Edrick of Winterfell

The second son of the late Lord Rickon and his Lady Wife, Gilliane, Edrick is 16, and serves Winterfell under his Lord brother's command. Part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

[edrick-stark]

Every winter has its spring

Starter with @thelittleprincesstargaryen

Edrick sat in the window-seat, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that smelled faintly of some sort of flower. Gods what was the laundress doing with his clothes?

Freki lay sprawled at his feet, ears twitching, but the diredog made no move to stir. Edrick envied that—contentment without restlessness. Geri who was as alike his brother as Edrick was alike Lyarra was running around the room happily.

He pressed his scarred lip between his teeth, reopening the half-healed cut again. The copper tang bled into his mouth. He hardly noticed. Or rather he didn't mind it.

“I like it when it hurts,” he had said to Benjen once after he had cut his hand on the bark of a tree while trying to climb it. “Is that bad?” Ben hadn’t said anything for the time it took to put bandages on Edrick’s palm, flesh red and bloody. “I don’t know,” Benjen had said. “It may be a good thing, if you can find some enjoyment in the pain. May make it easier later, when life comes to fuck you over.”

Earlier today Leila had begged him to come out with her, just to stand in the yard and watch as her sisters shrieked at the cold touch of snowflakes melting against their cheeks. “It’s a wonder,” she’d said, eyes lit like lanterns. “I’ve never seen so much of it at once. Come with me, Edrick.”

But the fever still lingered from last night, burning beneath his skin. His head had throbbed too violently when he rose, and Lyarra's voice rung sharp in his memory: Do not push yourself into an early grave.

So here he was, looking down at Leila instead of standing beside her. Watching her trace footprints in the thin blanket of snow like a child discovering a new game, though she was nearly his age. Watching her brother chase her, slip, fall.

Snow was no marvel to him. Freki shifted uneasily and gave a low whine.

Snow in summer. Sunlight and sleet on the same day. The maesters say it’s just the way of things, that the seasons don’t obey reason even if they try to rationalize it and make a cosmology around it. They follow no pattern, no calendar. A summer can last a decade. A winter, a generation. Crops die. Rivers freeze. Families starve. And people—people forget.

They talk of seasons like weather. But seasons are war. Seasons kill. The North knows that more than anyone. Old men going out and not coming back, so they are not a burden.

Edrick pulled back, swallowing down the ache in his chest, and closed the shutters.

Geri had never cared much staying quiet and inside.

The diredog slipped free the moment the chamber door cracked open from a low gust of wind just before Edrick closed the window, barreling down the corridors with a deep, echoing bark that rattled through the Red Keep’s stone halls. Edrick cursed under his breath before dragging himself after him.

By the time he reached the covered passage overlooking the inner yard, Geri was a gray blur darting between frightened servants and horrified highborns.

He walked further, pushing his circlet back to control his hair and keeping his ears perked for screams, until he found the diredog cornering a small figure in a side hall.

The girl couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, her hair braided with ribbons, her face pale as the snow itself but what caught her eye was silver hair and violet eyes.

“Princess,” Edrick said, slower now. Trying to guess which one she was.

[davos-allyrion]

𓊝 ☠︎ HEAVEN KNOWS, WE BELONG WAY DOWN BELOW ☠︎ 𓊝

(A starter with @edrickstarkofwinterfell)

After moons spent dreaming of Godsgrace, Davos was finally free. The queen had given birth, the twins were healthy, the crown was grateful, and Davos was, at last, permitted to return home. He packed his bags like a man pardoned in the final breath before the noose snapped tight.

He made his final offering to the ghost that haunted his chambers, reminded himself to write to his new… friends? Was “friend” too eager a word? Too delicate for something so new?

Regardless, he bid farewell to each of them, leaving behind a vial of perfume apiece. He was forced, regrettably, to remove one of Cerelle’s cats from his luggage. On a brighter note, his last batch of cookies for the staff came out perfectly golden.

Goodbye, King’s Landing. Heaven awaits me.

His cheeks ached from smiling. However, like all great joys, this one was destined to be short-lived.

Duskendale had always reeked of fish and deceit. Davos had tolerated the first. The second, however, had just cost him his freedom.

The betrayal had been almost amusing in its inevitability. Cletus, the soldier he had allowed to accompany him, despite his every instinct whispering against it, had cracked like brittle glass under the promise of gold. His dagger had barely left Davos’ throat before the pirates slit Cletus’ from ear to ear, leaving his body slumped in the mud like trash.

If there had been time, Davos might have felt something akin to satisfaction. The fool had thought he could profit off selling his lord. Instead, he’d died choking on his own blood. A cleaner end than Davos would have granted him.

The pirates, superstitious and stupid as they were, had believed him enough to hesitate. “Dagos of Lys,” he’d said smoothly, in a tone just short of indignant. Not too much offense. Just enough to make them doubt. A noble’s son would fight harder, scream louder. A noble himself would threaten them with his station’s wrath. He had done neither.

Still, they had their suspicions.

“A Lyseni,” one had sneered. “Pretty little silk-wearer with hands like a butcher’s.”

“Belongs to some lord,” another had grunted. “A bedmate, most like.”

It had amused them, thinking him some pampered concubine taken on a joyride through the Kingsroad with stolen jewels. A better fate than the truth, he supposed. One knife at his throat was all it would take to throw open the gates of Godsgrace, and that, he could not allow.

Then they had dragged him below deck, through corridors thick with the scent of damp wood and something rotting. The hold was dark, save for the flickering lanterns swaying with the ship’s movement. He had counted his steps, made note of the turns, gauged the sway of the vessel. A large ship, wide in the belly. He hadn’t seen the sails, but from the way the floor pitched, he guessed it was built for long-haul voyages.

The pirates hadn’t even looked at the other prisoner when they threw him in.

“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one of them jeered, shoving Davos forward before slamming the iron-barred door shut.

He hit the floor hard, rolling onto his side. The ropes burned at his wrists. His head rang from the impact. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled.

From the shadows, a figure stirred.

Davos did not move. He shifted just enough to press his back against the wall, the damp seeping into his clothes. The ship creaked and groaned around him. A wave rocked the hull, sending dust drifting from the rafters.

The wolf cub watched him with wide eyes, dark hair tangled, pale face dirty with charcoal.

Quite friendly.

The only sound was the slow drip of water in some unseen corner, the breathing of the prisoner across from him. A presence like a storm waiting to break.

Davos flexed his fingers, feeling the rope tighten.

Then, he smiled.

“And what’s your story, then?”

The road was safer, he had told himself. More reliable than the waves.

How wrong he had been.

[edrickstarkofwinterfell]

The ship stank of mold and other wet things. A nobleman’s prison, this was not.

Edrick had taken to naming the rats. Most were some variation of his family's names with at least three named “Benjen” out of spite. There had also been an “Bob the Fat,” for no particular reason. He’d run out of names two days ago and now simply called them things like “Bastard” and “Other Bastard.” They were easier company than the pirates, who were uniformly idiots, and who he had decided to punish by being absolutely insufferable.

At present, he was lying sprawled out along the length of the bench, half-singing, half-humming in a tone high enough to fray nerves.

"Ohh the Bear and the Maiden fair, went off to braid her golden haaair—" He added a warbling trill just to really sell it.

“Shut up,” someone yelled from above deck.

“You shut up!” Edrick yelled back, then cleared his throat and tried a more dramatic key: “SHE SAID NOOOO MORE GOLDEN HAIR—”

The lock clicked.

He froze mid-note, eyes narrowing as the pirates dragged someone in and tossed them like a sack of turnips into the cell across from him.

“Here’s a friend for you, wolf cub,” one said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edrick snapped, sitting up and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “He doesn’t look like a friend. He looks like someone’s overcooked goose. Is that blood on his collar? That’s blood, isn’t it?”

The door slammed.

Heavens, Edrick thought with biting sarcasm, another man to share my damp corner and delightful company. He wrinkled his nose and shifted just slightly, eyeing the new prisoner with sharp, narrowed eyes. The man didn’t smell like fish or blood yet, which was an improvement. That wouldn’t last.

Silence settled thick and fast, save the sound of dripping water and the creak of the ship. Edrick tilted his head, eyeing the man where he lay, slumped and tied and—smiling?

The gall of him.

He scooted forward slightly, dark eyes narrowing. The new prisoner looked like a storm had chewed him up and spit him out wearing silk. There was something too composed about him, like he wasn’t nearly as rattled as he ought to be. That made Edrick curious. And suspicious.

“And what’s your story, then?” the man asked.

Edrick made a show of sniffing disdainfully.

“Well, my new friend,” he said, mockingly formal, “you’ve landed in the worst possible company, I’m afraid. You’ve interrupted my audition for pirate captain. I’m this close—” he raised bound fingers an inch apart, “—to usurping that squinty fool upstairs. I even challenged him to a duel, but they said I ‘wasn’t taking it seriously’ and that ‘dueling in a nightshirt is improper.”

The fuckers thought his singing was improper too. Something about a sellsail’s daughter and the baker’s cat. Rousing, inappropriate, and sung with such enthusiasm that the pirates had threatened to sew his mouth shut. Again. Empty threats. They liked the sound, he thought. Or maybe they were just too lazy to make good on them.

“I was meant to return home to Winterfell weeks ago,” he said breezily, “but nooo, I had to stay behind in the Riverlands for the sake of friendship, which was clearly a mistake. I got distracted—” a pause, brief and bitter— “by a squirrel, I think. Or a particularly judgmental crow. And now I’m here. Honestly, I blame my brother. He was supposed to keep me focused and well behaved, and now look—rotting in a glorified wine barrel with some knock-off Lyseni who smiles too much.”

A rat skittered across the beams above, that one was called Rhaenya the fourth.

He stretched lazily, though his wrists were raw and sore while hoping his hardest that none of his childish fear could be seen on his face. “If you’ve come to steal my spotlight, I’m afraid it’s already crowded. Me, the rats, the ghosts of my dignity, and now you. Very little space left.”

[davos-allyrion]

Davos leaned back against the damp stone, the chill of it leeching through the fine silk still clinging stubbornly to his back. His wrists ached where the ropes bit in, but he welcomed the pain. Pain meant focus. Pain meant he was still here.

Across the cell, the boy—because that’s what he was, really, no matter how cleverly he dressed his voice in mockery—rattled on like he was auditioning for a mummer’s troupe. Davos had half a mind to tell him he'd be better off chewing through the bars.

An overcooked goose. A knockoff Lyseni. Davos huffed a laugh and let his head rest against the warped wood behind him. Amusing little peacock.

He shifted, subtly easing his wrist against the nail he’d marked earlier. Let the rope bite a little deeper. Not yet. Just a moment longer.

Then, Winterfell.

That gave him pause.

Davos turned his head, taking a longer look, finally seeing the sharp angles beneath the dramatics. The dark hair, the mouth like it had never once been taught to bite its tongue, the way he rolled ‘brother’ like it was both blame and benediction.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Davos said, more to himself than the boy. “You’re a Stark. Edrick Stark.”

Lord Cregan Stark’s brother, as told by his spies. A long way from his cold castle.

“What’s a Stark doing all the way down in Duskendale?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not waiting for one. “Your lot’s meant to be snowbound and grim-faced, not... swanning around with pirates like a lost minstrel.”

His lip curled faintly. “And here I thought Northerners sent their worst enemies to the Wall. Looks like they sent this one to me.”

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Davos studied him with a half-lidded gaze. No one had come below since they'd thrown him in, and Edrick was plenty of noise to keep any curious ears busy.

“If this is your brother’s doing, then I hope you haunt him for it. What was Cregan thinking? Sending a boy like you south with no protection?” Davos snorted. “Maybe he figured you’d charm the sellswords into peeling your grapes.”

He shifted again, shoulder grinding against the bulkhead. With a sharp breath and a wince—crack. Pain shot down his arm as he dislocated his thumb, just enough to work one hand free. The ropes fell away. He grunted, loosening the other, flexing swollen fingers until the bone slid home with a quiet pop.

“You’ll be back to your rats and lack of dignity soon. I’ve no plans to rot in here.”

A glance at Edrick. Still smug. Still untied.

Davos narrowed his eyes.

“Why aren’t you bound?” he asked, voice lowering. Suspicion now, cold and pointed. “You piss on their shoes, or sweet-talk your way into a longer leash?”

An unexpected complication, this one. But a Stark was a Stark. And Davos, if nothing else, was a man who knew how to use what he was given.

He might just have found himself a bargaining chip, or a very loud partner in crime.

