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Satin takes a deep breath before knocking on the door. It isn’t like him to be nervous around anyone; he’s bared his ass for a Redwyne and a Fossoway, played the lute for Qartheen warlocks, taken the cocks of two Lyseni pirates at once while their captain looked on and ate a plate of calves’ liver with yellow Dornish peppers. He’s made idle conversation with countless men and women of every rank and origin, and few had ever found him completely unsatisfactory to his knowledge.
So why does Tyrion Lannister so intimidate him?
At last he knocks, takes a deep breath, and smiles. He’s lucky enough to know his face, having spent hours in front of mirrors practicing it like an instrument. But still he fears some trace of his fear will show. And that won’t do, especially for a man like Lord Tyrion, who would almost surely chalk the boy’s fear up to his own physical appearance. And that would ruin everything.
Satin is poised to knock again when he hears Tyrion’s voice, deep and resonant, calling, “Come in.” That voice sends a shiver down Satin’s spine as it did when they were first introduced.
Tyrion is sitting at the table intent on a large tome bound in dark brown leather. Satin’s curiosity seizes him; he forgets himself and approaches so he can better see what the lord is reading. The script is small, however, and even with lessons it still takes Satin some time to decipher long words. And a great deal of this book seems to be written in words longer than any Satin has seen in his life.
“I assume you’re here because your Lord Commander was itching to know what I was reading? Does he wish to know my interests so he can surprise me with a gift? Tell him I am less in need of books than of boots,” Lord Tyrion does not turn around, and Satin smooths his cloak, trying to recapture some of his pride. Has he so much contempt for me, for my kind? Satin wonders. Did I mistake his earlier politeness for invitation?
“He did not send me, my Lord,” Satin says in quiet, measured tones. “Although if there is something you need, I am sure Lord Snow would be happy to oblige.”
“Need is an awfully strong word—Satin, is it?”
Satin bows his head. “It usually is. And yes, my Lord, Satin is what I am called.”
He expects Lord Tyrion to make a jest of some sort, but he is silent. And he still does not look at Satin. Satin feels a fool, and he feels the rough wool of his cloak rubbing against some of his more tender parts, and he isn’t sure which is worse.
“I suppose there is little you need up here,” Tyrion says at last. “Half the things a man needs to live are provided to you, and the other half are expressly forbidden. Makes things easy, don’t you think?”
Satin looks up. “Is that why you chose to come?” He holds his breath, fearing that at any moment Lord Tyrion will decide he’s crossed the line and seek to punish him for his insolence.
“No,” Tyrion laughs. “I came because I’m in need of protection from the law and my sweet sister’s wrath. Not everything has a deeper meaning, my dear Satin.”
Satin flushes a bit at the term of endearment, although, he reminds himself, Tyrion also called his sister “sweet”.
“What are you reading, my Lord?” Satin asks.
At last Tyrion turns around. Satin keeps the smile on his face steady, and to his relief Tyrion returns the gesture. “A book on Valyrian architecture. Not something you’d find terribly interesting, I’m sure.”
Satin stiffens. Surely the lord didn’t mean to offend him, he tells himself. “I am interested in architecture,” he says. “It’s hard to be from Oldtown and not know a few things about it.”
Tyrion laughs dryly. “You’d be surprised at what people should know and don’t.”
“Very little surprises me anymore, my Lord,” Satin says, and feels himself smiling.
“I imagine not.” Tyrion says.
“Have you been to Dragonstone? I always wished to see the Septuary there. I’ve seen pictures. It looks very beautiful and very frightening.”
“I have been to Dragonstone. But it is nothing compared to some of the wonders that were lost in the Doom of Valyria.” Tyrion motions him to come closer with a finger. “Come and see.”
Satin comes closer as gracefully as he can manage until his breastbone nudges Tyrion’s shoulder. As he leans down his nose picks up the lord’s scent; he smells like fine leather and wood, like vaults full of mysteries and riches. Satin knows that now is as good a time as any, but it’s more than just opportunity that guides him forward, it’s want. His fingers move up to the brooch that pins his cloak closed, but he thinks better of it, and settles for unknotting the knot at his throat.
As Tyrion reads aloud, talking of domes and crenellations and viaducts that shimmered like black ice, Satin lets the neck of the cloak come open, exposing his shoulders. And then he waits.
“My lord,” Satin murmurs, “I can’t see the book very well. May I share the chair with you?”
When Tyrion catches a glimpse of Satin’s bared shoulders he blanches, then coughs as if clearing his throat. “Well. I don’t see why not.”
Satin perches on the edge of the chair, holding his cloak with one hand and resting the other on the edge of the manuscript. “The book really is lovely,” he says. “Both what’s in it and the book itself.”
