...” She said softly, taking a hesitant step forward. “That man... the assassin. I knew his face. I saw him in King’s Landing, walking in the markets and the Red Keep. At the Gates, too. I remember.”  

Jon nodded grimly. “Whose colors did he wear?”  

“No colors.” She said. “Only a gold cloak. I thought him a member of the city watch. I know not his name but I saw him from time to time.” 

“You are certain of this?” Jon asked.  

“Yes, your Grace. The moment I saw him, I knew him.” 

“He did have a southern accent.” Satin added. “At the time I couldn’t place it. But it could easily have been a Crownlands or a Stormlands accent.” 

Jon frowned deeply. “Thank you, Jeyne. For you information and for your part in saving my brother tonight. You have the gratitude of House Stark, my lady.”  

It was only a moment later that Princess Sansa came rushing through the door, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. She was in little more than her dressing gown, her hair mussed with sleep, but didn’t seem to care as she immediately ran to her brothers’ sides. “Gods, Rickon!” She cried in horror, dropping to her knees to be of a height with the boy in Jon’s lap. “His face! Is he alright?” 

“He’ll be alright.” Jon assured her and passed her Rickon’s sleeping form when she reached out to take him in her arms. “Maester Dallin says he’ll live. He was lucky the blade only got his cheek and not his neck.” 

“Gods...” Sansa whispered, cradling her sleeping brother to her chest and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Wha-what happened?” 

“Someone tried to—” 

Jon’s words were stopped by the door to his office slamming open with such force it was knocked off of one of its iron hinges, left hanging half tumbled along the wall. Satin jumped and the ladies yelped out at the bang of wood on stone. Jon was still, as if he had expected it. The massive hulking black shape of Shaggydog stood in the doorway, head down, ears back, and teeth bared. He looked half rabid, green eyes burning like wildfire and maw drooling with his tongue flicking out through his gritted teeth. He let out a warning growl as he approached the sleeping Rickon, snapping his jaws out at Sansa. The princess doubled back, cradling Rickon to her in fear.  

“Shaggydog!” Jon snapped. “Down. He’s fine.”  

The beast didn’t seem to hear him. He only prowled closer, gnashing his teeth at Jon and then again at Sansa in warning. Give me the boy, the snapping of his maw said. Satin felt his heart pick up with Sansa wrenched back again instead of handing her unconscious brother over to the snarling direwolf. He couldn’t fault her that, for not understanding the depths of the bond between boy and beast, for not understanding their warg connection when her wolf had been stripped of her so young. But her refusal, her desire to protect her little brother from the ferocious animal pawing closer, only seemed to enrage Shaggydog further. Wild fury crossed the direwolf’s eyes and he leaned down and seemed to prepare to pounce, to rip his master from Sansa’s arms with blood and teeth if the girl would not hand him over. Satin moved to stand. What he planned to do he didn’t know but he began to move towards Sansa and Rickon nonetheless.  

Jon stood, calling out once more for Shaggy to stop and heel. Again, the black beast did not care to hear him. Were Rickon awake, Satin knew, the boy could soothe the direwolf, call him off, but he was unconscious, so deep in poppy-sleep that even shaking him now wouldn’t wake him. And Shaggydog was all fire and wrath and the desire to protect the only thing that mattered to him. 

“Enough!” Jon snapped as Shaggy moved to close in with a burst of speed. Jeyne cried out in horror and Sansa screamed, curling around Rickon as if to put herself between what she believed was an uncontrolled direwolf and her baby brother. But then, the beast stopped. He stopped as though he’d been turned to stone, frozen in place rigid and still as the grave. Each muscle grew sharply taut, his snout stuck open as he’d had it but the growling had ceased. His green eyes, alight with anger and fury, widened in shock. It was an odd look on a wolf’s face, but somehow perfectly readable. Suddenly, Shaggydog shuddered, his whole body shivering as if fighting against something, pushing back and battling something unseen. He tried to take a step forward and failed. He tried to snap his jaws and failed. In what looked like a battle of wills, the direwolf seemed to lose. Shaggydog pulled back, took slow oddly unstable steps away, and laid down defeated and limp in the corner of the room.  

