Lord Elric.â¨Brilliant Elric.â¨Elric the Brave.
Benjen could never find an epithet that fit his father, except the one he once overheard a widow whisper in fear.
Benjen had been almost seven-and-ten then. Old enough to know better. He did know better.â¨A collection of bruises and broken bones had taught him to turn a blind eye before it turned purple, to bite his tongue, to lower his head.
Playing dead could save you from a grizzly bear, heâd been taught.â¨It didnât seem to save him.
Not when he disobeyed his fatherâs command and fed the woman by the keepâs gate. Sheâd been trembling, bones sharp beneath her skin, the winterâs cruelty carved into her face. Benjen had always wondered how his father could look away from his own starving people.â¨When Elric struck him, he called it discipline, necessary evils in shaping a worthy leader.â¨But what was necessary in starvation?â¨Why did his people have to suffer while bread rotted in their pantries?
Benjen did something foolish.
Brave. He called it brave. He would like to believe it was brave.
He packed what little he could: bread, meat, cheese, and a bottle of milk. Then he slipped through the gates and hid by the bushes, waiting for the woman. She told him her husbandâlike so many othersâhad been lost to the war. She was the first to call him Lord Benjen without making him want to retch. She told him of the world beyond the keepâs walls: a world of hunger, grief, and cold.â¨A world where his father was not the decorated war hero, but something darker, bloodier, something likeâ
âThe Reaper!â the widow gasped when Elric appeared, eyes hollow with terror, the milk nearly spilling from her hands as she fled.
So you see it too, Benjen thought grimly, just as a boot struck his ribs. He smiled through the pain, knowing at least the woman had escaped with the food. There was a dull sense of victory in that: others could see the monster wearing a lordâs skin.â¨The blood in his mouth tasted less bitter for it.
By nightfall, Lord Benjen had become Melanthaâs son, thenâthrough the screams echoing from outside the maesterâs chambersâthat disgrace.â¨Before sundown, he was cast out from his own home, told to âlive among the beggars he loved so much.â His mother found him at the locked gates, hands trembling as she cupped his bruised face and whispered apologies for wounds she had never caused.
âGo to Cayn⌠oh, my sweet boy⌠forgive me. Forgive meâŚâ
Cayn had been a family friend, for lack of a better word. Once a butcher before the war, later a fisherman.
Always loyal. Always quiet. â¨He knew an Essosi trick to dull lifelong pain: pigment and copper awls to drive color into the skin. The Dothraki called it spirit-marking. Once the ink set, the pain dulled, or at least, that was the promise. Elric had told Cayn that Benjen was born with brittle bones, some old weakness in the blood. When Cayn was called to trace the half-healed fractures, the copper stung, but at least Benjenâs breath soon came in deep bursts. Painless. Free.
Cayn looked as if he hated himself as much as he hated Elric when Benjen collapsed at his door, half-dead on his feet.
From that day forward, Benjen was no longer Elricâs heir.â¨No longer Melanthaâs son.â¨No longer the brittle lordling, the cursed warg.
He became only Caynâs apprentice.â¨A dockhand.â¨A nameless boy by the water.
And as Ben, he met Marge, tried drinking himself into an early grave, was betrothed to Lord Sunderlandâs daughter, learned to master his warging, and fell in love.â¨Not necessarily in that order.
Living with Cayn for ten moons had put more meat on his bones than a lifetime spent in a castle. Cayn and his wife, Jez, were a lovely pair. Jez worked as a seamstress and brought letters from Benjenâs motherâsmall rebellions smuggled under Elricâs nose. Cayn taught Benjen what he would have taught a son: how to handle ships and the men aboard them, a few words of Valyrian, how to tell the foreigners apart, how to cook a proper meal, the bawdiest shanties and the best jokes.â¨He taught him how to live, not just how to fear.
Benjen helped them in any way he could. He worked, learned to knit even better than Jez, and warged deep into the cold waters to find the cod Cayn liked so much.â¨And after many moons, he learned that pain had not made him immune to love.
He was knee-deep in the shallows one summer evening, eyes rolled white as he saw through a tiny fishâs gaze. The northern sun lingered, long and merciless, making the nights feel like fever dreams, burning through skin and retinas alike.
Benjen blamed the sun for the mirage of a girl at the edge of his sight. He blamed a goldfish striking the one he was warged into for his loss of balance. He blamed the smooth stone for his fall.
When his head broke the surface and he blinked away salt, pushing hair from his eyes, he saw a face hovering above him, so perfect he thought he must be dead and seeing angels. But when his heart stumbled in his chest, he knew whom to blame:â¨Marge.
That was how the angel introduced herself. Marge. Such a small name for someone so divine. Benjen thought gods didnât need many titles to be almighty. She had laughed at his clumsy fall, offered him her hand, and given him a thousand reasons to make her laugh again.
A foreigner, there with her father, a businessman. Marge, just Marge.â¨He was just Ben. Not to mislead her, but because his title had always fit like a borrowed cloakâtoo heavy, too grand. It felt good to shed it.
In the moons that followed, their eyes found each other, day after day. So did their hands. First love is a fever, once in a lifetime, all heat and trembling. Ben might have orbited Marge, or she him. It hardly mattered. Perhaps neither yielded, caught instead in a shared and stubborn gravity, a pull so fierce it tore a hole through the universe between them. They fell together into that void, toward the unseen horizon that bound them.
Like every star that lights the night sky, perhaps their love had been doomed from the start. Burning bright enough to guide others home, yet already dead, light from a long-vanished fire.
âInsanity,â Marge called it, when he went from proposing to beggingâone knee on the ground becoming two.â¨Run away with me. Run until we find a place warm enough to melt all our ghosts.
âBetrothed,â was the word she used then. Betrothed to another. Someone unworthy of her. Someone who hadnât counted every freckle, or memorized the exact shade of her laughter-blue eyes. Someone who didnât know they turned storm-blue when she cried.
Unable to stop the pull, they held each other, sobbing as if tears alone could defy fate.â¨I branded you in my sorrow. Be mine for life.
But Marge left anyway, taking his heart with her.
