Chapter Text
A rough wet tongue brushed against his hand where it dangled off the bed. Benjen Stark rolled over, trying to continue his sleep. He'd been faintly aware of the noise of Winterfell growing as it did in the morning, but he'd been determined to stay in bed. There was a weight on the furs next to him and then he jolted awake, a cold nose pressed into his ear.
Curious red eyes stared down at him.
"Ghost, go away," he rumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Father, Uncle Ned says that the King will be here soon." Jon Snow stood in the doorway, already washed and dressed for the royal arrival. Even the pup's fur was fluffed. The white fur showed dirt more than his siblings, so the Lady of Winterfell had reminded them to make sure it was clean. As a sigil of their house, the direwolf pups couldn't run around covered in mud like common dogs.
Jon Snow stood there, nearly identical to Benjen and a man grown, 17 on his next name day. The expression on his face was that of the disapproving parent rather than the son. It was like this more and more as Jon grew up, convinced of his own wisdom, and of his father's enduring foolishness.
"I'm getting up," he said, blowing out an irritated breath as he threw the furs off, gently shoving Ghost off of his pillows.
"Bran says from the tower you can see the King's traveling party," said Jon, crossing his arms. He looked as though he found this all so very tedious, which seemed to be how he found everything now.
"Bran isn't supposed to be climbing."
Winterfell had been in a flurry for near a month since King Robert had announced he would be coming North in the wake of the death of Jon Arryn. The Lord of Winterfell had been torn between mourning the man who had raised him and shielded him for so long and joy at the idea of seeing his dear old Robert again.
For Benjen's part, he shared Jon's fatigue with the whole thing, but things were expected of him as the Lord's brother.
"Lady Stark asked that you wash before they arrive," Jon added.
"Others take the King and your aunt with him," he muttered. "Go. Tell Lady Stark I'll see them for lunch."
"Ghost, come," Jon said. The pup padded along after his boy, leaving Benjen alone to finally wake up. He'd stayed up too late, drinking with Harwin and Jory and his head felt full of cotton. The last bit of joy before the lions and stags flooded their halls.
Hours later, he was cleaned to his good sister's satisfaction and standing in line behind his brother's family. The immensely fat man that Robert Baratheon had become dismounted and approached them as the Starks knelt. Ned was allowed to stand and they all followed.
King Robert embraced Ned like a brother before he kissed Catelyn's cheek and ruffled Robb's hair, meeting the children one by one.
The Queen approached. Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as everyone had said but cold and disinterested in the Starks. Behind her, Benjen saw the Kingslayer and the Imp dismounting, as opposite as any two men had ever been, but both somehow still distinctly Lannisters, blond and arrogant.
"Benjen," Robert roared, snapping his gaze from where the Kingslayer was shaking out his golden hair, cracking his ribs under the weight of his grip. "Gods, you were still a boy last time I saw you."
He had been 22.
He had ridden out to meet Ned and the King upon their return from fighting in the Greyjoy Rebellion ten years past, enjoying a feast amidst the ruin of Moat Cailin. Robert hadn't been as fat then, though he was right that there hadn't been nearly as much gray in Benjen's beard then either. "A pleasure, Your Grace. I'll admit I am feeling my age," he joked.
"I won't hear it, you're young yet. You taken a wife? Given that bastard some brothers and sisters?"
Benjen struggled to maintain his grin. "Lord Stark keeps me too busy, I'm afraid." An easy lie that amused the king, who turned his gaze to Jon, nodding at him with something like respect before turning back to Ned. They walked off together, the Queen awkwardly scoffing in their wake. To the crypts, then. To Lyanna.
"The King has asked me to be his Hand," said Ned, wearier than Benjen had ever heard him before. Dinner would be soon, a merry affair with better food than they'd had in a long time. Only Ned Stark would look exhausted by the prospect of hosting a feast.
"A great honor," he said. It was to be expected. The King did not travel half a world away just for a social visit.
Ned sat down heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You'll help Robb, won't you? You and Catelyn will have to guide him."