Satin’s confusion was short lived when Jon groaned and swayed on his feet, catching himself on the side of his desk as a full body shudder passed over him. Satin’s gaze cut to him just in time to see his eyes rolls back down and a milky whiteness dissipate until his irises were a familiar inscrutable grey. Jon drew in a slow breath and shook his head as if to rid himself of an unpleasant feeling.  

“Shaggydog is calmed now.” Jon said as he caught his breath, rolling his shoulders as if feeling odd in his own skin. “He’ll behave. It’s alright, Sansa. Let Rickon rest in his fur. They ought to be together for a while.” 

“What did you...?” She asked, keeping Rickon close to her breast.  

“I made him obey.” Jon said, offering his hands out for their brother. “And he will. I’ll explain how later. Go on, sister. They need each other right now.” 

Slowly and almost numbly, Sansa handed Rickon to Jon who placed him in the crook of Shaggydog’s shoulder. The wolf curled up protectively around the boy, still limp and cooperative under Jon’s influence. Satin watched with wide eyes. Shaggydog was not Ghost and yet Jon had warged into him, forced himself into Shaggy’s skin, and made him obey. He’d not known Jon could do that, and judging from the breath Jon was still struggling to catch, Jon likely hadn’t either. Satin watched as Jon slumped back into his chair, and did the same back into his own.  

Ghost prowled in through the broken door in the moment’s silence that followed, the white direwolf as quiet as the room he slipped into. They must have felt themselves called home, Satin figured, through their warg connections and returned early from their hunt. Ghost padded over to where Rickon rested against Shaggy and gave him a few licks atop the head, sniffing him to make certain he was alright. Content with his findings, the wolf crossed to Satin and nuzzled his belly. He welcomed the beast with a few scratches behind the ears as Ghost set to grooming him. Satin was still covered in blood and Ghost seemed intent to wash him  clean. It wasn’t particularly pleasant as Ghost’s tongue was rough and his slobber slimy and thick, but Satin did not push him away. It seemed to him that the wolf was doing it more for his own comfort than Satin’s.

Jon motioned for Sansa to sit and crossed to the door. He closed it as best he could, off one of its hinges as it was, until he was content they were well and truly alone. The Starks, the direwolves, and the Pooles.  

“As I was saying,” Jon began, sitting on the edge of his desk and looking at his sister. “Someone tried to assassinate our brother tonight. A man from King’s Landing. A southerner has come into our home and tried to murder our brother.” Jon told her the story as Satin had told it to him. “Tell me, what do you think someone would get out of killing our little brother?”  

“I don’t...” Sansa murmured. 

“They get you as heir.” 

Her eyes widened, shock and hurt flickering across her face. “You think I did this?” 

“No.” Jon said firmly. “Not at all. I trust you. I asked you to trust me and, in return, I am trusting you. I don’t care that we haven’t known each other in years, that people I don't trust have been in your ear, that we hardly know one another. I trust you because you’re family. I know this was not you. But I do think it might have been someone with a vested interest in seeing you on the throne.” Jon rose and crossed to her, taking her hands gently in his. “Sansa, sister, if you know anything, if there is anything at all I should know, I need you to tell me. Is there anyone you know who you think is capable of ordering a prince’s death? Perhaps someone who told you you’d be my heir. You know of whom I’m speaking.” 

Sansa looked ready to cry, chin wobbling and wet eyes shining in the firelight. “He wouldn’t...” She whispered. “He’s my protector. My friend. He’s... he’s lied for me. Killed for me. Taken care of me.” 

“Killed for you?” Jon pressed. “And who did he kill?” 

The princess drew in a shaky breath. “Joffrey.” She confessed in a whisper. “He killed him with poison smuggled in in my hairnet. And...” 

“And...” 

“Aunt Lysa. He killed her when she tried to kill me. She was going to throw me through the moon door! Petyr had to. To protect me.” 

A king, a high lady, and nearly a prince, Satin thought in horror. And how many more? He imagined it was many, for Baelish to have started so low and risen so high. Death after death after death.

Jon's brow creased. “Why would your aunt do such a thing?”  

“Because..." She cast her eyes away, looking to the ground. "Because she saw him... saw him kiss me...” 

And there it is, Satin thought, there’s what he wants as plain as day. He’d known he’d seen lust in his eyes, he’d known the look in Littlefinger’s gaze had been familiar. His felt his gut twist in disgust.  

“I told him he shouldn’t...” Sansa continued. “But he...” 