A fortnight later, Elric came storming into town, roaring at Cayn, until he saw the man his heir had become.â¨Ben had become his son once more. That night, he returned to the Keep. By weekâs end, he would warg into a bear and tear the Reaper to pieces for daring to raise a hand to Melantha.
Benjen Mormont was, after all, still Melanthaâs son.
âWill the ceremony be held in a sept?â Ursula asked again, tone sharp enough to draw blood.
Benjen made a mental note to tell Cregan to appoint her as his new Master of War. The woman belonged on a battlefield, not at a dinner table.
âIf Lady Sunderland so wishes,â he answeredâthe same answer heâd given to every question that evening. If someone asked whether heâd jump off a cliff, heâd have said it again, and meant it.
Lady Margaery Sunderland. What a long name for someone he had once grouped under a single word: love.
Henrietta had been offering him sympathetic smiles and nods that likely meant he looked as miserable as he felt. Terrance was torn between being curious about a northerner and pretending his plate was the most fascinating thing in the world. Ursula watched him as though she meant to pin him to a board like a rare moth. And IsembardâGods strike him downâhad not stopped talking since theyâd sat down. Willow was in Kingâs Landing, learning sewing from Lady Perianne. Rosey was away with Margaery. Margaery, who had run away a decade ago, and once more now.
Some things never changed.
âIâm sure Lord Benjen is starving, my dear husband,â Henrietta interrupted Isembardâs monologue. Benjen prayed, not for the first time, that Isembardâs heart might combust to make her a widow as rich as the Iron Bank itself.
âBenjen, would you mind saying grace before we eat?â Isembard asked, smiling as he took a generous mouthful of wine.
âIâm fortunately a heathen.â
The wine went spraying from that pompous nose so fast Benjen almost missed the collective gasp from the rest of the family.
âWhat if Margaery wishes for a sept to pray in?â Ursula demanded.â¨âSo you truly believe weâre alone here?â Terrance added.â¨âYou donât even know the Warriorâs Prayer?â Henrietta fretted.
Good heavens and the devils below.
âKidding,â Benjen said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. âA jest. Itâs a jest.â
A sigh of relief swept the table as they bowed their heads, Isembard still muttering something about ânortherners and their odd ways.â Benjen wasnât religious, not really. But he had always made sure to know the rites of all faiths, just in case there were holy ears willing to listen.
âOh, Benjen knows a lovely prayer in High Valyrian!â Henrietta supplied brightly. âMarwyn told me so!â
Benjen wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. Instead, he only nodded.
Heâd learned that prayer long ago, from his time on the bed of a sailor out of Oldtown whose brother studied to be a maester, a charming man whoâd said, âIf you pray, you should know what youâre asking for.â And all Benjen had ever asked for was the same thing: Marge. Marge. Marge.
He cleared his throat once, twice, and began.
âÄeksi vÄedas, Ädruta jemÄna se ynkiro,
(O Crone, veiled in silver and shadow,)
skorÄŤ drÄzma Ädruta Ädruta Ängoso tubÄŤse,â¨(whose lamp burns eternal upon the road of night,)
sytilÄŤbagon ao Ăąuhys, Äza syt mirros.â¨(turn thy gaze upon me, the forsaken.)
DrÄzmi ao tubÄŤno Ăąuhon jorrÄelzi belmÄŤs.
(Shine upon the road my love has taken.)
TubÄŤ vÄedar rhaenagon belmÄŤ se Ăąuhys,
(The nights are long without them,)
se vestri hÄro mirros vÄzenka syt hÄro hĹŤlÄŤ.â¨(and I wander through their absence as through fog.)
Lo Ăąuhon belmÄŤ rĹŤsita, ao drÄzmi lÄdys unne tolÄŤ ĂąĹti;â¨(If they are lost, let your light fall upon their eyes;)
lo Ăąuha iÄdrÄzmar rĹŤsita, ao vestri Ăąuhon Ädruta Ängoso.
(if I am the one astray, lead me back to where they wait.)
Ao lua Ädruta, skorÄŤ iksin syt se skorÄŤ Äza ĂąÄqis,
(You who see what was and what shall be,)
ao Ädruta Ängos jemÄna vestri Ängoso.
(let your wisdom soften the distance between us.)
QringtÄ ao vÄedot tubÄŤno,
(Whisper their name upon the wind,)
syt belmÄŤs Ăąuhys Äza lÄdys se Ăąuhys Ädruta Ädruta.
(so they may remember mine when it touches their ear.)
PÄletÄ Ăąuhys, muĂąa sylvie hen vestri Ängoso,â¨(Show me, wise Mother of the turning path,)
skorÄŤ Ăąuha jorrÄelza vÄedar hen ynkiro.â¨(where my beloved drifts amidst the dark.)
Lo Ăąuha hÄro vÄzmi belmÄŤs syt Ăąuhys,â¨(If their heart yet beats for me,)
ao drÄzmi Ädruta Ädruta Ängoso Äza Ädruta belmÄŤs hen Ăąuhys.â¨(set your lantern high and lead them home.)
LuÄ ao Ăąuhys prĹŤmÄn dÄeri hen Ängoso trembagon, se mÄŤsĹ se belmÄŤ Ädruta Ängoso Ängoso Äza Ädruta syt Ängos mirros.â¨(Gather our souls as threads in your trembling hand, and weave them once more into a single fate.)
Lo belmÄŤs hÄro Ädruta Ängoso gevives,â¨(But if their road has turned beyond my reach,)
ao Äza Ädruta Ängoso vestri Äza Ädruta,â¨(grant me the mercy to see it clear,)
se ao Äza Ädruta Ängoso Äza Ädruta Ängoso tubÄŤno belmÄŤ.â¨(and the strength to walk alone beneath your light.)â
The prayer was received with delight, even in his broken Valyrian learned only through repetition. None of them knew why his hands were white-knuckling the edge of the table.
Can you hear me, Marge?â¨Can the gods?â¨Did they bring you back to me?
After Marge left, after his father died, after blood and lordship stained his hands the same shade of red, Benjen lost himself. Quite purposefully, heâd say.â¨He always prided himself on being the architect of his own destruction.
