Benjen Stark – 289 AC

The hall of Deepwood Motte was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the distant hum of activity from the keep. Benjen Stark sat alone at a long wooden table, savoring the simplicity of his meal. Black bread, a bowl of steaming stew, and a wedge of sharp cheese sat before him, and he ate at a leisurely pace, enjoying the rare peace. The journey north to the Wall weighed heavily on his mind, but for now, he allowed himself this moment of stillness.

The sound of the main door creaking open broke the quiet. Benjen looked up to see Robett Glover entering, his riding cloak dusted with snow and his boots leaving wet marks on the stone floor. He pulled off his gloves, shaking the chill from his fingers as he stepped further inside.

"Benjen!" Robett called, his voice hearty. "My brother told me you'd arrived a few days ago."

Benjen stood, wiping his hands on a cloth before clasping Robett's forearm in greeting. "Aye, it's true. Thought I'd make a detour here before continuing north to the Wall."

Robett nodded, a warm grin lighting his face. "The black suits you. The Wall could certainly use every man it can get these days."

Benjen nodded, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Aye, it's about time I made my way north. With Brandon newly born and Robb growing strong, Winterfell is in safe hands, so now I can do my duty where it's needed most." His tone was light, but there was a weight behind the words, an unspoken acknowledgment of the path he had chosen and the sacrifices it carried.

Robatt nodded as serving woman approached quietly, offering Robett a meal and taking his cloak. She folded it with care and gave a small bow. "M'lords," she said respectfully.

Both men nodded in acknowledgment, and Benjen returned to his seat as Robett sat across from him. Robett wasted no time digging into the food set before him, his hunger evident after a long ride.

"I've been away on a hunt," Robett said between bites. "Eight days out with a small party. There were reports of wildlings in the Wolfswood."

Benjen paused, his interest piqued. "Wildlings this far south? How many?"

"No more than thirty," Robett replied, his voice steady but laced with concern. "A larger group than we're used to. But they were different—more organized, more aware. Some even spoke our tongue."

Benjen frowned, the implications gnawing at him. "What did you learn?"

"We tortured the ones who could speak," Robett admitted grimly. "Certain clans are beginning to come together, it seems. They're talking—sharing resources, forging alliances. There's talk of something bigger, something older stirring beyond the Wall.

Benjen leaned back in his chair, his appetite fading as he mulled over the news. "Aye, troubling indeed," he muttered, his thoughts turning to the Wall and the duty he was soon to swear.

The two men ate in contemplative silence for a time, the weight of Robett's words hanging heavily in the air. Finally, Robett glanced at Benjen, his tone quieter now. "I assume you're here to see the boy?"

Benjen smirked faintly, the thought of Cregan breaking through his troubled musings. "Aye. It's been… entertaining."

Robett raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How so?"

Benjen chuckled, his smirk growing. "Took him three days to figure out he couldn't beat me. Stubborn little wolf."

Robett laughed as ale was brought over as he drank from the tankard.

Benjen's mind wandered briefly to those sparring sessions. He remembered the boy's fiery determination, the way he'd swung his wooden sword with all the strength his small arms could muster. Each time Benjen dodged, Cregan's frustration grew, but so did his resolve. When the boy finally realized he couldn't win, he had stood tall, met Benjen's gaze, and demanded, "Teach me."

"And all is well with him?" Robett asked, breaking Benjen's reverie.

Benjen nodded. "Of course. There's fire in him. He reminds me of…my brother" his thoughts turning briefly to his older brother Brandon.

Robett gave a look of understanding and nodded as he pushed his plate away, stretching his arms. "Well, friend, the road's been long, and I'm due some rest. But it was good to see you before you take the black."

Benjen stood as Robett did, clasping his forearm firmly. "Rest well, Robett. And thank you."

With a nod and a tired smile, Robett left the hall, his boots echoing faintly on the stone floor. Benjen sat back down, the quiet returning as he finished the last of his meal.

Benjen sat for a while longer, the warmth of the hearth doing little to ease the chill in his chest. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to his brother. Brandon's laughter, his brash confidence—it still echoed in Benjen's memory, a ghost of a time when their family had seemed invincible. Cregan reminded him so much of Brandon.

