embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

20. THE BLACK WOLF IV

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE BLACK WOLF IV

Benjen Stark holds the Wall as best he can, but finds himself ridiculed and dismissed from everyone in Westeros, save for the North. Struggling with what to do, he finds solace with his Gods, and gains an important bargaining chip. Benjen encounters something strange.

---

The wind howls outside like a wolf, snow and wind slamming against the stone walls of Castle Black, making the world outside sound like a chorus of screams and a song of something dark and evil. And, deep within the keep, in the office of the Lord Commander, Benjen Stark sits at his desk, writing furiously, hair hanging around his face, brows drawn together in concentration.

He's been writing for hours, and seeing as Castle Black is still currently without a Maester, given both Eastwatch-By-The Sea and The Shadow Tower's Maesters are still arriving, he has to write all the letters himself. His vision is spinning, and he takes a moment away from his letter to rub his brow and breathe deeply. The sun is low in the sky, lower than it was the last time he remembers looking up from the papers, and with a rumble of his stomach, he realises that he's missed lunch. Groaning, he sets down his pen and stretches slightly, watching the snow pound against his windows.

He gets lost in the sight for a long moment, at the whooshing wind and falling snow, long enough that when someone starts pounding at his door, he startles in surprise. He doesn't even get a chance to ask what's going on until Cotter Pyke is barging his way in, Benjen's first ranger, one Eddison Tollett, a half step behind. Tollett sends him an apologetic look, and Benjen rubs his brow again, feeling the beginnings of a headache come over him as Cotter snorts.

"You've been cooped up in here all damn day, Ben," The Commander of Eastwatch-By-The-Sea says, arms crossed over his chest and eyes as sharp and analytical as ever. Tollett has slinked away by this point, leaving Benjen alone with the man, but it's no comfort to him. All of the Watch will be upon The Wall at Castle Black within a fortnight, and once that happens, their doom is sealed. They all know what is coming. But their oaths still hold true.

Cotter draws closer, eyes roving over the papers Benjen has strewn about, the tens of letters he's been writing to anyone and everyone. His own Maester, Harmune, will be here with the last group of men from Eastwatch, and though Benjen knows why that decision was made, his hand isn't as happy with it as it could be. He flexes it with a wince that Cotter catches, if that look in his eyes is anything to go off of, but says nothing of.

"Who're they going to?" He finally asks.

"Every damn House in our records," Benjen says, picking up his pen again and fiddling with it. "Northern, Southern, it doesn't matter. I've made a call to arms, and a request that any man who possesses a Valyrian Steel Sword make haste to The Wall. They have been promised fair passage and right conduct, so long as their intentions are true." His mouth twists into a wry smile. "Won't stop Cersei, but hopefully it's enough to keep us safe up here."

Cotter nods along, stroking his beard with a dark expression in his eyes. Benjen always thinks that the man seems like he has some other comment to say, some other thought, but more often than not, he holds his tongue, something that doesn't quite match his brash personality. But Pyke is where he is in the world for a reason, and Benjen is glad that the other two commanders are both men who know what they're doing, without a doubt.

Another knock and this knocker actually waits for Benjen to call him in before actually entering. Cotter sends Denys Mallister a look as he enters, but, for once, they both bite their tongues. Benjen knows he is mostly to blame for that sudden development; both men may not like one another but they both respect Benjen and understand that he needs the three of them to be working in harmony for anything to go right.

And with The Dead coming, so much of it seems menial anyway. What are rivalries and feuds in the face of an inescapable death? Benjen is their best option, and they all know it. And Benjen needs Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke to stand on even ground, needs the men he surrounds himself with to be true and loyal and genuine to the cause. Benjen will suffer no mutinies upon The Wall while he is Lord Commander. His treatment of his nephew's murders said that well enough for him.

Denys roves his eyes over one of the letters with a grim look and an agreeing nod, before setting it down and going over to the window. He stares out of it for a moment, before breaking the silence and saying, "This will be an invitation, you know this, Ben. For enemies of your House to take the chance and try and cut one more Stark out of the equation."

"I know," he agrees, flexing his aching hand again. "And they will try. But they'll have to get through The Neck, and past Winterfell before they can get up here. I trust in my niece and nephews' defence of Winterfell. Unless someone comes to the empty Eastwatch unnoticed, we should be fine here." Until the dead come, and nothing matters but escaping the darkness they bring on their backs.

Benjen doesn't voice his darker thoughts. They all know what he thinks well enough without unwelcome reminders of their impending doom. But looking at Cotter and Denys, he can see his thoughts reflected in their eyes, see the trouble in their faces as well. They're being looked to, along with The First Ranger, Steward, and Builder, by the decrepit and lonesome remains of The Night's Watch for guidance.

As it would seem, The Lord Commander being murdered by the rest of command does little for confidence or spirit amongst the men of The Night's Watch. Benjen is doing what he can, trying to rally the exhausted and afraid men behind him, but he knows it will take some time, time he's not sure he has. He hopes that when it comes down to it, the men will rally, like he's heard they did when The Wildlings attacked, but it might be too little too late by then.

"You really think they'll send men?" Cotter finally asks, breaking the brooding silence that has stretched between the three of them. Look at us, Benjen thinks, grimly amused, A Northman, an Ironborn, and a man of The Riverlands, Westeros's last hope against The Dead. His amusement grows as he thinks of the other three senior officers. A Valeman, a farm boy, and a once mummer. The Noble Order of The Night's Watch, indeed.

"Cersei will ignore us outright," Benjen says, leaning back in his chair and watching the snow with Denys for a breath. "But the letter to her is only cursory. I'd have her forget my existence in its entirety if I could, but she will hear of my ascension before long, never mind my nieces and nephews' presence at Winterfell. I will not be her chief concern in The North–not with my mad ramblings of snarks and grumpkins." A bitter grin comes over his face.

Once, so many long years ago, he'd spoken with Tyrion Lannister about The Night's Watch. The Dwarf of Casterly Rock had been perfectly Southern and wholly Lannister in his dismissals and opinions of the Watch, and though it grated and still bothers Benjen, he is still not surprised. What does any Southern Lordling in silks and finery know of The Cold, of The Long Night, of the end that is crawling nearer with each day, with each night that stretches longer and longer? How could they know of the heart of the deep North?

They were not raised on stories told from old mouths and by brittle voices, were not raised on words that have been passed from generation to generation for thousands of long and cold years. They have no way of knowing the truth. All Benjen can do is hope that at least one Southerner takes his words and sees the panic in his scrawl and senses the desperation in his words and feels enough fear to find it within himself to help. But Benjen will not wait. Winter is Coming, and it will not wait either.

Denys makes an angry noise at the back of his throat, and when he glances back at Benjen and Cotter, there is a hardness in his eyes that Benjen has only ever seen in the eyes of The Watchers on The Wall. There is no real way to describe it, but Benjen knows it is born of all that The Wall puts in a man. Taking the black means an oath that cannot be broken, means a brotherhood that is never ending, and a fate that is set in stone. I shall live and die by my post.

Men of The Watch are consigned to a specific fate, one that has lied unbroken in place for eight thousand years, one shared by no one else in Westeros. Their hearts are black and they die with swords in their hands and their oath on their lips. Nothing can undo that oath, nothing can turn a heart that has been made black back to what it was before. A man of The Watch is a Crow until the day he dies. For thousands of years, The Night's Watch has been here, guarding against the cold and the end of the world, despite the world forgetting their true purpose. But have they? Have they ever truly forgotten what they were made for?

Benjen thinks of the story of The Last Hero, the man who brought the dawn, and of Brandon, the first of House Stark, who built The Wall, Winterfell, and The Watch. It was Brandon who made the first hearts turn black, who first made their oath, no doubt. And Brandon's blood is Benjen's. The Wall has a Stark upon it now, and the ground it stands upon has been watered by it as well. Starks have lived and died and served upon The Wall since the dawn that first ended The White Walkers.

"Let her dismiss us," Denys spits, crossing the room to where Cotter and Benjen are. Cotter nods, and that is still so very surprising, even after these long weeks, to see those two seemingly agreeing on something. "I mean, if we fail, The Dead will come for her, and no amount of thrones of swords will make her strong enough to defeat her. That is, of course, assuming she does not kill herself on the throne before The Dead come marching South for her."

It is a grim thought, the horribly real thought of losing this war, but thinking of Cersei falling to the dead like everyone else, despite her names and her delusions of power, is one that makes Benjen smile, ever so slightly. No name, no throne, no crown, no brilliant mind will save her, save anyone. Only cold steel, some blood, and the right moment can bring The Dawn, or really much of anything of true substance.

Benjen learned that lesson a long time ago when he was dying in the snow and a saviour came, when his family was broken into two, when he bent before a tree a lifetime ago and whispered words to the weeping gods of all his forefathers. Man is not better than death. Man is not better than The Gods who made him, nor is he better than a storm or cold steel.

Cotter laughs roughly at Denys's comment, eyes glimmering with malice and near madness. They're a ragtag crew, the leaders of The Night's Watch, but they're exactly what the Watch needs, with Jon gone and Winter coming. A Stark, with the right blood, an Ironborn with enough madness for the lot of them, a once Lord with cold courtesies and the right sword. A valeman with a grim smile and eyes that miss little, a farm boy turned builder who fought a giant, and a boy of a mummers troupe who was sent here on false charges, and has now clawed his way to the top. Men who were loyal. Men who have seen The Dead.

And most importantly, men who have survived.

—

Benjen learned a very long time ago to throw away thoughts of the family he had left behind and The House he had all but forsaken in the aftermath of it all while standing upon The Wall. Every man of The Watch is tempted by something, and for those like him, those who escaped death and ghosts for The Wall, their temptation is all that they left behind. It is not just the ghost of Winterfell, the silent graves in a spiralling tomb that Benjen escaped.

It was Ned–Ned who had become The Lord and the future, Ned whose ascension made it so very clear that nothing was as it had once been–who Benjen ran from first. They were both made orphans by the war. And now another war, born of that first one, has made Benjen not only an orphan but a brother to only bones. Brandon, Lyanna, and Eddard Stark are all dead to the wills of the South, and Ned's bride, the lovely Catelyn, followed them all, in the end. He has not even a sister-in-law to his name now, only his brothers on The Wall.