[edrickofwinterfell-rp]

He watched with interest as the man dislocated his own thumb—gods, that looked painful—and slipped his bonds. Impressive. Most people would scream during something like that. This one barely flinched.

Then Edrick froze mid-retort, mouth slightly open. The words died on his tongue as the man spoke his name—his actual name. Not "wolf cub" or "northern brat" or any of the other charming epithets the pirates had bestowed upon him. Edrick Stark.

"I'm flattered," he managed finally, recovering his composure with a toss of his tangled hair. "My reputation precedes me. Though I can't say the same for you, knockoff Lyseni."

But his mind was racing, cataloging everything about this stranger who knew too much. The man had dislocated his own thumb without so much as a whimper—a neat trick Edrick filed away for future reference. More importantly, he clearly knew the Starks, knew Cregan.

Could it be that he was another highborn?Definitely interesting.

"As for why I'm not tied up," Edrick continued airily, holding up his wrists to display the raw, bloody circles where ropes had once been, "I was. Three times, in fact. But they got tired of redoing it after I kept slipping free. Would you want to spend hours in the dark tying elaborate knots on someone who keeps quoting bawdy tavern songs in your ear? They tried. I made it such a miserable experience they gave up. Something about me being 'too skinny to properly secure' and 'not worth the effort since there's nowhere to go anyway.'" He grinned, all teeth. "They underestimate my capacity for causing trouble without using my hands. I've never been good at staying put. Just ask anyone who's had the misfortune of trying to get me to sit through a formal feast."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Two days into his captivity, he'd worked his way free of the ropes while entertaining the men with a dramatic retelling of the time he'd accidentally set fire to his sister's cloak. By the time they'd noticed, he'd made such a production of dramatically *not* trying to escape that they'd given up on the restraints and just locked the door more securely.

He leaned forward, dropping the theatrical tone for something sharper, more genuine. "And what should I call you, since you've so thoroughly robbed me of any mystery? Fair's fair, I think. You know who I am."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Or should I guess? There's something very..." he waved a hand vaguely, "deliberate about you, I don't think you're from Lys at all, after all you don't look like one and neither do you have the accent of one and then of course you know of Winterfell and you call my lord brother by his first name so who are you stranger?"

He dragged a hand through his tangled hair, shaking his head. "If my brother finds out I got thrown in a cell with some sort of spy, he'll laugh himself sick. After he guts every man on this ship, of course."

The thought of Cregan storming the vessel with Ice drawn did bring a small, honest smile to his face. As quickly as it appeared, it faded.

"But that won't be for a while," Edrick said, suddenly serious." The admission sat heavy between them, a reminder that it'll take time. "So what's your grand plan now that you've freed yourself? Going to pick the lock with your teeth? Charm the sharks into carrying you to shore?"

He nodded toward the small, barred window high up in the hull. "We're well out to sea. Been sailing for three days. Maybe four." Time had blurred, but he'd kept as close a count as possible. "And there are at least fifteen men above deck at any given time. Armed, mean, and probably stupid enough to make this difficult."

[davos-allyrion]

Davos had always hated the sea. It made him sick, turned his stomach over with every slow, lurching roll of the ship. He could feel the bile threatening to rise even now, so he hummed, low and tuneless, to keep it down. Gods, of all the places to be amused, he thought, it wasn’t the worst, not in the middle of a pirate ship, with a skinny northern brat making speeches at him like they were attending some damned court session.

Edrick was sharp. Quick on his feet, faster in the mouth. And so utterly oblivious it was almost charming. Davos cocked his head slightly, watching him with something between curiosity and entertainment. Edrick didn’t know him. Hadn’t even an inkling. It figured. Davos had seen the boy before—on letters, through the eyes of his people—but Edrick had never seen him. Not properly.

Not everyone had spies everywhere, after all, like Davos did. He doubted northern tutors wasted breath teaching their students about men like him.

Still, as Edrick displayed the raw, bleeding rings around his wrists with a flourish, Davos's amusement faltered. His eyes flickered, just for a moment, widening a fraction. Careless. Idiotic, letting himself react. But damn it, that looked bad. Red and angry already.

"If we don't do something about those," Davos said, voice low and conversational, "you'll lose the hands before your brother ever sets foot on this ship. Infections don't wait politely for a better moment."

If only he had his belt. Or his case. The belt was gone, stripped from him when the pirates had searched him for weapons, and the case... well, he doubted they'd left it intact even if it was somewhere on board. He flexed his own hands absently. No time to think about that.

Davos was a butcher, yes, but also a good healer. Years of necessity had made him so. He could make a passable bandage out of damn near anything. Maybe he could scare the pirates into coughing up some linen, some vinegar. After all, a bargaining chip needed to be whole.

He leaned lazily against the wall of the cell, watching Edrick with a faint smirk. The young man was wiry and weather-worn; something half-starved and still biting. "You’re paying for your crimes, Stark. Crimes of being skinny and damned annoying."

Edrick’s sharp, relentless deductions danced through the air between them, and Davos chuckled under his breath. He admired it, in a way. Clever little thing. Still, he offered nothing. No name. No truth.

"I'm a butcher," Davos said simply, his smile deepening. "That's all you need to know."

Not quite a lie, was it?

He shifted as the ship rolled again, fighting off another wave of nausea. Edrick was right about one thing, they were far out now. Open sea. Gods, Davos hated the open sea. Maybe next time he’d listen to his sisters and book a proper ship leaving King's Landing instead of trusting the roads. If he survived this, he'd never hear the end of it. If he survived.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. "Charming the sharks sounds easier than killing every man on this ship," he agreed reluctantly, shaking his head. "But you're right. Fifteen armed idiots make it a bit complicated."

Fifteen men, maybe more, depending on how many were sleeping or pretending to be asleep. Weapons. Tight quarters. No allies but a Stark with more wit than muscle.

He was not living this down. Because there was a real chance he wasn't living at all.

No. Not yet. Davos clenched a fist, biting his tongue until he tasted iron. There was too much left undone. He wasn’t going to die here, vomiting over the side of a pirate ship like some fool.

Improvisation, then.

He straightened suddenly, a glint lighting his dark eyes. A ridiculous, daring plan forming almost at once. He walked over to the cell door and examined the hinges, the lock, the rust, tapping at the bars with his knuckle, thoughtfully.

“Well,” Davos said finally, stepping back. “You’re not wrong about the odds. But you northerners believe in impossible odds, don’t you? Dead men walking. Ice swords. Your brother charging into a battle he can’t win and winning it anyway.”

And then, casually, like he was asking for a pinch of salt or a borrowed cloak, Davos said:
“I have a plan, but I’ll need you to punch me in the face.”

[benjen-mormont]

It had been three days since they’d left White Harbor, the northern wind biting and salt-thick as the ship cut through the waves. Benjen hated the sea. Not for its vastness or its chaos, but because it put him at the mercy of others. Like him.

“Still sulking, Bearcub?” Toron drawled from across the deck, lounging against a barrel like he belonged there, a smirk carved into his sun-scarred face. “You’ve been quieter than usual. I miss your charming death threats.”

Benjen didn’t bother looking at him. His fingers were clenched tight around the ship’s railing, knuckles white, gaze locked on the horizon like he could stare Edrick back into existence.

“If I talk, I might bite,” he said flatly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty face.”

“I think you’re obsessed with my face,” Toron said, mock-pouting. “You keep bringing it up. I’m starting to worry.”

Benjen finally turned to him, eyes dark. “You should worry. Every second we spend jawing is a second Edrick could be bleeding in some bilge hole. That ransom note didn’t say how long they’d wait before starting to mail back pieces.”

Toron shrugged. “And I told you: finding pirates takes time. You want magic, go cry to your gods. You want results, let me do my job.”

“You are a pirate.”

“I’m a lord. A retired pirate. Semi-retired.” He grinned. “Depends on the weather.”

Benjen stepped forward, looming, jaw tight. “You laugh like this is a joke, but that boy is my brother. He looked up to me.”

“And you left him behind.”

We have your Stark cub. 5,000 gold dragons or we send back a piece each week. You have two moons.

Benjen could still see the ink bleeding into the paper where he’d crumpled it in his fist. He hadn’t even shown it to Cregan yet. Couldn’t. He knew what he’d see in his eyes: You were supposed to watch him. You were supposed to protect him.

He had. He’d tried. And then he’d walked away, left Edrick at that godsdamned feast in Riverrun, thinking he’d be fine. Edrick had been fine. Laughing, dancing, sneaking wine, jesting about joining the Night’s Watch one day, Benjen had even called him “little crow” just to see him scowl.

And now?

Now he was with slavers or reavers or worse, and Benjen was stuck sharing a ship with a living headache.

“You always scowl like that, Mormont?” Toron asked, flippant as ever, rocking back on his heels with that same mocking grace. “You’ll wrinkle your forehead so deep the sharks’ll think you’re one of ‘em.”

“Maybe I’m practicing. Trying to blend in.”

“Oh? Planning to seduce a shark? Could be your best match yet. They don’t have many standards, besides biting.”

Benjen snorted despite himself, dragging a hand down his beard. “Still better company than you.”

“You wound me.” Toron clutched his chest theatrically. “And here I was thinking we were bonding.”

“I’m thinking of throwing you overboard,” Benjen said, voice flat as iron.

“Do it.” Toron’s grin sharpened. “You’ll have to explain to your precious Starks why you let me drown while his brother’s captors slipped away.”

That shut Benjen up. Toron’s smirk faded.

They were quiet for a moment, just the crash of waves and the creak of old wood and the distant call of gulls. Somewhere beneath all of it, Benjen could feel the pulse of the sea. Not just the motion, but the life. He’d always had the gift, but out here, it was stronger. Wilder. The deep knew things the land had forgotten.

He closed his eyes.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Toron muttered.

“What thing?”

“The creepy eye-rolling. Makes the crew nervous.”

“Then tell them to stay out of the water.”

Benjen leaned over the railing. He pulled his consciousness low, deep, into the cool dark beneath the surface. He let his breath slow, let his mind slip past the edges of himself. Past his body. Past the wood beneath his boots. Into something faster. Sleeker.

A dolphin.

The cold was instant, bracing. The shift came with a sting in his temples, a burning at the back of his throat. But then he was moving fast. Through the blue. Through the dark. Muscles streamlined, senses lit like fire.

He saw it. A flicker of motion far off. Wood. Rot. Chains hanging from the hull of a ship not flying any colors. Men shouting above deck. Two voices in particular, panicked, yelling at each other—

Edrick.

Benjen's focus sharpened. He swam closer, circling the ship from below. At least five men on deck. Armed. The ship was drifting slow, as if waiting for something.

They’d bribed smugglers, interrogated crows, scoured every path on the charts. Edrick’s trail was colder than the North Sea, the only clue a frightened drunkard had stammered out, something about Tarth, and a hidden passage east.

If this ship was bound for Tarth, it had to be Edrick.
Or another dead end.

Benjen snapped back to himself, blinking against the sting in his head.

“After this, you still planning to kill me?”

Benjen turned, gaze like a drawn blade. “Oh, I’m going to kill you. Just not today.”

Toron gave a slow, crooked smile. “Fair. I’d hate to die before seeing you beg forgiveness from that boy you abandoned.”

The deck groaned beneath their boots as the ship turned eastward, toward the storm-dark horizon. Benjen didn’t reply. There would be time for guilt later. For now, he needed only two things:

A whale to swallow the enemy ship whole.

And Edrick back in one piece.

[edrickofwinterfell-rp]

There was a pause.

Not long. Not the kind of silence that stretches awkwardly and waits for a response. No—Edrick Stark heard the words “punch me in the face”, and within a heartbeat, he’d moved.

He didn’t even ask why.

Didn’t need to.

He vaguely understood the logic of it only after hitting the older man. Cause a commotion. Create a reason for the pirates to check on them. Injuries always made for convincing distractions. If not-a-lysnei needed a distraction, then Edrick would give him one.

He launched himself swiftly forward without grace, without form, without even rising fully to his feet. One knee scraped the floor, his bare shoulder slammed the bars, and his fist swung with every ounce of petty, northern wrath he’d hoarded since the moment they’d thrown him in here.

He swung.

He missed.

Well, almost. His fist connected, but at a bad angle, half-glancing off the man’s cheekbone and landing more knuckle than power. The butcher grunted, but it wasn’t enough.

“Shit. Sorry. I’m usually better at this but–,” Edrick muttered, stepping back, shaking out his hand. His breath hitched again. The damp was making it worse. His ribs ached. He cursed the gods who had given him this frail body.