“Sansa.” Jon said firmly. “Look at me, sister. Let us have the truth now. This man has murdered a king – a murder for which you are blamed by all accounts – murdered his own lady wife, and kissed you against your will. Why do you still trust him?” 

“He’s my only friend...” She breathed. 

“That isn’t so. Not anymore.” Jon insisted. “I’m here. Jeyne, too. Rickon. Shireen. Satin, if you let him. That man is not your friend.” 

“He did bad things, but he did them to protect me.” 

“Sansa, you’re smarter than this.” Jon pressed. “We both know that.” 

Satin watched as Sansa clung to the falsehood she held so tightly in her mind. How much of her entire worldview had this man shaped? In all his whisperings in her ear, how much had he molded her into exactly what he wanted her to be? How many lies, Satin wondered, and how crushed would she be once she finally let herself see them? Open your keen eyes, princess, he thought, see what you do not wish to see for it is time to see it.  

“He wouldn’t hurt my family, my friends.” Sansa said, voice almost hollow. “That would hurt me. And he wouldn’t do that. He promised—!” 

“Sansa.” The voice that spoke was not Jon’s, but Jeyne’s. She took a step forward from her place along the wall and crossed to her childhood best friend. Her eyes found Satin’s, held his gaze for a fleeting moment, and then returned to Sansa. She came to a stop in front of her chair and picked at the beds of her fingernails in her nervous way. Jeyne looked tired, sad eyed, and sullen. There was hint of fear in her step, trepidation, and hesitancy, yet Satin saw determination there too. He realized what was going to happen seconds before Jeyne did it, and Satin felt his heart ache in his chest.

Jeyne leaned forward, brought her lips to Sansa’s ear, and began to speak. Sansa listened and, as she did, her face began to fall. Satin watched her heart break, watched as that understanding of Petyr Baelish and the man he had built for her in her mind come crashing down. It hurt to see the realization of betrayal and lies and manipulations come to Sansa in a moment that was both slow and all at once. Tears spilled from her blue eyes as she listened, as she learned, and as she understood the truth. Jeyne cried with her with each truth shared until Sansa pulled her into an embrace.  

The two girls held each other and wept, Jeyne burying her face in Sansa’s shoulder and holding her tightly with one hand. The other reached out for Satin in the next chair, trying to take his hand in hers. He did not hesitate to obey, letting her cling to him and to Sansa together, letting her find what little comfort she could in what little she had left. “He’ll hurt you, Sansa.” She hiccupped. “He’s cruel and wicked and you’re not safe with him. Please, I don’t want him to hurt you too...” 

“Gods...” Sansa whispered in a fragile, sorrowful voice. “Jeyne, I’m... I'm so sorry.” 

When the crying had passed and the two girls sat hand in hand on the small settee together, Sansa finally drew in a slow, steadying breath and looked once more to Jon. “You truly believe he did this?”  

“Who else is there?" Jon replied. "He intended to make you Lady of Winterfell for his own ends, whatever they may be. Rickon dead would put you one step closer to the throne and that seems to be his desire.”  

“Okay.” Sansa said and then repeated it once more with conviction. “What do you want to know? If I know it, the knowledge is yours.” 

Sansa told of how nearly all of the Lords Declarant were Littlefinger's allies, bought or blackmailed, all but Royce, and how he’d used Lyn Corbray to secure his regency over Robert Arryn. She told of his connection to the Tyrells for the murder of Joffrey and how he’d killed Dontos the Fool who had helped her to tie up loose ends. She told more of her time as Alayne Stone, of her Aunt Lysa’s death and the framing of Marillion the minstrel. She told him of Ser Harrold Hardying, who Littlefinger was still working to bring under his influence, and how Baelish was somehow certain he'd be Harrold Arryn very, very soon.  

“Petyr was my friend, my kindly protector.” She said softly once she her tale had finished. “But I knew Littlefinger, sly and cunning, wasn’t. But there’s no difference between them, is there? They are one. And if Littlefinger is not my friend, then neither is Petyr.” 

Jon nodded, a look of relief passing over his face for a brief moment. “You must be very, very careful. Trust not a word that comes from his mouth. And be not alone with him anymore. People keep dying around him and he only rises when they do.” 

“What will you do now, Jon?” 