But Ned still has children, and as the days pass, it is so much harder to keep running away. Robb, with his loyalty, Jon with his passion, Sansa with her dreams, Arya with her fire, Brandon with his stubbornness, and little Rickon with his wildness and all that he could become. From the first he knew of them, it became endlessly harder to conjure up reasons to leave the stone and snow behind him for good, when every visit promised sweet smiles and little arms wrapping around his waist. So, he did all that he could and slowly learned to shove those thoughts from his mind, never letting them be his guide.

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. Thoughts of their youth and their vitality that burned him have always been his vice, a barb in his heart, a reminder that they will hopefully have the one thing he was denied. Robb and Jon got to grow up, but he cannot quite say the same for the rest of them, all of them riddled by warfare and orphaned just as he is by The South's jaws. His brother's children are a maddening thought in the back of his mind, a maddening thought that has never let him go for a long time, once he lets it wrap its hands around his throat and claim his mind.

So, Benjen has always pushed them to the back of his mind, pushing their fates and their lives away as much as he can. But still, he has gone South for them all so many times, bringing stories and smiles and what comfort he can give. So, of course, the letter that arrived only the day before is taking everything in Benjen, mixing it around, and spitting him back out. Of course, it is making his mind swarm, swallowed up by the waves and thoughts that are unbecoming, but impossible to avoid, never mind deny. He knows what he wants. What he has always wanted.

Uncle Benjen, the letter reads, in a familiar hand that makes everything fall apart at his feet, makes dreams of running home and holding the last dredges of his house to his chest creep up in the corner of his mind. But the words of the oath he swore, so many years ago, now, in the sight of The Gods of his father, The Gods of his house, his Gods, ring true just as much as his longing for his home does–For this night and all the nights to come–

I have been freed from my chains by Daenerys Targaryen, The Dragon Queen. Jon has spoken to me of the threat The North and the whole of Westeros faces, and the need for dragonglass and men to bar against this enemy. I will speak to the Dragon Queen, but I do not trust that she will believe me unless I have proof. Proof that I can only get from you. If you have any way of gathering it, send it to Dragonstone, and I will do what I can from there.

I will ride North soon enough, hopefully with dragonglass having been mined from Dragonstone and this Queen at my side. I have no intention of bending my knee, though, and will stand beside you and The Watch, no matter what choice she makes. My bannermen will be informed of this threat, and I have plans to order a total relocation of the northern populace South of Winterfell. As Lord Commander, I might also need your help gathering the more stubborn or disbelieving few.

I miss you fiercely. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives. Winter is Coming.

Your Nephew,

Robb Stark

King of The North

Benjen sighs deeply, feeling pulled in tens of directions. Towards his family, the last of his pack and his blood, and the familiarity of them all, the safety of being with them. Towards where he stands now, amongst his brothers in arms, amongst his fellowmen with black hearts and silver swords. And towards the ghosts of his past, the family that all lie dead beneath the stones of their youth, stolen before their time, living on through their sons and daughters, through the last traces of their blood that still stand on these lands.

Briefly, he runs his hand over his face before crossing his arms over his chest and staring out over the top of The Wall, through the haze of the early morning. The days are getting longer with each sunset, and soon, there will be no dawn over these lands, not until they are all dead or The Night King is no more. Benjen knows that they have not the strength, but Robb's letter gives him strength and a spark of hope, as well. The Dragon Queen.

Could she be what turns the tide, what gives them the edge they need? Her and her armies and her dragons? And does she have the ability to overcome all her House's history, all her blood, and rise above them all, and take The Iron Throne, without sending Benjen's house to their graves all over again? He remembers The Mad King well enough. He severely hopes Daenerys Targaryen is not her father come again. He does not want to bury one more person long before their time, as childish as that want is.

He is mulling on her when he feels the chill cut through his cloak when he feels something tug at the base of his stomach. Narrowing his eyes, he rests his hand on the pommel of his sword, and squints at the treeline, where he sees something moving. It takes him a moment to recognise what he is seeing, but when he does, his heart bottoms out.

The horn blows through the keep not a breath later, three long blasts that are a damnation in and of themselves. Benjen watches in wide-eyed horror as a small pack of wights come shuffling forward towards The Wall. There is no Walker with them, thankfully, but their presence is dangerous enough on its own. The Wall bursts into action around him, and Benjen's mind slips away from his prior thoughts, the thoughts of Benjen, son of Rickard and Lyarra, and into the mindset of Lord Commander Stark, the last defence of the realm.

The wights are a test, no doubt, a test from The Night King to see how swiftly The Watch reacts, and what strength they have left in them. They all must know, both sides, in whatever way possible, that The Watch is entirely fucked, but Benjen was not raised to take a beating laying down. It is as his father said to Ned, when he left for the Eyrie, all those years ago. But if you have to fight, win.

Eddison Tollett is at his side before he knows it, and his First Ranger looks to him in silence. "I am going to face them head-on," he says, and Eddison nods. "Have the men here cover us with arrows. All we can do against wights is burn the fuckers, and it'll be faster if we have men on the ground and atop. You have The Wall." The First Ranger nods, and with one last glance downwards, he goes to the base of The Wall.

The courtyard of Castle Black is in disarray as he arrives, but he manages to saddle Faith in record time, drawing his sword and holding it above his head. "Men of The Watch!" He shouts, feeling the eyes on him as he draws his sword. The men in the courtyard go silent as he looks at them, the wolf's blood burning hot in his veins. "Gather arms, horses, and torches! We will face The Dead!"

He has always been a man of action.

And then they are behind him, and in one hand, he holds a sword, silver in the daylight, and in the other, a torch burns. Faith is loyal under him, charging into the dead heedlessly, his sword swinging through the air not a moment later. His sword is of little use though, it being really only a way to get distance between him and the wights. Arrows begin to fly, and a ragged cry rises amongst the men.

He thinks of his father as he plunges his torch into one of the wight's heads, as he hears it screech a horrid tune. Thinks of his father, roasted alive in his armour, forced to fight the one thing that can destroy the cold and ice that Starks are made of. Starks and Targaryens, perhaps, are two sides of the same nearly unbreakable coin, with the other their only balance in the world. Ice and Fire.

Benjen does not think of Jon, does not let the thought of that horrible truth take root in him. His mind is on the fight, must remain on the fight, or else he will die, and this will all be for naught. And when he kills another wight with his torch, and when he thinks of his father, screaming as he burned, and Brandon, bold and unbreakable, reduced to a begging mess as he slowly choked and died, he pushes those thoughts to the darkest pits of his mind, barricades them all behind bars of iron.

The fight becomes a blur of swords and flames and the screams of the dead. There are perhaps only thirty or so wights, a menial number against blazing flames, singing swords, and the fury of the Night's Watch bent against them. They lose no one, though a few men are injured, and the air is thick with the smell of rotting and burning flesh alike as the fight draws to a close and Benjen gets off of Faith, sword sheathed and flame extinguished.

As the men make it back towards The Wall, Benjen takes a moment to glance over the scene before him, a pit in his stomach as he surveys the carnage and this taste of what is to come. The smell is not one he thinks he will soon forget, the smell of death and fire and fury. Again, his mind turns to his father and his brother and the fates they met at the hand of The Mad King, and there is nowhere he can turn to in order to ignore them now. Tears spring to the corners of his eyes and revulsion rolls in his stomach as he recalls how he'd burned his own enemies, just a few moments ago.

He picks up one of the discarded arrows, rolling it over his fingers in silence. He'd meant to get a wight for Robb, but the thought was lost in the madness and surprise of the fight. But Benjen is, for better or worse, sure that they will start seeing more wights crawling to them in the near future. And they will not be as lucky as they were today, with only a few injuries and no one dead. He can hardly imagine what will happen when The Wall falls in truth. Perhaps that will be when he finally joins his family in their graves at last.

Faith is silent at his side, and he rubs her neck, surveying the carnage and the snow that has been reddened by blood. Some of the wights had been in black, and the thought of the brothers that have been lost to the lands beyond The Wall returning to besiege the place they were sworn to makes his stomach sink and his heart ache with pity and fury alike.

With one last look across the too-quiet lands, and with snow beginning to fall around him, he moves to mount Faith, but something makes him pause. He glances slowly towards where his stomach is pulling him, towards the treeline, and his body is hit with a sense of something inherently wrong. Drawing both his sword and the dagger of dragonglass that he'd been given upon his ascension to Lord Commander, he draws closer to Faith, heart hammering a furious tune in his chest. She makes a huffing noise, and he shushes her, never taking his eyes off the trees.

He sees the blue eyes first, and then Faith is rearing up with a fearful noise, and bolting without a thought. Swearing loudly, Benjen watches her run back towards The Wall, and sends a desperate look upwards, to the top of it. Hopefully, someone is watching and can see what is happening. But for now, he is alone out here. Sheathing his sword, knowing it will be of little use, he squares his jaw and plants his feet as the wind begins to whistle around him, pressing his hair to his face and making the cold cut through him like a knife.

It is so fucking cold. As cold it was when he nearly died. Benjen, as a Stark, used to think he knew what cold was. But experience has taught him that it can always get colder. His father used to joke that the cold was in their very veins, but he knows now that the cold in them is nothing compared to what cold their enemy brings with him. He might be a Stark of Winterfell, might have the wolf's blood in him, but that does not make him immortal, not against this enemy.

Still, Benjen Stark stands his ground, even as terror dawns on him when The White Walker finally comes out of the woods, spear held in hand, pace slow. Benjen remembers the last White Walker he'd fought well enough, remembers how it ended with him dying in the snow. He refuses to have that be his fate. His family needs him, and he is not ready to join his siblings and parents in their silent tombs, despite how much he wants them back at his side. He has an oath to a brother he is yet to truly fulfil, and nieces and nephews to protect. I am the shield that guards the realms of men.

He shouts as the Walker slashes towards him, dodging just in time. Horns cut through the silent landscape, the three blasts that herald the cold, hardening his heart and making his mind narrow in even further on the fight. But despite it, Benjen knows that he is alone out here. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives.