Benjen nodded. His eldest nephew was a good lad, of an age with Jon though more foolish by half. He had a streak of Tully in him, that hotblooded nature Catelyn pretended she didn't have. He was a man by all laws of gods and men, but still young enough that he might listen to his uncle's counsel. "I'll do what I can." Then a tense pause. "What did the King say about Lord Arryn?"
"Fever took him quickly," he said quietly, eyes on the floor. "Hale one day, dead the next."
"I'm sorry, Ned," he said, a hand on his shoulder. Silence stretched between them for a few moments. "Let's go entertain the lions, eh?" he added, trying to cheer his brother, as he had for the past 30 years. He'd spent so much time drawing the rare smile from Lord Stark, it had become a habit ingrained in his very being.
A younger brother had to be many things; sworn sword, counselor and motley fool, all at once.
Having to be at the end of a long processional just to eat dinner in his own home was a bizarre thing, he thought, standing at the precipice of the hall and watching King Robert escort his good sister to the high table. His brother looked aggrieved at the very proximity he was sharing with the Queen. He was, graciously, in the back with Greyjoy, who was cracking a steady stream of jokes for the amusement of no one but himself.
"I wonder if any of their fair maidens find the north too cold," mused Theon. "I could certainly warm them."
"Ah, Theon, I fear the only bed you'll warm will need to be paid for, as usual," Benjen quipped back. "But Ros probably misses you."
Theon flushed, apparently not aware that half the castle knew his favorite wench by name. He thought himself quiet and clever about his proclivities, but barely anything happened in Winterfell without someone else finding out. Benjen had spent a lifetime knowing Winterfell's secrets.
Ahead of them, the Lannister brothers were walking, and he heard one of them snort their amusement at the bickering.
"Maybe you'd be more enjoyable company if someone warmed your bed from time to time, Ben," Theon came back with his usual little smile.
Benjen rolled his eyes. Theon was young, at that insatiable age where wenching and drinking seemed the most important thing in the world. He was also at the age where he thought he knew everyone's secrets; a few threads of gossip from a chatty tavern girl and Theon smirked like he knew something special.
The Lannister brothers laughed once again. The Imp turned around, mismatched eyes dancing with amusement. "If Lord Stark is in such tight command of your coin purse, my lord, I could loan you a dragon so you might take an overdue tumble," he jested to Benjen.
All he had to do was get to the damned table and sit down. "The generosity of the Lannisters truly was not exaggerated."
"The humor of the Starks might have been understated, I'd heard laughter died in men's throats as soon as they crossed Moat Cailin."
"Only in the Winter, my lords," Benjen agreed, finally at the high table. "And don't forget, winter is coming." He sat, filled a plate and lingered long enough to be seen, then he took his ale and what was left of his meal down to join Jon. "How much have you had, lad?"
Wine had apparently been flowing on this end of the hall. He scanned the merriment, his eyes pausing on Ned's face. A wolf in a trap. Catelyn looked no happier, trying to make painstaking small talk with the Queen, judging by the expression in her eyes.
Ghost nudged his hand, bringing him back to the table. He tore off a piece of chicken to offer the pup.
"Just a few," said Jon, eyes unfocused. He was old enough to drink as he pleased, but a bit of fatherly concern might still be warranted from time to time. "Will Lord Stark go south?"
"Aye, I think so." Jon shared Ned's tendency towards moroseness, towards worry. Benjen understood the sensation, even if it didn't rule him the way it often did his brother and son.
"And we will stay here."
"King's Landing is no place for us," agreed Benjen. Nothing good happened to Starks in the south, he thought, remembering the window he had watched them all leave from, a lifetime ago.
"Couldn't I go?" he asked, a bit desperate. "Baseborn sons can still be knights. I could even be on the Kingsguard. I'm a better fighter than Robb." He was faster than Robb, he had the right of it, but Robb was bigger and stronger, still. They were well-trained and evenly matched. Robb was strong, Jon was quick and keen and Theon was a demon with a bow. None of them were knights yet. "Bran dreams of the same thing, I could help him while he squires. We could learn together."