“He is still Warden of the Vale so I will have to do this carefully lest he turn his entire army against us from within. I need proof.” 

“You won’t find any.” Sansa told him. “Keep your hands clean, he said. Always keep your hands clean. He has men in his employ who have men in their employ who have men in their employ who do all the dirty work. He has friends everywhere. He told me so.” 

“Aye, I know.” Jon nodded. “But men like him have enemies too. He is not the only one capable of gathering knowledge to use to his advantage. For now, we must be cautious. I fear I cannot arrest him for the attempt on Rickon’s life. Not yet, not without a single scrap of proof. Nor can I try him for the murder of Lysa Arryn, a crime which happened to the Lady of the Vale while in the Vale. Not without starting a war, not without discussion or approval of the Vale’s high lord, who is a sickly boy confined to his rooms who loves his dear, sweet uncle Petyr. And attempting to try him for Joffrey’s murder, a boy who was my enemy by rights, would be foolish and only serve to make an enemy of the Tyrells, the richest House in Westeros by most assumptions. So, for now, caution. For now, we wait. We find proof. We do what needs doing. Trust no one not in this room. Family only, remember?” 

Sansa’s eyes flicked to Satin, watching him for a moment. “He’s not family. You wish for me to trust him too?” 

Jon did not falter. He only nodded firmly, with a conviction and surety that tugged at something in Satin’s chest. “Yes. Satin can be trusted.” 

Her eyes lingered on him for a time. She watched how Ghost curled around him, how the direwolf licked him and nuzzled him still. She stared at the copious amounts of blood that still coated him, blood that had come from killing a man to save her little brother despite being out-armed and out-matched. “He told me you were a whore." She finally said, voice soft. "A liar and false, here only for the power and coin you drew from my brother with your pretty words and manipulations. I... believed him. How could I not? But tonight... you risked your life for Rickon. You care for Jeyne. You told me the truth in the godswood when you didn’t have to. You’re not what he said you were, are you?” 

“No, princess, I’m not.” 

Sansa nodded slowly. “If Jon trusts you, if Jeyne trusts you, I’ll trust you.” 

The barest hint of a smile pulled at Jon’s lips, eyes falling on Satin for a moment. “Good. House Stark and House Poole, as we have for thousands of years, stand together.” He said, then turned back to Sansa. “I’m doubling the guard.” Jon told her. “And I shall be supplementing them with Free Folk I know I can trust not to be bought out from under me. They will be stationed outside your bedchambers at all times. Go nowhere without at least two men. Not until we are sure this castle is safe again.” Jon paused and turned to Satin. “How close are you to your plan coming to fruition, do you think? 

“Very.” Satin said at once. “If we can keep my involvement in what happened tonight a secret, I don’t think it’ll be long. Our informant says he’s asking about me, having me watched and trailed far more than before. It’s what I was hoping for.” But he needs to see me as disloyal, Satin thought, he needs to think me callous and uncaring. He needs to think me your whore, not someone who would risk their life for your brother’s. 

Jon frowned. Satin knew he did not like the plan, that it left a wretched, bad taste in his mouth, but it was their best shot at hard, physical proof. “I shall speak with Maester Dallin and the guards who were present this evening and let it be known that it was someone else who rescued Rickon. Ser Heinrich was on duty by my solar tonight. He is loyal. I shall tell him that it was he who saved my brother. And come morning I shall shower him with honors and rewards in the Great Hall as thanks. He will play along if I command it to be so.”  

Satin remembered Ser Heinrich. He had once been one of Stannis Baratheon’s men but had pledged himself to Jon in reverence to him as his Azor Ahai. He had proven himself loyal and had earned himself a place in Jon’s private guard. If Jon ordered him to fall upon his sword, he would. Pretending to have been the one to save the prince would be as easy as breathing to him, if Jon said the word. Satin nodded. 

Together, the four of them agreed upon a story. Ser Heinrich had been escorting Jeyne back to her rooms when he had stumbled upon the assassination in progress. He had bravely slain the prince’s attacker and sent Jeyne to call for help in case others had heard her screaming. Satin had arrived on the scene with Jon and had held Rickon for a few moments so as to explain away his bloodied clothing. Maester Dallin and Ser Heinrich would be sworn to secrecy. If anything leaked to Baelish, they’d know who it had been at the very least.  

