Benjen stared at his pack. It was strange to think that in his thirteen and a half years of living, the farthest he'd ever been was the Wolfswood, when his father took him on his first ever hunt. He went through the contents yet again, though he'd memorized them by heart.

Two weeks' worth of clothes, neatly folded and pressed. All the pocket money he'd saved up, three golden dragons and twenty-six stags, in a velvet purse. A book he'd taken from Winterfell's library on Sothoryos; Walys would surely throw a fit if he ever realized, despite the fact that it came from Winterfell's library, not Walys' personal library.

At Elijah's insistence, Benjen also packed a blank journal, a pen, and some ink, wrapped in one pair of his socks and placed in between the clothes. A walrus-tusk drinking horn that Brandon had gotten him. A book of songs and poems from the Vale that Ned had sent him.

And a cross-stitch of a direwolf and winter roses (if you looked at it from a distance) that Lyanna had made him on his twelfth nameday. Father's tenth nameday gift to him, a well-honed knife of castle-forged steel, was strapped to his belt.

Benjen sighed out of his nose and snapped his pack shut. Elijah had helped him enchant the 'backpack' as he called it, with the small selection of wandless spells he knew or had mastered at Winterfell; the inside of the backpack was about four times the size from outside, a tenth as heavy, and water would bounce off of it like the glass panes of Winterfell's gardens.

The sun had long since gone down, but Benjen didn't feel tired at all; indeed, his skin was cold and his palms clammy, his fingers and feet twitching with nervous energy. Elijah was sitting on the edge of Benjen's bed, not making a crease.

"Feeling okay?" said Elijah.

"No," Benjen said truthfully.

Elijah only shrugged. "You can't give up now," he said. "Do you want to be stuck within Winterfell's walls forever?"

Yes, a part of Benjen wanted to say, as a mixture of irritation and frustration bubbled up inside him. Elijah wasn't the one abandoning his ancestral home for some mad quest to find a basilisk and build a wand from its corpse. He wasn't the one leaving behind a family that loved him and he loved back with only a letter. He wasn't the one embarking on a journey across a whole continent and then a whole ocean, to craft someone else a body.

But he didn't blame Elijah's frustration, either. Benjen couldn't imagine being stuck in someone else's body for any prolonged period of time. Especially when Elijah could just force his control over Benjen — that Elijah hadn't done that, tentative friends or not, spoke of great restraint.

Considering Elijah's sorcerous mastery, he could be at Sothoryos in two days, hunt a basilisk in half of one, and be back in Winterfell before the week was over. And yet, he didn't; he told Benjen instead to pack his bags in preparation for a journey dictated by Benjen's preferred pace, not Elijah's.

And besides. It would be an experience.

Benjen shrugged on his backpack and grabbed a letter from his desk. He hesitated one last time at the doorway, glancing back at his (recently repaired) furniture. He might not see this room again for some time, he knew. On the bed, Elijah continued to sit, watching him with shadowed eyes.

He took a deep breath, stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door behind him. He silently walked to the next door over; Lyanna's door was cracked open, because despite her bravado, she couldn't sleep in the complete dark. The candlelight from the corridor shined through, and Benjen could hear her breathing. He slowly, slowly pushed open the door and peeked within.

Her room was messy, as usual, with discarded clothes strewn all over the place. As if to reject her femininity with more than words, Lyanna had hung up various (blunt) weapons on her walls, and a tapestry showing a particularly gory scene from the War Over the Water. The only thing that might be considered remotely girlish was a crown of winter roses that had been strung up from the ceiling, their scent still faintly present despite having been there for gods knew how long.

Benjen approached her. Despite being messy in everything else, she was almost corpse-like when she slept. The only part of her that was visible was her nose and up, peeking out from her covers. Benjen hesitated, but gently kissed her exposed forehead. Lyanna didn't stir.

"…Elijah?"

"Yes?" Elijah answered from the depths of his mind.

"Is there some sort of bewitchment I could cast on her, to keep her safe?"

"Nothing I can do without a wand. I'm sorry."

"No, it's not…" Benjen sighed, and stepped back out of the room, making sure to close the door almost all the way.