He clenched his fist again, this time steadying himself with a foot braced against the cell bars for support.

The second blow cracked across the man's jaw, sharp and clean. A well-aimed right hook, backed by weeks of frustration and not nearly enough sleep. It wasn’t elegant. It was barely civilized. But it was effective.

The butcher hit the wall with a grunt, head snapping to the side. Blood bloomed at the corner of his mouth.

Edrick stood panting, arms still lifted, half-surprised by the ferocity of it. A small pulse of satisfaction beat in his chest. He didn't realise he'd still have the strength with his wrists all fucked up and being barely able to breathe.

He narrowed his eyes, and said flatly, “You’re welcome.”

Edrick didn’t wait for an answer, he doubled over slightly, gripping his chest with one hand. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Okay. That’s definitely the end of my dramatic career in violence. I think I pulled something in my soul.” he cradled his hands in his lap with a theatrical wince. “Ugh, seven hells. You’ve got a jaw like granite. I think I broke my thumb on your cheekbone.”

Not-a-lysnei spat blood into the corner and didn’t answer.

“Right. Strong silent type. Of course.”

He paced once, twice, trying to drive heat back into his limbs. The cell swam slightly at the edges of his vision. His bones always hated the damp. The pain had been a slow-burning thing when he first woke up here—now it was settling deep in the marrow, like rot. No surprise, really. He hadn’t kept food down since the second day. Salt water and sickness were a lovely combination.

He stopped, steadying himself with one hand on the cell wall. He exhaled, lolling his head back against the wall, eyes flicking toward the hatch above. Listening. Praying.

Then Edrick tilted his head, a flicker of a crooked grin returning. “Also—do I get to punch anyone else? Because if that squint-eyed bastard with the bells on his boots comes back, I have words for him.”

He coughed once—sharp, rattling—and wiped at his mouth before straightening again, jaw set.

“Alright, butcher. What’s next?”

He would follow. Even if his legs gave out halfway up the ladder and his lungs turned to knives.

Because Cregan and Lyarra were waiting. His family was waiting.

And because no one—no one—got to lock a Stark in a cage and live to laugh about it.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos tasted blood before he tasted the grin. It was sharp as a cracked molar, red pooling in the hollow of his cheek where Edrick’s awkward, furious knuckles had landed. Not much form to the boy’s punch, it felt like being struck with a wooden board wrapped in guilt and spite, but gods, it had done the job. His head had cracked the wall and for a moment, everything went white. He let it. Let it wash over him.

Then he smiled, red and wide, the monster everyone whispered he was.

Ryon had always told him: if you can’t have a sword, you’d better learn to use your fists. And Davos had learned. Bone to bone, knuckle to jaw, with no sigil to protect him and no maester to stitch him after. Just rage and grit and the quiet joy of pain given as good as taken.

So when Edrick wheezed out “What’s next?” like it was a question, Davos gave him an answer.

He lunged.

Fists closed, he crashed into Edrick like a wave hitting shore. No finesse. Just blunt, battering rage. Edrick fought back, but he was flagging, all sharp breath and aching ribs. Davos had the momentum and enough madness behind it to make it convincing. Maybe even real. The northern boy hit back, once or twice, but Davos didn’t stop until the pirates swore and came crashing down the ladder.

One caught him in an armlock, wrenching him back. Another tried to get between them with the butt of a pike. Edrick staggered, coughing hard. In the blur of chaos, Davos moved snatched the blade from one pirate’s belt and slipped it into Edrick’s side, quick and clean, where they wouldn’t see.

He growled for show, snapping his teeth like a wild dog. One pirate—the wrong one, too close—demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

Davos snarled, teeth red, and hissed through them like a curse.

“The Stranger himself.”

Then he bit the man’s cheek with the breath he had left, sunk his teeth in deep enough to tear. The pirate howled and dropped him. Blood sprayed. Davos tasted it, felt it stick to his chin like molasses. The world blurred red. He laughed.

The sun was sharp when they hauled them up, cruel on the skin after the dark. Davos had a knife to his neck and was still amused, blood on his chin and all down his tunic. Edrick had one eye swelling shut, wrists wrapped in crusted fabric and bruises forming across his jaw. He hadn’t said a word.

The crew shouted over one another, dragging them across the deck. One pirate, face half-torn and still bleeding, pointed a trembling hand at Davos, saying something about curses and infection. Someone else yelled they should toss him to the sea. Davos stilled, then turned to face them all, grin too wide.

“You should,” he said cheerfully. “But you won’t. That bite’s going to rot. Give it a day, and it’ll crawl into his brain. He’ll start gargling blood and pissing black.”

Silence. Uneasy. A few men shifted.

“I can fix it,” Davos said, letting his voice drop to something lower, something snake-slick. “But only if you let me treat him first.” He jerked his head toward Edrick, who stood upright through sheer northern spite. “Boy’s wrist is close to snapping. You want your prisoners alive, don’t you?”

They hesitated.

Davos pressed. “You want your friend dead screaming? Or bandaged and stitched?”

They let him. If it was out of fear or superstition, it didn’t matter.

He asked for alcohol. Vinegar. His belt. A few rags.

He worked quickly. Mouth set, hands precise. Poured the vinegar over the gash on the pirate’s cheek like it was holy water. The man screamed and nearly bucked off the crate. “That’s how you know it’s working,” Davos muttered. He stitched it with a pirate’s own sail-thread and a curved fishhook. Then he turned to Edrick.

No words passed between them. He cleaned the raw wrists, wincing when the boy did. Dabbed at the lip he’d split himself. Wrapped the fingers. Used the herbs stored in his belt and rags to make a salve for the boy’s wrists, wrapped them tight. No apology. Just care, slow and practiced.

By the time they were thrown back into the cell, it was dusk.

Davos collapsed in the corner. Edrick stood near the bars, shoulders stiff.

He had a knife now.

And Davos—when they searched him again and tore off his belt—had palmed a vial of oil-thick poison and a slim dagger, both hidden deep in his tunic folds.

He wiped his chin, finally leaning back against the cold wall with a groan.

“Davos Allyrion. Lord of Godsgrace,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “I hope I see you again… at a boring feast, in a boring room, on a boring day…”

A silence passed.

Please let there be another boring day.

[edrickofwinterfell-rp]

Davos Allyrion.

Lord of Godsgrace.

Of course, why wouldn’t Edrick end up locked in a pirate ship with some southern noble who made poisons, called himself the stranger, used vinegar like a maester, stitched wounds with fishhooks and bit faces like an animal?

Edrick sat back slowly, lowering himself until his back touched the wall. Every inch of him ached. His ribs burned. His knuckles throbbed. He could still taste salt and blood on the inside of his mouth. But none of it quite registered, not properly.

Godsgrace.

Edrick had only heard the name in passing. It was a place far south, in the Dornish deserts.

“Well it's nice to know your name Davos, I'm very glad that I can stop calling you butcher in my head– almost as glad I am for your healing arts and this wonderful knife!” He chirped, forcing his voice to keep a cheerful tone even as tears stung his eyes. He missed the North even if the cold had never agreed with him, did Davos miss the sands of his home?

Edrick let his head tip back against the wall, He turned the stolen knife in his hands, slowly. The hilt was worn smooth. The blade was short, maybe five inches. Nothing elegant but it would undoubtedly prove to be useful.

He blinked once. Then again. Harder this time.

He wasn’t crying. Of course not. Starks didn’t cry. Not in a strange ship. Not in front of strangers. Still, something was burning behind his eyes, and it wasn’t just the salt air or the headache blooming behind his temple.

It was silent and Edrick did not want to break it by singing like he did before. An uncanny silence. The kind that came after pain and shouting and fear. The kind that made you remember you were sixteen and hadn’t eaten in three days, and your wrists felt like torn parchment.

Somewhere out there, Cregan was coming and likely Benjen too. They had to be. The sea wouldn’t stop them. Neither would ugly pirates, and Edrick knew—knew—that if he could just hold out a little longer, he’d see his brother’s face again. Maybe even laugh about this. Maybe.

Until then, he had Davos Allyrion.

And he’d already punched the man twice, so clearly, that counted for something.

Edrick turned away slightly, pressing the back of his arm to his eyes. Not crying. Just tired. That was all. Just tired. He wiped his eyes and tears carefully away on his face and thought now it's sweat, it's just sweat now.

“I’m going to kill every man on this ship,” he whispered, voice trembling in misery and rage. “I’ll do it with broken fingers if I have to. Just watch me.”

[davos-allyrion]

Edrick was shivering. Not violently, but in that quiet way the body does when it’s run out of demands and just wants to survive. His voice had cracked at the edges like ice underfoot, and Davos had said nothing because he didn’t know what to say. Still didn’t.

He reached out, awkwardly, and rested a hand between Edrick’s shoulder blades. His fingers curled against damp fabric, then flattened slowly. Up, down. Up, down.

The boy didn’t speak again. Just clutched the knife like it might keep him afloat, and stared into some middle distance Davos couldn’t see.

“You’ll make it out,” Davos said quietly. “You will.” His hand stuttered in its motion, but did not stop. “We will kill them. I believe you.”

He didn’t know if he believed it. Not really. The sea didn’t care about northern blood or southern names. But Edrick needed someone to believe, and Davos had learned long ago that sometimes kindness was a performance you stepped into like armor.

“I’ve stitched worse than this. Tended worse. I’ll keep you alive. I swear it.”

Davos was not violent as a child.

He loved too easily, and too quietly. He brushed his sisters’ hair by candlelight and let them smear powdered rose on his cheeks with giggles that filled the stone hallways. He crushed flowers into oils, scribbled herbal recipes in the corners of old books, and whispered to the gods of the river and sky that maybe there could be softness in a world like this.

He had once wanted to be a maester. The library of Godsgrace was too small, its shelves too dusty, its books too rare. He longed for the Citadel, for tomes stacked to the ceiling, for scrolls that smelled of age and promise. He imagined himself with rings of copper and silver, with knowledge humming at his fingertips like a second heartbeat.

But that dream died the day his father laughed at it. “Maesters are for boys with no claim and no spine,” Ferris had said, waving a dismissive hand. “You are not some cloistered rat. You are an Allyrion.”

Ferris never said you are my son. Only you are an Allyrion.

And so Davos folded his softness into silence. He tucked it behind courtly smiles and sharp wit, the kind that got him slapped when it bit too deep. The kind his brother Mors mocked with every breath.

“Are those roses on your sleeves, brother?” Mors once sneered, holding up the cuff of Davos’ linen with mock delicacy. “Careful. The other boys might think you want a wedding dress.”

The other boys laughed.

The other boys always laughed.

But none of them stung quite like Ser Rendal’s son—Orton, or Orlen, Davos no longer remembered. The name didn’t matter. What mattered was the day he asked the master-at-arms if he could start training with a blade.

He had watched the knights spar. He had felt something in his chest when they moved, not hunger, not envy, something holier, a desire to protect, to be useful in a way no book or perfume could promise. He asked for a wooden sword. He asked to stand beside his kin in battle one day.

And Orton had laughed.

“A sword’s no place for you,” the boy had said, voice curling like rot around sweetness. “You should be on your knees before some lord. The Allyrions are lucky you’re the spare. Gods, what kind of heirs would we have with a bitch for a father?”

Davos didn’t remember picking up the dagger.

It had been on the table. Just a letter-opener, really, but it shone like judgment, like finality, and before anyone could stop him, he was behind the boy, and there was blood. So much blood. And screaming.

The ear hit the stone like a piece of fruit.

He was fourteen.

They said the boy lived. That he would grow into a lord someday, one ear folded and twisted like the cruelty he sowed.

Davos was not executed. He was the spare. But his dreams of knighthood died that day, buried under shame and silk and the scent of iron.

His father slapped him across the face in front of the entire hall.

And for the first time in Davos’ life, Mors clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now that’s more like it.”

That was the first time Davos realized no one would ever love him for who he had been. Only for what he could destroy.

The warmth of Edrick’s shoulder pulled him back.

The boy was trying so hard not to cry. Davos didn’t say anything. Didn’t name the lie or touch the tears. He only rubbed his back, steady and slow, until some of the trembling eased.

“We’ll survive,” he whispered again, this time not to Edrick, but to himself.

Because Davos had survived, hadn’t he?

He had just never stopped bleeding for it.

[benjen-mormont]

They anchored just before dawn.