His blood is so very far away from him, and yet…The Wall is at his back, and the clothes he wears are as black as his heart. There is no being alone, when you are a man of The Night's Watch, not when The Wall is within sight. His only family is not the ones that lie in Winterfell, the blood that keeps these realms safe. His family are the men upon the wall as well, the men who guard with him, who stand tall and proud, with black hearts and their oath their heartbeat.

He dodges another slash, slashing out with his own knife. It misses, and the Walker takes the chance to slam his side with its spear. He loses his footing and falls to the snow, and his dagger falls from his hand. His head spins from the contact with the hard ground, and he gropes blindly for his blade. His fingers circle around it as he hears something whoosh through the air. He has only a breath to realise that the spear is sailing down towards him, before he needs to react or die.

And react he does, with a furious shout that is torn from within him, catching the blade in one hand. He howls as the cold of it burns his hand, shoving it aside long enough to roll away and get back on his feet, dagger held defensively before him. The Walker regards him cooly for a moment, and Benjen wonders if it recognises that it is a Stark who stands before him, before it's bearing back down on him and Benjen's mind slips back into the fight.

If you have to fight, Win. Win. Win. Win.

He catches the spear again, this time on the side of his arm, making a slash deep within it. It explodes in pain, but Benjen has just enough coherence left in him to shove the dagger forward, under its arms. He feels it make contact, feels the world go still for a moment, and then the Walker is exploding into a hundred tiny pieces.

Benjen falls back, having lost his balance with the death of The Walker, and manages to catch his head on something on the way down. When he blinks, he can feel blood, warm and hot, dripping from the side of his face, and down his left arm, staining the snow beneath him red. He coughs and drags himself to a more upright position, braced on his uninjured arm, and curled in on himself, his right hand burning. The dagger lies in the snow, black as the night.

His vision is spinning, his eyes slipping shut with each shuddery breath he takes. His ribs scream, his head pounds and black spots dance at the corner of his vision. In the distance, he can hear horns sounding, hear men shouting, and under his bleeding fingers, he can feel the thunder of hooves. The world is cold around him, cold as Winter, cold as the end of the world. He closes his eyes, and collapses in the snow, unconscious.

—

Benjen wakes up feeling like shit and with a pounding headache. Groaning, he rolls onto his back and manages to peel his eyes open and look at the ceiling of his chambers, wincing as black spots begin to dance across his vision. It takes a long moment for the memories to resurface, but when they do, he groans again, reaching up with his left hand to touch his face.

That sparks agony through his arm, but he grits his teeth and brushes his fingers over his face, feeling the stitches with a wince. His right hand is bandaged, but he does not trust his left arm to hold his weight, so he bites his tongue and forces himself upwards. The blankets fall down around him, and he realises he's in nothing more than a loose sleep shirt and black pants with a sort of start. His ribs also seem to be bandaged, and he feels exhaustion barrel into him.

A knock at the door. "Benjen? Are you awake?" Denys Mallister, then, and he groans in reply. The door swings open after a moment, and Denys comes in, carrying a cup in one hand and a bowl in the other. His eyes betray his worry as he scans Benjen's face, setting the bowl and cup down beside his bed. "You got pretty banged up out there, Stark. You're just as reckless as your damned nephew."

"Family trait," he mutters, rubbing his brow in exhaustion. Denys's mouth quirks up with a slight smile that does not last. Benjen rubs the bridge of his nose with a drawn-out groan, his entire body alight in pain. "How long was I unconscious? What's happened since?"

"Out for just a night, and nothing much," Denys says, sounding genuine in that, at least. "Tollett and his friend, Grenn, were the ones to drag you back. Got some of the stewards to patch you up. You woke up once, though I don't expect you to remember it; you were incoherent. Thankfully, me and Pyke were the only other men in the room, and the stewards know how to keep their damn mouths shut. There's been no further attacks, but tensions are high."

Benjen nods along. The realisation that he'd been conscious and remembers none of it is troubling, but he doesn't have the energy to really care, so he's not gonna spend his time trying. He trusts in Denys and Cotter both to keep his secrets and stand behind him, if just because they don't want to become the next Thorne, Marsh, and Yarwyck. Benjen thinks some of the men fear him. He can't find it in himself to give a damn.

Let them fear me, he thinks with a ferocity that is new to him. A little bit of fear might just be their saving grace when it all comes down to it. Fear of the dead, fear of dying, fear of Benjen's vengeance slamming down upon their heads. He does not, and will never, regret what he did to Jon's betrayers. He'd promised Ned to protect Jon, and Ned had once sworn to do much the same to their sister as she lay dying in her birthing bed. If not for Ned, Benjen will guard Jon for Lyanna's sake.

"I'll speak to The Watch later," he says, coughing slightly. It makes his ribs scream, and he knows Denys catches his wince, if that look he sends him is anything to go by. But Benjen just meets his eyes and stares until the man nods his head and leaves, saying only Lord Commander before he leaves Benjen to his loneliness. Benjen glares at the shut door before turning to the food Denys had brought and begins to eat it as he stews in his misery.

Ned and Brandon were always the fighters, always the soldiers. Benjen was far too young to fight in Robert's war, and by the time all was said and done, Ned was the Lord, Brandon was dead, and Benjen's heart was slowly turning black. He doesn't think he's sparred with Ned since before he left for the Eyrie, and that feels like a lifetime ago, the memories hazy and laced with so much grief and longing now. Longing for that which he knows he cannot have.

And yet. He still wants it all. Stark blood, the wolf's blood as his father once called it, sings to itself, draws them all together. He is not alone at The Wall, but he is away from his blood and his kin, from the thing his heart sings for, and it is a hard fate and has always been. But with The Dead looming on the horizon, his heart seems to yearn more and more each day for him to break his oaths, abandon those words he said, and fly southwards to Winterfell, where his nieces and nephews, the last pieces of Ned and Lyanna both, lie.

But he cannot break his oath, not here, not now, not while the darkest hour is almost upon them. The choices he and the whole of The Night's Watch make right now are the choices that will determine the fate of the Seven Kingdoms and Westeros as a whole. He has a continent riding on his shoulders, and he cannot let his heart sing only for family and kin, not when so much lies on the line.

He lays back in his bed when he finishes the food and ale Denys had brought, staring at the ceiling, his stomach in knots and his head pounding with a low-grade headache. He glances over at the bedside table and sees something he'd missed earlier–a vial of Milk of the Poppy. His body aches and he feels like he's barely slept, so he uncaps it without a thought, and takes a swig of it, before falling back into bed, a fire crackling in the corner of his room and the snow falling softly outside his window.

—

Benjen can't help but snarl as he finishes reading the response from The Citadel, throwing down the paper with a fury, his heart pounding in his chest and the corners of his vision darkening in anger. He'd, of course, expected The Citadel to be resistant to rendering aid, but they'd gone out of their goddamn way to not only dismiss him but outright ridicule him, The Night's Watch, and the whole of The North for their…how had they put it?

Oh yes. Flights of fancy and foolhardy notions of magic. They'd even suggested that they focus more on the fact that Queen Cersei has called for many of their heads, and though Benjen knows for a fact that he is not mentioned by name on the missive that had finally come to The Wall a week ago, a few days before Robb's, his head is as wanted on a spike as those who were named. He is a Stark, born and raised in Winterfell, and that makes him a threat to Cersei Lannister, even if all he's doing is freezing his ass off at the end of the world, in her view.

He forces himself to take a deep, measured breath, curling and uncurling his fist atop the table, closing his eyes as he does so. The cold seeps into his bones, startles him back into awareness, keeps him from losing his mind in madness and fear alike. Many will follow the example of The Citadel, after all. Far too many. And despite knowing that this was his likely fate, it still makes Benjen see red, makes him so very angry, more angry than he knows what to do with.

What harm, after all, does it do to these fools to at least listen for once in their damned lives? Benjen knows Jon sent his friend, one Samwell Tarly south to Oldtown to study with the Maesters, and the letter mentions him as well, though with little shine on his name. Samwell Tarly of your order has also spoken of this 'enemy', but lacks as much proof as you. That, and all his information has proven to be outdated, with you now calling yourself Lord Commander, though he insisted upon his arrival that one Jon Snow held the title.

Benjen knows it is foolish and wholly pointless, but some, admittedly petty, part of him wants to write back to them. Tell them of dying in the forest, of his years spent beyond The Wall, of the Children of The Forest who saved him. Of Jon's assassination, and the Red Woman and her flames and her miracles. Of all that has transpired here, while they sit and debate on that which does not matter in their ivory tower. Of The White Walker whose beating upon Benjen from only two days ago he feels every time he takes a breath or a step.

But he knows the better course of action is one Samwell Tarly. Benjen doesn't want one more black brother wasting their time with the damned Maesters, and he hopes that Jon's friend can forgive him for recalling him back to The Wall, to assume his duties, no matter how much training he does or does not have. He has spent plenty of time in The South, and now Winter is Coming, and every man of The Night's Watch will soon be called to fulfil their oaths, through blood, death, and the dark.

He runs a hand over his face, groaning lowly and hanging his head in a mix of exhaustion and defeat. He cannot give into despair because of one contemptuous reply, he knows that, but it's hard to stay true to that when it feels like he's just been slapped in the face and called mad. He knows The Citadel holds little regard or care for The Watch, and that indeed, they stand on the opposite ends of many spectrums, but that doesn't stop him from wishing that they could get their heads out of their asses and think.

He knows how his letter sounded, however intentional it might have been; his letter was one born of an inherent desperation, and it showed in every single word he wrote. The Wall needs all the help it can get, he'd written, tens of times, hand cramping and stomach tied up in knots. We are doomed to fall if we do not receive it. The Dead are coming, and we have neither the resources nor the strength left in us to withstand their onslaught.

In the name of both The Old Gods and The New, I beg you to gather men and arms and make for The Wall. Winter is Coming, and it cares neither for House, Creed, or Faith. Perhaps his desperation and his fear bleed too much into his words, but Benjen is too tired to keep pretending. He is afraid. Hell, he's terrified. And he knows all the men are. He can see it in their faces, see it in their haggard expressions, in the set of their shoulders. They're all scared out of their damned minds, and somehow that isn't raising a single alarm to the fools in The South.

He doesn't care if they think him craven, think them all to be a band of rapists, criminals, and fools. He does care that they don't. He can't find it in himself to be surprised, but still, it chafes him, makes him angry, makes him sad, and makes him only more afraid of the doom that is crawling nearer to The Wall with every breath he takes. Nearer to the whole of Westeros.