He had drunk himself into strangersâ beds for moons on end, then drunk himself awake to patrol the woods at night, chased by nightmares. He stopped warging. Stopped going to the beach, the docks. He got himself into so many drunken mishaps that Cayn eventually tattooed him from neck to toe just to dull the ache. He had been so self-destructive that Hugo and Cregan were forced to intervene. He buried guilt and shame in the same shallow grave where theyâd laid his fatherâs coffin, down in the cold crypts.â¨He had to bury the memory of his first love deeper still.
âQuit wiggling. You look like a salmon,â Cayn huffed, angling the awl to drive the pigment deeper. Most of the tattoos had to be redone every few moons. The color no longer vanished, but the pain returned the moment a circle broke.
âMe and my silver scales, so lucky,â Benjen grumbled, searching for a new excuse to kick Hugo out of his room, since âIâm almost nakedâ hadnât stopped him from barging in.
âSo itâs Marge Marge?â Hugo asked for what felt like the thousandth time, pacing heavy circles across the floor.
âYouâre going to wear a hole in my floor.â
âYouâre going to wear a hole in my brain!â Hugo shot back, rubbing his eyes like Benjen might suddenly sprout wings. âHeat stroke. It must be heat stroke.â
âIn the middle of winter?â Cayn offered helpfully.
âQuite unhelpful,â Hugo muttered.
âWill you do it?â Cayn prodded, dipping his awl again. âWill you marry her?â
Benjen hissed as the pigment bit into his ribs; the cold months always made them ache worse. âShouldnât I?â he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek until the flesh split beneath the ceremonial golden fangs.â¨There was a meeting with the bannermen before he sailed south, to Kingâs Landing.â¨To hell.
âWhat if she doesnât want to marry you?â they asked together, like twin parrots.
As if that thought hadnât haunted him long before he even learned Marge was his betrothed. He focused on the dull rhythm of Caynâs awl. In, out. Dot. In, out. Dot. The dots became lines, the lines pathways. The ink was dark as ash, the wounds like a new language written in aches. Cayn wiped the blood away with a dry cloth that felt like it could flay him alive, then started again.
âIâll talk to her,â Benjen said quietly. âI canât assume sheâ Iâll find her a way out if she doesnât want me.â
Sheâs rejected me once. Whatâs one more heartbreak?
âWhat if she stays?â Cayn asked. âWhat if sheâs been waiting, too?â
If sheâd been waiting, for whom?â¨He couldnât be the boy sheâd met. He couldnât undo the scars or the hands that carved them open. Hugo bent to catch his gaze, eyes sharp, almost pleading. From that angle, he looked younger, like the child he once was.
How many lives had they lived since then? How many skins had they shed just to keep breathing? Could a bone healed wrong ever be mended? Could an old dog recognize an even older scent?
Could Marge forgive him for killing the boy she once loved?
He didnât need to ask whether heâd give her another chance to break his heart. It had always been hers to do as she pleased.
âI suppose you two could be friendsââ Hugo started.
Benjen stood, pulling on a shirt and hopping into his trousers while Cayn and Hugo watched him as if heâd gone mad. Maybe he had. Who kept track of such things?
âMeeting. Bannermen. Cayn, your holdâs on the table. Hugo, fuck off. Cheers, cheers. Iâll see you both in a few moons.â
He was halfway to the door, heart roaring in his ears, when Cayn called after him:
âBoy, weâre not done! Shit⌠your kneeâs going to hurt like a bitch.â
A concern for future Ben, clearly.
His knee was, in fact, hurting like a bitch.
Every step on the cobblestones sent a hot jolt up his leg, a reminder that timeâor perhaps fateâwas catching up to him. He had spent a good chunk of the trip wincing, and another pretending he wasnât, jaw clenched so tightly it left an ache in his temples. When Ethan, one of his men, had suggested he use a cane, Benjen had glared at him so fiercely the poor man nearly dropped it overboard. Heâd told him, very kindly, that if Ethan didnât want the cane to end up somewhere anatomically unpleasant, heâd best stop talking.
Stubbornness had always been a living thing in him, a beast with its own mind. It reared and bit whenever pride was tested, as if yielding to pain was the greater humiliation. But by the second day at sea, with the deck rolling and his knee swelling like a ripe fruit, Benjen had relented.
He took the cane, just around the ship, he told himself. Only there. No one judgmental to see him limp but the gulls and the crew.
Kingâs Landing was, surprisingly, not as unbearable as he remembered. The stench was dulled by the salt air, and though the streets still twisted like a snakeâs spine, there was a pulse to the city that almost felt alive. He had to keep one eye on Edrick, whose curiosity could get him killed, and another on Lyarra, who had the same knack for vanishing into crowds as her brother once had. Marwyn had cornered him the moment he arrived, leeching information and patience in equal measure, and the court itself was a hive of games and whispers.
No worse than he thought it would be.
Then, amidst the noise and the wine and the flickering torchlight of a feast, he saw her.
Marge watched him with that same piercing focus sheâd always hadâsharp, unyielding, as if she could peel him apart with a single look. For a moment, he forgot the ache in his knee, the noise of the hall, the ache of the past. The world shrank to the space between her gaze and his heartbeat.
And then, against every instinct that had ever guided him through war and winter, Benjen did something he had never done with her.
Not away from duty or battle, but from her eyes, the truth in them, the ache they summoned. He slipped between courtiers and servants, dodging gold and silk and the scent of roasted meat, moving as if courage itself could be found somewhere under the floorboards. It was a ridiculous, graceless retreat, and still he couldnât stop himself. For once, it wasnât pride or pain that drove him, it was the sheer, gut-deep terror of seeing what she might still see in him.
The hearth flickered low, casting a warm but wan light over the stones. The air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and citrus, likely whatever cologne Marwyn had bathed in to survive another day of courtly ambushes. Benjen had taken off his cloak, boots, and tolerance for company. He sat in the corner chair with a groan, rubbing the base of his fingers like they might detach and roll away if he didnât hold them down.