The island rose out of the sea like something half-remembered from a nightmare. Jagged, shrouded in mist, reeking of rot and smoke. Shanties leaned into each other like drunkards too tired to stand alone. Torchlight flickered through the slats. On the piers, slavers paced with lazy menace, while pirates lazed in hammocks or dragged screaming cargo through the sand like it was just another day.

“That’s her,” Benjen murmured, and the words sounded heavier than they should’ve. The ship that had taken Edrick loomed just ahead, sails slack, colors stripped. Benjen could smell the salt, the blood, the sickness buried in the boards.

Toron appeared beside him, chewing something that might have once been crab. “Welcome to Hightide’s Asshole,” he muttered. “Real name’s something softer. Doesn’t matter.”

“We go in quietly,” Benjen said, eyes never leaving the ship.

“We try talking first.” Toron held up his hands in surrender. “I’m serious. Some of these bastards used to crew with me. Before I got sick of scrubbing brains out of my beard. Let me try. If it works, great. If not…” His grin sharpened like a drawn blade. “We salt the earth and piss on their bones.”

They came ashore in twos.

Toron went first, walking like he owned the place, because once, maybe, he had. His men followed: hard-eyed, hard-lived, knives worn to familiarity. Benjen was last, wrapped in shadow, hood drawn low. There was steel beneath the cloak. There always was.

The slaver captain met them at the end of the dock. A brute with no nose and a vest stitched from leather. Karsko.

“Still breathing,” Toron called, grinning like this was a reunion and not a reckoning. “Still ugly.”

“Still stupid,” Karsko spat. “Didn’t think you’d crawl back.”

Toron spread his arms. “I’ve got gold. Heard you’ve got a Starkling.”

Karsko's eyes narrowed. “Maybe I do.”

“Two thousand,” Toron said. “Clean trade. No fuss.”

Karsko sneered. “He’s worth five. Got better offers already.”

Toron didn’t blink. “I’ve also got a ship with twelve cannons pointed at this shitstain of a harbor. Take the deal.”

Karsko’s answer was steel. Fast. Aimed for Toron’s gut. But Toron moved faster. Steel met flesh, met bone. Karsko screamed, and suddenly the beach was a battlefield.

Chaos bloomed. Steel sang. Fire caught. Men screamed like dying animals.

Toron’s crew surged forward, hungry for blood. Toron laughed as he fought, as if violence was a lover he’d missed.

Benjen didn’t join the charge.

He moved past the fire and fury, slipping between cages and crates. He found the ship unguarded but for two men. One turned to piss. The other didn’t get the chance to scream.

Below deck, it was dark.

And then the sound of shallow breathing. Familiar.

Two boys. One folded in on himself, all bone and silence. The other sat straight-backed, calm like he wasn’t shackled to a nightmare.

“You came fast,” said the second. “I thought Northerners moved slower.”

Benjen stared. “You’re not Stark.”

“No,” the boy said. “I’m Davos Allyrion. Of Godsgrace.”

Benjen had heard of him. A prodigy, they said. A problem, others whispered. The kind of boy who didn’t blink when someone vanished.

“Can you fight?” Benjen asked.

“I wouldn’t ask for a sword if I couldn’t.” Davos held out a hand like it was a challenge.

Benjen passed him a blade, then broke Edrick’s chains. The boy stumbled, thin and pale, but his eyes still burned.

Benjen held him, arms tight. Desperate. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve stayed. But I’m getting you home. I swear it.”

Above deck, the world was burning.

Toron held his ground like a god of war, grinning through blood. “Took your sweet time, Bearcub!”

Benjen saw the reinforcements coming. More slavers from the treeline, more death.

No time.

He dropped to his knees, shoving his sword into Edrick’s shaky hands.

Breathed in.

Fell deep.

The whale was there, waiting in the dark. Vast. Ancient. Its mind was a sea unto itself. It welcomed him without words. He showed it what he’d seen.

Men. Fire. Threat.

It rose.

The sea cracked open like a wound. The whale’s mouth swallowed the sky, and half the pirate crew vanished in a single, terrible moment. The silence after was worse than the screams.

Toron whooped. “You brooding, beautiful bastard!”

Benjen returned to himself like a man surfacing from drowning. Wet with sweat. Breathless.

Edrick stood beside him, sword in hand, jaw clenched.

Toron limped toward them, still grinning, blood down his face. “That was something.”

Benjen just laid a hand on Edrick’s shoulder.

The island burned behind them.

But the ships were theirs now.

And Edrick was going home.

[edrickofwinterfell-rp]

Edrick's wrists were raw and his head spun, but he clenched his jaw and didn’t let himself wince. Pain meant he was still here and his rage kept him going.

He’d killed a man on the way out. One with the knife Davos had stolen from him. The other with the blade Benjen had handed him—awkwardly gripped, wild with weight, but it did the job. Over and over.

He hadn’t thought about it. Just moved. Blood hot, vision tunneled. He didn’t scream. He didn’t speak. He just made sure they wouldn’t get back up.

Now, they were back on the ship. The Gray Oath, someone said. Stolen from slavers, claimed like a prize. The sails had already been turned. The island shrank behind them, swallowed by smoke and sea.

Benjen was near. Always. Checking the set of Edrick’s blanket, the cut on his temple, the shallow way his lungs dragged in air.

“You don’t have to hover,” he rasped, curled up on the deck with a half-empty flask and his pride.

Benjen didn’t argue. Just stayed close. That was worse, somehow.

“I can’t believe they only asked that little gold for me,” Edrick grumbled. “That’s insultingly low. I’m a Stark. Next time they ask for five, tell them my bones alone are worth six.”

Toron Greyjoy, whose presence proved how truly desperate Ben must've been to find him dropped down beside him, too graceful by half for someone so covered in blood. “You done growling, wolf pup?”

“I’m fine,” Edrick rasped. “Don’t look at me like I’m going to fall over.”

“Cregan’s going to be livid when he hears,” he muttered more to himself than the others.

A flicker of pain passed through him at the name. Gods, he missed his brother. Cregan with his icy will and hard grudge. He would’ve found Edrick faster. He would’ve brought the whole fucking North with him.

But Benjen had come. And Benjen was here. And that was enough.

A shadow stepped up beside them, and Edrick leaned back so Davos could crouch beside him too, all proper-like, as if they weren’t both caked in blood and soot.

“Benjen, this is Davos Allyrion,” Edrick said, trying for dignity, failing a little. “He’s a pain in the ass and a better liar than me.”

“He kept me alive,” he said, quieter. “Pulled some tricks and made sure I didn't die from a blood infection. And oh Benjen, I liked the whale trick, by the way,” Edrick added, like it was casual. “You’ve got to teach me that, I bet I could learn, I have weird dreams about eating rabbits.”

“Dream about eating rabbits when you don't look you're about to kneel over, it'd be such a waste for you to die right now, after we rescued you.” drawled Toron

Edrick wanted to laugh. It came out as a cough instead, deep and rattling. He covered his mouth with a torn sleeve, and when he pulled it away, there was red in the cloth.

Toron's eyes darkened. “You need a maester.”

“I need a bed and a week without chains,” Edrick muttered, swaying now. The world tilted, seasick and soft. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. Just—just give me a minute, I—”

The rest never came.

He slumped, vision graying, bones hollow. He felt Benjen’s arms catch him, lower him gently to the deck.

“I’ve got you,” someone whispered.

Edrick believed it.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen clicked his tongue, pacing before Edrick’s door for what must have been the hundredth time since they arrived at Fair Isle. The corridor was still, the kind of hush that pressed too close, left a man alone with his thoughts. And Benjen’s thoughts were wolves, snapping at his heels no matter how many steps he took to outrun them.

He should’ve been there.

The words circled him like vultures, feeding on the guilt that hadn’t left him since the day Edrick came back bloodied and bruised from that gods-cursed road north. Since the day Benjen let him go alone.

Edrick, who had always been more laughter than sense, more fire than caution. Edrick, who had tripped through life as though nothing could ever truly harm him, until something did.

Benjen clenched his jaw. He’d thought the lad was safe. That the worst of it was done. That a few days' ride through the Riverlands wouldn’t end in ropes and bruises and scars hidden beneath a tunic. He’d gambled with that boy’s life like a fool, and it had nearly cost him.

It shouldn’t have. He should have known better.

Toron had helped, though Benjen still couldn’t stomach the memory of asking him. The man was a snake, but he had connections on the sea, and that day, Benjen had needed a snake who knew which ships flew no banners. He’d paid in favors and pride to drag Edrick back from the brink. And even now, standing outside this door, he wondered if it had been enough.

Lady Lysa had offered them hospitality without question. Her son Rodrik had spoken kindly to Edrick. Tyshara, ever sharp of eye, had not pressed him, which Benjen was grateful for. But Edrick himself had gone quiet. Too quiet.

And Edrick’s silence was louder than his jesting ever was.

Benjen looked down at the bundle in his hand; a twist of cloth from the kitchens, still warm, filled with almond sweets dusted in honeyed sugar. The ones Edrick had always claimed to detest but somehow managed to steal off every platter.

He’d threatened a kitchen boy for them. Might’ve even bribed him. Didn’t matter now.

Benjen sighed through his nose, staring at the wooden door as if it might blink first. He had half a mind to leave the sweets at the threshold and walk away. But that was the coward’s path. And Benjen had never been a coward.

He remembered what that Dornish lord, Davos Allyrion, had said: “you shouldn’t blame yourself. Edrick is stronger than he looks.”

Benjen hadn’t replied at the time. He’d only thought, Aye. And I’m meant to sleep easier with that, am I?

Not because it wasn’t true—Edrick was strong—but because it missed the point. Edrick shouldn’t have had to be. Not alone. Not then.

He stared at the door again. A stupid piece of wood, and yet it had held him off longer than any sword ever had. He thought of all the times he’d hauled Edrick out of fights. All the lectures, the threats, the smirking insults they passed back and forth like a game of knives. He remembered being ten and holding Edrick’s chubby toddler hand on their way through the Wolfswood, promising not to let go.

But you did, didn’t you?

He raised his hand and knocked. Three firm raps, then two gentler ones.

"Got something for you," Benjen said, voice low, carrying in the hush of the stone corridor. "Still warm."

He paused, pressing his palm against the door as though it might open from the weight of want alone.

"It’s not poisoned," he added, mouth twitching into something almost like a smile, if only to keep the hurt from his voice.

He hesitated. The silence inside the room pressed at him, thick as fog.

"Can I come in?"

[edrick-stark]

Click, click, pause. Click, click, sigh. Edrick had heard the pacing for ages, like a horse with a stone stuck in its hoof. He’d considered opening the door just to end it. Or chucking the stool at it. Unfortunately, Leila had parked herself on said stool and he didn’t think she’d forgive him if he used her as a projectile.

He was sprawled on the bed like a fainting lady, shirt rumpled and collar tugged down to his shoulder, baring the still-bruised line of rope marks. He poked at them now with idle interest while Leila tuned her harp for the third time, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. She'd stopped playing and hadn’t said much since the footsteps started—gone quiet and wide-eyed like a deer.

Edrick, on the other hand, was bored out of his bloody mind.

From the other side of the door came Benjen’s voice: "Got something for you. Still warm."

Leila started to rise.

“Sit,” Edrick muttered. “You’ll make it weird.”

“I am being weird,” she whispered.

“You’re always weird,” he replied, with an unbothered yawn. “It’s your entire personality.”

The sound of hesitation lingered outside. Then: "It’s not poisoned."

Edrick smirked despite himself. “Tell him to prove it and eat one.”

She gave him a scandalized look.

He waited. Silence. Then from outside a soft:

"Can I come in?"

For a second, Edrick almost said no just to be petty.

But—there was a crinkle of cloth, and the scent of honey and roasted almond had begun to seep through the crack of the door like a siren song.

He turned his head just enough to call out, “Only if you swear not to ask how I’m feeling. After agreeing you may enter the pitiful den of the convalescent.”

The door creaked open and Benjen stepped in like he expected to be bitten. He probably did. Edrick stared at him from the bed, half-lounging, one knee cocked up, Leila had stood, clutching her harp like a shield. She nodded—barely—at Benjen, eyes on the floor.

Edrick cleared his throat. “She’s not a hostage.”

“You’re giving her that look. Like you think she’s being forced to attend to me, she's not. We're best friends now.”

Benjen looked mildly horrified.

Leila made a little noise like a bird in a storm and dipped a curtsy too fast to be graceful.

Edrick groaned. “For fuck’s sake, now you’re both awkward.” he made a face and grabbed the bundle. The scent of sugar hit him full force. “I’m going to eat all of these in front of you out of spite.”