“Yes,” Tyrion says, quietly, and something has changed in his voice. “It is lovely.”
“May I—may I sit on your lap, my lord?” Satin notices that his voice has changed in a similar way; he feels like something is caught in his throat.
“I wouldn’t be able to see the book very well,” Tyrion says. “Though I suppose it could be a useful exercise in imagination.”
Satin unhooks the brooch and lets the cloak fall further down over his shoulders and to his elbows. “Is this sight an adequate recompense?”
“That depends. Will I be able to do more than read and ponder and curse the sloppy scribes?”
Satin turns and looks him full in the eye “You may do far more than read, my Lord Tyrion,” he says. He takes Tyrion’s hand and places it on his breastbone, directly over his heart.
**
Satin leads Tyrion to the bed, kneels to unlace his boots and breeches, undoes his doublet. When Tyrion is in nothing but his smallclothes Satin lets his own cloak fall open fully, reveling in the slow slide of wool over his hips and ass and thighs and in the open admiration in Tyrion’s gaze.
“Has anyone ever compared you to a lion?” Tyrion asks, his eyes traveling over Satin’s skin.
“Surely you jape, my lord.” Satin looks at the ground, shaking his head. “Why would a Lannister compare a baseborn crow to the very emblem of his house? Forgive me, but it’s perverse.”
Tyrion motions him to come closer, and Satin does, standing between Tyrion’s legs. Tyrion’s hands are warm on Satin’s hips, stroking slowly, tracing the sharp ridges of bone and the swell of flesh, and Satin can’t hide the telltale sign of his arousal.
“But you are a lion, my lovely one. Beautiful and graceful and proud, and with that glorious mane of hair, and any fool can see that there are claws hidden in those sleek paws. You’re far more of a lion than I am.”
Satin drops to his knees. “Don’t say that,” he says, shaking his head fiercely. “I won’t hear it.”
“You don’t know me.” Tyrion shakes his head.
“I know you well enough to know that you deserve to be worshiped, not feared or cast off. You’ve been so kind to me, and I’ve seen you fight, you’re fearless—”
“Shhhh,” Tyrion says. “That’s enough baseless flattery for one night, my lion cub. Come and give me a kiss.”
**
“Have you ever been with a boy?” Satin asks, carrying the candle over to the bedside table.
Tyrion shakes his head. “No. Never. Never wanted to, until I saw you tonight.”
Satin blushes. “I knew it was a gamble, exposing myself before you like that. But I knew I wouldn’t have the courage to do it any other way.”
Tyrion reclines on the hard, dusty pillows, and Satin crawls up the bed until his head hovers over Tyrion’s chest, a tendril of dark hair teasing the bare skin at the open neck of Tyrion’s undershirt.
“Relax, my lord,” Satin says, voice a breathy whisper. “You won’t even know I’m not what you’re used to.” He unlaces Tyrion’s breeches and slides them down to bare his cock. Then he touches his lips to the tip, like the soft, shy kiss of a just-flowered maid on a lord’s cheek.
Satin intuits that gentleness is the proper course of action here. Not a feigned coyness or innocence; Lord Tyrion would be able to see through that like the mummer’s farce it is, but rather the genuine softness that Satin is sure few have shown this man in his thirty-odd years. He takes Tyrion into his mouth slowly, filling his mouth with wetness first to make the slide down his throat warm and pleasurable.
“Is this good?” Satin asks as he withdraws for a moment.
Tyrion nods. “Go on.”
Tyrion’s fingers rest on the crown of Satin’s head as he licks and suckles, but he seems hesitant to tangle his fingers in Satin’s hair or to indicate the speed he’d prefer. When Tyrion’s cock is fully hard between Satin’s lips, tip scraping Satin’s palate, skin smooth and taut, head leaking droplets of salty that Satin licks away with a demure greed, Satin releases it from his mouth and gives it a few slow up-and-down strokes with his fist to keep it hard before ducking to the floor to fumble in the breastpocket of his cloak.
“Unless you would spend in my mouth, I was of a mind that we might…” Satin holds up a small vial of salve, bartered for in Mole’s Town.
“I will deny you nothing but my life’s blood and my head on a platter,” Tyrion says hoarsely.
Satin slicks his fingers with salve and eases two into his hole with a practiced motion. As he fucks himself open, he moves to straddle Tyrion’s body, dots his mouth and chin with brief, almost chaste kisses. Tyrion groans beneath him, and he smiles, unable to suppress his pride at being once again able to do this thing he does so well. As he slides a third finger into his arse, his other hand pushes Tyrion’s shirt up over his chest and arms, and Tyrion does the rest. Once Tyrion is bare-chested, Satin takes one of his nipples between his lips.
“Do you like that, my lord?” Satin looks up at him.