A single blow of the horn blasts through the keep, but he pays it little mind, bracing his hands on the sides of his desk and glaring at the wood grain, trying to wrack his mind for what he's supposed to do now, knowing that The Citadel is probably whispering of madness upon The Wall and within its ranks, knowing that Cersei Lannister probably has her eyes set on his head as well, knowing that between the two of them, they can turn so much of The South against The Watch. Perhaps she'd even take the opportunity to dismantle them, on account of them being led by an apparent madman who raves about an army of The Dead.

Suddenly, a cold thought takes Benjen by his throat. He swears under his breath, digging through the piles of letters and missives on his desk, looking for Cersei's proclamation. He procures it, and reads over the last bit again, feeling the pit in his stomach slowly widen as he does. He grips the letter tight between his fingers, holding it taught, as taught as the tendons in his heart are beginning to feel.

Any man found to be conspiring with the following names will be sentenced to death for treason and sedition. They are all traitors to the realm and should be brought to King's Landing, dead or alive. Any man who delivers one of these men will be rewarded.

Jon was murdered, and there was no promise of Lordship attached to that betrayal. Benjen has little doubt that should a man of The Watch deliver proof of Benjen's death to the Lannister Queen, and proof of his involvement, he'd be freed from his oaths on top of the rewards she'd already alluded to. And there are men who still live who Benjen knows had, in some part, a hand in Jon's death. He remembers the crowd that stood around, and though the faces have been lost in his madness, he can guess well enough, if he tracks those who look at him in naked fear at all hours of the day.

He is in danger. He is in a lot of danger.

It's not a sharp realisation. It doesn't really hurt. It doesn't pierce him in two like the blade from The White Walker did all those years ago, like Jon's death in his arms did, like news of Ned and Brandon and Lyanna all did. It is like a slow suffocation, like all the air is slowly being syphoned from his lungs, and it is the realisation that he is powerless to stop it. The shadows seem to grow long, and he feels paranoia settle in between the waves of fear that roll slowly over him. If he dies, it all ends.

(He thinks of Brandon, for just a heartbeat. Dead by a lack of air. Kept in dark cells before. His big brother, the one who was once so very proud, the one Benjen thought unbreakable. And now, the one who is dead.)

He curses again, louder this time, right as someone knocks at the door. He stares at the door in apprehension, thinking of Jon, drawn out to the yard by false words, false promises of Benjen. Jon had told him that, at some point following the rush, and it had cut him raw, left him out to die. Jon, he knows, deep within him, had been drawn out by the endless desire to get some shred of his family back. And they'd used it against him.

"Come in," he finally calls, and Eddison Tollett steps in a moment later, a strange look on his face. Benjen tilts his head at him, hearing the commotion in the yard a bit better now. Sighing, he straightens up and asks, "Who is it?"

Edd starts to say something but then seems to second-guess himself, snapping his mouth shut. "It's…It might just be better for you to come down yourself. I am not actually fully sure of what the fuck is going on, anyway…" Benjen's First Ranger trails off, and he nods, grabbing his cloak from where he threw it over the back of his chair earlier, fastening it around his shoulders as he follows Edd into the courtyard.

Multiple pairs of eyes snap to him as he appears, and he himself pauses on the balcony, staring down at the odd assortment of men gathered in the courtyard. Slowly, his brows raise in surprise as he takes them, and he exchanges a glance with Edd, who just shrugs. Schooling his face, Benjen descends to the courtyard, approaching the man at the head of the group.

He is neither tall nor particularly short, with a grizzled and worn face, and one eye covered by an eye patch. When Benjen approaches, a slight smile crosses his face, recognition in his eyes though Benjen himself does not recognise the man in the slightest. "Ah," he says, tilting his head towards Benjen. "You must be Benjen Stark. You have your brother's look."

"And who are you?" Benjen asks sharply, too tired for politeness. Surely speaking like this to much of anyone would have had his mother and father both slapping him upside the head, but exhaustion does not allow for much courtesy when it comes down to it. Thankfully, the man takes it in stride, his smile growing as he regards him with his sole eye, which is a steely brown.

"Beric Dondarrion," he says, and the name rings a bell in the back of Benjen's mind, deep within it. He frowns, slightly. "Your brother, Eddard Stark, once sent me to capture The Mountain during his reign of terror over The Riverlands, during his time as Hand. I am sorry for your loss, I may add. He was a good man, and his death was an injustice."

Benjen just nods, and Dondarrion rakes his eyes across the courtyard. Benjen looks away from him, to study his companions, but he is quickly halted when he meets the eyes of one of his men. The tallest of the lot by far, with grey eyes that seem to miss little, and half his face covered in burns, Benjen knows exactly who is standing in the courtyard of Castle Black, looking at Benjen with an expression he cannot decipher.

"Your niece robbed me blind, once," The Hound–Sandor fucking Clegane–says, and Benjen makes a noise in the back of his throat, one of utter surprise. Furrowing his brow, Benjen thinks back through Sansa's story, and she had mentioned The Hound, he thinks, and hadn't Lady Brienne said something about him and Arya? Benjen had gotten news of her recently, and Jon had said something about that too, hadn't he? Sansa would be unlikely to rob much of anyone, but Arya, on the other hand…

Benjen sighs heavily, hanging his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose. The Hound's gaze does not leave him, even as Benjen turns back to Dondarrion, narrowing his eyes slightly at the man. "What brings you to The Wall?" He asks, keeping his voice as civil as possible, despite his trepidation given the circumstances. He lets a smile play across his lips though, some of his amusement genuine, as he says, "Come to take The Black?"

The Hound snorts, and Dondarrion properly smiles as well. At that moment, a man in faded red robes comes to stand next to him, and Dondarrion gestures to him. "This is Thoros of Myr, a member of The Brotherhood Without Banners." He eyes Benjen intentionally, and when Benjen apparently doesn't give him whatever reply he was looking for, he folds his arms behind his back and continues.

"The Mountain killed me in The Riverlands. Thoros here, a priest of R'hllor, brought me back and has done so time and time again. Together, we founded The Brotherhood, to help the common people who got caught between the kings and their wars. But The Lord of Light has called us to The Wall and the enemy that lies beyond it." Dondarrion's one eye looks at Benjen intentionally. "I heard Stannis Baratheon was here, once, along with his Red Woman. You do not seem surprised by what Thoros can do. What he has done. Perhaps The Lady Mellisandre…" he does not continue, but Benjen can grasp his meaning well enough, and the silence of the courtyard speaks for itself. Everyone knows how Jon came back, everyone remembers The Red Woman with brutal clarity.

But Benjen's mind is miles away. Jon, dying in the snow. The wolves howling into the night. His broken and bleeding body lying on that table, lifeless and taken from me like the rest of them. The Red Woman's voice in the dark. Thorne, on the other end of my fist, face bloody and beaten. The rage fills Benjen for a horrible moment, a dark moment that makes it nearly impossible to breathe, and he closes his eyes, forces himself to focus and to keep his emotions in check.

When he opens his eyes, Dondarrion is looking at him with an expression that makes his skin prickle uncomfortably, and he swallows tightly, looking towards Edd, who perks up when he notices Benjen's gaze. "Find these men quarters and food." He glances once at The Hound, who is looking at him carefully with those grey eyes of his, though neither of them makes a move to do much more than watch one another. Which is alright. Benjen can speak to him later if he so pleases.

The rest of the Brotherhood files away, leaving only Benjen and Beric Dondarrion, standing in the courtyard. Even Thoros of Myr–a name that does draw familiarity from Benjen, just because of his brother's stories of the man during The Greyjoy Rebellion–files away after a pause, taking a long swig from the wineskin at his hip. The Hound is the last to leave, still watching Benjen, and once he is gone, Benjen cannot help but ask, "How did you get The Hound to follow you?"

Dondarrion smiles again, a sliver of his teeth showing. "It's as you Starks say: Winter is Coming. Everyone has a purpose in this war. He is no different." He looks at Benjen carefully. "You have seen The Lord of Light at work, haven't you?"

Again, Benjen says nothing, beginning to walk forward, to the cage that takes men to the top of The Wall. Dondarrion follows after a moment, and they take the ride to the top of The Wall in silence, the cold air blowing in their cloaks and through their hair. But Benjen barely feels it, his mind stuck on repeat of those images he will never forget. Dying in the snow, the both of us. My blood running between my fingers, and then Jon's. Hot and horrible and crimson, staining the snow…just like Lyanna's blood had stained her birthing bed. Bran had said she'd died with Ned's hand in hers. He'd lied to the whole realm for a boy who would die in my arms because I was too late. The sign that read Traitor. The boy who shoved his knife into Jon's heart, the boy who I killed not a heartbeat later.

It is only when they reach the top, when the both of them are staring out over the edge of The Wall, over the forest that stretches beyond it, at the very edge of the world to most people here in Westeros, that Dondarrion speaks, his voice low and understanding. "Who was it?" He asks.

Benjen purses his lips together, tilting his head upwards, in order to try and hide the tears that build in the back of his throat. Sometimes, he wakes up in a sweat, having dreamt of that horrible night, still feeling the phantom weight of Jon's corpse in his arms, his last breath against Benjen's skin. "My nephew," he finally says, voice thick and running raw. There is no concealing this emotion, even if he knows Jon lives. Because it is so much more than Jon. So much more than a betrayal.

Promise me, Benjen, Ned had begged of him, before he left for The Wall with a nephew in tow, neither of them to see Ned ever again. And, over twenty years ago, his big sister had whispered much the same to Ned, as she lay dying. Promise me, Ned, she'd said. She'd begged Ned to protect Jon, and he'd done much the same of Benjen, and yet he could not do so when it all came down to it. It's not just his promise to Ned he broke. It's the one Ned made to Lyanna that he also tore to pieces.

He inhales shakily, crossing his arms and staring out at the distance. Sunset is a good many hours away, still. Perhaps some time in The Godswood would do him and his still aching wounds some good. It is hard to think that the attack was only three days ago, and Robb's letter came only the day before. Time is bleeding by, the days blending together into one shapeless stretch of time and fights and blood in the snow. As their doom crawls nearer to them, it will get even more jumbled, he knows.