He did however share some with Leila because as he said they were best friends now and he was capable of being nice. Sometimes.

“You didn’t interrupt anything even though we're unchaperoned youths,” Edrick said. “She was just playing my nursemaid and singing the saddest song in Westeros. I was about to dramatically expire for effect.”

“The song's from Essos!” Leila exasperated.

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Younger brother of Lord Cregan Stark, Harry Gilby, He/Him - @edrickofwinterfell

Welcome, Edrick Stark of House Stark of Winterfell! We’re delighted to see he has arrived safely on his journey to King’s Landing. Around the court, the sixteen year old has been praised as spirited, loyal and pragmatic but some have whispered he is also short-tempered, grim and unempathetic. Upon his arrival, it is clear that he is slightly enthusiastic about the reign of Westeros’ first ruling queen, and while the eyes of our court may be fixed on House Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra, and the future of Westeros, his true allegiance will always be to House Stark and The North.

Rust, 18, They/Them, IST, no triggers

[benjen-mormont]

⋆❅‧ HOW TO FALL WITH DIGNITY (YOU CAN’T) ⋆❅‧

(Starter with @edrickofwinterfell)

Benjen did not belong here.

Bear Island had its winters, sure—frozen shores, treacherous tides, and the occasional snowstorm that could bury a man alive if he wasn’t careful. But this? This thin, brittle sheet of ice stretched over the godswood pond was a different beast entirely. It was mocking him. He could feel it.

His boots, usually so sure and steady, had been cast aside in favor of sharpened bone skates, strapped tightly to his feet by the little demon currently gliding in circles around him like a vulture waiting for its meal to keel over.

Edrick Stark was a menace on ice. The boy cut across the frozen lake as if he’d been born to it, twisting, turning, and carving patterns into the surface with infuriating ease. Meanwhile, Benjen stood wobbling on the edge like a newborn fawn, one wrong shift away from total disaster.

“This is hardly fair,” Benjen muttered, flexing his fingers. His gauntlets were already off, tossed aside when he realized they were about as useful as a sword in a snowball fight. He’d fallen three times just trying to stand, and his pride—not to mention his backside—was still recovering. “You weigh as much as my left leg. I, on the other hand, am a *normal* size.”

Benjen clenched his jaw. He had faced worse than this. He had warged into his own warhorse mid-battle, dodging arrows and spears like they were flies. He had stood before Cregan Stark and sworn to serve him until death, all while maintaining a straight face despite the man’s notoriously terrible breath. He had even tolerated Kermit Tully’s drunk singing without throwing the man into a river.

He could ice skate.

He stepped forward. The ice, traitorous and cruel, slid out from under him. For a fleeting second, he was weightless, arms flailing, feet flying—

Then, disaster.

Benjen crashed down onto his back with the force of a dying mammoth. A crack rang through the ice, but the surface held. His dignity, however, did not.

Edrick, of course, was already laughing.

Benjen groaned, staring up at the sky. “Seven hells.”

He shifted, testing whether he could get up without making things worse. The answer was a resounding *no*. Edrick was giggling so hard people would probably hear him from Dorne.

Benjen sighed, long and slow. “You are a very small, very annoying creature, Stark.”

Edrick leaned down, extending a hand after cracking a joke Benjen wouldn’t dignify by repeating. Benjen took it, not because he needed help, but because the little pest would never let him hear the end of it otherwise.

He grunted as he pulled himself up. The ice groaned beneath his weight, but it held. For now. Maybe if Benjen warged into a bear, he could at least have the satisfaction of chasing the boy off the lake. Another slide, another crack. He could keep trying to get up, which would almost certainly end in another fall. He could accept defeat and let the ice claim him. Or—

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the fur-lined collar of his cloak, withdrew a handful of snow, and lobbed it at Edrick’s face.

The boy squawked mid-jest, skates skidding wildly as he tried to dodge, but the snow caught him square on the ear.

Benjen smirked. "Not so graceful now, are you?"

Maybe Winterfell wasn’t so bad this time of year. Or maybe he’d just hit his head harder than he thought.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick Stark had been called many things in his sixteen years—wolf cub, little lord, insufferable brat—but very small and very annoying? That was rich, coming from the overgrown oaf currently sprawled across the ice like a beached whale.

And then, just as he was savoring the moment, the bastard had the audacity—the sheer, unmitigated gall—to throw a snowball at him.

The ice was his kingdom, his domain, his birthright, and this shaggy, clumsy, Bear Island brute had dared to challenge him?

The snow smacked against his ear, cold and humiliating, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Edrick’s perfect balance wavered. He pinwheeled, skating backward, barely managing to correct himself before he ended up sprawled next to Benjen like some common fool.

Unacceptable.

“You,” Edrick hissed, scraping the snow off his face. His ear burned. His pride burned more. "You treacherous, lumbering, half-witted son of a fishwife."

Benjen grinned at him. Actually grinned. Lying there like some lazy bear, pleased with himself.

Edrick straightened, drew himself up to his full height, and tilted his chin imperiously. "You think that was clever, do you? You think that was funny?"

Benjen, still grinning, gave the most insufferable shrug Edrick had ever seen.

Oh, he was going to suffer.

Edrick pivoted, cutting a sharp circle around him, letting the skates carry him in smooth, graceful arcs as he plotted his revenge. His fingers twitched at his sides. He could take the high road. He could let this go and they could both go home without bruises, He could–

No. Absolutely not.

With the swiftness of a striking hawk, he bent down mid-glide, scooped a handful of snow, and slammed it against Benjen’s face.

A muffled, indignant noise came from beneath the snow.

"Funny," Edrick muttered, lips curling.

Benjen sat up slowly, brushing ice crystals from his lashes. His expression was unreadable. Ominous.

Edrick arched a brow. "What?"

Benjen stood. The ice creaked beneath his weight. He cracked his knuckles.

Edrick took a step back.

"...Benjen?"

The fucker lunged.

Edrick yelped and twisted away, skates carrying him to safety as he laughed—a high, mean sound that echoed through the icy pond.

Benjen might have been bigger, might have been stronger, might have been faster on solid ground, but here? Here, Edrick was a god.

And Benjen had just declared war.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen lunged. Or at least, he tried to. His feet betrayed him, sliding uselessly over the ice, and a moment later, he crashed onto his back with a bone-jarring thud. The sky above him spun. The world was cold. The world was cruel. The world, to his utter misery, was laughing at him in the form of Edrick’s sharp, delighted cackle.

For a long moment, Benjen just lay there, staring up at the sky, weighing his options. He could accept his fate. Succumb to the ice. Make peace with his gods and let this be his final resting place, defeated and humiliated by a smug little weasel with a pair of skates and an overinflated sense of superiority.

No. Unacceptable.

Benjen groaned and flopped onto his side, chin pressing into the ice as he squinted at the little lord, smug and infuriating, gliding around him like some dainty swan with a vendetta.

Fine. If he couldn’t stand, he would simply fight dirty.

With the grace of a man well-accustomed to maneuvering from horizontal positions—mostly atop other men’s wives—Benjen twisted, drew back his foot, and kicked Edrick sharply in the ankle. Edrick squawked. His knee buckled. His arms flailed.

Benjen grinned, utterly unrepentant.

For a brief second, Edrick wobbled, windmilling in place, before regaining his footing. Then, with the furious precision of a hawk, he bent, scooped up a handful of snow, and hurled it directly at Benjen’s head.

Benjen did not flinch. He had been bested once today; it would not happen again.

His fingers closed around the first thing within reach—a twig, small and brittle but serviceable. He flicked his wrist, years of knife-throwing instinct guiding his aim, and sent it sailing straight into Edrick’s forehead.

The impact was barely more than a tap, but the effect was magnificent.

Edrick’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. He blinked once, then again, as if struggling to comprehend the sheer audacity of what had just occurred.

Slowly, his gloved hand lifted to his forehead, fingers pressing against the small red mark blooming there. His expression was one of pure, righteous outrage.

Benjen smiled. “Oh, that got you, did it?”

Edrick’s eye twitched.

Benjen stretched out on the ice, completely at ease, hands laced behind his head like a man with not a single regret in the world.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he drawled, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Do your worst.”

A beat of silence. This ought to be good.

And then, very softly, very deliberately, he added, “If you dare.”

[edrickofwinterfell]

Benjen had twigged him.

A twig.

Not even a proper weapon, not even a respectable handful of snow—no, the brute had thrown a twig at his head, as if Edrick were some yapping dog to be shooed away.

His pulse pounded in his ears. His breath curled in the winter air, sharp and thin. The little red welt on his forehead burned.

Benjen lay there, sprawled across the ice like the laziest excuse for a man Edrick had ever had the misfortune of knowing, smirking up at him with all the self-satisfaction of a cat that had just knocked a goblet off the table.

Oh Edrick was going to show him.

He tilted his head, rolling his shoulders, considering. “My worst?” he echoed, voice silken. “Now, why would I do that, Benjen? You’ve already done that yourself.”

His eyes flicked meaningfully to the jagged cracks webbing out from beneath Benjen’s bulk, creeping outward like roots of a tree.

Benjen’s smirk faltered.

Oh. This was going to be great.

Benjen set his jaw. “I—”

A loud snap cut him off. The ice beneath his left leg splintered, just a hairline fracture for now, but enough to make his weight shift reflexively to the right—where the ice was even thinner.

Edrick grinned.

He crouched, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied the Bear Islander’s predicament with great interest. “You are in a very precarious position, my friend.”

Benjen exhaled sharply, steadying himself, but the damage was done. He knew Edrick now held all the power. That alone was delicious.

“I could help you,” Edrick mused, tracing idle patterns into the ice with the tip of his skate. “But I do think you owe me an apology first.”

Edrick stomped the ice. Not hard—just enough to remind Benjen exactly who had the upper hand.

Benjen stilled.

His eyes flicked down. The cracks widened. The lake was dark and waiting beneath, Benjen swore.

“I may be a evil bastard but you are very nearly a drowned one,” Edrick countered sweetly. “Apologize.”

Benjen glared.

Edrick lifted his foot again, arching a brow.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen had always known Edrick was a bastard, but this was an entirely new level of smug bastardry. Smug bastardry with a well-placed skate and an expression so unbearably pleased with itself that Benjen wanted to punch him straight across the lake.

Which, unfortunately, would require standing.

Which, unfortunately, was not an option.

His legs burned from holding still, his breath came faster than he liked, and that stupid, stomping boot was making the cracks widen. The ice beneath him groaned, whispering promises of an early grave, and Edrick—preening, well-coiffed, utterly insufferable Edrick—wanted an apology?

For what? For improving his face with a little character? For a twig?

Benjen narrowed his eyes. No. No, there were many things he would do before he apologized to this pompous excuse for a skater. He would wrestle a bear. He would wrestle two bears. He would eat his own left boot.

Edrick lifted his foot again. Just a little. Just enough to remind Benjen who had the upper hand. Just enough for Benjen to make a decision. He exhaled slowly, testing the ice beneath him. The cracks spread like spider legs. Below, the lake waited, black and yawning, ready to swallow him whole if he made the wrong move.

So he made a deliberate one.

A subtle shift—left, right—his boots gliding just enough, legs stretching just enough, just enough—

Then, in one swift motion, he hooked his ankles around Edrick’s own.

For a single, perfect heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then Edrick’s balance vanished.

Benjen saw the exact moment realization dawned—the widening of his eyes, the split-second of oh, you little sh— before he was yanked forward, feet flying out from under him.

Benjen braced himself.

They hit the ice together, Edrick with an undignified squawk, and then—

Crack.

The lake welcomed them with open arms.

Cold. Black. Endless.

Water clamped down like iron, stealing the breath from Benjen’s lungs, but he was already grinning because if he was going under, then so was Edrick.

The cold bit deep, a muted kind of fire. Oh, Cregan was going to kill them if the hypothermia didn’t get there first. Benjen shrugged off his coat and kicked upward, lungs burning, limbs sluggish. His head broke the surface in a gasp of air and ice, his teeth chattering, hair plastered to his face.

Somewhere to his left, Edrick surfaced, flailing like a beached fish, gasping and furious. Benjen dragged himself toward the edge of the ice edge, shaking but victorious.

“Whoops,” he panted, voice rough with cold and triumph. He flicked a handful of freezing water in Edrick’s direction. “Now we’re even.”

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick Stark is a son of the north, he knows cold as intimately as he knows himself.