But it wasn't just Brandon that haunted his thoughts. Lyanna. Her name alone brought a deep pang to his chest. He could still see her in his mind's eye, fierce and unyielding, always looking out for him, always protective in a way that both infuriated and comforted him. Memories of her flashed in his mind—her laughter, her defiance, riding horses, her grace in the practice yard, even in the armor she wore during the tourney at Harrenhal.

Benjen let out a long sigh, his breath fogging in the air. It was Lyanna's memory, more than Brandon's or their father's, that cut the deepest. Her death was a deep wound, and it was that loss, compounded by the others, that had driven him towards the Wall.

He thought of Jon Snow, the boy no one spoke of as Lyanna's but whom Benjen knew in his heart was hers. Watching Jon and Robb play together in Winterfell, laughing and tumbling like cubs, had always brought a bittersweet smile to his face. Catelyn's coldness toward Jon was impossible to ignore, but Benjen had been glad to see the boys forge a bond regardless. It reminded him too much of his own childhood with Lyanna, of a time when the world was simple.

The sound of boots and murmured voices pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced toward the entrance as a small group of men filed into the hall, their clothes and boots dusty from the road. They must have been part of Robett's hunting party. The men spoke in low tones as they made their way to the long tables, some nodding greetings to Benjen as they passed.

Benjen stood, stretching his shoulders and shaking off the heaviness in his chest. He returned a few nods as he walked out the door, the cold draft from the outside biting at his face.

Benjen's boots crunched against the snow-packed path as he walked toward the houses clustered around Deepwood Motte's keep. His thoughts wandered to the Wall, the purpose awaiting him, and the duty he had chosen. He knew he couldn't delay much longer—he had already stayed in Deepwood Motte longer than planned. What was meant to be a brief stop on his journey had stretched into nearly a week. He hadn't intended to interact with the boy, only to observe him, but seeing Cregan that day, swinging his wooden sword with raw determination, had drawn him in.

Benjen reached the door of a sizable home, sturdy and practical in its construction, with weathered beams and a welcoming warmth radiating from within. He raised his hand and knocked, the sound echoing faintly against the quiet hum of the fort. After a few moments, the door swung open to reveal a hulking figure.

The man who stood before him was massive, even in his advanced years. A still-muscular frame filled the doorway, his face marked by age and countless battles. A white beard, thick and wild, framed his expression, which was set in a perpetual sneer. Missing teeth and scars only added to his intimidating visage as he peered down at Benjen with sharp, calculating eyes.

"Do I know you?" the old man growled, his voice as rough as the North's cold winds.

Benjen smiled, a flicker of amusement lighting his face. Memories rushed back to him of this very man, the former Master-at-Arms of Deepwood Motte—Walton, the grizzled warrior who had once put him through endless drills and bruising sparring matches. "Aye, you know me," Benjen said, his tone teasing. "You taught me in the yards when I was younger—with my sister, the She-Wolf."

For a moment, Walton seemed to puzzle over the words, his eyes narrowing as if sorting through the long years. Then recognition sparked, and his expression shifted. "Benjen fucking Stark… and dressed as a bloody crow. You come to kill me, eh?"

Benjen chuckled, shaking his head. "If you're still alive now, Walton, I don't think anything could kill you."

At that, Walton broke into a wheezing laugh, his shoulders shaking. "Aye, well, you might be right about that. Come in, lad, come in." He stepped aside, gesturing for Benjen to enter.

The interior of Walton's home was just as Benjen remembered—spacious but unrefined, a reflection of its occupant. Bear furs were piled high on large couches, and furniture made from bone and hand-carved wood filled the room. The smell of smoke and mead lingered in the air, and trophies of hunts and battles adorned the walls. It wasn't the home of a nobleman but rather a den of a warrior, a place that harkened back to Walton's wildling ancestry. It suited him perfectly.