"There was a mutiny," he continues, after a long moment where the only sound was the wind as it blew through his cloak and hair, whistling a mournful tune. "Jon had brought Wildlings South of The Wall, to save them from what is coming. But the blood runs hot between The Wildlings and The Night's Watch, so some men took issue with it. I came upon them right as the first knife went into Jon. I did everything I could…and it wasn't worth a damn. He still died. The Red Woman still brought him back, and now he sits in Winterfell, beside his sister, doing everything he can against what comes, just as I do."

Dondarrion nods. "Men fear what they do not know. It is what keeps us alive. But sometimes, it ends in the wrong course of action." His eye narrows into a thin slit, and his expression tightens dramatically, the easygoingness of his expression bleeding away. "My quest against The Mountain was madness. I was a fool and died for it. But The Lord of Light has kept bringing me back, for some reason, for some fate. Just as he did your nephew." He tilts his chin towards the Lands Beyond The Wall, The Lands of Always Winter. "And I like to believe it lies out there."

"All our fates lie in The Long Night," Benjen agrees. "None more so than House Stark. I was raised on the stories of The First Long Night as a boy, and now I face it myself. My blood comes from those days, from those hours, from that war. And it is my blood that now must lead the charge against the coming storm. House Stark's fate is tied to what comes of this war. If we lose, The Wolf's blood will die with me, my nieces, and my nephews. The North will fall, and the whole of The World will be plunged into an endless darkness."

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Words of a father, passed down for generations. Those words are older than some Houses, Benjen would guess, and have outlived just as many. Through a hundred winters and thousands of years, there has always been a Stark in Winterfell, there has always been the blood of Brandon The Builder and The First Men seated in there. When Ned and Brandon and Father rode off to War, when Lyanna was taken, it was Benjen who kept that unbroken line up.

Dondarrion nods, the wind blowing through the air. "We are all servants of The Gods," he tells Benjen, and though Benjen chafes a bit at the idea, he's not here for a theological debate. "And Winter is Coming, as you Starks say. It matters not who fights. Just that we do." His one eye turns to look at Benjen carefully. "Men of The Watch forsake all former ties when they take The Black, no?"

"Aye, we do," Benjen agrees, but he smiles ruefully. "But I have never been good at letting go, I will admit. I have always held Winterfell and my House deep within my heart. If forced to choose between The Watch and my nieces and nephews–or, if the choice was given to me, my siblings–I do not know what my choice would be. I love them, but my duty keeps me here." He smiles mournfully, remembering something Maester Aemon had told him a long time ago, told Jon too, he thinks.

"Love is the death of duty," he echoes the man's words, his smile growing even more bitter. "And duty is the death of love. I have not forsaken my ties, and have never been able to forget. Speak to the men, and they will tell you of how I butchered my nephew's killers, they will tell you what happens to traitors upon this Wall. And perhaps, if you could find the ghosts of the men who killed Jeor Mormont, one of them will tell you what words I gave to him when I learned what he did."

And oh, that day near Craster's Keep feels like a lifetime and a half ago, and yet, he remembers what he said to that witless fool he'd fought as well as anything, as well as he remembers the worst days of his life. 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.

"My House has suffered enough betrayals," he concludes, and Dondarrion sobers. He'd said that Ned had sent him on his mission to The Mountain. Benjen wonders, briefly, what he thinks of that choice, what he thinks of his brother's choice to do so. He'd said he was a good man, and yet, the thought gnaws at the back of his mind. Thoughts of Ned always do that to him. The brother he abandoned. The brother who was taken from him just like the rest of them. "I will not let it happen again."

"Though," he says after a breath, "I will take whoever joins this fight with open arms. The Dead are crawling to us, and I know the oath I swore. I will uphold it. My father did not raise me to be an oathbreaker, nor a craven who cannot stand against his enemy. The Wall is doomed to fall, and I will be forced to run or die, but I will hold it until the bitter end. I will not run until I have no other option."

Dondarrion nods, something gleaming in his eyes. "You are a bold man, Benjen Stark. And a man of Honour, just like your brother."

"Bold?" Benjen echoes, shaking his head. "I'm just one of the only fuckers left in this world who's mad enough to try and win."

—

It is an hour before nightfall, and Benjen sits alone in The Godswood.

It's probably just a little idiotic, to be out here alone, given the attack only a few days prior, but The Wall now feels suffocating in a new way, with The Brotherhood Without Banners there, never mind The Hound. He'd been staring long and hard at Benjen from where he was looming silently in the courtyard when Benjen and Beric came back down, and Benjen wonders just what has got the man so intent on him.

But he likes the solitude, likes the cold, likes the familiarity of The Godswood around him. Red leaves fall gently around him, circling downwards in dizzying swirls like drops of blood slowly falling from the crown of The Heart Tree. Benjen sits with his back to the carved face of the Weirwood, the strange almost smile of its face haunting in the dead of Winter. The Weirwood in Winterfell always looked to be in agony, at least in Benjen's youth, weeping in rivulets of blood-red sap.

It feels like a lifetime ago that he last came here, riding North, his nephew on The Wall, a fresh recruit, his brother headed South to be The Hand of The King. Things had seemed easier then, despite all the rumours that swirled, the low numbers, and the feeling in the pit of his stomach. That expedition had ended in him nearly dying, bleeding out in the white snow, maimed by a creature straight out of the stories of his youth.

He has let himself think little of that first attack, of how Othor and Jafer were the last to fall, how he abandoned them all on his half-dead horse, sword in pieces, heart a war drum in his chest. That horse had died maybe a mile later, abandoning Benjen in the snow. And so he'd run, but never fast enough. The Walker had plunged a blade into his gut, and that scar is still ugly and mangled on his belly, aching when it gets particularly cold. He should have died as he crawled through the snow. He doesn't know why he didn't, what The Children did to him.

Fate, it would seem, still has plans for you, Benjen Stark.

But he remembers warmth, exploding across his chest like a blast of fire, followed shortly by a nameless agony. He remembers little hands, rough in an odd way, holding his head between them as he thrashed, every inch of his body alight with the never-ending flames of pain as he was dragged from the edge. He had never thought himself one trained against the heat, and in the safety of their cave, he'd been proven right.

It had been hot and white and burning, the pain that had bloomed through him as they wrestled him back into the hands of the living. And when it was over, as he lay gasping weakly on the floor, breaths coming in as shallow crests and wheezy noises, he'd known it was something he was never going to forget. And he'd been right. If he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, it's like he's back there again, and the pain crawls over his skin.

Benjen's skin prickles at the reminder, and he closes his eyes, inhaling the crisp Winter air. It is not hot, it is cold as ever, and the cold is what he knows. He has learned the true meaning of both cold and hot, and he can safely say that it is cold that settles him, that keeps him grounded in the world. Dying had been cold, once, and then coming back from it had been as hot as a thousand suns. But as afraid as he'd been while dying in the snow, he only half remembers it through the haze of his pain and anguish. The heat he remembers. The heat he fears.

Benjen focuses himself slowly, drawing his sword and running a cloth and a stone over it in methodical patterns. He'd caught Ned doing this in Winterfell time and time again, on almost every visit to the castle he made following his departure for The Wall. For the both of them, they had found solace in the silent groves of Winterfell following the horror and darkness that had befallen their House, and though Ned is gone and Benjen is hundreds of miles from home, the comfort remains.

If he closes his eyes, now he can almost think he is back in Winterfell, in the sight of his father's gods, and the rasping of a stone against steel is the sound of Ned sharpening Ice, the Valyrian Steel glittering in the daylight. If he closes his eyes, he can see Ned's smile one more time, see him happy. All Ned wanted for him to be was happy. If Ned could see him now, lonely in these woods, tears rising in the back of his throat the more he thinks of his poor, doomed, brother, he thinks he'd be sad.

Gods, but the thought of Ned makes him feel like he's been sliced open, like his heart and his organs and everything within him has been ripped out of him and laid upon the snow. He wants his brother back, just as he's wanted all of them back, and sitting here, surrounded by their Gods and mimicking what he used to do back home, the longing is enough to make Benjen cry. And so he does, silent and bitter, shoulders shaking as he glares at the snow and remembers what it felt like to slowly die.

Ned didn't die a slow death. Joffrey used Ice against him, turning the blade of their own House onto his neck. The mockery makes Benjen angry. The thought makes his tears fall faster, though he does not make a sound, does not break the bubble of utter silence that has always consumed these woods. Brandon died a slow death. Their father died a slow death. And Lyanna…lovely, brave, and beautiful Lyanna, she died a mother, died a girl, died slowly in a pool of her own blood, christened by her birthing bed.

He holds his head in his hands and cries even more, then, choking on air and forcing himself to try and breathe around the hole in his lungs, the gaping wound in his heart. Surrounded by The Gods of his House, boxed in by memories on all sides, there is nowhere he can go to outrun the anguish that has made itself a part of his very bones.

He hears a sound and wipes his face just in time to see someone come through the woods, astride a horse. It takes him a moment to recognise the new arrival, and when he does, he raises a sole brow in surprise, not expecting to see The Hound, of all people, coming through the woods to The Godswood. House Clegane is of The Westerlands, after all. What business do they have with The Old Gods of The North?

But the man does not look to be here to pray. He comes over to Benjen, something firm but unnamable in his expression, brows pinched together and mouth pulled into a frown. Benjen looks tiredly up at him, knowing evidence of his weeping is likely quite obvious on his face, but lacking the energy to care. The Hound regards him for a long moment, grey eyes on grey, before he snorts. "You look like your pup niece."

"Arya," Benjen presumes, and The Hound nods. He seems to hesitate a moment before sitting near to Benjen, on another one of the rocks that surround The Heart Tree, to which he sends a suspicious look. Benjen turns back to his neglected blade, running a cloth over it slowly as he continues. "She takes after Ned, indeed, and I look much like my brother and father both. But she is much more Lyanna's picture, not mine."

Benjen looks carefully at him, setting his blade aside, and resting his hands on his knees as he studies him. To his credit, The Hound does not blanch under his gaze, simply holds steady, face cold and resolute, which Benjen can respect. "My niece Sansa came to The Wall, many months ago, and told me a story. Of a Hound who offered her freedom. Of The Lady Knight she travelled with, who had spotted the very same Hound with my other niece." He cocks his head, and with a slight and very knowing smile, asks, "I don't suppose you know anything about it?"

