CHAPTER TWO: THE LONE WOLF I
Deep in the North, a Ranger lives through the night. Stalking the lands beyond the Great Wall, he encounters the coming of Winter, and a collection of acquaintances. Reuniting with family long since thought lost, he learns of what is going on beyond the Wall and in The South.
Benjen Stark, born and raised in the stone and the snow keep of Winterfell, a child of the North, knows the cold.
Or so he thought. But, as he crawls through the snow, head spinning and stomach slowly leaking blood, he comes to know the true cold, comes to know the reality of the true North. The lands beyond the Wall, the lands of forever Winter, the True North according to its inhabitants, is the land of real cold. It seeps into his very bones, makes him a part of the North.
He doesn't know what he saw. He doesn't want to believe what he saw. He remembers, distantly, standing in a great hall, laughter and cheer around him. A familiar face swims in his vision, talking about something or another. That boy I beheaded… He pictures a blade, dripping with blood, glimmering in the light of the day.
He hears footsteps, the cracking of a branch. Panting, he hangs his head, already accepting his fate. There is the sound of a bow being drawn taunt, and he shivers as a blast of cold winds washes over him. He's so cold.
"It's a crow," a voice says from behind him. Benjen thinks he might be crying, but all his tears freeze on his cheeks and in his eyes, all but blinding him. The world is nothing but swashes of grey and white and black, with a pool of red slowly growing under him the longer he stays motionless in the cold. "We should bring him to Mance. Figure out what he wants out here."
"No," another voice says sharply. The voices are getting closer, and Benjen's sure they're mere feet away, but he can't find the strength to look at them. "He's half dead already, and we can't have no crow knowin' our camp, half dead or not. Better a quick death than…" The threat goes unsaid.
A rough hand grabs at the back of his shirt, and he's suddenly on his back, looking up at the trees and the blue sky and two faces. He blinks up at them, dazed, and manages to croak out a single world, hand scrambling uselessly against his wound, "Please." The two wildings exchange a glance, and he presses harder against his wound, hissing as pain erupts across his body.
"What happened here, crow?" The first one asks him roughly, pressing his hands over Benjen's. He throws his head back and howls, white-hot pain erupting across his stomach. Like a wolf, he thinks, sanity slipping, mind whirling. Wolves don't do well in the heat. A hand slaps his cheek, and his eyes fly back open (when had he closed them?), to look at the Wilding again. "Crow. What happened? Who?"
They must have a sense of something being wrong. Wildings don't let The Night Watch go when they clash, and Benjen would not have been able to outrun them in this state. And he knows he don't look like no green boy, or new recruit. He has the look of the North in him, and his state must be alarming to these Wildings.
"Others," he hisses, gasping as the pressure on his wound grows. "Go. Fuck–go. Get out of here. Run. They'll find you. They'll kill you, or make you one of theirs."
The Wildings exchange an alarmed look, silence stretching, only filled with the whistling of the wind. Benjen lets his eyes slip shut, trying to calm his erratic breaths and remembers warmth, remembers his family. But the images won't come, and he fights harder to remember, but the faces of his family are shadowed and smudged. Father and Brandon and Lyanna and Ned and the children with their wolves, and Catelyn…
"Winter," he coughs, "Is coming."
The Wildings look at him, suddenly much more alarmed. They seem to look for something, and Benjen knows that Wildings know and hate the Starks, the old Kings of Winter. They know their words as well as any Northman, the ominous promise of the cold ever being on the horizon. The pressure on his gut gets worse.
"You're Benjen Stark," the second one says, voice cold as the Wall. Finding nothing worth lying for, Benjen nods as best as he can. "First Ranger. The black wolf, we call you. The man who has hunted us like dogs."
"Kill me then," he says. "Burn my body. I don't want to come back as one of them."
Maybe one of them raises a blade. Maybe they consider it for a moment, wonder what being the one to kill the Stark on The Wall will make them. Maybe, for a split second, they decide to fulfil the wish of a man who is already dying, halfway over the threshold of death. The other side, he hopes, won't be so fucking cold. But whatever they consider, it is cut off by a voice from the trees–
"Don't!" Someone cries. All three of them look towards the noise, and Benjen's mind halts as he takes stock of who said it. Short, no taller than maybe Bran or Arya when he last saw them. The skin the colour of grass or rocks, with eyes as green as grass. They look at Benjen with a look that says all, and he gasps soundlessly.
The Wildings, on the other hand, throw themselves backwards, and Benjen looks down at his wound sluggishly, the blood once more pooling out of him. He never thought about how much blood there could be in a human body, not until now. Their weapons are certainly drawn now, pointed at the intruder, who raises their hands slowly.
"We mean you no harm. Be on your way, Valleck the Ridgeback and Stralner of the Frostfangs. This man is right. Winter is Coming." They do not move, looking between Benjen and the creature. "GO!" They yell, and the Wildings do not have to be told twice. Benjen watches them go through hazy vision, slowly turning to look at his new companion.
"You're one of the Children of the Forest," he says, voice like gravel, as they come to his side. They nod, and say something in another language. Benjen can only watch in awe as they come pouring out of the trees, as something almost like warmth spreads across his stomach, as the aching of his would lessens, ever so slightly. "...Why? Why are you here?"
"Fate, it would seem, still has plans for you, Benjen Stark. You will live through the Night. Rest now, and when you wake, we will speak more," They say, resting their small hand on his brow. He opens his mouth, a hundred more questions on his lips, but before he can say anything, the darkness takes him.
two years later…
Benjen sighs as he sees the poor dead creature. Whatever has been hunting out here is larger than most, and vicious, too. There's no good meat left on the beast, but Benjen can scavenge some of the furs, and he has no intention of letting this all go towards the army of the dead. Picking it up, he gets to work, the wind blowing softly around him and the sun low in the sky.