Benjen took a seat on a sturdy, oversized chair made of rough-hewn wood as Walton shuffled over to what passed for his makeshift kitchen. The man's home was as rugged as its owner: a large fire pit oven dominated his vast kitchen, with iron hooks and a variety of dried herbs and spices hanging from the ceiling. Walton rummaged for a moment before returning with a goat horn cup in each hand and a large, battered bottle tucked under his arm, his wheezing laugh punctuating each step.

Walton set the cups down with a thud and plopped into his chair with a wheeze that turned into a coughing fit. "The rule of my home, lad," Walton rasped, pouring a generous serving into each horn. "You come in, you have a drink with me."

Benjen raised an eyebrow, eyeing the amount of liquid Walton had poured. "It's a bit early for that, don't you think?"

Walton grinned, sliding a horn across the table. "Not in this house."

Reluctantly, Benjen accepted the cup and took a tentative sip. The liquid burned as it went down, leaving a bitter aftertaste that made him wince. "You're making your own brews, I see," Benjen remarked, coughing slightly.

"Illegal as they come," Walton admitted with a large smile, tipping back his own drink with ease. "Good for the gut, terrible for the liver." He laughed again, his voice rattling with age.

As the two sat and talked, Walton brought up tales of Benjen's youth, reminding him of the times spent sparring in the Deepwood Motte yard under Walton's gruff instruction. The drink loosened their tongues, and the conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and the warmth of shared memories.

Finally, after a hearty laugh at some tale of Benjen's clumsy early attempts with a sword, Walton tipped back the last of his drink and let out a contented sigh. "As much as I love takin' the piss outta you, lad, why'd you really come 'round? Doesn't seem like a social call."

Benjen smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Truth is, I'm working with a boy here and could use your help."

Walton's eyebrows rose with interest. "Which kid?"

Benjen's smirk widened. "Oh, you'll know him if you meet him. You free this afternoon?"

Walton looked around the room with exaggerated nonchalance before fixing Benjen with a grin. "Does it look like I do much these days?" His laughter turned into a wheezing chuckle that had Benjen shaking his head in amusement.

"Well then," Benjen said, standing and placing his still half-full cup back on the table. "Come to the south fields later. There's someone I want you to meet."

Walton was quiet for a moment, then let out a resigned sigh. "Ah, fuck it, lad. If it was anyone else, I'd tell 'em to piss off, but since it's you... Just don't expect me to teach anyone. My trainin' days are over."

Benjen chuckled, heading for the door. "Just come and see the boy. You might be surprised, that's all."

Walton reached over and tipped back the horn Benjen was drinking and waved a dismissive hand. "Aye, I'll be there."

Benjen nodded, stepping outside into the crisp air. The door creaked shut behind him, and he paused for a moment, taking in the familiar surroundings of Deepwood Motte. Turning toward and heading to the godswood.

Giant trees loomed over as Benjen passed beneath their snow-laden boughs, the muffled silence of the grove enveloping him. Here, the air was different—still and heavy with the presence of something greater. The heart tree stood at the center, its pale bark streaked with crimson sap that trickled like blood from the deep-carved face. Its expression was solemn, the eternal witness to the prayers and promises whispered beneath its branches.

Benjen let his thoughts spill out like water over stone, unspoken prayers carried on the cold air. He prayed for his brothers, for Robb, Sansa, Arya Brandon, for Jon and Cregan and finally He thought of Lyanna. The sharp pain of her loss, a wound he had carried for years, stirred faintly in his chest. But it no longer burned as it once had; it had softened, becoming a quiet ache—a hollow space that remained, but no longer consumed him.

Placing his hand against the rough bark of the heart tree, Benjen whispered softly, "Watch over them." The words hung in the air, carried away by the faint breeze rustling through the grove. Rising slowly, he lingered for a moment longer, his palm pressed against the weirwood as though drawing strength from its ancient roots. The godswood offered no reply, but in its silence, Benjen found a quiet solace.

Benjen waited until the afternoon before heading to the usual spot where he trained with Cregan. As he approached, he saw the boy already swinging his wooden blade, repeating the basic drills they'd worked on the previous day. The lad's energy seemed endless, Benjen thought with a smirk. Even from a distance, Cregan's focus was apparent, though his movements were still rough and unrefined.