Cold was the chill that settled in his bones no matter how many furs he piled atop them. Cold was waking in the night shivering, his breath thin and tight in his chest. Cold was the ever-present weight of his body betraying him, his limbs weak when they should have been strong.

This? This was something else entirely.

The lake swallowed him whole. It wrenched the air from his lungs, carved its way into his ribs, stole the very breath from his lips before he could even think to take it back. His limbs went sluggish, useless, his heart hammering against his ribs in a desperate bid to keep him alive. the cold was absolute. It seized Edrick’s lungs in a crushing grip, dragged sharp nails down his spine, and coiled tight around his ribs like a snake determined to squeeze the life from him. The lake swallowed him whole, an abyss of black and frozen silence, and for one terrible moment, his body refused him.

His limbs did not flail, his breath did not come, and his pulse—his weak, traitorous pulse—stammered like a dying thing, barely managing to sputter to life before his body took over.

Survive.

Fucking god Benjen if he makes it out alive he's going to strangle him.

He forced his arms to move, forced his legs to kick, clawing his way back toward the surface even as the cold gnawed at his flesh. It was weak, pathetic—but it was enough.

His head broke through the ice with a gasp, sharp and ragged, his lungs seem to drink more freezing water than air but Edrick had once broken a fever by drinking a litre of ice water, oh it had come back with vengeance half a day later but he had definitely broken it so he was going to be fine, probably. He sucked in air so sharply he swore it sliced open his throat.

He could hear Benjen’s wheezing laugh, hoarse and shaking. He could see the bastard dragging himself toward the ice’s edge after throwing more water at Edrick, shivering like a drowned rat but wearing that infuriating grin all the same.

Oh Edrick was going to make him suffer.

He did not speak. He did not waste the air rattling in his chest or the energy he did not have trying to shout his fury. He merely stared—wide-eyed, shaking, lips lavender, face frightened.

Benjen’s smirk faltered.

Good.

Edrick let himself sink just a little, just enough to shudder violently, just enough to let his limbs go slack before he coughed—a thin, rasping thing that cracked in his throat. The kind of cough men heard in deathbeds and sickrooms, the kind that made old maesters frown and shake their heads. It had always come easy to him. Fuelled by spite (–and the ice water in his lungs) it came even easier now.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen had always played this game with Edrick, toeing the line between recklessness and ruin, between laughter and disaster. It was all about who could push the other furthest, who could endure the longest, who would be the first to yield. But this time, for the first time, the game had turned on him.

Edrick sank, just a little, just enough for his eyes to go dull and his limbs to still, and Benjen forgot how to breathe.

The lake was gone. The ice was gone. He was ten years old again, left out in the snow with his father’s bootprint bruised into his ribs, the taste of copper thick on his tongue, the cold gnawing at his skin like a pack of starving dogs. He remembered the way his father had left him there, a punishment, a lesson. He had screamed then, once, twice, voice raw and pleading before the cold swallowed him whole. There was no one to hear him. No one to save him. He had lain there shaking, praying—someone, please, anyone, in the heavens or the hells, take me—but the gods had not answered. Maybe they never would. Maybe he didn't have a soul to claim.

Not again.

Benjen lurched forward, breaking through the last of the ice with numb fingers. His hands found purchase on Edrick’s furs, hauled him up like a drowned cat, thin and wretched and shuddering against his chest. Move. Move. Move. His mind snapped back to the present, the ice beneath him slick and treacherous as he scrambled to his feet. Edrick coughed again, wet and ragged, and something inside Benjen cracked wide open.

"Up," Benjen rasped, breathless, "Up, you bloody fool."

He ran.

Benjen's pulse roared in his ears as he staggered forward, breaking the bone skates strapped to his boots as he lurched onto solid ground. He barely registered the sting when he cut his arm on the skates still bound to Edrick’s feet. The blood was warm for a moment before the cold stole that too. Edrick was too light in his grip, his body like kindling, all skin and bone and rattling breath.

The path back to Winterfell blurred, trees twisting past in the periphery of his vision. Someone called out, he didn’t stop. The courtyard was a smear of movement, stablehands shouting, maesters rushing forward, maids gasping at the sight of them. Benjen barely saw them.

"Move!" His voice snapped through the air, raw with something that was not quite anger, not quite fear. "Boil water! Bring furs… hot stones! Now!"

He didn’t wait. He didn’t trust them to be fast enough. He carried Edrick straight through the doors, straight past Cregan, barely sparing him a breathless apology before he was bounding up the steps, Edrick’s body limp in his arms.

The bedroom was too cold. Everything was too cold. Benjen knelt by the fireplace, hands working on instinct, tearing sodden clothes away, peeling wet furs from frozen skin. Edrick’s lips were nearly blue, his skin pale as death, but he was breathing. Shallow. But breathing.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re an idiot,” Benjen muttered, barely aware of the way his hands shook as he wrapped Edrick in dry furs, tucking them close. He pressed his knuckles against Edrick’s ribs, against his chest, willing heat back into his body, even as his own hands stung from the cold.

Benjen didn’t believe in the Seven. He barely believed in the gods at all. But the Old Gods had always listened, hadn’t they? Always watched, quiet and ancient in the trees.

"Take me instead…" Benjen pleaded in a murmur, gripping the furs to keep Edrick in a cocoon. The words wrenched from his chest before he could think better of them. "You hear me? Take me instead…"

Edrick coughed a gasp and said something he couldn’t quite place. Benjen nearly laughed. He nearly sobbed.

He pressed a hand to Edrick’s chest, feeling the faint rise and fall beneath his palm. The maids stumbled in with hot water, with tea, their voices a distant hum in the back of his mind. He barely noticed.

Edrick was alive.

“You are forbidden from ice skating… fucking hell…”

[edrickofwinterfell]

He wasn’t dying.

He was in bed. A warm bed. A stupid, overstuffed, swelteringly hot bed, wrapped so tightly in furs he could barely move. His head pounded and his limbs ached with a dull, lingering cold that made him want to curl in on himself and never move again– especially since he knew Cregan would be fussing soon enough.

Oh and Benjen was there.

Edrick cracked open one eye, scowling at the shadowy figure looming over him, hair a wild, half-frozen mess, face drawn with exhaustion, expression wrought with something Edrick didn’t particularly like the look of.

Something about it made his stomach twist.

Edrick licked his lips, swallowing past the rawness in his throat. His voice came out hoarse, rasping: "Benjen, if you're about to cry like a little bitch, I swear I’ll—"

Benjen’s scowl snapped into place so fast Edrick almost smiled.

Edrick tried to straighten, attempting to shift beneath the furs. Impossible. He was cocooned like a babe in swaddling. "You can't forbid me from anything, you overgrown bear you're not my brother!"

But then Edrick looked at him. Really looked at him. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curled like he was trying to stop them from shaking. The cut where his skates bled him, the raw edges of something fraying just beneath the surface.

Guilt, sharp and unexpected, bit at the back of Edrick’s throat.

He shook his head attempting to get rid of the unfamiliar emotion, “Don’t flatter yourself, Benjen,” he huffed. “I’m... not that easy to kill– as a thousand illnesses from my childhood can tell you.”

“And I told you,” he murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, “ice… is my domain.”

[benjen-mormont]

Even if his breath came too fast, too shallow, even if his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even if the memory of his father’s voice still rang sharp and cold in his ears—a man who cannot command his own heart does not deserve to command at all—Benjen was not going to cry.

Because Edrick was alive.

Alive and scowling and swaddled like a particularly ugly newborn, running his mouth the way only an absolute imbecile could after nearly freezing to death.

"Crystal of pure and unadulterated stupidity, untouched by any source of wisdom," he informed Edrick, in his calmest, most level voice. "That is what you are. You are a monument to ignorance. A beacon of reckless idiocy. A living warning sign. If the gods were just, they would carve your frozen, vacant expression into the mountains as a caution to all who look upon it—‘BEWARE, YE WHO THINKETH THYSELF CLEVER, LEST YE TOO FALL THROUGH THE FUCKING ICE.’”

Edrick wheezed a laugh, rasping and pained but too smug by half. Benjen nearly smothered him with the nearest pillow.

Instead, he grabbed another fur and tossed it over the idiot’s head. “You almost died, you gaping void where common sense should be. And yet here you are, grinning like a fool who’s just discovered fire.”

Edrick, muffled under the layers, muttered something undoubtedly stupid. Benjen ignored him, pressing his palm hard to his forehead, willing the lingering panic to dissipate. The maids were staring at him. He realized, dimly, that he was still dripping water onto the floor.

“Lord Mormont,” one of them ventured, eyeing him like he was a particularly stupid wolf pup who had gotten his head stuck in a fence, “you’re soaked.”

Benjen looked down. His clothes were still frozen stiff in places, his hair was crusted with ice, and his fingers were so cold and raw he barely felt them.

Ah. Right.

That would explain the shivering.

“Yes, I apologize,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll go. But only after I ensure this dumbass does not immediately keel over the second I turn my back.”

Edrick shifted under the mountain of furs, attempting to free an arm, presumably to flip him off. He failed. Benjen smirked, then leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Shove an igloo up your ass, Ed," he said, turning on his heel. "I'm going to the hot springs before I actually die of worry."

And hypothermia.

Then, with all the dignity of a man who had spent the last several hours hurtling across frozen death traps after his idiot not-brother, he turned on his heel and stormed off to the hot springs, leaving a flustered maester hurrying after him, screeching about his cuts and his impending collapse.

Benjen, as ever, ignored him.

Yes, Edrick was an insufferable, reckless, absolute fool. But he was Benjen’s fool.

Even if he’d never admit it.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick, for his part, was feeling rather pleased with himself. He was alive, wasn’t he? That was a victory. A bit of water in the lungs was nothing. He had survived worse.

He sank deeper into the water, letting it lap over his shoulders, heat seeping deep into his bones. He wasn’t shivering anymore—at least, not from the cold, joining Benjen rather than rotting in blankets was the best decision he's ever made.

He cracked one eye open, studying the Bear Islander through the drifting mist.

Benjen sat across from him, arms stretched along the stone edge, his face a study in exhaustion and lingering exasperation. His hair, damp and curling from the steam, clung to his forehead, and the cut on his arm was wrapped, though not nearly as well as the maesters would have liked. Edrick had never seen the man look more at peace—nor more like he was contemplating homicide.

Benjen’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his lips pressed in a line, his fingers tapping idly against the wet stone.

Silence stretched between them

Edrick took a breath. Then, with all the casual ease of a man who hadn’t nearly drowned hours ago, he smirked.

“Well,” he drawled, “that was invigorating.”

Benjen’s head snapped toward him so fast Edrick was surprised he didn’t sprain something.

Edrick, still grinning, tilted his head. “Come now Ben, That was an adventure. A proper test of skill and wit. I say we do it again.”

Benjen’s expression remained neutral.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he reached across the steaming water, seized Edrick by the back of the neck, and shoved him under.

Water rushed over his head before he had the chance to do more than inhale sharply.

He was yanked back up just as fast, coughing and spluttering, water streaming from his hair and down his face.

Benjen, infuriatingly, was already leaning back again, eyes closed, looking for all the world as if nothing had happened.

Edrick glared. “That was uncalled for.”

Edrick wrung water from his hair with great dignity, watching his so-called friend through narrowed eyes. “Prick.”

Edrick’s smirk faded at the lack of a reply.

There had been a moment—just a moment—when Benjen had looked at him back when he was not-drowning, when his voice had rasped with something that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite fear. A moment where Edrick had almost felt bad for making him feel it.

Almost.

After a long moment, Edrick sighed, glancing sideways at Benjen.

“...Thanks for dragging me and whatever.”

Benjen didn’t react at first.

Then, slowly, he cracked one eye open, peering at Edrick with open suspicion.

Edrick rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of—yes, I can say something nice. I’m perfectly capable.”

[benjen-mormont]

Edrick was alive. By all rights, the boy should be dead—swallowed by the river, dashed against the rocks, lost to the cold. But no. Of course not. Edrick had to go and do what he always did: defy the odds through sheer arrogance, reckless stubbornness, and the unshakable belief that the gods themselves wouldn’t dare inconvenience him.

Benjen should have been furious. He was furious. And yet, beneath the anger, there was something else. Something harder to name. A tightness in his chest, lodged beneath his ribs, an ache that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

He was, against all reason, awfully happy.

He cracked his eye open just in time to catch the tail end of Edrick’s long-suffering sigh. “…Thanks for dragging me out. Or whatever.”

Benjen blinked. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, peering at Edrick with open suspicion, like a fish who was offered too many worms.