âVictory!â Marwyn announced, holding two dark green bottles like twin trophies. âOne bottle of the Arborâs last harvest, and one of the Velaryon vintages stolen from a Lannisterâs table.â
Benjen didnât even lift his head. âYou picked the lock again.â
âYou locked me out again.â
âI meant it this time.â
âAnd I brought drinks,â Marwyn said, placing the bottles down like peace offerings. âExpensive ones. Youâre welcome.â
He poured, uninvited, into two mismatched cups and handed one to Benjen, who took it only after a long pause and a longer sigh.
Marwyn sipped, wincing slightly. âOkay, so the Arborâs last harvest is more metaphorical than memorable, but itâll still get us drunk.â
The wine tasted like heaven, which meant Marwyn was either trying to butter Benjen up or apologize in advance. Possibly both.
Benjen eyed the bottle with suspicion, even as Marwyn poured it with the reverence of a septon handling sacred oil.
âYou only bring the good stuff when you want something,â Benjen said, accepting the cup anyway. He took a sip, trying not to groan at how good it was. Damn Marwyn and his taste.
âI bring the good stuff because I care about your health and hydration,â Marwyn said primly, lounging across the edge of a dry fountain like it was a chaise. âAnd also because you once told me this was your favorite.â
âI said it didnât taste like piss. Thatâs not the same thing.â
âSemantics. Now drink up.â When Benjen did, Marwyn grinned slyly. âSoâŚâ
âI didnât say anything yet!â
âYouâre going to ask a question I donât want to answer.â
âIâm just curious! You never talk about Bear Island. Or your family. Or yourself. Or feelings, or hobbies, or what you think about when itâs snowing and youâre alone and sad andââ
Marwyn narrowed his eyes. âYouâre the human embodiment of sad. Youâre like a wet dog in a thunderstorm. Now drink, and tell me something real.â
Benjen drained his cup and immediately refilled it. âIâm not a fucking bard, Marwyn. I donât tell stories for coins or pity.â
âYou could do it for me,â Marwyn said, flopping onto the bed. âTell me a secret. Just one. Iâll owe you.â
The wine was strong. Too strong. Benjen stared into the cup, weighing whether it was worth just throwing it in Marwynâs face. But no⌠he had brought the good stuff. And Marwyn was, gods help him, trying.
The problem was, Benjen wasnât. Not today.
Marwyn mustâve sensed the shift in his silence, because he quieted too. Not completelyâhe started picking at a bit of lint on his sleeve, humming tunelesslyâbut quieter than usual. Benjen looked through the window at the courtyard wall, at the moss creeping into the cracks like it belonged there, and flexed his fingers without thinking.
Except they didnât flex. Not really. The motion was half-hearted, the bones stiff, the joints swollen like they always were before it rained.
âThey hurt,â he said. Quiet. Like it embarrassed him just to say it aloud. âThe cold makes it worse. But it never really stops.â
Marwyn looked over, still and uncharacteristically cautious. âYour hands?â
Benjen nodded. âJoints wonât curl right. Half the time I canât make a proper fist unless I want to feel the bones scream.â
Benjen stared into the fire, jaw tight. âMy father. Lord Elric, the Just and Generous,â he said bitterly. âUsed to say pain built discipline. That I was too soft. One winter, I donât knowâI mouthed off, maybe. Or spilled something. Doesnât matter. He stepped on them. Held my hand to the floor and pressed his boot down until something gave.â
âDonât.â Benjen gave him a look so flat it could have been used to plane wood. âDonât make it a tragedy. Itâs nothing. Not the worst thing I grew up with.â
Marwyn was quiet again. And then, softly: âIt still matters.â
He took another gulp of wine. Chewed the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood drowned out the taste of grapes.
âI can live with it. I have lived with it.â
Marwyn said nothing. Just listened.
Benjen let out a humorless laugh. âBut I used to knit. Did you know that?â
Marwyn blinked. âYou... knit?â
âI did.â Benjenâs expression softened into something almost mournful. âSweaters. The big thick kind, with stupidly warm collars. Iâd make them for my mother and my sister, so they wouldnât freeze while I was off trying to prove something. Hats, scarves. Socks with stripes. My mother used to call them my âblizzard blankets.â Said I had a talent for it. Could pick up a pattern in an hour and make something better than the maid whoâd been doing it her whole life. I liked it. Still do. But my fingersââ
He tried again to flex them. One cracked audibly.
âNow I get maybe ten minutes before Iâm swearing and ready to snap the needles in half. Canât hold the tension. Canât do the little stitches. Canât finish a thing.â
Marwyn was unusually quiet. Then, in a rare moment of sincerity:
âI think you should try again.â
Benjen raised an eyebrow. âDid you not hear the part where I just described arthritis and childhood torture?â
âI did. And I also hear you talk about it like you miss it every godsdamn day.â Marwyn leaned forward. âThereâs tools. Tricks. Iâll help. I know people who sew. Weâll make you knitting gauntlets or some weird contraption that looks like a torture device from Volantis. I donât care. You deserve to have something good. Even if itâs just a dumb scarf with crooked lines.â
Benjen looked at him for a long time. Thenâ
âWhy are you like this?â
âIâm charming. And bored. Andââ Marwyn held up the bottle, grinning, ââa little drunk. But Iâm your friend.â
Benjen sighed. âYouâre exhausting.â
âYouâve said that before.â
âIâll say it again.â
Marwyn leaned back against the headboard with a grin that was all teeth and sunshine. âYou knit sweaters. Gods. Youâre halfway to being everyoneâs favorite grumpy uncle.â
âYet here I am. The wine-bearing, secret-coaxing migraine of your dreams.â
Benjen didnât respond. But after a long silence, he muttered:
âThick yarn. Cream-colored. Soft as clouds.â
Marwyn blinked. âWhat?â
âThatâs the kind I liked best.â
Marwyn smiled. âThen Iâll find it.â
Ring splints, a bowl of dried lentils, a jar of warm water, fingerless mittensâMarwyn had definitely stolen them and shredded them with a dull blade.â¨Hope. Oh, stubborn hope.â¨Benjen had it in abundance, it seemed.
His right hand was clumsy, clumsier still with iron keeping his fingers from bending. He could barely count the number of times a needle slipped from his grasp and rolled under the desk.
He had never been good at knowing when to stop. He used to swim until his vision blackened at the edges, drink until his stomach refused to hold anything, stay awake until collapse claimed him. Better to discover his limits before someone else did.