The Hound narrows his eyes at Benjen, before snorting again, grimly amused. "You're nothing like your fucking brother, that's for sure," he says, and when Benjen's lips press together, he almost sneers. "Oh, you've got his honour, no doubt, but that tongue of yours is sharper than his ever was. Sharp like the little pup's."

"Then you never met my brother properly, then," Benjen muses and The Hound tilts his head in consideration. "He may have been slow to anger, but his tongue could be sharp when he let it be. Ned was no fool, though, and kept his words to himself or to whispers that could only be heard by the siblings who would smile and say it to people's faces for him. But, you, Clegane, don't strike me as the type to avoid a question. So, let's stop talking about brothers, shall we?"

The Hound's lip curls, though Benjen can see the dawning respect in his eyes, the understanding that perhaps Benjen is a little more than he thought he'd be. It makes Benjen feel strangely smug, though he says nothing of it.

"Aye," The Hound finally says, after a long moment in which only the silence and the wild reigned. "I met The Lady Knight–Brienne of Tarth. She nearly killed me, and your niece robbed me as I lay dead. I was planning to give her back to your sister-in-law or your boy king of a nephew, but it didn't quite work out." His eyes darken, and Benjen recalls the stories of The Red Wedding with a pit in his stomach, a pit-like grief.

"For money?" Benjen asks, though he thinks knows the answer.

"A man makes do where he can," The Hound says with a shrug. Benjen is not surprised and makes no attempt to pretend to be. He knows how this all works, knows how valuable either of the girls would be to any of the players of the bloody war that took his brother from him, the last of his childhood. And with Winter so dark on the horizon, any man with sense left in this world would probably do much the same, if given the chance.

"I never took you to be a man of faith, Clegane," Benjen says, turning to look at the weeping face of the Weirwood. Does the man they call The Hound feel like a stranger in these woods, in the sight of these gods, these gods that are so foreign to most of the world, but are one of Benjen's few remaining comforts and ties to a life that ended with the deaths of his sister and brother and father? The Hound makes an odd noise, but Benjen does not look at him.

"And yet, you travel with The Brotherhood, men who follow The Lord of Light, a foreign God of flames like the ones that scarred you." He hears the other man shift, but he pays his discontent no mind, narrowing his eyes and staring even harder at the carved face. "And yet, you come find me in a grove of Weirwoods, in the sight of the cold Gods of The North who do not speak and only weep. Why are you here? What has led you here? There is no money in this endeavour."

He turns to look again at The Hound, Sandor Clegane, as he asks his final question, only to be met with a strange expression on his face. He is looking at him like he's nearly surprised by his words, and Benjen cants his head at the man, saying nothing. The Silence stretches between them, pulled taught by their own thoughts and stubborn wills, though trouble dances in Clegane's eyes as he regards Benjen. And it is trouble and discontent that swirls in Benjen's stomach, though he knows the evidence of his tears conceals it from his expression.

"I don't give a damn about The Lord of fucking Light," Clegane says finally. "But I believe what you Black Brothers have been saying, and what Beric and Thoros both say is coming. If I die, I have no fucking plans of coming back to this damn world. And I'd like to smash a few more heads in before I die."

Benjen smiles at that, truly smiles. It makes Clegane take a double take at him, and Benjen thinks he's probably seeing one of his nieces at the moment, or perhaps even Ned, but he cares little. He has known for a long time that ghosts reside in his face. "Well, you'll fit right in, then. When I die, I plan to let my bones rest beneath Winterfell, alongside my father, mother, brothers, and sister. Not a hundred miles North of The Wall, torn from my House and my kin."

Clegane has no reply to that, and Benjen lets the silence stretch out, glad that it is not as suffocating as he knows it could be. He recalls the last time he saw The Hound, though he's certain the other man doesn't recall it. It was in Winterfell, when Robert and The Lannisters made the long trek Northwards, and he a much shorter one Southwards, during the feast. He'd glimpsed Clegane and his scowl once, as he searched for his brother amongst the crowd.

The notions of kinship and brotherhood, he thinks, are probably lost on the man they call The Hound, the man with the burned face and the eternal scowl. Benjen has heard a whisper or two in his time, and he knows what they say about The Mountain and his reign of terror in The Riverlands. But Benjen will not lie that all he wants is to have a home to go back to, to see Winterfell through one more Winter, to defend her to his last. The stone and snow of Winterfell is a part of his bones, the very rhythm of his heart.

Benjen glances at his blade, glimmering in the light that will be gone before they know it. He should get back soon, but something keeps him rooted to the spot, keeps him sitting here, in this grove of trees, under the watchful eyes of the Weirwood tree and the trees that surround it. He looks up and sees the sun shining through the canopy of red leaves, casting the world in shades of burning red and orange, like fire, like a spark of something. And against the white of the snow and the tree, it looks unreal, and even though he has seen this sight half a hundred times, it still makes Benjen's breath catch.

But something disturbs his wonder, a strange sound that makes him pause. He and Clegane exchange a glance but no words as they hear a shuffling noise. It has not grown particularly cold, meaning no Walker is coming, but the hairs of the back of Benjen's neck stand straight up, and his still-healing wounds sting oddly. He grabs his blade silently and sees Clegane holding his own from the corner of his eye, though he is more focused on staring at the bushes from which the noise is coming.

Benjen's heart skips a beat as the wight comes crawling through the underbrush. He hears Clegane swear as they stare at the writing remains of what was once a man, and he remembers Robb's request with a sort of single-minded focus. Holding his blade in a white-knuckled grip, he walks over to the beast, and presses his boot to its chest, pinning it in place.

The thing screeches, and he winces as it echoes through the forest like the call of a horn. Still, he simply stares down at it, thinking through all his options. Clegane comes over, then, and frowns at him. "You're not gonna kill the damn thing?" He asks, voice rough enough that Benjen almost misses the hint of something more, something innately human in his voice. Benjen would not go as far as to call it fear he is hearing in the man's voice, but he certainly does not sound reassured by the screeching and writhing wight that Benjen is keeping in place with naught but his boot.

"Not yet," Benjen finally says, studying it for a moment. He can see the tattered remains of once black clothes, and his heart lurches as he registers that. Thankfully, the face is too deteriorated for him to recognise it. But what he does recognise is the bite marks on the wight's side. He doesn't think that this Black Brother, whoever he once was, died against Walkers. It looks like something got real hungry for some food and took a bite out his side.

And Benjen can only think of one creature that would do so, and make marks like that in a body. "He died fighting a direwolf," Benjen tells Clegane, gesturing to the marks with his sword. The other man swears, and Benjen can feel his look as well as anything. "Nasty business. But now, some other wolves need him."

"What the fuck are you going on about, Stark?" Cleange asks, exasperated. Benjen cracks a smile.

"My nephew, Robb Stark, wrote to me about a week's past. He is with that Targaryen Queen on Dragonstone, having been freed from The Lannisters by her. He requested I send him proof of what my other nephew, Jon, told him of. Meaning, he wants proof of The Army of the Dead, so that he can show it to The Dragon Queen and try and win her to our side, or something like that." Benjen's expression tightens. "I need to get it to Robb if we have any hope of getting aid."

"You sure it ain't got friends right behind it?" Clegane asks suspiciously, his eyes roving the treeline. Benjen just shrugs, and the man exhales loudly in clear annoyance, though he doesn't say anything more on the issue. "You're gonna want to tie the thing up. I'll get you some men and some rope, how about that?"

Benjen nods, glancing up. They have only a little time left before nightfall. "Hurry. Night will fall over us soon, and I want this thing in one of the Ice Cells before then. Thank you." He meets the man's eyes. They hold each other's gaze for a moment, the air thick between them, before The Hound mutters something under his breath and leaves Benjen be.

He makes an odd sound once he's alone, and not intentionally. He can't keep his eyes off the wound in the poor man's side, the evidence that wolves still live beyond The Wall, in some capacity. Though the man has clearly been dead for some time, that does not mean that the wolf that killed him is. It could be out there somewhere, prowling the wilds, flinty-eyed and dangerous. Ned wasn't surprised by the fact that direwolves lived, anyway. He'd been surprised that they were South of The Wall, and as had Benjen, the only living Stark to have seen one before then.

He still remembers the first time he saw one, and the pack he saw many years ago, near to when he first came to The Wall. There'd been perhaps ten of them, slinking alongside their ranging party, watching them carefully. Benjen does not know what kept them away, why his party was spared, but he thinks of the wolf who crawled her way south, pregnant with a perfect number of pups for the Stark children, and wonders if he had anything to do with it.

He is The Black Wolf, as the Wildlings took to calling him a long time ago. The Stark of The Wall, The First Ranger whose teeth were long and sharp, his blood hot with a fierceness only found in Starks. Vicious, bloody, and hell-bent on his cause, he was their bane for many long years, the only man with The North in his blood as much as them. The true Northman of The Watch, the Stark upon The Wall, the wolf in the dark.

Whether one believes he is half feral, half wolf, half wild, many will agree he has long since been one of the most dangerous men in the whole of The North and Night's Watch alike. The stories from Beyond The Wall paint him as something dangerous, a wolf prowling the wilds, and as he thinks of how he returned to The Wall, and the blood that lay upon the snow, he doesn't think that The Wildlings got it all wrong when it came to him.

Sometimes, he would feel like those wolves, slinking through shadows, black as the night, and with the same blood in him. Jeor always said that there was no one who knew these lands better than Benjen, and some of the men took to saying that he was a wolf in man's clothes, with how sure-footed he was, how easily he could track things. And now, all he feels like is whatever wolf was desperate enough to take a chunk out of man and do nothing more.

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. That adage is perfectly clear. But Benjen glances back, at The Wall that looms in the horizon, made of ice and stone and magic alike, built by the man who raised the stones of Winterfell so very high. What of The Wall? Does it too need some man with the blood of The Wolf to lie upon it, to guard it? Or maybe it is more than when that blood does come, something new is opened up, something raw and wild and untamed.