Edrick rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of—yes, I can say something nice. I’m perfectly capable.”

Benjen hummed, a low, skeptical sound. “Say it again. Slower this time. I want to commit this moment to memory.”

Edrick scowled, the way he always did when caught in an act of decency. Benjen braced himself for the inevitable backlash. It was a law of nature: for every ounce of kindness Edrick gave, he compensated with twice the meanness. If the people of Winterfell had any sense, they’d flee the keep now before the sarcasm fallout killed them all.

He waited for it.

Instead, Edrick scooped up a handful of water and flung it directly into his face.

Benjen sat there, dripping, inhaled deeply, and considered murder. Then, with deliberate calm, he leaned forward, plucked up the nearest bar of soap, and hurled it at Edrick’s head.

“Next time you get yourself half-drowned,” Benjen said, settling back against the stone, “I’m charging a fee. A vow of silence should do. Two weeks, maybe three. If you really want to thank me, shut up about it.”

Edrick sputtered something incoherent, but Benjen only shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock regret. “And here I thought I had more time,” he mused, hand over his heart like a maiden succumbing to scarlet fever. “Always figured the world would end with ice or fire, not this. A kind word from Edrick Stark. It’s over. That’s it. We’re done for. Just wish I’d had time to say goodbye to my mother and sister first… maybe I should write a letter—”

He caught the movement just in time—the shift of Edrick’s shoulders, the gleam in his eye—but not fast enough to stop him. More water to the face.

Benjen made a sound that was absolutely not a squawk, then, with the honed reflexes of a seasoned warrior, launched a towel at Edrick’s head.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair. “You know, when I was eight years old and you were just a squalling, red-faced lump, I promised to keep you safe. And look where that’s got me.” He gestured vaguely to the steaming water around them. “Drenched. Half-dead. In the company of you. You used to be less insufferable before you had teeth, you know that?”

Edrick made a noise of protest, which Benjen ignored entirely.

The bathhouse had mostly emptied by now, the steam thick and heavy in the air, carrying the faint scent of pine and lye soap. Benjen let himself relax, the heat working through the tightness in his limbs. He let his eyes drift half-closed. It was a rare thing, to sit in peace, to feel safe. He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

His gaze flickered downward, landing on his right knee. The skin there was rougher than the rest, pale and jagged where it had been torn open once and left to heal in a way that made it pull strangely when he moved. His foot twitched, reflexive. The scar was ugly, a reminder of a man whose ghost lingered even in death, no matter how deep Benjen had buried him. A father’s gift.

Benjen exhaled, slow and steady, and shifted, letting his knee slip beneath the water once more. No need to talk about that.

Instead, he closed his eyes again, stretched his arms along the stone, and let the heat sink deep into his bones. Edrick was alive. That was enough for tonight.

“Just try not to die next time, prick,” Benjen said, one eye cracking open. “I’d hate to have to find another fool to drag from the river.” He paused, then added, “Speaking of rivers… do you want to come with me down to Riverrun next week? If you’re not busy tormenting Cregan, that is.”

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick arched a brow, wiping a trickle of water from his face with exaggerated slowness. “Riverrun?” he echoed, tilting his head as if contemplating the offer. “I don’t know, Ben. Sounds awfully dull. No ice to fall through. Plenty rivers to nearly drown in. What ever will I do to entertain myself? gods forbid we experience a single moment of peace.”

Benjen cracked an eye open, fixing him with a look that spoke volumes of barely restrained patience. Edrick had seen that look before—usually right before Benjen either hurled him bodily into something unpleasant or stormed off before he could do so.

Edrick leaned back, stretching his arms along the edge of the bath, basking in the heat. “Though,” he mused, “I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst idea. A change of scenery, new faces to charm, a whole new place full of people to inflect myself upon—”

Benjen gave him that look again.

Edrick leaned back, sinking into the water, considering.

On the one hand, he should probably stay in Winterfell. Cregan would have his hide if he disappeared so soon after nearly drowning himself like a particularly witless pup. But on the other, it wasn’t every day Benjen invited him anywhere that wasn’t a death trap. The last time had been a hunting trip that ended with them stranded overnight in a cave, half-frozen, and waiting out a blizzard. And even that had been Edrick’s idea, technically.

Riverrun, though—that was new.

He let the silence stretch a little longer, just to be difficult, before finally sighing. “Fine I'll go.” He turned his head smirking. “But if it's boring, I reserve the right to push you in a large body of water.”

Edrick grinned, sinking deeper into the water, letting it lap at his chin. Riverrun, then. It wasn't the worst way to spend his time.

Besides, if Benjen was planning something, well - Edrick had always enjoyed ruining plans.

[benjen-mormont]

𓆝 ON THE ROAD TO RUIN 𓆞

(A thread with @edrickofwinterfell)

The old scars ached, a dull throb that seemed to echo the rhythm of the carriage wheels. The fresh ones stung, raw and unforgiving, a reminder of Edrick's uncanny ability to find trouble where none should exist. The clouds above loomed heavy, stitching themselves together into a storm that seemed to follow them like a curse. And the day, Benjen thought bitterly, could still get worse. So much worse.

Edrick was too quiet. That was the problem. Silence from him was never a good sign, it left too much room for his mind to wander, to plot, to concoct schemes that could unravel the Seven Kingdoms if given half a chance. Benjen exhaled sharply through his nose, pinching the bridge of it as if the pressure could summon the patience he so desperately lacked. The carriage jolted violently over a rut in the road, and he took it as a personal affront from the gods themselves.

"Alright," Benjen began, his voice tight with the strain of keeping his temper in check. "Listen to me, you walking calamity. First rule: do not die. I mean it. No drowning, no picking fights with people twice your size, and if you so much as glance at a horse wrong and it kicks you in the head, I will personally toss your corpse into the Trident and tell Cregan it was fate."

He didn't bother to look at Edrick to see if he was paying attention. He didn't want to know. If he turned his head and caught sight of that smug, infuriating grin, he'd do something regrettable, like shoving him out of the carriage and letting the mud claim him.

Benjen's fingers traced the carriage wall absently, as if contemplating the logistics of such an act.

"Second," he continued, his tone sharp enough to cut through steel, "under no circumstances are you to speak to Lady Jenny. Not a word. I don't care if she asks you a direct question. I don't care if she orders you to speak. If she so much as looks at you, you are to pretend you've been struck dumb. If she tries to tend to some new, entirely avoidable injury of yours, you will shake your head and die quietly. She thinks I'm a well-mannered, respectable friend of her son, and I intend to keep it that way. You open that gaping maw of yours and say one thing about me-one true thing, mind you, which is infinitely worse than a lie— and I swear, I will murder you, resurrect you, and murder you again."

Benjen took a steadying breath, flexing his fingers as if to shake out the urge to strangle Edrick where he sat. It wasn't working. He had spent years carefully crafting an image for Lady Jenny to admire. She called him 'dear Ben', for the gods' sake! Benjen wasn't dear to most, and if that boy ruined this, everything would crumble.

"And while we're on the subject," he added, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, "Oscar. Be nice to him. I know you think you're nice to people, but you're not. You're... you. And that is precisely the problem. So no teasing him, no telling him stories, and for the love of all that is holy, do not mention the time I got thrown out of Riverrun for a week. Or-" Benjen held up a finger, anticipating the exact way Edrick's lips would twitch into that infuriating smirk.

He regretted, deeply, the night he'd gotten drunk and confessed to flirting with Jenny in front of Kermit, resulting in his brief exile. Jenny, bless her, had barely noticed. "—or why I got thrown out of Riverrun. That's a separate warning. Jenny is one thing, but if Oscar finds out, he will kill me. And if you tell him, I will kill you first. Then Cregan will kill me.

And I do not want to deal with that particular afterlife, thank you very much."

Benjen finally glanced over, narrowing his eyes.

Edrick's face was infuriatingly blank. That was never a good sign.

"And while we're at it," Benjen pressed on, his voice rising slightly, "don't talk shit about me to Oscar. Or anyone, really. I know how your mind works. You get bored, you start talking, and before I know it, Lady Jenny is looking at me like I personally burned down a sept and Kermit's threatening to banish me again. It took me months to get back in his good graces after the last time, and if you ruin this for me, I will find a way to ruin you."

Benjen scrubbed a hand down his face, already exhausted, and let out a slow, measured breath. Would Cregan be angry if he stuffed Edrick into a barrel and kicked him back to Winterfell? Probably.

But it was tempting.

"Now," Benjen said, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration, "about the brothels." Another regret. He needed to evaluate why he had the habit of confessing everything to this insufferable pest.

"You are not coming with me. Don't argue. Don't look at me like that. I am there on official business. This is serious. Kermit asked me, specifically, to bid farewell to the brothels in his name, because he is a devoted man now, a changed man, and none of his other friends can be trusted with the task because they partake in such things. And I, being the best of all his friends and the only one who doesn't sleep around with whores, have agreed to see it done."

He pointed a finger at Edrick, as if warning him against whatever smart remark he was no doubt preparing. The bastard had the audacity to smile. Smile!

"I know leaving you unattended is dangerous. I know you're already plotting something. But I am not bringing you with me. You will not talk your way into this. I am putting my foot down. My whole damn leg, if I have to. And if I return to find that you've somehow burned down half of Riverrun or been adopted by Lady Jenny or are otherwise involved in something catastrophic, I will end you, Edrick. End you."

Benjen folded his arms and sat back, his jaw tight. Maybe he should lock Edrick in his chambers. Maybe he should hire a guard. Maybe he should simply regret every life choice that had led him to this moment and perish on the spot. The carriage shook again, and they weren't even close to Riverrun.

"You know," Benjen said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I didn't have to bring you. I could've left you in Winterfell. But no. I thought, 'Ben, this is an opportunity. A chance to shape Ed into a respectable guest.' And this is how you repay me?" He gestured pointedly at Edrick's deceptively innocent expression. "By looking at me with that face, thinking whatever it is you're thinking? No. No, 1 won't have it. You will behave. You will be normal. You will act as if you have some measure of sense in that thick skull of yours, or so help me, Edrick, I will leave you on the side of the road and pretend I never knew you."

A deep breath. A slow exhale.

"Now," Benjen said, his tone clipped and final. "Any questions, sweetheart?"

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick tilted his head, letting Benjen’s tirade wash over him like a particularly entertaining storm. It was always fun watching him work himself into a frenzy, all huffy and furious like a scolded cat. He’d give it a solid eight out of ten. Points deducted for repetition—Ben had threatened to kill him at least four times, which was a little excessive, even by his standards.

When the silence finally stretched long enough to signal Benjen was, at last, done, Edrick took a deliberate pause. Letting him stew. Letting him wait. Then, in the most innocent tone he could muster, he asked:

“So… am I allowed to look at the horses, or is that too dangerous?”

Edrick leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, I get the logic. My track record with animals that are not Freki and Geri is, admittedly, spotty. But I just want to set expectations. Should I maintain eye contact? Avoid it completely? If I don’t acknowledge the horses, will they know I fear them? I need guidance, Ben.”

Benjen inhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like a man actively restraining himself from murder.

Edrick, who had never once valued his own well-being, pressed on. “Oh! And speaking of expectations, about the brothel thing—"

“—I just need clarification,” Edrick said smoothly, raising both hands in a placating gesture that was, in reality, the opposite of placating. “When you say you’re going on ‘official business’—” here, he made exaggerated air quotes, just to be insufferable, “—does that mean you’re going to give a very solemn farewell? Maybe a nice speech? A heartfelt goodbye to the brothel girls who will, I assume, weep at the loss of your… friendship?”

“Or,” Edrick continued, tapping his chin in faux contemplation, “is this more of a dramatic, single tear down the cheek sort of farewell? A long, lingering look? Maybe you leave behind a keepsake—a silver stag, a lock of your hair—so they always remember the noble Benjen Mormont, greatest of all Kermit’s friends?”

Benjen rubbed both hands down his face. He looked like a man rapidly considering a career change. Something peaceful. Like hermitry.

Edrick grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself. “You know,” he mused, tapping the carriage wall, “for all your dramatics, you didn’t say anything about me going to a brothel. Just that I wasn’t going with you.”

Benjen exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Oh!” Edrick perked up. “One last question. If I do somehow get adopted by Lady Jenny, does that mean I can't flirt with her daughter?– Or will I get exiled too?”

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen counted to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. Didn’t work. He still wanted to murder Edrick. He considered his options.