He cooks some of his catch from earlier as he skins the beast, grateful for the knife he'd stolen a few months back. It's distinctly not honourable, not like he was raised, but he's come to learn that in the Land of Always Winter, it is kill or be killed. He hopes his long-dead ancestors, the stern Kings of Winter and Wardens of the North alike can forgive what he's done to survive.
His mare, his trustful steed in all things, whickers softly, and he shushes her. The Children of the Forest had procured her from somewhere, and dubious origins aside, she's been his only friend in the cold. In the really cold nights, he'll lay against her, cloak and blankets thrown over the pair of them, and stare at the stars.
In the really cold nights, he'll look towards the wall, and think about Jon, and all his brothers at the wall. He's caught tracks and glimpses of them, of Mance Rayder's camp, but so far, he's escaped all of their notices. And the rare Wilding who runs into him he kills, not needing the news of his survival or presence stretching too far as he hunts the dead.
In their cave, The Children of the Forest had spoken at length of Winter. They said many things that he didn't fully understand, about ravens and wolves and dragons and horns of winter. They'd spoken of things Old Nan had taught the Winterfell youth for decades, of The Long Night and the true king beyond the Wall. Benjen feels a chill run up his spine at the thought.
Winter is coming, he thinks of House Stark's old words. Nearly every other house, Northern or Southern, has words that speak to their pride and their honour, their precious accolades. But House Stark stands alone in their cold castles, with a singular warning. The South has long since dismissed their words, made a jape of the cold Wardens of the North and Lords of Winterfell, but Benjen understands. The North is cold, and unforgiven.
He thinks of his brother, a thousand leagues away in King's Landing, and shakes his head. Dwelling on Ned never does anything much for him, only makes his heart ache a painful tune in his chest. He misses his family, more than he ever thought he could even after The Rebellion, but until he knows what he wants to know, he is resigned to staying in these lands.
The mare (he knows he should give her a name, but even now, he keeps coming up entirely blank), whickers again, right as he finishes with the pelt. He can use it for added warmth on his cloak, or maybe for something for the horse. He glances at his horse, and suddenly feels a sudden sense of dread. The sun is almost below the horizon. Night is falling.
And then, in the distance, he hears a horn blow. He stills at the familiar sound. Another blows, and he's on his feet, hand on his sword. There's a breath, like the whole of the world is holding it's breath, and a third horn blows. Benjen curses to himself, and gets moving in an instant.
In less than ninety seconds, he's gathered his belongings, put out the fire and buries the evidence, and he's clamouring onto his mare's back. He barely has to move before she's crashing into the forest, heading in the exact opposite direction of the horns. He's aware of his brothers of the Watch, camped out at the Fist of the First Men, but there's nothing he can for them now, a lone ranger with a single horse.
He follows the river until he can barely make out where it widens in the distance, black as night in the dark. He brings his mare to a stop, glancing back at the clouds behind him, uncertain as to how long he's been riding. He thinks of the men, caught unaware by the Others, and closes his eyes as the grief washes over him. He'd caught glimpses of them all, but couldn't make anyone out. Who knows who's with them all.
Jeor, probably. Benjen hopes Jon came along too, but he also hopes his nephew is still living. Jon always wanted to be a ranger, he thinks, Don't let that spell his death.
"We'll camp here tonight," he says a little while later, when he finds a nice grove. Sometimes he thinks his girl must understand him in some capacity, cause as soon as he says that and gets off, she's already crouching down, and getting ready for bed. He throws a blanket over her, and not wanting to risk flame or anything of the like, he curls up at her side.
He wakes with the sun, cooking some food for himself and feeding her as well. He'd torn parts of his cloak riding the night before, and he spends some time mending it, thinking of Sansa with her flaming hair and steady stitches. He shakes his head, uncertain as to why memories of his family seem so intent on invading his mind today.
The next few days are relaxed enough, and he draws closer to the fork of the river everyday, until he's at the riverbank. He cannot be sure without a map, but he's pretty sure he's near the southern part of the Frostfangs. He racks his mind for the closest castle on the wall, frowning as he realises that it's The Shadow Tower. He's not quite ready to reveal himself as alive again.
The next day, he heads East, in the General direction of Craster's Keep. If he knows the Night's Watch, they'll head that way now, and maybe the Other's will follow. He needs to get a good look at them, suicidal as it is, and then ride South and tell his brother and anyone who will listen. But they've been nigh impossible to track, and Benjen doesn't want to admit it, but he's slowly losing hope.
It takes a week and change to get within a day's ride of Crasters, and he spends some time scouting out the area around it. There's no sign of anyone having come through, and he looks North in worry. The men didn't have many horses, so he's not surprised that they might be slower than he, but with every day that passes with no black brothers on the horizon, his worry grows.
Finally, he decides to ride north once more. His mare, ever loyal, is silent under him as he crosses the rivers, as the wind blows in his hair. It's gotten long in the North, and it flows behind him, bound back as best as he can manage. The land stretches out in front of him, white and grey, with the only colour being the endless blue of the sky above.
On the sixth day, he sees the survivors, from atop a ridge. He hides himself, not wanting them to think him a wilding coming to ambush, but even then he can see their black cloaks. At the front of them all is unmistakably Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear himself, but Benjen can neither see a white wolf nor a dark-haired boy. He frowns, and tries to convince himself that Jon is alright, that he's survived the massacre.
Please, he whispers silently to the Gods of the North, the only gods beyond the Wall, Please let him live.
They pass South of him, but something keeps Benjen where he is. He knows that Jeor would be happy to see him, that if he went back with them now, he'd be welcomed back, and his knowledge of the north would be invaluable. Jeor knows him, and knows that he would not desert. But even then, Benjen cannot convince himself to follow them, something in the back of mind telling him to stay where he is.
He gets hsi answer as to why at nightfall, two days later. He feels the cold first, and his mare whinnies and whickers, startling out of his half-awake state. He swallows tightly as he registers the cold, but he gathers the black trappings of courage and steps out of the cave he's sheltered himself in, only to be met with a sight that makes his entire body run cold.
The dead.
Thousands of them.