A twist of both needles braided the yarn into something that resembled a row of stitches. Not nearly perfect, but familiar. Blessed be Marwyn and all seamstresses of the Red Keep.
He didnât even attempt to wipe the smile from his face when the door swung open.
His eyes widened as Margaery appeared instead, clutching his pitiful scarf. She was a ghost in everything but name.
âYou! I need to speak with youâŚâ she began. Benjen considered leaping from the window, which would undoubtedly sound heroic if they werenât at least ten floors above the ground. âY-you, you who walk around like I am the great villain of our story. Well, Lord Ben, let me tell you something! You are as much at fault as I am for what happened to us⌠I may have lied, but so did you.â
Benjen had never been needy, not for affection, not for attention. He kept his hands to himself and did what was expected. But what Margaery had done to him, what he had tasted and touched⌠it had made him feel like he could break from the sheer cold of distance.
To him, she had been the instigator of over-familiarity, making him read meaning into kisses on the forehead, into lying in bed together, brushing teeth side by side in the mirror.
She had been the one who made him feel he could worm his way into permanence. She had made him believe they could grow into something infinitely more.
His legs betrayed him, carrying him closer, needles and yarn tumbling with his heart across the floor. He remembered the feeling of hanging by hope alone, praying to emerge from the void with even the smallest measure of love.
And was there anything more undoing than memory?
âWe are now tied together, for life. And I will not continue to act a fool and be part of this little silent game we have been playing! I..." Margaery spat the words, and Benjenâs feet came to a stop on the stone floor.
He was ready to offer her a way out: an annulment, an agreement, anything to prevent their paths from crossing again. Even after all these years, he would gladly fall to his knees if his standing could be the reason for her departure.
Poets were right: there is no room for dignity where desperation lives.
âYouâŚâ Benjen cleared his throat. What does one say to the person he has loved for a decade? âYou⌠you look as beautiful as you did the day I lost you.â A beat. âYou are aware you do not have to wed me if you choose not to, yes? I will gladly talk to that fucâ Isembard. Iâll gladly talk to him.â
Blue eyes like the sea before a storm.
âI never said that I wanted to break our betrothal. Youâve been ignoring me, that is all I said.â She laughed bitterly. âAnd are you even aware of what would happen to me if we were to break our betrothal now?â
âSame thing that will happen if anyone sees you unaccompanied in my chambers,â one step forward, then another.
Marge had always reminded him of those tales of mermaids, sirens and sea witches. Beautifully haunting, ready to drag him down where the air turned to salt, to devour him down to the marrow. He would go willingly, it stubbornly seemed. He carefully raised both hands, like when he was a boy coaxing scared pups out of hiding.
His fingers splayed over the wood and tugged slowly, as if shutting them abruptly could make her vanish into thin air.
âNo chaperone. Really, Marge?â he teased, the amusement a fragile mask.
âWe donât need a chaperone.â She spoke coolly, face scolded. âIâve been unmarried for far longer than I should be, according to the court. Iâve been âalmost betrothedâ far too many times to be considered proper or decent.â
The pause after proper cut deep.
âThe court is made up of fools who can shove their notions where the sun wonât shine,â Benjen spat, taking a deep breath, fingers pressing against the wood. Who was stupid enough to give up an engagement with Margaery? He ought to find out their names andâ
âIâm now finally betrothed to a Lord, and if I were to be discarded, yet again⌠well,â she swallowed, âIâd be ruined, Ben. Far more ruined than if someone caught me in here with no chaperone.â
âDiscarded?â Both his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. A perfect evening to draw a blade and reopen old scars. âI would never do such a thing. And who the hell were the others? Are they speaking ill of you? Gods, I willââ
Another deep breath, another wave of pain he forced down, burying it as he always did.
âI will not break our engagement if the idea of marrying me doesnât repulse you,â he said, though it wasnât what he wanted to say. How else could he convey the relief at the absence of hate? Rage was better, it meant there was still something worth caring for.
âPlease⌠take a seat,â Benjen said, needing space. A distance to keep them from clashing, from him kissing her and becoming a believer for the first time in years.
The old gods had to be real, they had given him the one person he dared to ask for.
âIâm not a terrible host. Though I have no tea, only liquor,â he added, forcing a laugh that came out hollow. âIf you want to talk, then letâs talk. Come on, Lady Sunderland.â
âI donât need anything to drink.â She took a seat, slowly, watching him the whole time, âBen, please, itâs fine- itâs alright. This is not even what I came here to talk of.â
âSome insufferable lordlings dragging my wifeâs name through the mud is hardly nothing,â Ben scoffed, rings knocking on wood as if to banish the scorn. Childish habits to deal with childish feelings.
Not feeling the weight of her eyes on him, he tracked her gaze back down. Oh, the yarn. Right.
âLet me justâŚâ he muttered, leaning over to grab the scarf-to-be while kicking the needles away.
What proved to be the worst decision ever made by someone who got shot by arrows twice on the same knee.
Well, it seemed he had always been destined to kneel by his goddess.
Hugo always called him a heathen. Well, suck it up, Cerwyn.
âWhat if the idea of marrying me repulses you, Lord Mormont?â Margaery murmured under her breath.
âSorry, Iâmââ her question made him look up. Her eyes had always been deep enough to rival the sea, now he could only describe it as a muted gray. âMargaery Sunderland, you could not repulse me in any way. You could quite literally spit on my face and Iâd think you look lovely.â
It felt foreign to call her a name over two syllables. To dare naming feelings so long buried. Odder still to pretend they did not exist.
She had known about his nightmares, and the broken bones in his right hand, about the knitting and the furrow in his eyebrows when he was doing his best not to cry.
She had known everything and yet nothing.
âAre you sure you want to marry a liar, love?â Benjen murmured back. She admitted her faults, it was only polite to assume she wouldnât hate him more for admitting his own.