Brandon, predictably, was not in his bed; it was only just after midnight, after all, and midnight was still drinking time for him. Father had retired early, though, and he was in his own chambers. His room was plain, save for Ice hanging on one wall. He slept only on one side of his two-person bed, the opposite side untouched for years. Unlike Lyanna, he was a snorer.

Benjen glanced down at the letter in his hand; he placed it atop Mother's old pillow. He wondered not for the first time if it was appropriate to leave that behind. It had been the last of many rewrites; he wasn't sure how he was supposed to address his own father, which was kind of sad when he thought about it. In the end, he'd settled for cheeky and brash, which would undoubtedly infuriate Father but it would hopefully not depress him like if Benjen had instead settled for solemn.

He'd even signed off with an 'I love you' despite how embarrassing it had been to write that to his ice-faced father because, as Elijah had said somewhat grimly, 'every goodbye could be your last.'

Benjen backed out of the bedroom and down to the courtyard. As he approached the gates, though, he realized that while Brandon might get a free pass to visit Wintertown and the various alehouses there, Benjen, a thirteen-year-old, would not be let out so late at night by the guards. Benjen cursed himself under his breath.

"Elijah, I need your help," Benjen called to him in his mind.

It was a terrifying sensation, to feel one's body locked away from themselves, to feel its limbs move without one's urging; even after so many times, Benjen was only slightly more used to it. Elijah twisted Benjen on the spot; with a muffled pop Benjen had disappeared from Winterfell's inner courtyard and reappeared in a shady spot just outside Wintertown, invisible to any guards that might be on the walls or the gates. Benjen stumbled as control of his body was relinquished back to him without prompting.

"Thanks," Benjen said, ignoring the nausea from the Apparition, and began to walk through Wintertown.

Being the tail end of Winter, the homes were still mostly full, but it had gotten warm enough for more people to stay out later at night, drinking or whoring. Benjen had to avoid drunks on the streets, ducking into side-alleys to avoid being puked on or just interacting with them in general. Benjen was large for a thirteen year old, but he was not yet a man grown. If ever got into trouble, he didn't want to use magic to resolve it, but he might not have a choice.

Of course, just when he was worried something might go wrong, something went wrong.

"Ben?"

Benjen turned, to find Brandon of all people, squinting at his little brother. Benjen said Vayon Poole stumble in after him, before collapsing against a brick wall and throwing up on the side of the alley. Benjen wrinkled his nose as Brandon clapped his shoulder, almost missing.

"What're you doing here?" said Brandon, his breath reeking of ale. "F-Father would be mad if he found out."

"Er," said Benjen.

"Just Confound them," Elijah said, appearing behind Brandon. "Look at them. They're pickled enough that they won't remember anything in the morning anyway… but just to be sure."

"I'm not casting magic on my brother," Benjen hissed.

"Let's get you back to Winterfell, Benny boy," Brandon said, and made to grab Benjen's wrist.

Benjen danced back, an easy enough feat with how drunk Brandon was, as Elijah glanced at his fingernails.

"Well, make your choice soon. Even drunk, I suspect he could bodily haul you back to Winterfell." Elijah shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It's not harmful like the Memory-Removal Charm, it'll wear off soon enough."

Benjen sighed, glancing at Brandon and Vayon remorsefully, before waving his hand in front of Brandon's face as he'd been taught. "I am not the Benjen you are looking for," he muttered, and for some reason, Elijah snorted, amused.

Brandon leaned back with a look of profound wonder on his face. "You are not the Benjen I am looking for," he said, awe coloring his voice. He turned back to Vayon. "Let's get back to Winterfell, Vayon."

Vayon Poole just groaned.

Benjen felt a pang of regret as Brandon walked away. He hoped that one day he would not regret that his and Brandon's last greeting would end this way, that he would have a chance to come back and embrace him like he deserved. But right now, there were more important things that he needed to do. For both himself and Elijah.

Benjen stifled a snort as Brandon tripped over a wagon and faceplanted, before turning his eyes to the open road. He took his first step beyond Wintertown and began to head east, racing the sun.