For a long time, Benjen Stark stands atop a cliff face, looking down at the dead as they pass by, the myths he was raised on brought to reality right in front of his eyes. Walkers on dead horses patrol the outer edges of the march, and Benjen feels a terror unlike anything he's ever known fill him. Winter is coming, he thinks, mind stuck on loop. Winter is here.
And then one of the walkers, the one at the very front, suddenly looks in his direction. They're at least a mile away from him, at the very least, but even from here, Benjen is deathly aware of those pale blue eyes that see him, perceive him. Suddenly, without even needing confirmation, he knows that he is looking at the Night King.
He takes a step backwards, eyes still locked on the Night King, the creature coming to end the world of the living. Benjen has found what he wanted, laid his eyes upon the armies of the dead, but suddenly, it all feels worth nothing in the wake of the utter terror that fills him. He thinks of Winterfell, of the Kings of Winter, of the story of the Long Night.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, he remembers his father telling him, an age-old mantra passed down from generation to generation. They called me the young pup, he thinks. I was just a boy. Ned was the quiet wolf, and our sister and brother had the wolf's blood in them. They were too much like the wolves of our banner, and they went South and died. Jon is just a boy. Please, let him be alive.
He's not aware of riding away once the Dead pass, tears blinding him as his heart is consumed by fear. There is nothing but dark waiting for us, nothing but darkness and death, he thinks, a ragged sob escaping him. Brandon would know what to do. Ned will know what to do. Our father would have already ridden north and ended this. But Ned is a thousand leagues away, and I'm alone out here.
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, his father's voice echoes distantly in his ear. He shakes his head, hissing for the voices of the dead to shut up. Under him, his mare is stalling, and that draws him out of his reverie somewhat. He'd crossed the river in his haze, and he can see the lights of Craster's keep in the far distance. Turning back, he stares at the moon, a sickle in the sky, and feels the cold wash over him.
He'll go to Craster's come morning. Jeor might have already gone ahead, but he can get the information he needs from Craster. The wall is a shadow in the distance, seven hundred feet of ice and magic, said to be put together by his own ancestor. Once more, his mind turns to the Kings of Winter, their bones deep under Winterfell, with their swords and stone likenesses, always looking out into the dark. Ned buried Brandon and Lyanna there. Benjen wonders where his bones will end up.
Sleep does not come easily, that night, but it comes. Benjen Stark sleeps, and the wind whispers around him, snow falling gently.
Benjen knows something is wrong once he wakes up. He doesn't move, open his eyes, feeling the deep breathing of his mare under him. She's asleep still, and once he's certain she's alright, he turns his attention outwards. He has the distinct sense that he's being watched, and his suspicions are confirmed when he hears the snap of a twig.
He's on his feet in an instant, and there's a blur of black rushing at him. His eyes widen, and he gets his sword out just in time to block the sword coming at him. His ears ring as their swords clash, and he grits his teeth as he forces his aching joints to move. He locks eyes with the man who came at him, frowning when he recognises them, although he doesn't remember his name.
He's recognised not a moment later. The man pulls back, and he most certainly remembers Benjen's name, as he gasps out a single, "You're–"
Benjen lunges at him again, sensing something is up and having no need for this man to tell him who he is. "What happened?" He growls, hand around the man's throat, tight enough to panic him, but not so tight he can't speak. His fear and the look on Benjen's face, though, seems more than enough to terrify him into silence. Benjen shakes him. "What happened? "
"Mutiny!" The man gasps, and Benjen feels a cold thread of dissent rush through him. "Karl killed Craster. Rast killed Mormont. Fucker was leading us all to slaughter. We're free to be our own men here, don't you understand?"
"They killed your Lord Commander and you admit to being with them, to deserting with them, and you expect me to understand you?" Benjen growls. The man's eyes widen and Benjen racks his mind one last time for his name. Dirk, he thinks it is, but he could be wrong, his anger hard to think around. "You are a fool." Even then, Benjen lays off of him, standing back up and drawing his sword.
Dirk's eyes widen as the point of Benjen's blade meets his neck, looking up at him in fear. Benjen feels a wild surge of anger fill him, and he thinks of his older siblings, the wolf blood that poured through them, that burns through him now. He must look larger than life like this, dark and tall, carved out of the North, a Stark of Winterfell, a Black Brother of the Wall.
"I am going to let you go," Benjen growls, pressing his blade close when Dirk dares to look relieved. "Run back to your mutineers. Tell them what you want, see if they believe you. But tell them this as well: Winter will come for them too. There is nothing beyond the wall but death. Tell them that if they come crawling back to the wall, desperate for safe harbour, I will know, and I will kill them where they stand." He who passes the sentence shall swing the sword.
"Go," he says, gesturing with his blade. Dirk scrambles up to his feet, looking back at Benjen with wide, terrified eyes. Benjen glares at him, raising his blade when Dirk hesitates. "GO!" He shouts again, and Dirk runs now, tripping over his own feet. Benjen watches him go with a cold sense of satisfaction, anger rising up and consuming.
He doesn't realise he's fallen to his knees until he feels the cold, until his mare whickers softly behind him. He looks at her with wide eyes, feeling the tears go cold in the corner of his vision. Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, dead? "And now his watch has ended," he murmurs, the words empty and hollow, swallowed up by the wind. "We will never see his like again."
He glances back towards Craster's Keep. If Mormont is truly gone, the Watch is bound to collapse in on itself without good leadership. He glances at the wall, looming in the distance, and feels that old pang of longing. That leader isn't me, he thinks. Not yet. I have to… he doesn't know what he has to do anymore, and he's confronted suddenly with the truth at the heart of it all:
He's afraid to go back to the Wall, to face the judgement of the North. He didn't desert, he's kept his oaths, but no one's heard from him in years now, and they probably think him dead. And because he's not, because he hasn't done what he's supposed to do, going back to the Wall. He lingered in the lands beyond, abandoned his duties to his brothers, to Ned, to the North, to Jon, and to his family.