The moment Cregan spotted him, his face lit up. "Benjen!" the little man shouted, Before Benjen could reply, Cregan fired off a barrage of questions. "Are we gonna practice some cool sword moves today? Like the big swings? Or maybe the poking thing? What about—"

Benjen raised a hand to cut him off, shaking his head with a wry grin. "Not yet, boy. First, you need to get your feet and posture right. None of the 'big swings' or 'poking' will mean a damn thing if you can't stand properly. Now, take your stance."

Cregan groaned but obeyed, planting his feet and holding his sword in front of him. Benjen walked over and, with a single shove, toppled him to the ground.

"Hey!" Cregan yelled indignantly, scrambling to his feet.

Benjen smirked. "Your balance is off. Again."

For the next several attempts, the same scene played out—Cregan taking his stance, and Benjen circled him, effortlessly pushing him over. By the seventh time, Cregan's frustration was written all over his face, but his posture was finally improving. "Better," Benjen said, nodding. "Now, run down to that tree and back, then take the same stance."

Cregan glanced at the tree in the distance, then back at Benjen, clearly puzzled. "Why?"

Benjen crossed his arms, his tone patient but firm. "You need to learn to hold your stance even when you're tired. It's easy to stand right when you're fresh. But when you're exhausted, that's when it matters. Now go."

Cregan hesitated for only a moment before darting off toward the tree, his small boots crunching through the snow. His youthful energy was boundless, and Benjen couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride as he watched the boy sprint across the field. The lad's determination, his refusal to give up, reminded Benjen of his own childhood, chasing after his elder siblings.

As the boy reached the tree, Benjen turned to see Walton approaching from the edge of the field. The old master-at-arms walked with a deliberate pace, bundled in furs and leaning on a stout stick. Despite his age and weathered appearance, there was still something indomitable about him—a strength that hadn't dimmed even after years away from the yard.

"That the lad, aye?" Walton called, his voice carrying a note of amusement as he motioned toward Cregan.

Benjen nodded, crossing his arms. "Aye. Cregan."

The humor in Walton's eyes vanished, replaced by sharp focus. "Cregan?.. As in Cregan Stark?"

"Snow," Benjen corrected, but he could see the flicker of recognition on Walton's face.

The older man's voice lowered, his usual gruffness tinged with curiosity. "Is he yours?"

Benjen shook his head firmly, though he knew the question was inevitable. Walton's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. "Is… is he Ned's!?" the man pressed.

Again, Benjen shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Walton's expression darkened in thought, and then realization struck. His eyes widened. "…Brandon!?"

"Aye," Benjen said quietly, his tone steady but reverent.

"By the gods," Walton muttered, his voice barely audible. He rubbed a hand over his weathered face, clearly grappling with the weight of the revelation. "Brandon Stark's boy. Never thought I'd see the day."

"He came here before he rode south," Benjen explained. "Hunted the woods, spent time with a lowborn hunter woman. That's how it happened." He spoke plainly, but there was a thread of sorrow in his words, the echoes of a brother lost too soon.

Benjen's eyes lingered on the boy as he sprinted back across the field, his small frame brimming with energy and determination. "He doesn't know," Benjen murmured, his tone resolute. "No one knows of the boy but a few, and it'll remain that way." Walton gave a curt nod, the weight of the secret settling between them, unspoken but understood.

Walton fell silent, uncharacteristically subdued as he processed what he'd just learned. Benjen allowed the quiet to settle, his own gaze drifting back to Cregan, who was now jogging back from the tree, his breath visible in the cold air. The boy's chest heaved with effort, but his face bore a smirk of triumph as he planted his feet in a defensive stance.

Benjen strode over, giving the lad a firm shove. This time, though Cregan wobbled, he held his ground. "Better," Benjen said with a nod, but his words were cut short by Cregan's wide-eyed glance at Walton.

"Um, Benjen," the boy asked hesitantly, his voice tinged with curiosity, "who's the old man?"

Benjen turned toward Walton, whose expression shifted into a mock glare. "Old man? Who the fuck called me old?" Walton barked, his booming voice echoing across the field.

