Archive of Our Own

It was a point of pride, that he was a man without vices, a man who needed little and wanted less, who only ate and slept as much as he must, who controlled himself where his brother had wallowed in excess. Robert had drowned himself in wine, often drinking until his speech slurred and his steps faltered, until he vomited on his fine doublets and cloaks, until he passed out at feasts with his head on the table and his crown among the trenchers, and he had bedded all manner of women, girls with names and without, girls with husbands and girls barely old enough to bleed, girls he had paid for their warmth and compliance with the coin of the realm. The money had always angered Stannis the most, the money and the bastards; men had died in Robert's quest for the throne, and Robert had repaid their sons and daughters by squandering their taxes, using them to fatten the purses and bellies of whores.

The boy's face had been a shock, his grey Northern eyes and his stern Northern jaw; it had felt like looking at Eddard Stark's ghost, at the Eddard Stark who had forced Mace Tyrell to bend the knee, who Robert had heaped with love and friendship and praise. Your father was no friend of mine, Stannis had said, on the frozen morning they met, but Jon Snow had not shown offense; if Stannis' hard truths had wounded him, he had hidden his anger inside his mouth.

His mouth had been the start of this trouble -- this curious twist of arousal in Stannis' gut, this queer flare of heat under his skin that would not abate, even when he stood in the yard without his cloak and bared his throat to the wind and ice. Snow had a generous mouth, a mouth with a sullen curve that softened when he remembered to smile. Most smiles were rooted in flattery or fear, either a show of foolishness or a show of belly, but Snow had yet to offer Stannis any simpering words, and he'd met Stannis' demands with his teeth sharpened into points. His smiles were all his own, rare though they were, and Stannis found he wanted to trace those lips with the pad of his thumb, feel that smile move under the tips of his fingers.

Snow had long fingers and capable hands, deft and sure as he pointed out the lines on the map or gripped the pommel of his sword. Bastards were born from lust and lies, prone to quick tempers and inconstant ethics, often drawn to the same lapses and vices that had brought them into the world, but Snow had learned a few things at Eddard Stark's knee, if not his mother's name. He was stubborn and bluntly honest, and he tended the Wall tirelessly, waking early in the morning and working well into the night, stifling his yawns and rubbing his heavy eyes, grumbling when his steward finally chided him into bed.

Stannis tried not to picture him there, stretched across his pallet of furs, long-limbed and sleep-warm, his nightshirt unbuttoned at the neck, but it was a constant battle, one he was losing in heartbeats and handfuls, and the number of nights he'd almost sent Devan to fetch Snow for a late audience were far too embarrassing to count. He had good reason to keep his distance, as he was a married man with a daughter, and Snow was a man under vows that forbade him to share his bed, but they grew dimmer and dimmer as the nights grew colder and his stay at Castle Black continued. His marriage had been an open wound for years, so salted by Robert's poor behavior that it refused to properly heal, and Snow had already forgotten himself once, had taken a wildling wife during his time beyond the Wall.

Stannis was not an easy man to unnerve, but he disliked this nagging hunger, and the way it seemed pointed and vague at once, directed at Snow but uncertain in the particulars. He didn't know what he wanted, only that he wanted it, and it gnawed at him the worst during their councils, when Snow reached across the table, when his hand brushed Stannis' as he passed over a letter or book, as he stood too close as they studied the maps. He always stood too close, whether from a lack of warmth or basic propriety Stannis didn't know, but it distracted Stannis from his thoughts in a way that made a muscle twitch in his jaw. Snow smelled like everything else at the Wall, a dark mix of leather and cold wind and the smoke from Melisandre's night fires, and Stannis wanted to touch him, to curl his fingers into Snow's hair, stroke the skin just below Snow's ear.