âBen⌠you donât know me anymore. I donât know you⌠I may look lovely, butâŚâ It came out a whisper. A deep breath in. âWeâll be liars together, then, I suppose.â
âDonât I know you?â Benjen scoffed, stubborn as ever. It was almost a relief, that northern hearts never softened; their roots ran too deep in frozen ground. He had been born with rage, and heâd die with it pressed heavy against his chest. Heâd be buried beneath the same soil that raised him, still remembering the way Margeâs lashes brushed her cheeks, the low hum of her voice as she braided her hair.
Heâd spend the rest of his days trying to forget the way back to her.
A touch to his hand made his eyes snap up. She looked at the yarn, yet again, then back at him. âOh Ben⌠Youâre still in pain.â
He gripped the back of the chair and pulled himself upright. No rest for the wicked, not today.
âYeah, yeah.â He dropped back into the seat, tossing the yarn onto the desk like it no longer mattered. Sheâd already seen too much, what was the point of hiding now? âIâve been in pain my whole life; itâd be rude if it just up and left.â
âIâm jealous, you know,â he said with a hollow laugh. âYouâve changed so much, and Iâm still me.â
âI have changed, but thereâs nothing to be jealous of here. Nothing. Iâve only become worse.â
Worse? Did she think he had become any better? He never lied to himself, pretending he was good. He tried, by the gods he tried, it seemed to be something out of his reach.
How could he comfort her as he was now without scaring her away?
âThe point is,â he went on, voice roughening, âI knew you once, and you knew me. What do you expect now? A friend of mine said we ought to be friends again, but the very thought makes my skin crawl.â He clicked his tongue, the sound small but sharp. Every choice before him felt cruel, like drowning fish in the shallows. âThe Northâs cold enough without us pretending not to see each other. So do me a favor and help me out, or may a lightning bolt strike me down where I sit.â
Marge stood up abruptly, chair creaking loudly in the silent room. Stepping toward where he sat, she spoke again.
âHelp you out? And how am I supposed to do that⌠what do you want me to do? Tell me, tell me! Donât just ignore me, donât just be mad at meâŚâ her voice held so much despair, it made his breath hitch.
They hadnât been breathing the same air for an hour before heâd already upset her. Lovely. Did the Red Keep need a new jester?
The small space between them felt suffocating.
Ten years ago, Benjen would have known the answer to every one of her questions. He would have soothed the frown creeping across her face, tracing her warm skin with a thumb. He would have held her right where he sat, forehead pressed to her ribcage, listening to the steady beat of her heart.
Ten years ago, they wouldnât have lingered in this misery.
âMarge, MargeâŚâ His hands, betraying any semblance of reason or the lessons tutors had tried to drill into him, wrapped around her waist, thumbs brushing her sides. âItâs fine. Weâll be fine⌠I could never be mad at you. Hear me?â
I love you too much for that.
âI apologize for running away from you,â he said, forcing a smile as he looked up at her face. Still Marge. Still⌠âbrave. Youâre still so brave. So please, be brave for me. Tell me, what kind of husband would you want? I donât know what to expect, but I will do my best to become who you want me to be.â
She shook her head, breath shuddering, eyes closed. Your pain fits right on the palm of my rotten hands.
âIt was not you who ran. It was me. We were young, we lied, I left.â
She paused, opening her eyes.
âIâm sorry. Iâll never not be. I⌠I donât want you to be someone else. Thatâs the last thing I want.â
When her hands touched his shoulders, Benjen almost forgot how to breathe. The warmth of her palms burned through the wool of his cloak, reaching bone, memory, soul. For a moment, he didnât move, didnât dare to.
âYouâre still so kind, so gentle, so caring,â she said softly.
Heâd spent years wondering, hating himself for all the ways he might have failed her. And now she was apologizing? He wanted to laugh, to curse, to pull her close and shake her for saying sorry when she had no reason to be.
âI am sorry too,â Benjen whispered. It was easy to admire her once she wasnât staring back. Easier still to trace her features, a familiar roadmap he could draw from memory alone. He wanted to tell her he wasnât kind. Not anymore. That the years had carved him into something rougher, lonelier. That there were nights heâd forgotten how to pray, but never forgotten her.
âYou didnât have to apologize. Not then. Not now.â He swallowed, the ache in his throat almost unbearable. âIâd have waited another ten years if it meant hearing that from you.â
Carefully he reached up, slow as breath, covering one of her hands with his. His thumb brushed her knuckles, and he whispered, rough and quiet,
âI am not kind, nor gentle, or caring. I am spiteful, cruel, I have done every terrible thing that have reached your ears and I fear I donât regret half of it. IâŚâ
âWell, then. Iâm not kind, either, I am rude and overbearing. Iâm pushy and angry, and I spend more time alone than I wish I did.â
When Marge tightened her grip on his hand, he felt his pulse jump beneath her fingers. She was real againâwarm, trembling, there. He almost smiled when she called herself rude and overbearing, because to him, she was still the gentlest thing that had ever entered his life.
Wretched mirrors they were. Another deep breath.
âI want to get to know you once again. If you allow me to.â
A beat passed, her hands tightened, digging on his shoulders.
âI never wanted to leave you. It killed me to, but I had to. I couldnât let my sisters be alone with my father, I just couldnâtâŚâ Margaery took her hands off his shoulders then, slowly bringing them to his face. As her palms rose, he forgot how to stand still. The touch made his chest ache, her fingers traced the lines time had carved into him, and he let her, afraid to break the spell.
Gods, he hadnât known. Heâd built stories in his mind for years: ones where sheâd stopped loving him, or found someone better, or simply grown tired of a boy who had nothing to offer but his dreams. But not this. Never this.
Something inside him twisted. Guilt, yes, but deeper than that; a grief for the girl sheâd been, carrying burdens no one should have had to. He wanted to tell her he would have gone with her, that he would have faced her father, her whole damned world, if only she had asked. But that was foolish now. They were no longer those reckless, desperate children.
He was still going to have a lovely talk with Isembard when they returned home.
Benjen leaned slightly into her hands, eyes closing for half a heartbeat. When he opened them, there was a faint, unsteady smile on his lips.
âIâll allow it, if you allow me to know you,â she conceded.
âYou already know me,â he murmured. âMore than anyone ever will. But if you want to know the rest of me⌠then stay. And Iâll tell you everything.â
Brown eyes met blue without rage.