He went to the wall for a hundred and one reasons. Winterfell had gone to the ghosts, the memories of Brandon and Lyanna and Father and Mother in every corner. There was nothing for him in the castle that had passed to a second son, to his brother. He left his brother when he should have been at his side, and he'll have to live with that for the rest of his life.
And is that not what Jon did? He remembers their last conversation upon the Wall, where he'd done everything could to tell Jon that he still had to grow, to tell him that Benjen couldn't show him favour. Jon never understood, and he promised they'd talk when he came back, but now it's been two years, and he has no idea where his nephew is. He pushed him away, trying to protect him while he could, and now he might have slipped out of his hands forever. I never got to see him swear his oaths.
"I'm sorry, Ned," he whispers, remembering his brother. Ned will not forgive him if he comes South again and Jon is gone, when Benjen could have come back and saved him. Robb too, probably, and the thought of either of them looking at him with hatred makes his heart ache even more. But he's speaking to the air, and Ned is a thousand leagues away, and cannot hear him, so he keeps on riding, the snow falling gently on his shoulders.
That night is cold, and it just gets colder. He's going to the Nightfort, Winter is Coming and Ned needs to know, and he needs to stop it while he can. The wall looms ever closer with every day, and his chest aches the closer he gets. He can see lights on the wall, sometimes, and he wonders who it is, what the men up there see in the lands so far beyond them.
A day out from the wall, he hears the voices, and he stills where he rides, hand headed towards his sword. One of them is speaking, and he catches his accent with a furrowed brow. He doesn't sound like a wilding, he sounds…Southern. Noble Southern. Benjen racks his brain for men of the Night's Watch who could be considered Southern Lords, and he comes up with very few, and he knows those voices.
Clinging to the shadows, he follows the voices for a mile or so, until he hears a sound that sends a jolt through him. The soft cry of a baby, quickly shushed by a feminine voice. Benjen looks back towards Craster's Keep, a wild thought overtaking him, and before he can think better of it, he's crashing through the forest, coming up on the travellers.
They both shriek as he appears, and Benjen draws up short when he sees them. One of them is a girl, clutching a baby close to her chest, and Benjen would like to say she doesn't look oddly like Craster, but that would be a lie. She's got the look of a Wilding about her, and he turns his eyes away from her to look at his companion, only to get more confused.
The man, boy, is dressed in black, but he looks nothing like any Night Watchmen Benjen has ever seen. He's rather…portly, and he looks utterly terrified as he looks at Benjen, with his long face and cold eyes. Benjen frowns as he looks between them, his hand dropping from his sword and his hands tightening on his reins. "Who are you?" He asks, his Northern accent thicker than he remembers. I sound like Ned, he thinks wildly, Like the Lord of Winterfell. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm Samwell Tarly, ser," the man says, voice shaking. "Maester Aemon's Steward. I'm a brother of the Night's Watch." He gestures towards his companion. "This is Gilly and er…her baby."
"You're one of Craster's wives," he surmises, and the girl nods, looking terrified. He nods, humming to himself, and sending her his gentlest smile. "It's alright. I'm a friend." He glances at Samwell. "Night's Watch, eh? Well, as it goes, so am I."
"Apologies, but I don't…recognise you…" Samwell says hesitantly, wringing his hands in front of him. They both take a step back as Benjen gets off his horse, giving his girl a pat on the head. "Are you a ranger, like the Halfhand?"
"I'm the First Ranger," Benjen says with a laugh, feeling oddly light. Samwell's eyes widen completely, jaw opening slightly. Gilly glances between her companion and Benjen, and the man's eyes go even wider when Benjen throws his hood back. He almost looks like he recognises, Benjen, but he doesn't let himself linger on the implications. "My name is Benjen Stark. Pleasure to meet you, Tarly." His eyes narrow. "Now, what are you doing here?"
"You're Jon's uncle!" Samwell says brightly, and Benjen feels his heart stutter in his chest. He glances at Gilly, and adds on, "Ghost's owner. You remember Jon?" The girl nods, looking at Benjen like he's from an entire other world. Starks have a reputation in the lands beyond the Wall, something Benjen has long since been aware of.
"You know Jon?" He asks, breathless, looking around wildly, like his nephew and his wolf are going to appear out of the woods, his wolf behind him like a white shadow. He knows it's a fool's hope, but this Samwell Tarly has given him an inch, and he wants to take a mile, take anything he can get his hands on. "Where is he?"
"I owe my life to Jon. He suggested to the Old Bear that I should be Maester Aemon's steward. Kept me from Thorne's cruelties," Samwell says, nodding. Benjen smiles, but it falls when Samwell looks at him, eyes sad. "He went with Qhorin Halfhand, on the Old Bear's orders. He wasn't at the Fist, but I don't know where he is now. I'm glad…he would have done something foolish at Craster's."
"He would have," Benjen thinks, remembering his own boiling blood, the way the Wolf's blood had burned through him. He remembers Jon, left out in the cold, the bastard kept away from the Southerners and the Lions. What would Jon have done, in that moment, ever his father's son, ever Northern, watching a man who is as Northern as he be killed by his own? He turns away, before Samwell and Gilly can see the pain on his face.
"We're here because of Craster's," Samwell says, when the silence hangs on for an uncomfortably long stretch of time. "We escaped, but a lot of people are still there. We're headed towards the Nightfort, my lord…And you? Apologies, but I thought you were dead."
Benjen sighs, glancing at the Wall. "I'm headed that way, too, and don't call me My Lord. I'm no Lord." My brother is the Lord of Winterfell, he thinks to himself, bringing his mare around and saddling back up. Samwell looks at him curiously, an odd expression on his face. "And don't apologise for thinking that. It's been a long two years out here."
"...what do you know of what is going on South of the Wall?" Samwell asks after a moment, and Benjen looks at him with a furrowed brow. There's the oddest look on the boy's face, and he looks at Benjen with utter apprehension and worry. And…sorrow. And pity. Benjen meets his eyes, and tilts his head at him, dread growing in his belly.