Something tugs at the back of his mind, and he glances up, his heart hammering in his chest as he sees a pair of yellow eyes staring at him. His mouth grows dry as the first wolf comes slinking through the trees, black as the night, followed by ten or so others. All their eyes are trained on him, and the world has gone still and silent around him. But not cold. This is not the work of The Others; these wolves live, and fear has not taken his heart and frozen it, and though he holds his blade tightly, he is not afraid, not in the way he thinks he should be.

He looks to the Heart Tree, and it's weeping face. It was here that the first wights were found, when the beginning of the end started. He stares at the face on the Tree and remembers six pups, creatures of The North, sure signs of something larger at play. He remembers the whispers amongst the castle of the wolves–creatures of the Old Gods.

Benjen, a voice whispers in his ear, and he goes still. The wolves have surrounded him, staring him down, keeping him rooted to the spot. He hardly notices how the wight has stopped thrashing under him, too focused on the wolves that stare into his very soul. Benjen. Benjen. Benjen.

He thinks of his mother, for just a moment. Of a smile as warm as a hundred summers and more, of clear blue skies and laughter that always rang true. His heart begins to ache in between his ribs, and he thinks he has never wanted the comfort of home half as much as he does now. But he is miles away, fighting on the front line, fighting for the last remnants of his brother and his sister alike. His mother's voice whispers in his ear, the words lost to time and the fragility of memory.

He opens his eyes, and there are tears on his cheeks. The wind is rustling through his hair, and the wight is still silent, and all the wolves still stare at him. He does not know what to say in the face of this impossible sight. He even opens his mouth to try and make something come out, but his efforts are fruitless, the silence remains unbroken.

Finally, the first wolf tilts its head to the sky and howls a mournful tune that makes Benjen feel like he's been stabbed through the heart with a cold blade. The wolves join in, and bark and break the silence for him, before turning back into the woods and disappearing just as quickly as they came.

—

Benjen can feel the headache pounding at the edges of his mind as the men around him keep debating the same points over and over again. He glances at his First Builder, Grenn, and sees the man looks half awake where he sits, having been on the watch for most of the day. And then there is Edd, who is glaring at everyone who dares look his way. Pyp seems the most pleased of the three, but even then, he looks to be crawling close to just telling everyone to shut up.

Despite their prior clenched teeth civility, Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke are once again all but at one another's throats, and The Brotherhood isn't helping. The Hound keeps butting in at inopportune moments, Thoros of Myr is going to get punched if he opens his mouth and starts preaching again, and unfortunately, the only sane one of that group seems to be Beric Dondarrion, and he's the one whose taken over preaching as Thoros sips at his wine.

Benjen is pretty sure he regrets giving the Red Priest access to their wine, but then again, Thoros still looks sober, so he's really not sure if the wine is actually having any effect on the madman.

They have the maps all spread out over a few shoved-together tables in Benjen's solar, and though it is getting near to the Hour of Ghosts, they're still all debating. There is a general agreement that, one way or another, The Night's Watch will get the captured Wight Southwards to Dragonstone, but the logistics as to how are proving far too difficult to get agreement on.

Cotter wants to lead a group to Eastwatch and have Benjen write to White Harbour for ships. Denys, ever distrustful of The Ironborn commander, thinks that they should go over land to ships waiting for them in White Harbour, where they can enjoy the protection of Winterfell and show any remaining sceptics amongst The Northern Lords their proof. The Brotherhood are preaching speed, and Benjen would agree on it, if they weren't talking about the damn The Lord of Light half the time.

"I say we let the fucking Lord Commander decide," Edd finally cuts in, voice short and his exhaustion evident. The men all turn to Benjen, who sighs heavily where he sits, resting his chin in hand as he thinks and traces the maps with his eyes. Though, they do all wait for him to speak, respecting his authority, and he's glad that at least still stands here on The Wall. Though, whether that is through fear or genuine respect, he does not know.

Finally, he stands, his chair screeching back as he does. He rests his hands flat on the table and takes one more moment to study the maps before he speaks. "Speed is of the essence, yes. And it would not be bad to stop by Winterfell, as well. How I see it, though, is that we must prioritise speed over all. Robb will not come North until he has at least made an effort with The Dragon Queen, and I do not want to be the one to delay his return."

"Eastwatch, as well, is still a weak spot," he says, tapping it on the map. Cotter makes an affronted noise, but he does not let the man speak his mind, eyes fixed on the map. "Not because of you, Cotter. The Shadow Tower is protected by the mountains and is difficult to get to. Eastwatch is on the sea, and just a smidge further from Castle Black than The Shadow Tower is, as well. Wights, we believe, cannot cross the seas, but we cannot be sure. And our enemies are The North's, as well, and Euron Greyjoy patrols the seas. Cersei Lannister wants Stark Heads. If I were her, I'd go by Eastwatch to get to the one sitting here before you now."

Trouble crosses all the men's faces at the reminder. No one has broached the subject with him directly, yet, but he knows it weighs on all of their minds, for it weighs on his. If Cersei gets her way, he will be dead before summer returns to these lands, sending The Night's Watch spiralling as they lose their third Lord Commander in perhaps a decade. "We cannot afford to garrison Eastwatch, no, but it will do us no harm to go by it."

Cotter nods, self-satisfied, but Benjen dashes it soon enough. "The Brotherhood Without Banners will take the men that they need for the journey, but no Black Brother in this room will join them. I will not send any of us out alone, and not to Queens I do not trust. I need everyone I can get on The Wall, and though I will bitterly part with a few rangers, I will not give any of you leave."

He meets all of their eyes in turn. Grenn, Edd, and Pyp seem almost pleased to hear it, but he knows they're not surprised. Of the men who command The Wall, only The First Ranger has ever truly left Castle Black or wherever The Watch's strength and leadership lies, for extended periods of time. And with their enemy drawing near, Benjen has done away with any long rangings, leaving Eddison Tollett here almost all the time. Both Denys and Cotter look more resigned to the news, but Benjen knows that both of them are cut from the same cloth of Black Brothers as he is.

They're both, in their own and often contrary, ways, men of action. Fighters turned leaders, men who have seen many long years upon The Wall, more than even Benjen, and he is no green boy. This inaction is maddening to them both, and Benjen knows that is what is making them chafe at one another again, despite the civility he's forcing them to maintain. They will, for better or worse, do as they are wont to do, and there is little Benjen can do but enforce his rulings and hope they listen.

(Hope it does not end with him as it ended with Jon. He feels, for just a moment, a cold hand take his heart and squeeze the air out of him. The shadows elongate and darken, paranoia settles deep in his stomach, and fear consumes him. Knives in The Dark, he thinks. They have haunted his dreams since Jon died, and now, they haunt even his waking moments, determined to never let go of him.)

He shakes his head to dispel his thoughts, clearing his throat as he realises how long his silence has stretched and that everyone is staring at him. Curling one of his hands into a fist, he says to Beric Dondarrion, "You will travel as a neutral body, representing The Watch. Take no sides, not even Robb's. He is my nephew, aye, and my heart lies with him, but yours cannot–The Watch's cannot. We take no sides, and I will uphold that as much as I can, even though I have little reason to trust The Dragon Queen."

He knows that they all think of the same thing. Of Rickard burned and Brandon choked, and the fury that crashed upon The South, the fury of snarling wolves. Of Lyanna stolen, (and only a baby to speak to it, a son whose truth is known to none of these men, even his own friends), and Eddard made Lord. Of a Mad King and the war that came to his doors, and the pup that came to The Wall in the aftermath. Denys and Cotter have both been here long enough to remember little Ben Stark, barely seven and ten and sharp in the teeth as all teething pups are, vicious and hurt from all that had fallen upon his House.

Benjen will never voice the fear that consumes him every time he thinks of Robb, brilliant Robb, courting The Dragon Queen, daughter of the man who stole Benjen's family from his hands, but it is fear–there is no doubt about that. Fear mixed with worry and age-old grievances that only make the shadows grow longer and his headache worse. He feels mad, seeing enemies in the shadows and feeling his heartbeat begin to race at the mere thought of all that could come and damn them all.

Dondarrion nods, but glances once at The Hound. Benjen will not choose who goes or does not amongst The Brotherhood, but he is uncertain that The Hound will perhaps be the best choice for company while meeting a woman like Daenerys Targaryen. He thinks Dondarrion is weighing the pros and cons himself, Clegane looking nonplussed where he stands, and Benjen leaves the man to his consideration.

With his verdict having cleaned things up, things move smoother at last. He writes the letter to The Manderlys in White Harbour while they are still discussing, informing them of their need and their lack of ships. Cotter is uncertain as to how well the ships left at Eastwatch are in the absence of anyone to care for them, and Benjen and he both agree that they're not leaving it up to chance. And with one more letter to Winterfell, a backend request for Sansa and Jon to nudge the Manderlys, he knows that the men will have a ship with black sails waiting for them when they come upon Eastwatch.

They finally break, and Benjen is left in his solar, alone. There is a snowstorm on the horizon, the rangers report, and he will need to get The Brotherhood and his letters both out before it hits Castle Black properly, so in at most, three or so days. It is a quick turnaround, but he's had to get used to them, get used to thinking quickly and staying light on his toes, lest he be surprised. It is what probably saved him from a slow death via White Walker when he last tussled with one.

It takes everything in him to not drag his feet as he goes towards his quarters, exhausted beyond measure. He knows he will not get enough sleep, for he has not done so in months, but he will get what he can and go from there. He feels dead on his feet by the time he closes his door behind him, leaning against the wooden door for a moment to breathe deeply and slowly, feeling the cold of the world settle into his bones for a moment.

He forces himself to undress and get into something he won't later hate himself for sleeping in. He puts up his sword and hangs his cloak. Brushes his hair and even trims his beard, even though he's struggling to keep his eyes open and his head feels like a lead weight on his shoulders. And when he finally slips into bed, all but falling upon it really, it's all that more rewarding for it.

His dreams are strange, full of wolves that howl to the moon, and the carved faces of Weirwood trees. He hears his mother's voice, once, whispering his name in the shell of his ear, her arms tight around his waist. He was young when she died, barely ten, and his memories of her fade with each year. But he remembers a smile, remembers a laugh, and her hugs.