Stay. Stay for all my days.
âYes⌠yes Iâll stay, Iââ Marge started, smile threatening to tug on her mouth.
Just then, a familiar, aggravating knock resonated on the oak door.
âBenji? Benjenmin? Oh dear patron Saint of booze⌠let me in! Did you lock the door? Oh, thatâs just rude! Bad Benji,â came Marwynâs voice. Benjen could picture his face pressed against the door.
He could also picture himself hanging Marwyn from the west tower and letting him learn why the gods didnât give men wings.
âGo to hell, Marwyn,â Benjen huffed, mouthing to Marge we are so fucked, very eloquently. His mother would certainly be proud.
âMarwyn? Corbray?â Marge asked amusedly.
âCorbray, yes. Unfortunately,â Benjen grunted, his voice half-buried as he pressed his face to her dress before remembering too late that he had no right to be this close. Still, could it truly be wrong when it came as naturally as breathing? Who could be blamed for crossing lines that had long since blurred?
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. âWell, we should let him in, he sounds desperate.â
âMarwyn is always desperate, love,â he muttered, reluctant to move. âHeâll start picking the lock in five minutes, give or take.â
Letting Marwyn in wasnât the issue; the man could keep a secret better than most lords in Kingâs Landing. No, the problem wasâ
âOhhh, are you with a lady~? Benji, you dog!â
Before the fool could rouse the entire hall with his wolf-whistling, Benjen shot to his feet, already mourning the warmth heâd just recovered.
Benjen was going to kill Marwyn. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with the sharpest blade in the Seven Kingdoms. Would the Prince Consort let him borrow Dark Sister for the occasion? Gods, he hoped so.
After a miserable stretch of back-and-forth in which Marwyn found it hilarious to declare that their names could merge into âMargiBenjiâ if said quickly enough, the little shit had taken up position as a self-appointed chaperone, sitting right between them.
âDid he tell you about the time he was banned from Riverrun for three weeks?â Marwyn asked brightly, grinning like a man possessed.
Benjenâs boot found his shin before the sentence even ended.
âOw! Your boots are heavy! Well, not Riverrun thenâaha! Did Benji tell you he has a tattoo now? I was there when he got itâouch, Benji!â
âMy foot slipped,â Benjen said blandly, raising his hands in mock innocence.
Marwyn clutched his leg with theatrical agony, eyes wide in mock betrayal.
Benjen shrugged. âSlippery floor.â
âLovely to see you, Marwyn. I had no idea you were here in Kings Landing with us.â Marge chuckled, cutting through Marwynâs accelerated need for gossip. She interjected their arguing and Benâs kicking by blocking his foot with her smaller one. He, bravely, held back the impulse of giving it a kiss. âA tattoo? And where would that be located?â
Benjen was not a jealous man. Usually.
Hugoâalways so bloody insightfulâliked to say that was only because Benjen had never truly cared for anyone heâd been with. If they stayed, fine. If they left, even better. Good riddance. The cutting of weeds so the trees could bloom, or however Hugo had so wisely put it.
But he should have known Margaery would be the exception.
How did she know Marwyn? Why did she know Marwyn?
Benjenâs glare fixed on the pair of them, her laughing at something idiotic Marwyn had said, and him soaking in the attention like a cat in sunlight. If looks could kill, Marwyn would be ash on the carpet.
Margaery asked something, he wasnât sure what. His mind was too busy plotting slow, inventive murder.
He blinked, forced his attention back to her, and bit the inside of his cheek.
âHm? Tattoo, right, itâs on my back. Itâsââ
âDonât!â Marwyn shrieked, throwing up his hands like a maiden guarding her virtue, only to yelp when Benjen pushed him on reflex. âOw! Rude! You cannot tell her that, Benji! Or thereâll be no surprises for your wedding night!â
Benjen exhaled through his nose, counting to three then deciding hiding a body was faster.
âIâm going to die,â he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. âRight after I kill him.â
âBen!? You two are very ridiculous.â She said, stating it as a fact and not a mere jest. âHow is it that you two even know each other?â She looked to Marwyn next. âPerhaps it seems we need a new chaperone. So sorry, cousin.â
âCousins?â Benjen echoed just as Marwyn declared, all too cheerfully, âWinterfell!â
Ah, yes. Henrietta. Poor Henrietta, whoâd married Isembard. Cousins was dangerously close to siblings, if one thought about it. Lovely.
No romance, no scandal, no Targaryen inclinations. Absolutely lovely.
âBenji here was in cahoots with a widow when I found outââ
Another swift kick to Marwynâs knee.
âWe donât need chaperones, Marge. You were absolutely correct,â Benjen said smoothly, catching Marwyn by the coat and guiding him backward toward the door. âIt was wonderful of Marwyn to stop by. Very sweet. He should be banished to the Wall.â
âIâll tell you everything later!â Marwyn sang as he was unceremoniously pushed out.
âBye, cousin.â She waved, smile unaffected.
The door clicked shut with a soft thud, and silence fell. Benjen let out a breath to empty his lungs, his forehead resting against the wood. Ten years, and he still felt like a boy whenever she was near.
He turned slightly, daring a glance. She stood where heâd left her, the faintest amusement playing at the corner of her lips, the kind that always made his heart trip over itself.
âI can hear your thoughts from here,â he murmured, a small, nervous laugh escaping him. âYouâre judging me, arenât you?â
âOh, come now,â he said, voice softer now, the playfulness threaded with something truer. âDonât believe me? For your information, mind readingâs my best party trick, maâam.â
She took a step forward towards him then, never backing down from a challenge. âOkay then, Ben, what am I thinking now?â Her eyebrows furred, eyes squinting, daring him. Their eyes met, staring at each other, close once again. âHmm? Can you hear whatâs going on in my mind?â
It was easy to fall into step with her again. Too easy. As if no years had passed, as if theyâd been together yesterday and every day since.
His hand rose before he could stop it, brushing her hair gently behind her ear, tilting her chin upward. Heâd lost himself in those eyes too many times to count, and gods, this might have been the hardest part: remembering how it felt to look at her and not reach for more.
He leaned down anyway, squinting a little to match her gaze.