Jon dismissed Sansa and Jeyne back to their rooms and saw them escorted there by guards. Satin, too, was told to retire for the night. Jon would seek out Ser Heinrich and Dallin to place their story in motion, see Rickon to a new room with a new nanny and half a dozen Free Folk guards, and then he’d retire to bed too. After the ladies had departed but before Jon could step out, Satin caught him by the arm.  

“Jon.” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

A moment’s confusion pulled at Jon’s long face, brows knitting together. “What for?”  

“The assassin. If I hadn’t killed him like that... we could have had him interrogated. We could have had proof tonight. Or at least a trail to follow. But I—”  

Jon shook his head adamantly and frowned. “Aye, that would have been good.” He admitted. “But had you not acted lethally, you could have died. Or Rickon. Satin, I’d rather have you alive than have proof against Baelish.”  

Satin swallowed heavily and gave Jon a watery smile. “We’ll get it. I’m sure of it.” 

“We will.” Jon agreed with a halfhearted, tired smile. “We will.” They were alone but still Jon dropped his voice. “Now go. I’ll join you soon.” 

Satin did as he was bid and within the hour found himself slumped in a chair by the hearth in he and Jon’s rooms in a set of clean night clothes. He was freshly bathed, having scrubbed his skin nearly raw in his attempt to rid himself of the stench of blood that felt as though it had sunk into the very essence of his skin and hair. The bath water had been tinged pink when he finally emerged, clean and whole and himself again. He tried not to think of what had happened as he stared into the fire and absentmindedly stroked Ghost behind the ear. The massive beast was resting on the floor at his side and was a warm, constant presence as he waited for Jon. He’d killed a man today. With his own hands. He’d done it before, during the Battle for the Wall, the reclamation of Winterfell, and during the night of the mutiny when he’d slain Bowen Marsh with more violence than he’d ever thought himself capable of, but it had never gotten easier. It still made him feel sick. That assassin, whoever he had been, Satin had disemboweled him. He’d never spilled a man’s guts before. It made him shudder as he pushed the memory from his mind. It was for Rickon, he reminded himself. For Jon. He’d do it again if it came to it, he knew. For Rickon and for Jon and for Jeyne. For his family, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He wondered if that was what made him feel so nauseous. Was it the deed itself or that he would do it again so readily? Satin could not be certain. 

It was late when Jon finally slipped into their chambers, closing the door quietly behind him with a weary sigh. Jon looked tired, down to the bone or down to the soul, and heavy with the events of the night. Satin made to rise, but Jon stopped him with a shake of his head and small gesture of his hand. Jon regarded him for a long while, grey eyes lingering on him as if taking in each feature individually. Satin let him and watched as Jon swallowed heavily against a lump seemingly in his throat. 

“Why do I...” Jon began, voice half a croak and half a whisper. He paused, drawing in a deep steadying breath as his words fell away. Jon crossed the room to Satin’s chair and slowly dropped himself to a knee before him. Jon looked up at him for a moment, eyes watching him intently, searching, seeking, and seemingly finding something in Satin’s face. “Why do I keep finding you covered in blood?” 

“It wasn’t my own blood.” Satin reminded him softly. “I was okay. I am okay.”  

And he was, somehow. He'd survived, and he'd done it on his own. Jon had not been there to intervene, nor Ghost there to save him at the last moment. He thought of Elyar and Whoresbane. They were men who should have killed him by rights. But Jon had always rescued him. Satin hadn't needed rescuing tonight. He'd done it himself. He was okay and that was something he could still barely wrap his mind around.

His reassurance seemed to reach Jon, to soothe something in him, and a heavy sigh fell from his lips. Jon leaned forward as though his body was a weight he could no longer hold and slowly, almost delicately rested his cheek upon Satin’s thigh. Jon slumped stiffly against him with a shallow breath. He was more shaken than he’d let on, Satin realized, more frightened. He wore his mask so well that sometimes even Satin struggled to see through it. He’d seen the fear in his eyes when he first entered Rickon’s room, but then it had been replaced by determination, by ice cold conviction, and resolve to see Littlefinger brought low. So much so that Satin had almost forgotten the terror he’d seen in Jon’s eyes. Family had always been his soft spot. Satin did not want to call it a weak point but it was something that made Jon’s usually impeccably maintained persona crumble from time to time. And Rickon had been hurt. Satin had been in danger. And Jon hadn’t been there. Satin could only imagine the fear that had pulsed through Jon when Jeyne had barged into his office with her bloodied hands and dress and told him what had happened. Even a mask as well made and as well-worn as Jon’s was still only that; a mask.  