"Jon…" He sighed. The answer was no. Ned would never take Jon south no matter how much he begged and pleaded, and Benjen would never allow it. "You can't go to King's Landing, your place is here with me." It was unfair but it was a hard, unfair world for bastard boys, and bastard boys of third sons got even less of the grace the bastard of a king might have known. "Your cousin will need you while he rules for his father. Your counsel and your sword both."
"I don't want…" He faltered, the drunken realization he was about to be insulting hitting him too late. "I don't want your life!" It spilled out of him all in a rush. "Haven't you ever wanted to be more than your brother's helper?"
Benjen had aspired to different things, a lifetime ago. As the Rebellion had ended, he'd thought to go north and take the Black, become a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. But then Jon had been born and he found a different path to walk. As soon as he'd been handed that squalling, dark-eyed babe he knew he couldn't go anywhere else, even if it meant his path kept him in Ned's shadow. "Wishes and wants are a waste of breath." He paused. "I'll…talk to Ned." He reached out for Jon's shoulder but he flinched away. "There is glory to be found in the North just the same as southron courts, though, Jon."
Jon blew out a drunken breath. "I just need some air."
"Shall I --"
"Enjoy the feast. Ghost, come." Jon walked away, shoulders slouched as he weaved through the increasingly drunken crowd, the white pup on his heels.
Benjen looked back at the king, hands firm on the waist of some serving girl, the antlers of his crown glinting in the candlelight. He thought of the antler broken off in the throat of a dead direwolf, her pups blind and alone. A chill passed through him and he tried to shake the feeling. As superstitious as an old fish wife. No, Jon could never go south, Starks only found grief and doom there.
He made his way back towards the front of the hall, Robb carrying Arya past him as she cackled. Sansa was cleaning something off her face, ranting to little Jeyne Poole. The gods proved themselves merciful by not giving him a daughter; he was hardly brave enough for his nieces.
The prince was looking Sansa's way, amusement fading off of his face. Benjen misliked the look of the boy, but maybe he simply shared his brother's inherent discomfort with -- "Lannister," he said automatically, nearly colliding with the Kingslayer. "Forgive me, I wasn't watching. How I missed you in all your glittering glory is a mystery."
"You did seem deep in thought, which I'm sure is quite a strain on your faculties," he replied with a smirk. "I was just going to hunt down my brother, pardon me." Ser Jaime pivoted around Benjen and strode from the hall.
Benjen found Ned in the corner. "A wolf in a trap," he mused, not for the first or last time that night.
"Lions on all sides," agreed Ned. "Is Jon --"
"He wants to go south," he said, sighing. "To be Aemon the Dragonknight reborn, I suppose." He knew what Ned would say already, but he had to say it because he told Jon he would. He didn't have to be the villain, the naysaying father. The Lord of Winterfell made the decision and his loyal brother respected it.
"His place is here, but knighthood is not out of reach if he keeps up his practice. Ser Rodrik says he is quite good," said Ned, face serious. "Why any northerner would ever want to venture to that stinking city…"
"The gods only know."
Days and days went by and their guests became part of the fabric of their daily routine. The japes and sneers and smirks of the Lannisters, the King's drunken boasting, Sansa's moon-eyed glances at the Prince. Jon's moody silence. He'd been ignoring Benjen since the welcome feast, courteous and cold, sulking about his lot in life.
"Bran, you're too stiff," he was whispering, as Bran and the Prince Tommen sparred with wooden swords, swaddled so tightly in padding they might have survived rolling down the Wall. "You have to move your feet and bend your knees. Be flexible."
Bran nodded. He was better with a bow than a sword, but for a boy of ten he showed promise with both. It didn't seem anyone had ever taught the little prince how to even hold a sword. Rodrik was doing his best to remedy it without insulting the lad, but he seemed eager to do well, if maybe a little nervous.
The advice seemed to work. In their next go, he knocked Tommen down quicker than ever. Jon, Theon and Robb hollered and cheered for Bran, baby Rickon shouting congratulations.
The crown prince sneered as Rodrik helped Tommen to his feet, sauntering over. He took the practice sword and gave it a few confident swings, approaching Bran.
"You're not bad," the prince said, towering over Bran. "I wonder if you could knock me down." Joffrey was lean and tall, four years older than Bran and already carrying steel. It was not a fair fight.