In tonight's dream, he is alone in a Godswood for most of it. The sun is low in the sky, and blood pools in the snow. Faceless corpses lay all around him, and he can, in the distance, hear the sound of clashing steel. He looks to the sky, at the starry night, and it shifts to an endless blue before his eyes. When he looks back down, the snow has turned to snow, nine men lay dead, swords around them, and he is in the shadow of a tower, from which wails sound.

And that is where it ends, and Benjen wakes. It is before dawn as he wakes, sitting up in bed for a long moment and holding his head in his hands, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The headache from the night before has not let up, and pinches at the corners of his mind, demanding all that he can give and more. Once more, his mother's voice flits past his ears, like a distant song from around the corner. Benjen.

He takes a moment, as he's getting dressed, to examine his wounds. His ribs are yellow and green from the hard falls he took while fighting the wights, and his hand still aches an awful tune. The cut on his face is still held together by stitches, and his arm, while not broken by the hit it took, has a long slash on it, one that is still red and ugly. The Maesters that Denys and Cotter had brought aren't too concerned about it, he knows, but he grimaces as he examines it. It might be okay, in the end, but that doesn't mean it looks good.

Pulling on his shirt hurts, and stepping out into the cold makes him feel unbearably awake. The trek to the rookery makes his cold muscles strain, the whole world so very cold around him. Neither Maester is there when he arrives, but he scrawls out a note about the absent ravens and sends his letters to White Harbour, Dragonstone, and Winterfell out himself. He waits until the birds disappear over the horizon to retreat back to the keep.

Dawn is crawling over the horizon, and The Wall is waking up all around him. Men nod at him as he passes by, and with every face, he reminds himself of their name and their order. Jeor knew every man upon The Wall, knew their names and stories and how they'd gotten here. Benjen isn't quite there, but he's doing his best to get there. And for the men he distrusts, the men who look at him in fear, their involvement in Jon's murder hanging in the air, he makes note of them especially.

Perhaps he is paranoid. But he thinks he has earned it, earned the right to trust little in strangers, after all that he has seen, after all the ends that have come upon his House. Catelyn and Ned were betrayed. Lyanna, seduced. Rickard and Brandon, executed on charges that were not what they seemed. Robb, put in chains through treachery. And Jon, murdered in the snow that he shares his name with, killed by a knife to the heart, despite Benjen's best attempts otherwise.

He takes his breakfast in the mess hall, watching the men mill about and converse lowly. The world is so quiet here, the men solemn in the face of their inescapable doom, sent into disarray by all the chaos of the past year. Benjen is doing what he can, but he knows the men are afraid, and that he alone cannot turn their hearts to courage. That lies, at least somewhat, in them making that choice. In them choosing to rally, choosing to fight for their lives, fight for the very Seven Kingdoms that cast them out.

Looking around the room, Benjen sees only a few other men that he knows for a certainty came upon The Wall willingly, as he did. The rest are exiles, disgraced sons, rapists, thieves, men accused of crimes that are not theirs, and the like. What reason do they have to want to fight for The Seven Kingdoms, fight for the people they were removed from? He has long since been an outlier, a man running from ghosts, not a crime, but he feels his loneliness now, more than ever, staring out at the men.

The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives. The Gods have kept him alive for this long, have they not, despite only being with his House in a few bare snatches of time? And not The Red God that Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion speak of in hushed voices, but The Gods who whispered in his ear only the day before, The Gods whose presence he felt, standing in the woods, surrounded by the living sigils of his House. The Gods who first pulled him to The Wall and the ragtag band of brothers in black that lies upon it.

(Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.)

He'd been younger than most when he said those words, kneeling before The Weirwood, sword cold and bare in the fading light. He took it alone, he recalls, alone save for the leaders of The Watch. He, one of the last living sons of Rickard Stark, was the only one to fill the cooling air with his voice, with his Northern accent and Lordly tone. The first Stark on The Wall in a good long time, and one of the only Northmen, besides.

He sees how they all look at him, how their eyes track his every movement, whether they be men involved with the mutiny or not. The two groups sit away from the other, the mutineers regarded coolly and with little trust, but the only thing he thinks they agree on is fear of their Lord Commander, who cut through the former leaders of The Watch with ease. The wolfish fool of a man who did not arrive fast enough, and will be haunted by that realisation until he takes his final breath.

But time passes. The days blend together, and before Benjen knows it, The Brotherhood Without Banners are saddling their horses, snow falling gently around them all. Benjen watches from one of the balconies, watches them as they saddle their horses and draw their cloaks around their shoulders. Still, they themselves carry no banner, but the Night's Watchmen they travel with raise a black banner for themselves, and Benjen cracks a smile.

He knows that, in whatever peace Robb makes with The Dragon Queen, he will demand something for The Night's Watch. Robb–indeed, every Stark who has ever ruled The North–has never forgotten the men that guard them, have never forgotten The Black Brothers and The Wall they defend. The North Remembers, they whisper over cups, eyes like steel. The South forgot. The Targaryens forgot. But Benjen has faith that Robb will not allow that to happen again, that he will not leave them alone in their cold exile to face this dread.

I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Not The Seven Kingdoms. Not the lands South of The Wall. Not The Iron Throne. No, The Realms of Men are all the lands in which men live and breathe and are born and die. He spent many long years hunting Wildlings, seeing them as his only enemy, but he likes to think he knows better. There is no enemy save for The Dead, no fight but the war that will be waged for the dawn.

The Brotherhood ride out, but Benjen does not miss the look that Sandor Clegane sends him before he motions his horse forward. There was much the both of them left unsaid in The Godswood, but Benjen has faith that their paths will cross again, come hell or high water. Same with all the men he watches leave through the main gate. Whether it be Beric Dondarrion and his one eye that lingers for some time on both Benjen and The Wall, or Thoros of Myr and his drinks and sermons, all enemies of The Night King are now bound together. And he is The Black Wolf at the head of this ragtag army.

That evening, as the shadows fall long over Castle Black and Benjen thinks he might just go insane if he watches how the candles make them dance for one moment longer, he calls all the men to The Main Hall. They mill in slowly, the betrayers looking at Benjen with worried and furtive looks, but he does not meet his gaze. He stares at the back wall and counts the beats of his heart until all the men are in, until the rest of the leadership sits at the Head Table with him. And then, he stands.

"Brothers," he begins, the word strange on his tongue even after all these years. That word brings up memories of a youth long since gone, of Brandon's booming laugh and Ned's quiet calm. And now, here he is, the last of them all, calling this band of criminals his brothers. But that is how it has always been, and he learned to live with it a long time ago. "Today, I sent men to Dragonstone, to court with Daenerys Targaryen and implore her to our cause."

That gets a round of nervous looks and low mutterings, and Benjen cannot blame them. The world has been shaped by The Mad King's actions, and plenty of the men here remember with brutal clarity the war that was born of his madness. But no one protests, no one raises their voice, and that is victory enough for Benjen.

"I will admit that I do not know what will come of it. The Dragon Queen could deny us, dismiss us as Madmen. And The Lannister Queen could very well kill me for the name I hold." He looks around the room. "And I will admit, I have little love for either of them. I have little love for The South, For House Targaryen or for House Lannister. Indeed, I have little love for some of the men in this very room." He looks at Jon's betrayers then, men with hunched shoulders who stare at their tables, the distance between them and the rest of the men.

"It doesn't matter though. We have all seen what is coming for it, and I will beg at the feet of anyone who will listen to us if it means we live through this war. But we cannot trust in hope, cannot trust in the very Houses that left us to ruin as they fought over their damn throne." That gets a few scattered chuckles, and amused looks being exchanged. The Wall is certainly a place that does its best to dissuade men from large and wild dreams like a throne of swords. They're practical people, here upon The Wall. As Northern as a bunch of Southerners can possibly hope to get.

"Every man in this room has sworn the same oath. Whether that be before the Weirwood, in the sight of the seven, or before the flames of The Red God, we are all bound by the same oath. I cannot let my own hurts and grievances blind me to the fact that every man in this room is sworn to the same ideals, and held to the same promises, as I am. We are, all of us, The Watchers on The Wall. The Shield that guards The Realms of Men." Men slam their cups down at that, and it's all Benjen needs to feel a spark of courage rise up in his chest.

"I recall something my father said to my brother, a very long time ago. If you have to fight, win." His smile grows wane, for just a moment, memories of his father stinging almost as much as his half-healed wounds. "All of us have been made soldiers by this fight, made men out of boys. We are not Knights. We are not Kings. We are what remains of a Noble Order, and it will not be us who is defeated by this evil–I swear to you. We will do all we can to win, even if it means our deaths."

The men chorus their agreement as they always do; they hammer their cups upon the table and echo his words, eyes hard and cold. Benjen roves his eyes over the room for just a moment, taking it all in, before he sits back in his chair, feeling like he's just won the first battle of a much longer war.

---

only five chapters to go and not only are we halfway throygh, but caught up to ao3...though i will be posting 26 very soon after all the same lol 😭

notes:

-the lone wolf dies but the pack survives...and you think i was gonna keep benjens name as 'the lone wolf'? nope, I'm pulling a GRRM in feast and dance and changing up the title of the POV. Black Wolf Benjen here we go.

-that first section and all of benjens reflection on the nature of the watch...mwuah. i was kinda in a shit mood when i was writing that part and didn't really want to write, but it got me on track and set the tone for this chapter...which is that endless feeling of inevitability. benjen, much like jon, knows whats coming and knows that they're all absolutely fucked. but he's still doing whatever he can until the end, because that's what his oath demands,,wonder what it'll all mean for jon :)

-i am not a tactician. please. mercy when it comes to that one. ofc its not the best idea for ben to go head on against the wights, but one he is a stark and they're not known for not being minorly reckless and two i wanted to have a skirmish and that's what came to mind. it would be kinda boring if they were just slowly shooting them from the top of The Wall, anyway.

-benjens paranoia about it all is honestly the most sane reaction he could have to any of this. he is in a dangerous position, and he is a threat to people, no matter how menial. but hopefully his last action against the last band of mutineers and how he dealt with them will inspire some second thoughts...but who knows?

-on today's episode of two old men who are lowkey losers talk, not only do we have ben and beric, we got ben and sandor. and the second has a side helping of wight-napping, so it's a fun time all around for everyone.

next up, Robb is aggressively casual about things one should not be aggressively casual about