"Nothing," he says, and Samwell winces. He opens his mouth, moving to say something, but Benjen cuts him off. "Don't tell me. I…I can wait. I'm headed South, to warn The North of what's coming. I will learn, one day. And I'll deal with it. But don't burden yourself with telling me, Samwell."
"Sam," he corrects, nodding at Benjen. He looks to the Wall, and Benjen follows his gaze. They're probably both thinking about the same person, about Jon, somewhere out here. Benjen thinks of his nephew, his soft smiles and his grey eyes and his laughter. Jon had been so excited to go to The Wall, and Benjen doesn't want it to have been his end.
"Sam," Benjen agrees, and they go forth without another word.
But that night, it's the girl, Gilly, who breaks the silence. Sam is asleep already, having taken most of the watches for the past few days, and being exhausted as a result. She's looking at Benjen like he's a puzzle that she can't quite figure out, and he meets her gaze with a steady expression. She does not look away and speaks, "I've never met any Starks. Besides your nephew."
A Snow is not a Stark, some part of him thinks, remembering his nephew's desperation, the way he'd looked at Robb, all the dreams he'd barely allowed himself to have. But this girl, she will not understand that. Snow and Stark, it all blends together north of The Wall. He smiles at her, "Is that so?"
"My…father," she says, and Benjen feels a pang as he remembers that she's Craster's daughter, his wife. She steels herself, strength in her eyes, and Benjen feels his curiosity pique. "My father always said that the Starks were the reason we were here. That the Starks hated us, that they'd kill us if given the chance. That they were the worst of the Southerners."
"Well, I never went to Craster's that much, for a reason," Benjen tries to joke, but it falls flat. He looks away, face flushing with shame, wringing his hands in his lap, looking at the dying embers of the flame. "But I suppose he's not fully wrong. Brandon the Builder, it's said he built the Wall, built Winterfell, and established House Stark. He put up a thing that has divided us for…how long?"
"You don't seem like a monster," she decides. Benjen laughs humorlessly, thinking of Dirk, on his back in the snow, of his stolen knife, of all the Wilding's he killed for silence. Life beyond the wall has changed him, more than he thinks even he knows. Will his family recognise him when he finally comes back?
"Thank you," he says, for lack of a better thing to say. Her gaze is sharp and analytical, and he thinks that if she'd been born on the other side of The Wall, to a good man, she would have been something more than a young mother, fleeing South. How many of those will there be, when Winter comes around and digs its claws in?
Her baby cries, and when she looks at him, she looks exhausted. Benjen knows what Craster does to his sons, and he can guess why Gilly was so desperate to get away, even before the Mutiny. He remembers how fierce Catelyn had been, how she'd wailed after Bran was found, sounding so much like the wolves she'd married into. He remembers his own mother, with her beauty and her fierceness.
"I've never left my father's keep," She confesses. "I've never been on the other side of The Wall. I know what that makes me, down there. I'm afraid. But I can't stay here, not when they're out there, not while they hunt my baby."
They'd traded only a single story on the way here. Samwell Tarly, the disgraced eldest son of Randyll Tarly, a Southern Lord, has just made himself the first man to kill a White Walker in generations…all for a girl he loves. Benjen is not blind. Benjen doesn't want to be, he wants to believe there's still love in this world, even while Winter draws nearer.
"You'll be alright," he promises her, reaching out to rest a hand on her arm. She looks at him with wide, bright eyes, and he gives her his kindest smile. "You are stronger than you know, to survive your father, to survive out here. You are from the North, and that means you are strong. Or," he smiles, "That's what my father used to say."
Benjen frowns as the Night Fort comes into view, a low spool of unease unthreading in his stomach. He glances at his travelling companions, and sees only relief on their faces. Squaring his jaw, he presses forward, rueing his companion's lack of a horse for themselves, not for the first time.
He hitches his horse low in the Fort, at the foot of the stairs, pausing as he hears what almost sounds like echoing voices coming from above. He's been the Night Fort before, but it was many years ago, and only to sit out a snowstorm for a night. He remembers he and his travelling companions trading stories around the fire that night, and he feels a pang of longing.
"Someone is here," he says lowly. Sam and Gilly both nod, and he nods towards the stairs. "If they are enemies, I will be right behind you. If they're not, even if they're black brothers, I don't want to go sharing my survival yet. You said the world thinks Benjen Stark is dead." His voice darkens. "Let them think that."
Sam nods, and with a single glance at the girl, he begins the long walk up. Benjen waits there for a long moment, petting his horse's nose and pressing his brow to hers, before finally making the climb up.
Benjen gets close just in time to hear Sam introduce himself as a brother of the Night's Watch, and just in time for him to hear a frighteningly familiar voice say, "My brother's in the Night's–". Another voice cuts him off, but Benjen barely notices, his heart pounding against his ribs. He swallows tightly, grip tightening on his sword blade.
"You're not alone," That same voice who cut the first off says, cooly. Benjen takes a deep breath, and sticks closer to the shadows, even though they can't see him properly around the corner. A note of distrust creeps into the voice. "Why is your companion not showing face? Unless you're here on other terms, and you're lying to us…" the threat hangs in the air.
"My friend is a little shy," Sam says, smoothly enough. Benjen makes a face to himself, rolling his eyes as Sam chuckles nervously. "We'll be on our way and you on yours and we can each forget we saw each other. How about that?" A pause. "Who's your brother?"
"It doesn't matter," the same voice says, and Benjen creeps closer to the door. "I know you're there. Come out of the shadows and face us, or…" he might turn to something, and Benjen frowns, confused. But then an all too familiar sound cuts through the room. Gilly gasps, and he hears Sam take a step back. His heart leaps into his throat, now, and he resists the urge to look around the corner and see if his desperate hope is real.
"You're Jon Snow's brother!" Sam says, a little loudly, ignoring the voice as it denies the accusation. "The one who fell from the window! I've been around Ghost long enough to know a direwolf when I see one, and I've heard plenty about Hodor." He chuckles, sounding so much more at ease.