Benjen stood up from where he had been reclining, ready to step in when Bran straightened up. "Of course, my prince," he said, a bit of false bravado in his young voice. He'd refrain from embarrassing his nephew for a moment.
Joffrey wasn't as good as Benjen was sure countless people had told him he was, and Bran got in a few solid swipes before the prince managed to knock him down, red faced and clearly embarrassed. He raised the wooden sword again and Benjen finally stepped in, grabbing it and wrenching it out of the prince's grip.
"You're done," he said, forgetting his courtesies entirely.
Robb helped Bran to his feet. "Well met, Bran, you held your own."
Bran, panting, nodded and grinned and then looked over to his uncle. "Thank you, Uncle."
Benjen watched Prince Joffrey stalk off to the safety of his constantly looming guard. The Hound. A fearsome beast, if there ever was one. Clegane glared at Benjen, who gave him his best smirk, waving the practice sword in greeting before herding the Stark children away.
Robb, Theon and Jon muttered mutinously about the prince behind him. They thought he was a cunt, and they had the right of it.
Benjen was looking for Jon. The men were set to go out on a hunt. The King desired a boar for his going away feast, and what the king wanted, he got. He wanted to let Jon know he'd be gone for most of the day.
He was not sad to see the end of their guests' stay in Winterfell, but he felt strange at the thought of Ned, Sansa, Arya and Bran leaving, and he knew Jon was bitter about his own lot, and they hadn't quite made amends over the weeks. He'd been busy attending to Ned's ill moods, and Jon had been training Ghost and rumbling around with his cousins.
He'd check the godswood. As he hurried that way, he watched in almost slow motion as the Kingslayer collided with him, clearly distracted on his way into the castle. "Watch it," he said automatically.
"You blend into all of this fucking gray stone, Stark," he shot back, steadying himself and looking around. "Looking for your bastard?"
Benjen knew the tone. The Kingslayer wanted to get a rise out of him, saying bastard like a curse. "Aye, my son seems to have disappeared."
"Strange life you live up here, Stark," he said, thoughtfully, hand on the sword on his side. "The youngest child, nothing to inherit, but no interest in valor or titles…" He tilted his head at him. "Never took a wife or anything. Just you and a bastard boy wasting away up here in this frozen hellhole."
"I serve my liege lord how he sees fit," he said, brusquely.
"It must shame him to have such a stain on the family tree," continued the Kingslayer, as if he hadn't even spoken. "Forcing him to tend to a baseborn boy his brother got on some whore before he was old enough to call himself a man."
Benjen had heard it all before. All he could do was roll his eyes. "Gods, you do love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"
"I prefer the sound of steel on steel," he said.
The Kingslayer felt how he did. Like a caged animal. This visit had lasted too long for all of them. This was how he vented his frustrations. "Steel can be arranged since you're so keen for a fight," he said, hefting his own sword.
Benjen was frustrated; frustrated with Jon and his brother and constantly tiptoeing around the spoiled princes and his bickering nieces and the smug faces of the Lannisters.
The clash was cathartic. He had no delusions of his own capability. He was not Jaime Lannister's equal, but they were fairly evenly matched in a scuffle where neither of them had any interest in really killing the other. Or at least it didn't seem like Lannister wanted to kill him, it was more like they were toying with each other.
He struck hard with the flat of the blade against Lannister's side, winding him, before he dropped his sword entirely to punch him in the jaw, sending him stumbling back. Then he was wrenched back, the huge voice of Robert Baratheon filling the courtyard.
"STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS."
Ned had a death grip on Benjen's arm as Robert shoved between them, dressed for a hunt.
"What are you doing?" Ned hissed at him.
"Just a spar," he lied, looking over Ned's shoulder at Lannister, who tossed his hair, haughtily rolling his eyes. "Right, Kingslayer? Friendly wager?"
"Friendly wager," Jaime agreed to the king, sheathing his sword and turning on his heel to storm off.
"Benjen, if you're going to act a child, stay behind with the children," said Ned, voice cold.
Chastened, sore and tired, he retreated back to his chambers. He would be free of his lordly brother and their infuriating guests soon enough.