âLetâs see, letâs seeâŚâ he murmured, eyes fluttering shut in mock concentration, though it was really just to steady his heart. They hadnât been this close in years, and if they were truly trying to take it slow, this was absolutely the wrong thing to be doing.
âHmm⌠youâre thinking we should take a walk through Kingâs Landing and glare at anyone who frowns at our lack of chaperones? How scandalous, Marge!â His lips curved. âPlease donât suggest Marwyn again⌠let me check.â
He squeezed his eyes tighter, pretending to focus, his grin growing by the second. âNo Marwyn in hereâjust a very, very dangerous mind. How interesting.â
Oh, they were absolutely doomed.
âMy mind is dangerous. It makes people run from me.â She pursed her lips, face heating up. Iâm not going anywhere. âAnd, no, youâve got it all wrong, thatâs not what I was thinking! It looks like you canât read minds, but let me see if I canâŚâ
Benjen froze for half a heartbeat when her fingers curled around his collar. The contact sent a quiet jolt through him. Her hand was smaller than he remembered, but the touch was the same: deliberate, even when it pretended not to be.
A laugh slipped from him before he could stop it. Gods, she hadnât changed. That same wit, that same spark in her eyes. He tilted his head, enough that their foreheads brushed, his voice low but warm with amusement.
âHmm, youâre thinking that I need a step stool to talk to you, arenât you?â
âWrong too. Weâre both terrible mind readers,â he murmured. âI was thinking that if you pull me any closer, Iâll forget every reason we ever had to take this slow.â
âOhâŚâ She laughed, but didnât move. Close. Too close. âI was far off, then.â
His gaze flicked down to where her hand still clutched his collar, fingers fisted in the fabric like she might not quite trust herself to let go. He didnât trust himself, either. He wanted to laugh it off, make another joke, but his voice came out softer instead, more careful than he meant it to.
âFar off,â he echoed, smiling despite the pulse still thudding in his throat. âOnly by a lifetime.â
He stayed there for a moment longer, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of her breath against his own, before he finally smiled again, trying, failing, to reclaim their old rhythm of lightness.
âAnd for the record,â he added, eyes glinting, âif you ever do want a step stool, I can build you one. But Iâd rather you keep pulling me down like that.â
He remembered the way he used to lift her, back in the days when the world felt simpler. His arm would slide around her waist, her feet kicking at the air until they found balance. Her legs would wrap around his hips, his hands steady at the back of her thighs.
He remembered the weight of her, the warmth of her breath against his neck, the sound of her laugh so close it drowned everything else out.
âI suppose I wonât be needing you to build me a step stool then.â Marge smiled. She let go of his collar, smoothing back the fabric where she had wrinkled it. âBut I would like to see the other things youâre making. I interrupted you knitting earlier, didnât I?â
He followed her gaze toward the table, where the half-finished skein of yarn still rested beside his chair, the needles caught mid-stitch like theyâd been waiting for permission to move again. The memory made him huff a laugh. âAye, you did interrupt me. Nearly scared the life out of me, too. I dropped three stitches when you burst through that door.â
âOops,â was all regret she showed, grinning as she fell into step behind him.
He moved by her side, brushing his fingers along the edge of the table as if to gather his thoughts. The wool was soft beneath his calloused hands, an odd thing for them to hold, after years of steel and cold. âItâs just a scarf,â he admitted. âNothing worth showing off. I started it last night. Marwyn has been bugging me about finding joy, and you know my right hand is a bit odd sinceââ
Since my father broke it in pieces.
âWould you like to see?â he asked, voice quieter now, almost careful. âItâs not impressive, but⌠Iâd like to show you. You used to say you liked when I tried to make things with my hands.â
âWowâŚâ Margaery reached out and touched the scarf he held. âThatâs incredible, Ben.â
His lips twitched again, faint amusement curling through his voice as he raised his hand to show off the ring splints. âStill, Iâve gotten better since last night. Havenât stabbed myself in hours because of these little things.â
âTruly, truly remarkable.â Her fingers ran over the ring splints, gently. âYou can do what you love to do.â She whispered then, voice dropping to a grumble that usually accompanied tears. She stopped running her fingers over the mental, simply holding his hand. âItâs going to be beautiful when itâs done.â
His throat tightened. Heâd carried so much guilt over the times he couldnâtâover the pain, over the frustration, over the long stretches where he hadnât been able to hold a needle without wincing. And yet here she was, soft and steady, as if she could stitch the broken parts of him with her hands alone.
Maybe she could. Maybe she had.
âItâs⌠itâs nothing, just a way to kill time, Iââ he cleared his throat, fingers lacing with hers by instinct. They had always fit like puzzles, it was almost harmful to think nothing could change their rhythm.
Marge repeated herself once more, soft eyes pinning him into place, âItâs going to be beautiful.â
âIt can be yours,â Benjen blurted out, hand tightening around hers for a moment too long. âWhen itâs done, if itâs not hideous, the scarf can be yours.â
She would need it to visit the Bear Islands.
She would need it when they went back home.
âIf you want it to be.â If you want me to be.
Slowlyâoh, so slowlyâshe leaned forward again, pressing her forehead to his.
Read my mind. Know how I feel.
âIâd be honored to accept it, and I shall make you something too. It will be a surprise.â
His eyes closed without thinking, savoring the moment, the soft brush of her skin against his. Benjen couldnât remember anyone else that could make his chest ache simply by being close.
Well, that was unfair to his past lovers. Poor substitutes to the grief of not having Marge next to him.
âIâŚâ he started, voice low, âIâd like that. Iâd⌠be honored.â
âOur first gifts to one another, after all this time apart⌠it shall be special.â She beamed.
For the first time in a long while, he let himself believe itâbelieve in the quiet magic of being near her again, in the promise of something new after all the years apart.
âI wasnât joking earlier,â he said softly. âWe should sneak out of the palace. Just for old timesâ sake. Iâll hide you in my coat, even.â
âHmmâŚâ she hummed, grin betraying her answer. âI think I would like that. I have not yet explored the city, nor have I explored the inside of your coat.â
She pulled her head away to face him, but mercifully did not let go of his hand. âLetâs leave right now!â