"Hodor," Hodor agrees, sounding bashful, and Benjen bites back the sob, knocking his head back against the wall softly. It's Hodor in there, and Bran, too, no doubt. He has no idea who they're with, but Benjen feels unmoored, his family feet away from him, and he, hidden in the shadows. He presses his fist to his mouth and inhales shakily.
"You know our secret," the voice says, sounding unhappy with the development. "So can we know about your friend, now?"
Sam hesitates, as if suddenly drawing the connection. Benjen peeks around the corner just long enough to catch a glimpse of Sam, looking back at the shadows where he lies with wide eyes. He doesn't see Bran or his wolf, or any of that, and he's oddly grateful for it. He thinks he'd fall over if he did, his mind already whirling from all the questions he needs answered.
Sam had been skirting around a lot of things, that much was clear. He seemed uncertain as to how to tell Benjen about something, something big, something bad. He himself wasn't ready to ask, so they kept it silent between the two of them, never crossing into that no man's land. But now it's hitting him in the face over and over again, because if Bran–sweet-summer Bran–is at the Wall, something truly dark must have fallen over their house while he traversed the North.
"If you don't come out, we'll stick Summer on you, or I'll make you come out," another voice says, this one the feminine one from before. Benjen huffs a chuckle that echoes in the space, wiping the tears away before they can cling to his cheeks and freeze. "I'm not joking!"
"I don't doubt it," he replies, and he hears a soft gasp. The voices of the two strangers ask the same sort of questions ( who is it, what is it, what's wrong, those sorts of things), and Benjen takes only a singular breath to steel himself before he turns the corner and steps into the light of the room.
The first thing he sees is the Wolf, (Summer, had the girl called him?) looking at him with big golden eyes. Then he sees Hodor, who smiles at him, and Benjen sorely hopes his old friend still recognises him. Sam and Gilly are looking at him with wide eyes, and the two strangers look almost like Crannogmen. He sees those four, though, from the corners of his eyes.
Bran is staring at him. Benjen remembers how he looked in his bed, his wolf at his feet, his mother in disarray at his bedside. He remembers how the wolf and she had both howled when he was found, how Ned had looked at him with eyes that begged him to help. He'd dragged Jon and Robb off, doing what he could do to help his family. The boy in front of him looks everything like the one he left behind, and nothing like him at the same time.
"Uncle Benjen?" Bran asks, voice so quiet he can barely hear it. Neither of them can really quite believe this, he guesses. Benjen's face splits with a smile, hand dropping from his sword as he looks at Bran with wide, soft eyes. Bran smiles back at him, eyes shining.
Benjen abandons all inhibitions then, crossing the room in two short strides, and dropping to his knees in front of his nephew. He pulls him in for a bone-crushing hug, and Bran's arms are around him in an instant, face buried in his furs. Benjen cradles the back of his head, staring at the wall for a long moment, whispering a silent thank you to the gods before he turns his face towards Bran.
He grunts as the wolf suddenly buts against his back, letting go of Bran and turning towards the wolf. Suddenly, he has an armful of wiggling fur, the wolf licking at his face and hands as he laughs, holding his face in hand. "Hello, beautiful," he says, looking at the beast in awe. "When did you get so big?" He glances at Bran. "Both of you!"
Bran smiles, but it's sad. Benjen rests his head against the wolf's for a moment, and takes another deep breath, eyes slipping shut as the wolf presses close to him. "Bran," he says, carefully. "What happened? What do you know?"
"What do you know?" Bran replies softly. "Last anyone heard about you, Jon had said you were on a ranging and that you were missing…" Bran trails off as Benjen inhales sharply, pressing closer to his nephew's wolf. "Do you know any of what has happened since then? Since you left for the wall?"
"No," Benjen says roughly, cracking his eyes open just in time to see Bran's face absolutely crumble in on itself. "Sam here offered but…" Bran nods like he understands, and Benjen is grateful for it. There's no telling how much more comforting his ignorance is about to look. "But it's time for me to know, now."
He pulls away from Summer, coming to sit in front of Bran. He studies his young face for a long moment. There's so much of Cat in him, certainly, but there's also a lot of Ned, too. Some of Benjen's own older brother, the Brandon for whom he was named, lingers in him too. Benjen's heart pangs as he thinks of his older brother, of his father, of his sister.
"Father…" Bran's face screws up, tears pouring out of his eyes. The understanding washes over Benjen far to quickly, but even then, some part of his heart screams and tries to deny it. Bran opens his mouth to say something, but nothing but a sad and lonely sound escapes him. "Father–he's–"
"Your brother was arrested for treason against the throne, following the death of King Robert Baratheon," one of the strangers, the boy, says. Benjen frowns at him, recognition ringing in the back of his mind. "His son, Joffery, had him brought to the Sept of Baelor, where your brother was executed for treason against the realm. I'm sorry."
Benjen gapes at the boy, trying to find a space for words. He looks to Bran, and sees his young face awash with fear and misery and sadness. He looks once more at the other boy, and croaks out a singular word. "How?" He begs.
"Beheaded," The boy says, dipping his head softly. "I'm truly sorry, My Lord. Your brother was a good man."
I'm the last of my father's children, Benjen thinks wildly, all other thoughts fleeing from his brain at the realisation. First Brandon, then Lyanna, and now…Ned. He shakes his head, and looks at Sam, who looks away, but Benjen cannot blame the boy. This is not easy news to break to any man, the news that his last remaining sibling was killed by a boy-king.
"Robb rode south," Bran chimes back in. "With the Bannermen, and…Theon." Benjen's brow furrows at the mention of the Ironborn, alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind. "They named him King in the North, and he declared Joffery Baratheon a product of incest between The Queen and her brother. Theon he…" Bran's expression darkens.
"What did Theon do?" Benjen grins out from between his teeth, and the wolf growls suddenly. His heart and hope only sink further down.