“Oh Jon...” Satin whispered. Seek the comfort you need, my love, he thought. I will give it. Satin brought his hands to the top of Jon’s head and began to gently scape his nails along his scalp in just the way he knew Jon liked, the way he'd wanted to earlier. He felt another shaky breath pass over Jon. “It’s done. He’s alive. I’m alive. Relax now. You can relax now.”  

Jon did as he was bid and Satin felt him begin to do just that, the tension in his back and neck slowly beginning to fade with each whispered word and each stroke of Satin’s fingers. He watched as Jon’s eyes fell closed, as his breaths came easier and deeper, and as he rested more of the weight of his head into Satin’s welcoming lap.  

He wasn’t sure how much time passed like that but eventually Jon’s quiet voice broke through the silence between them.  

“You saved my brother...” He murmured into his knee. “How can I ever repay you?” 

“You needn’t repay me.” 

Jon tilted his head to look up at him, brow furrowed. “How can I not? You have already passed the thanks to Ser Heinrich so I cannot thank you publicly. But privately? Personally? Tell me, what do you want? I’ll see it done at once. Anything. Anything at all.”  

Satin only shook his head, stroking his fingers through Jon’s hair again. “There is nothing I need, Jon.” 

“There must be something.” Jon insisted. “Something I can give you.” 

“I want for nothing, my lo—lord.” Satin’s heart nearly leapt from his chest into his throat. Love had been on his lips. It had been in his heart for so long it’d almost felt as natural as breathing to nearly let it slip from his mouth.  

Jon’s face pulled into a frown, his body shifting and tightening as he pulled his head away and sat up on his haunches. “Have I displeased you?” He asked. 

“Displeased me?” 

“You have not called me that in so long. We are alone. There are no honorifics between us here. Surely, then, I have said something wrong.” 

My lord was wrong twice-over, Satin knew. My king or your Grace would have been the correct form of address, but only in public. My lord was half a year wrong and doubly so to be said in their rooms. But it had been the only word he could think to reasonably pivot to in the split second he’d had.  

“No.” Satin assured him, guiding Jon’s head back to his lap with a gentle hand. “Just a slip of the tongue, Jon. The day has been long.” 

Jon seemed to let it pass. Whether he believed Satin or not, he wasn’t sure, but Jon did him the service of at least letting it go. He rested his head against his knee where Satin had returned it and thought for a moment. “There is truly nothing I can give you?” He asked. “No way I can thank you for this?”  

A kiss, Satin’s mind provided him and a part of him was tempted. Kiss me, he wanted to say. He had a feeling Jon might do it if he asked, might draw himself up to his knees and press their lips together at long last because he was raw and vulnerable and seeking comfort in a way he rarely allowed of himself. And for that reason, Satin did not ask for it.  

He let his hands caress through the strands of Jon’s hair again, looking down at it between his long fingers. Jon's dark brown hair had more grey in it these days, hints of it that shone like silver when the light hit it just right. Grey hair at eight-and-ten. So tired and weary and so old for one so young. Some days, he seemed youthful and vibrant. Those were the good days, when he laughed and smiled. Yet there were some days, far too many and far too frequent, where it was as if Jon seemed worn down and weary like an elderly man like to fade away soon. The idea of Jon gone flickered through his mind. Unbidden, he remembered him dead in his arms, how his jaw had been so slack in a way that was so unlike his Jon, how his grey eyes had been as empty as the sky, how he had been cold to the touch. Something about that memory pulled at his heart even though he felt Jon’s breath on his thigh and could feel the radiating heat that pulsed off his body in waves, alive, alive, alive. He felt a tightness build in his throat. “Just stay with me a little while longer.” Satin finally said, a shakiness to his voice that he hadn’t expected. “That’s the only reward I want.” 

“Aye.” Jon said almost solemnly, like a vow or an oath sworn on his knees before a heart tree, and leaned heavier onto Satin’s leg. The weight and the pressure of him was a comfort in a way Satin hadn’t the words to express. “I can do that.”