“I feel like a maid,” Tyrion says, his lips twisting in an embarrassed half-smile.
“There is pleasure to be gained in feeling like a maid, at times,” Satin says, and kisses his breastbone. “But not if you don’t wish it.”
“I’d like to feel you,” Tyrion breathes. Satin nods his assent and kneels above him, rubs some of the salve onto Tyrion’s hardness, then turns around so that his back and arse are facing Tyrion as he takes Tyrion’s cock in his hand and lowers himself down onto it.
“Oh…oh gods, yes, yes, that’s good,” Tyrion says, like a chant. After Satin has taken him fully inside, he begins to move up and down, undulating his hips, curving his back so that Tyrion can better see the girlish slimness of his waist, the dimples in his lower back, the roundness of his buttocks. As he rides he looks over his shoulder at Tyrion from time to time, an encouraging smile on his lips. But Tyrion’s expression is difficult for him to read.
“Oh, my Lord, fuck me,” Satin cries, throwing his head back. The fullness of Tyrion inside him makes his core tingle so sweetly that he has to take his own cock in hand and stroke. He almost forgets himself, almost makes himself come before Tyrion does, but he remembers and releases himself just in time. Tyrion’s breaths are coming faster and faster, and his hips jerk erratically, slamming his cock deeper into Satin. Finally there comes the telltale desperate speeding-up of movement that heralds a man’s release, and Satin holds himself still as Tyrion’s body is wracked with mindless pleasure.
Satin keeps Tyrion’s soft cock inside him for a moment, then slips off and steps toward the washbasin as carefully as if there were a sleeping child in the room. He kneels back beside Tyrion on the bed with a cloth and wipes his seed off of Tyrion’s thighs, his cock and the golden curls between his legs before taking the cloth to himself.
“How does my arse compare with Valyrian architecture, Lord Tyrion?” Satin asks.
Tyrion’s head turns to the side, to Satin’s surprise; he looks at the shadows on the wall rather than at Satin. “Surely my body gave you your answer, sweet boy.”
Satin takes Tyrion’s chin in his hand and gently turns his face toward his own. “Do not treat me like a stranger, my lord. I am well-trained in assuaging all manner of troubles. Tell me yours, and I shan’t tell a soul, and perhaps I can help.”
“Well-trained,” Tyrion sighs. “That is precisely the problem.”
“Oh no.” Satin sits back on his heels. “You don’t believe that I did this because I believed I had to. Or that there was some other reason…”
“What else am I to think when a whore fucks me and will not even look at my face but in the briefest of glances?”
Satin’s eyes go wide and he looks at Tyrion as if he’s been slapped. “That…you believe that’s why I had you take me in that position?” He lets out an incredulous chuckle. “Do you not remember our words of half an hour ago? How you’d never wanted to be with a boy before? I’m no fool, my lord. I know why men want me, and it’s because I look like a maiden. I didn’t wish to remind you otherwise, not while you were enjoying yourself so.”
Tyrion’s brow furrows. “So you were…”
“Hiding my cock from you?” Satin says defiantly. “Yes, my lord, that’s exactly what I was doing. I would rather have looked at your face.”
“At my face. Now this truly is a mummers’ farce.” Tyrion laughs bitterly.
“A mummer’s farce.” Satin bites his lip hard enough to draw blood from his cracked lip. “No one would compare you to the Knight of Flowers, that’s for certain, but you can’t believe that no one could find anything to like about your face. You’ve got deep, mysterious eyes that make me think of magic and beautiful old ruins. And you’ve got strong arms—”
“I was aware that I was disfigured, but I wasn’t aware that I had arms growing out of my face,” Tyrion says. “It’s a shame I can’t alert my father that I’ve become an entirely new kind of monster.”
Satin scowls at him. “And you’re the sort of man who deserves to be happy, I think, and I’d like to see your face while you’re…enjoying something.”
“Oh, and whatever gave you the idea that I wasn’t happy?”
Satin swats his shoulder playfully. “I suppose it’s wrong, but I’ve always had a bit of a weakness for mysterious, brilliant men who were a bit…a bit broken.”
“A weakness for broken things,” Tyrion murmurs.
Satin lowers his eyes and nods, sheepish.
“I knew someone once who had a similar weakness,” Tyrion says.
“And who was that?”
Tyrion grins. It pulls and deepens the scar where his nose once was, but it brings a light to his eyes that warms Satin like wine.
“It’s not at all important. Shall we fuck again?”
Satin is hungry for that fullness again, and hungry for Tyrion’s rapt gaze on his face and body; he practically pounces on top of Tyrion, pushing Tyrion down into the bed, stroking Tyrion’s cock until it begins to stiffen again. “Oh yes, my Lord,” he purrs. “Yes, we shall.”