"Betrayed Robb. Took Winterfell, with me and Rickon in it. We escaped, but he somehow convinced everyone he'd killed us. I had to send Rickon away, towards the Umbers. It's not safe for him, where I need to go now. He's with a woman, Osha. We trust her," he glances at his companions, and Benjen follows suit. They both nod at him. "I don't know what happened to him now but Robb he…"
"What happened to Robb?" Benjen asks, dreading the answer. The King in the North, he thinks to himself, slightly hysterical. How in all hells did that happen?
"I keep getting dreams. I saw him, and mother, and his…wife, I think? They were at the Twins, and Robb was taken prisoner, and they killed Mother and his wife. But we've been in the gift for weeks now, and we don't know for sure. But Summer knows Grey Wind is alive, and if he's alive…"
"Robb probably is too," Benjen says, ignoring all the implications of what Bran has just said. He'd joked about it, hadn't he? Direwolves south of the wall, talk of the Walkers, and my brother might be the next Hand of the King. Winter is Coming, he'd joked, but it had spelt Ned's death in the end, and he's seen the truth, now. Those wolves, Benjen thinks with a pit in his stomach, are not to be pushed aside like that. "And your brother is tough, Bran. Just like you."
"Where are you planning to go?" Sam pipes up. "You're Jon's brother, and if it weren't for him, I'd be dead. He's my brother too, so anything I can do for you, I will." Benjen smiles at the earnesty of it. He likes Samwell Tarly, and he can see why Jon liked him too.
"Take us North of the Wall!" Bran says, sounding suddenly much more hopeful.
Benjen's stomach drops, and he looks to Bran with a wide-eyed expression. Bran's face falls after a moment, and he glances between his uncle and his companions. Benjen spares them a glance too, before finally saying, in a voice that reminds him of his father, all those long years ago, "No."
"I have to go North of the Wall!" Bran protests immediately, but something must show on Benjen's face, because he says nothing more, looking at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.
"Absolutely not," Benjen grinds out from between his teeth. "You and I are going to Castle Black, to your brother, and to The Night's Watch. You will be safe there, safer than anywhere else."
"Jon Snow's not at Castle Black," the boy says, and Benjen finally loses his patience, looking at him with a vicious expression, suddenly understanding his sister and wild little Rickon all that much more.
"Who are you?"
"I am Jojen Reed, and this is my sister, Meera. We're Howland's children, Howland Reed. Your father's friend," He sends Benjen an intentional look, as Benjen's jaw drops open. Howland Reed's kids? He hasn't seen Ned's old friend since…since the Rebellion, he thinks. And now his kids are here… "I know what you've seen, beyond the Wall. What is coming."
"How do you know my nephew isn't at Castle Black? How do you have any idea as to what I've seen since I departed the Wall?" Benjen asks him sharply, and the boy, Jojen stares at him for a long moment. His gaze is sharp and cold, something lingering in it that makes his skin crawl.
"I am a greenseer," he says after a moment. "My visions led me to Bran, and Bran dreams of a Three-Eyed Raven beyond the Wall. Just like my visions led me to him, his lead him beyond the Wall, where he will learn to be the one thing that stands against the living and the dead. He is the key to victory against the Others, against the Night King."
Benjen remembers The Night King's cold blue gaze. He remembers his fear. He looks at Bran.
"We saw Jon, right before Rickon went away with Osha. He was with a group of Wildings, South of the Wall. But there was an argument, and he turned on them, and there was a fight. I…I warged into Summer, and helped him get away. He's probably headed towards Castle Black, now," Bran tells him.
"Warged?" Benjen repeats, incredulous, glancing at the massive Direwolf at his nephew's side. Bran nods. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he takes it all in. Wargs and Direwolves and Others and Jon with Wildings? What is that boy doing now? He wonders to himself, not quite ready for the answer. "Three-Eyed Ravens?"
"I have to go beyond the wall, Uncle Benjen, please," Bran presses. "You know what's coming. You have to warn Jon and if Robb's out there still, bring him home. There isn't a Stark in Winterfell, but the North will rally around you–"
"No, it won't," Benjen cuts him off gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. He looks at Bran for a long moment, committing his face to memory. He knows what Ned would want him to do, what he should do as this boy's Uncle, but Benjen was a Ranger long before he was an Uncle. He is still a man of the Night's Watch, and he has seen the dead. Any chance they can get is a chance they must take.
"I am still a man of the Night's Watch, and the North does not suffer deserters. But I am still presumed dead, and I still have things to learn, clearly. Go north, Bran, and keep your Wolf close, you hear me?" He turns to his travelling companions. "Sam, you know how to open the Black Gate, yes?" The boy nods. "Good."
Benjen stands, and looks at the assembled group. A Wilding girl. A Southern boy in the Night's Watch. A crippled boy, and his direwolf that reaches Benjen's shoulder. Two crannogmen, children of one of his own brother's most trusted friends. And Hodor, of course. He smiles at his old friend. And himself, a Lone Wolf.
"Sam, take Bran and his friends to the Gate. Let them through, and then return to Castle Black with Gilly. Tell no one you saw me. Not even Jon. He will do foolish things if he knows I'm still out here, and I need him to stay smart. Tell him of Bran, though…" He glances at Bran, who nods. "Give him some hope?"
"Where are you going?" Bran asks, and he looks back at his nephew with a soft smile.
"South. If there is no Stark in Winterfell, the North will be in disrepair. I intend to learn about what is going on in these lands, and learn of where your brother is. Winter is Coming, Bran, and the North must be ready." Bran's face falls slightly, and he turns back to him, crouching in front of him and cradling his face in hand. "You are a Stark of Winterfell. Your father was Eddard Stark. The blood of the First Men flows in your veins, Bran. Never forget that."
"Lord Stark…" Sam says after a moment, and Benjen doesn't try and correct him this time. There's no use of it.
"What is it?" He asks, looking back at Sam.