He wanted to touch Snow, but he told himself he would not, kept telling himself that up until the moment it finally happened. He took cold comfort in the fact that it was not his doing, that Snow brought it about himself, that Snow lost his footing as he turned away from the maps and stumbled right into Stannis' chest. Stannis grabbed Snow's hip as he started to fall, his fingers splayed over the jut of Snow's hipbone; he expected Snow to right himself and pull away, but he stood perfectly still for a moment, his body pulled as taut as a bowstring, then made a soft noise and leaned into Stannis' hand.

"Lord Snow. It's time you took your leave."

"Yes." Snow's shoulders hunched slightly, then straightened. "Yes, Your Grace."

The room was silent, save for the low crackle and hum of the fire. Snow shifted his weight from foot to foot, but did not move away; he leaned back, and Stannis caught his other hip before he fell flush against Stannis' body and felt the full measure of Stannis' shame.

"Get out, boy."

"And if I said I don't want to?"

"You presume too much," Stannis snapped, turning Snow around. This quickly proved to be a mistake, as it only served to push them closer together; Snow's nose bumped Stannis' chin and his cock nudged against Stannis' thigh, and the knowledge that he was not alone in this was both a tremendous relief and a terrible weight.

"I thought -- you." Snow's mouth pulled into an angry, petulant line. "You let me think -- "

"There is nothing to think," Stannis said, but he had Snow trapped against the table now, his hands pressed to the wood and his own cock pushing against Snow's hip. "Get out, before -- before."

"Before?"

Before we do something we will both regret.

Snow was breathing against Stannis' jaw, his lips brushing against Stannis' beard, and Stannis curled his hands into fists, letting his knuckles bruise into the wood as he tried to stave off the heat twisting in his gut. This was a horrifically stupid idea, not least because Snow was half his age; it would taint any further interactions they had, but Stannis could feel his resolve ebbing away like the tide. Snow turned his head a little, then leaned up and kissed Stannis on the mouth.

It was clumsily done, all teeth and tongue, made worse by Stannis' inexperience and Snow's haste, and the way Snow was scrabbling at the front of Stannis' doublet, trying to pull Stannis closer, even though Stannis had him pushed back against the table. Snow hooked his fingers in the laces at Stannis' neck, bringing his other hand down until his palm was pressed against the curve of Stannis' cock; the noise Stannis made was too rough and sudden to be swallowed, and it echoed through the tiny room, ringing loudly in Stannis' ears. He was no better than Robert, allowing himself to be swept up in lust, rutting like a beast simply because his body desired it, but he could not find the strength to stop this or pull away, and another noise knotted in his throat as Snow's hand wrapped around his cock.

"Snow," Stannis said quietly, his hips working as he pushed himself into Snow's fist. His own hands were on Snow's body now; he had one resting at the small of Snow's back and the other curled at the nape of Snow's neck, his fingers threading into Snow's hair the way he'd imagined earlier."This is -- "

"It's cold, Your Grace." Snow's eyes were dark with something Stannis could not read -- want, presumably, though Stannis was a poor judge in these matters -- but his voice was strangely calm and flat for all its breathlessness.

He is giving us an excuse for this folly. It was always cold at the Wall, cold enough to drive good men to distraction. On the morrow, we can wake up and tell ourselves this madness was not our fault.

He would spend soon; he could feel it building, a thrumming tightness in every muscle and joint. He considered opening Snow's breeches, and touching Snow as Snow was touching him, but Snow was riding his leg, rubbing his cock against Stannis' thigh, and he seemed content to be doing so, if the helpless noises he was making were any mark. Stannis slid his hand down to the curve of Snow's arse, holding it there to measure the obscene roll of Snow's hips, his thoughts spinning in a queer and uncomfortable place between we should stop this at once and we would be better served on a bed. Snow spent with a slow shudder, his hot face hidden in Stannis shoulder and his mouth open and wet against Stannis' skin; his teeth grazed a spot just below Stannis' jaw, the dull pain just enough to make Stannis lose what little control he still had.

It was cold, he reminded himself, as he straightened his doublet and breeches. He did not look at Snow, too unnerved by the bright flush on Snow's cheek and the mess covering Snow's hand.