Cregan stiffened, his courage warring with his instinct to retreat. "Uh… you do have a really long white beard, so…" he trailed off, earning a wheezing laugh from Walton.

Benjen glanced at Walton, then back at Cregan. "That's an old friend, Walton," he said, gesturing toward the rugged man. "He's going to watch our training today."

Cregan's curious eyes studied Walton for a moment, his youthful face etched with interest, but he gave a simple nod and returned his attention to Benjen. He knew Walton's gruff demeanor would unnerve the boy at first, but he also knew the old man had a way of bringing out the best in his students.

With that, uncle and nephew dove into their training. Benjen pushed the boy harder today, correcting his posture, testing his balance, and drilling him on technique. He knew it would be their last day together, and he wanted to leave Cregan with as much as he could.

Walton stayed for a while, his sharp eyes tracking Cregan's every movement, though he kept his comments to himself. Benjen noticed the occasional approving nod from the old master-at-arms, small gestures that carried weight. When Walton finally rose to leave, he passed Benjen with a rare, gruff sentiment. "I'll do it," he simply said.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the fields in a golden light, Benjen called an end to their training. Cregan was panting, sweat dripping down his young face, but the boy wore a triumphant grin. Benjen couldn't help but smile back, though the weight of the coming farewell pressed heavily on his heart.

"Cregan," he said, watching the boy turn toward him, his face curious and flushed from the cold. "I have something for you before you go."

Cregan tilted his head, curious. "Huh? What is it?"

Benjen knelt down to the boy's level, reaching into his cloak. From within, he pulled out a sheathed hunting knife. It wasn't just any blade—its handle was intricately decorated, the pommel etched with the Stark sigil. The steel was castle-forged, sharp and enduring, but its value lay far beyond its craftsmanship. It was one of the last tangible memories Benjen had of Lyanna, a gift from their mother that had once belonged to both of them. Before leaving Winterfell, Benjen had entrusted its twin to Ned for Jon Snow, and now it was time to pass the other on.

"It's a knife, boy," Benjen said, offering the blade to Cregan. "I know I said you could have my sword the first day we met, but this will do. And it means something."

Cregan's eyes widened as he took the knife, his small hands trembling slightly as he unsheathed it. The metal glinted in the fading sunlight, its beauty matched only by the weight of its legacy. His fingers traced the engraved wolf's head on the hilt, his young mind grasping that this was no ordinary gift.

"This knife is important to me," Benjen said, his voice quiet but firm. "And now, I want you to have it. Don't lose it, alright?"

Cregan looked up, his face a mixture of awe and determination. "I won't, Benjen. I promise. I'll hide it somewhere safe. Thank you."

Benjen smiled faintly and reached out, ruffling the boy's dark hair in a gesture that reminded him of how his siblings had done the same to him. "You've got wolves' blood, boy. You'll be just fine."

Cregan scrunched his nose, pulling back slightly. "Why do you keep saying I'm a wolf? I'm a person," the boy said, half paying attention as he kept flipping his blade in its sheath

If only you knew, Benjen thought as he stood, brushing off the snow clinging to his cloak. The boy's gaze was fixed on the knife, his small figure nearly glowing in the twilight. As Benjen turned to leave, he paused for a moment, watching Cregan do a small leap of excitement before breaking into a run.

Benjen chuckled softly, watching him go. Turning his gaze northward, Benjen took a deep breath. His journey to the Wall was nearing, and his new life awaited. But for this fleeting moment, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the boy's laughter faded into the distance, he allowed himself to feel the warmth of family.


Hey everyone, here's probably our one-and-done Benjen POV! I felt that being the youngest, and not fostering like Ned, Benjen would have really felt the emotional weight of the war and it's losses. It's stated that he was especially close with Lyanna, so I wanted to expand on that dynamic. I also thought it felt natural for him to want to see his brother's son, before heading north to the Wall. Along the way, I introduced another OC, Walton. The goal with these OCs is to give Cregan challenges and mentors to help him mature until we reach canon events. Until then, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!