The boy is wringing his hands, an odd expression on his face. Even then, he meets Benjen's gaze head-on and speaks. "After your brother was killed, Jon tried to desert. He wanted to join Robb in the Riverlands. We…his friends, we brought him back. I thought you should know. He loves you all, he loves his family. He doesn't think straight sometimes with you all."
"I know," Benjen says softly, thinking of all the stories Ned's ever told him about his bastard. He thinks of Jon when he last saw him properly, looking out at the lands beyond the Wall for the first time. To think it's been three years since then. Jon will be grown now, grown and proud. He hopes that whatever he's doing with Wilding's, it's for good. "But thank you for telling me, Sam."
And when morning comes, and he watches his nephew disappear into the endless North, Benjen thinks of Jon. His nephew would never be able to let Bran go as Benjen just has, and it wasn't easy for him, either. His heart aches as he watches the boy disappear, as he thinks of Catelyn at his bedside, praying to her seven. He thinks of his brother, and the tears freeze on his cheeks.
The Lone Wolf dies, but the pack survives, he thinks of his father's words. Starks don't belong in the South, in warm climates. Lyanna went South. Brandon went South. His father went South. Ned went South. And now, only Benjen lives, a lone wolf, standing against the cold. He misses his brother. He misses his home. He looks at the wall, and thinks about Jon, staring out at the world from atop it.
And without another look back, he turns his horse around, and heads South.
It doesn't hit him until he's alone with his mare again, and the Wall is towards the North, not the South. It doesn't hit him until he's sitting around a fire, the snow falling softly around him, Brandon's Gift stretching out around him. Ned is gone.
The tears don't freeze to his cheeks here, don't get stuck in his eyes and blind him. It's almost warm here, compared to the lands on the other side of the Wall. The stars twinkle above him, and he hates them, hates the snow, and hates the lands that stretch around him, because all he can see is Ned, see what he inherited and bore with an endless sense of duty and honour.
Benjen's older brother is dead. All his siblings are gone now, gone to the wind, and he's been left alone in the cold. They all went South, they all died, leaving him alone. No one knows where most of his nieces and nephews are, and the one whose location he does know is trapped in the South, prisoners of the Lannisters. He thinks of Sansa, and the tears come faster.
None of them deserve this. None of them, none of his kind, young nieces and nephews, kind as summer and as hard as stone. Children of the North, so many of them born in the Long Summer, but with Winter in their veins and the Blood of the First Men in their hearts. What right did Robert Baratheon ever have to dare to demand Ned be his hand, to presume himself better than them all?
Ned was blind, his love for his friend always shielding him. Benjen doesn't blame him for it, but he feels angry when he thinks of Ned losing his life for the South, being forced to bleed for The South. Bran had said Robb was made King in the North, that the Starks were once more made The Kings of Winter, and Benjen can't pretend he doesn't like how that sounds.
But then he remembers it's Robb, sweet young Robb, who played with Jon in the yard and laughed a little too loudly sometimes. He's grown now, indeed, but part of Benjen's life at the wall means that there will always be a part of him that thinks of his brother's children and sees them as younger children, with toothy grins and a light in their eyes that can never stay forever.
He doesn't want them to be frozen in time, like all his siblings are destined to be. He looks towards where Castle Black is, and hopes Bran's prediction is right, and that Jon is probably headed that way. He hopes Jon's okay, and that he'll stay okay until Benjen can come home and be with his family again. He hopes that Winter waits for them all.
He doesn't look like the man of the Watch, and when he ditches the furs he needed deep in the North, he looks just like any other Northerner. No one has seen Benjen Stark in a long time, and with his beard long and his hair longer, no one is likely to look at him and see the lone wolf he is, no one is likely to connect him with the late Lord of Winterfell. Which is good enough for Benjen.
A week later, and he's out of the gift for the first time since he went to Winterfell, all that time ago. He'd been there to ask about the deserter, officially, but also to rescue his poor brother from having to deal with the Lannisters on his own. It's green, everywhere he looks, Winter is not quite here for them yet. It makes him nervous, though, thinking about what will happen when it does come.
His mare carries him faithfully south, and he's on the edge of a village when he thinks of a name for her. She's a faithful steed, carried him through the cold and snow. "Faith," he murmurs, rubbing her neck, entering the village. Some people stare, but he holds himself tall and proud, and heads straight for the Inn. There, he hitches Faith up, and rubs her snout, softly telling her, "Thank you."
Faith nickers, and he smiles at her, brushing her gently. "Shh, girl," he says, pulling out an apple he'd picked from a tree a few miles away and offering it to her. Someone asks something of him from behind him, and he turns, letting her eat the apple from his hand. Having missed what they said, he asks, "Pardon?"
"Will you be needing a bed tonight, ser?" A boy asks him, and it takes Benjen a moment to realise that the boy must think he's a knight, with his horse, and his sword. Mikken's mark is still on his blade. He'll have to conceal that from eyes that might know it, and it would probably be best to just not draw it down South.
"No," he says, approaching him once Faith finishes her treat. "Just some ale."
notes:
- i was playing a lot between wether i wanted benjen to be saved by wildings or by the children, like in the show. i decided on a blend, because i want ben to have that relationship w the ff, but also the children are the only ones who could really do much, lets be honest. and i have some plans for what ben getting saved by children means,,,
-yes, that is aftermath of ghost that ben runs into in the forest. he cant meet ghost again quite yet (for plot reasons ooooo), but i loved having that little nod to his nephews tank of a dog, lmao
-certified horse girl benjen™️ (yes this is an important note to keep sue mE)
-sam has no idea what to say to benjen. he's probably like this mythic figure in his mind, whos not like fully real, but now he's meeting him and he's kinda an older and more mature version of his best friend. that has got to be wild
-the benjen bran reunion makes me SO HAPPY UGH. benjen has lost more than he knows, but he can barely process any of it, because he's so happy he gets to see bran. but of course, in that last section, i do have benjen mourn for real, because imagine how hard it would be to see your brother and then learn, three years later, that he died and has been dead for a WHILE. ugh
Next up, some direwolves come to the wall...