Option one: warg into one of the horses, turn around, and stomp Edrick into the dirt. No. That wouldn’t do. Not because it was wrong, but because Cregan would never let him hear the end of it. Also, there was a very real possibility that Edrick would survive and, worse, find it funny.

Option two: open the carriage door and shove him out. Again. Tempting. But he’d just crawl back in like the unkillable little gremlin he was.

Option three: smoke until he achieved inner peace or unconsciousness.

Benjen reached into his bag, pulled out the pouch of hax, and started rolling. Edrick was still talking, but Benjen had perfected the art of selective hearing. He caught words like flirt and banished, which meant trouble, but at this point, he was numb to it.

He cracked the carriage window, pinched a bit of dried leaf, packed his pipe, and lit it, inhaling deep and slow. The first drag was a gift from the gods. The second, an apology from them. The third… well, the third was necessary, because Edrick was still speaking, and Benjen wasn’t nearly high enough for that.

It wasn’t going to be so bad.

Maybe Edrick would flirt with Abigail Tully and get himself kicked out. That would be funny. Benjen took another slow inhale, exhaled, and let the thought warm him like a hearthfire. Oh, he’d never let Edrick live it down. Cregan would be furious. Kermit would probably send him back tied to a horse. Benjen would be entertained for years.

"You’re an idiot," he remarked conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "But if you want to go to a brothel and risk getting some weird disease on your bits, be my guest. I won’t stop you. I’ll laugh, obviously. Might even throw a feast in your honor. Edrick Stark: The Man Who Died As He Lived—Like a Fool."

Benjen stretched his legs out onto Edrick’s side of the carriage, exuding the lazy satisfaction of a man who had just realized the universe might finally reward his suffering with something truly spectacular.

"As for me? I don’t pay for it. Never had to. And before you start, no, that doesn’t mean I get it for free out of pity, you absolute menace. It means people actually want to sleep with me. Imagine that. Can’t relate, can you?"

He tapped the pipe absently against the window ledge, shaking out the ash. "Anyway, the farewell’s just one last round of drinks. Kermit’s paying, which means I intend to drink until I forget I know you." He tipped his head back, watching the smoke curl toward the carriage ceiling. "You, meanwhile, should go ahead. Try your luck. Flirt with Abigail Tully. Get yourself kicked back to Riverrun. Do it. I dare you. I’ll be there, watching, waiting, savoring every moment when she tells you to fuck off. It’ll be beautiful."

Benjen sighed, leaning back, feeling the hax settle deep in his bones. Maybe he should’ve smoked before this trip. Maybe he should’ve been born an only son—oh wait, he fucking was! His sister was a treasure to be with, but no, Benjen had to be in Edrick’s company (by invitation of his own dumb self).

"You know," he mused, lazily tipping his head toward Edrick, "it’s funny. You never shut up, but somehow, everything you say is the worst possible thing I could hear at any given moment. It’s almost impressive."

Benjen smirked, eyes half-lidded, utterly relaxed now. "Go on, Stark. Make a mess of things. Just remember: whatever happens? I will be there. Laughing. Forever."

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick stretched out, long limbs taking up as much space as possible, his boots scuffing against Benjen’s leg in a slow, deliberate scrape. Just to be annoying. Just to see if he could make that throbbing vein in Benjen’s forehead pop out.

Benjen didn’t react. Damn.

He draped himself dramatically across his seat, sighing like a man burdened by the weight of the world. “You wound me, Ben,” he drawled, though he knew Benjen wasn’t listening. “Truly, I am devastated by your low opinion of me.”

Benjen hummed absently, more interested in watching his own smoke trails than in dealing with Edrick.

A waste.

Edrick considered his options.

One: behave. Do what Benjen asked, sit quietly, and not cause trouble. Unacceptable. It was against his very nature. Like asking a fish to walk, or Benjen to experience joy in his presence.

Two: push Benjen just far enough that he vibrated with barely contained rage but not far enough to get stabbed. Again. More acceptable, but still lacking in flair.

Three: make a catastrophic mess of things, not by accident, but with precision. With intent. Break precisely the rules that would inconvenience Benjen the most, while ensuring his own well-being remained intact. Oh, yes. Perfect.

The issue wasn’t the brothel. That part was easy. Edrick had no desire to partake in whatever depraved nonsense happened behind those doors. But what he did have, and always would have, was an uncanny ability to be present at the exact wrong moment. He’d show up at just the right time to make Benjen sweat, throw a few words around that could be misinterpreted in the worst possible way, and then leave, satisfied with the chaos he had wrought.

And Lady Jenny? Edrick would speak to her. He would be a delight. He would charm her with every ounce of mischief in his bones, ensuring she adored him. If he played it right, she might even start comparing him favorably to Benjen, which would be the ultimate victory.

His eyes flicked back to Benjen, still sprawled out, still lost in the lazy haze of hax. A lesser man might have taken the opportunity to push his buttons, maybe bring up Jenny again, or Abigail, or—whatever deep, shameful regret Benjen carried about Riverrun.

But Edrick wasn’t interested in whatever pitiful excuse for a love life the man had. He wasn’t interested in love at all, or romance, or any of the tedious entanglements that made men weak and stupid.

The rain started, soft at first, then harder, drumming against the roof like a war march.

Edrick smiled at a butterfly resting at the carriage side.

This was going to be wonderful.

[benjen-mormont]

By the time they arrived at Riverrun, Benjen was waiting for disaster.

Not the kind of waiting a soldier does before an ambush, but the kind a man does after watching someone carry a lit torch into a powder keg. The house hadn’t exploded. Yet.

That was the problem.

They were welcomed without incident. No suspicious noises from the carriage trailing behind them. No forced apologies for whatever chaos Edrick had undoubtedly caused during the ride. No frantic explanations for why a brawl had erupted in the courtyard within moments of their arrival.

Lady Jenny, for reasons Benjen couldn’t fathom, had taken a liking to Edrick. The boy was polite. Charming. He even bowed like a normal person and said: “pleasure to be in your company, my lady,” without a single trace of mockery.

It was unnatural.

The worst part? Jenny adored him.

“Oh, what lovely manners!” she cooed at one point, treating Edrick like a long lost son. “And such a charming young man, too.”

Benjen, who had spent the last sixteen years suffering through Edrick’s nonsense, very nearly dropped dead on the spot.

He tried—gently, subtly—to open her eyes to the devil incarnate sipping tea at her side. “Edrick is many things, my lady,” he said, choosing his words with care, wary of the way her pretty face might furrow, “but his charm is… let’s say, highly selective.”

Jenny only laughed, patting his hand as if he were a child. “Oh, don’t fret, Benjen! You’re a nice boy too. The North is simply full of such charming gentlemen.”

Benjen didn’t respond. What could he say? That he’d once watched Edrick throw a man out a window for cheating at dice? That last week, he’d caught him trying to sell a borrowed horse to the very man he’d borrowed it from? That the only reason Edrick hadn’t been stabbed today was because Benjen had stopped himself from reaching for the cutlery at breakfast?

No. He held his tongue. But he didn’t trust it. Any of it. Which meant, of course, that something far worse was coming.

That certainty solidified over dinner. The meal was pleasant enough, despite Edrick’s presence, and Benjen was just beginning to lower his guard when Lady Jenny, sweet and oblivious, beamed at him over her wine.

“You know, dear Ben, I think you would adore Lord Toron Greyjoy.”

Benjen choked. Hard.

The wine burned down the wrong pipe. He coughed so violently that Kermit thumped him on the back, either to help or to punish him for existing.

Toron Greyjoy.

The man was an asshole. A grinning, sea-soaked disaster with too many teeth and too much nerve. Benjen had met him all of three times, and each encounter had ended in either a duel, a broken nose, or some unfortunate combination of the two.

Lady Jenny just smiled, delighted. “Oh, yes, you two would get along splendidly! He has such a good sense of humor.”

Benjen barely suppressed a shudder. That was the worst insult anyone had ever levied at him, and it wasn’t even intentional.

From across the table, Edrick—who had, until now, been behaving—looked at him.

Not just looked. Watched.

Benjen knew that look. It was the look of a man who knew something.

Edrick tilted his head, smug amusement practically oozing off him, like he was watching a puzzle piece click into place.

Benjen hated him.

He spent the rest of the meal ignoring Lady Jenny’s well-meaning praise of that kraken bastard and trying to figure out what, exactly, Edrick was plotting. It was a slow kind of torment, waiting for the blade to drop.

By the time night fell, draping Riverrun in a blue light that made the castle seem submerged beneath dark waters, Benjen kicked open Edrick’s door. The hinges barely had time to groan before he was inside, boots striking the floor with purpose, his hand already fisted in Edrick’s shirt.

“You,” he snarled.

Edrick, to his credit, at least pretended to be surprised.

Benjen didn’t have the patience for games. He shoved Edrick back, not hard enough to send him sprawling, but just enough to make a point. A warning. A reminder that if he wanted to, he could toss him into the nearest closet and bar the door without breaking a sweat.

“What are you up to?” he demanded. Benjen had known Ed his whole life. This wasn’t him. “You’re too well-behaved. Too polite. Jenny likes you.”

Edrick made a noise that might have been a protest or a laugh. Benjen ignored it.

“And now she’s bringing up Toron Greyjoy?” He bared his teeth. “No one brings up Toron Greyjoy.”

Silence. Edrick smirked.

Benjen cursed and dragged a hand down his face. Of course, he knew the worst was yet to come. “You made her say that, didn’t you? That thing about Toron. You put that in her head. I don’t know how, but I know you did.”

Edrick exhaled, slow and pleased. Benjen inhaled rage.

“I swear,” he said, voice dangerously low, “if you arranged anything involving that thrice-damned kraken bastard—”

Edrick merely smiled at him, like a man who hadn’t just arranged something but had done so with immense satisfaction.

Benjen’s eye twitched. He forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fists, and released Edrick’s shirt with a sharp shake of his head. He should’ve left Edrick in Winterfell. He should’ve killed Toron the last time they fought.

Instead, he was here, standing in a candlelit room, watching Edrick smirk like the cat who’d swallowed the canary and half the coop.

With all the diplomacy Melantha had tried—and failed—to instill in him, Benjen said, very calmly (if one ignored the vein throbbing at his temple), “If I wake up tomorrow to any kind of mess, if I have to explain anything to anyone, if I so much as catch a glimpse of Toron’s stupid little face, I will drown you in the nearest river.”

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick blinked at Benjen. Slowly. Like a man roused from the depths of some great and terrible slumber. Which, in his opinion, he had been.

Benjen had kicked open his door. Shouted in his face. Shaken him like a farmer testing a sack of grain for rot. And for what?

For nothing.

He rolled onto his side, halfheartedly wrenching his shirt free from Benjen’s grip and made a valiant attempt at tucking himself back beneath his blankets. “You are a cruel and unjust man,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Tearing a sickly boy from his bed.”

Benjen yanked them away.

Edrick groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Painfully. He flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all his woes. “I hope,” he whispered, “that the gods strike you down.”

“D’you ever think,” Edrick muttered, “that maybe people just like me more than they like you?”

That earned him a sharp scoff.

He grinned. “Lady Jenny certainly does.”

And really, what was the problem? Edrick had been polite. Civilized, even. He’d smiled and bowed and refrained from throwing anything at anyone. He’d behaved.

Benjen should’ve been proud.

Instead, he was hovering like a mother hen about to have a coronary, convinced Edrick was secretly orchestrating some kind of elaborate disaster.

To be fair, he was but that wasn't the point.

So, instead of answering, instead of confirming or denying whatever heinous crimes he had been accused of, Edrick merely sighed. "You're exhausting," he murmured, already halfway to sleep.

He let his body sink into the mattress, let his breathing slow, and let the weight of exhaustion drag him down.

Benjen was still standing there, still full of righteous fury, still waiting for a fight.

Edrick, with all the grace of a dying man, reached blindly for his stolen blankets.

Benjen threw them at his head.

[benjen-mormont]

🂱 NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED 🂱

(A thread with @edrickofwinterfell and @lord-kermit-of-riverrun)

Benjen had survived battles, blizzards, and the occasional drunk archer mistaking him for a particularly well-dressed bear, but nothing had prepared him for the gauntlet of grief-stricken prostitutes awaiting him in Riverrun’s brothels.

Fifteen establishments. Fifteen rounds of their most expensive wine. An army of women wailing as though he had arrived bearing Kermit’s severed head rather than his apologies.

Benjen had done his best. He really had. He delivered the message with all the solemnity of a man announcing a noble lord’s passing: Lord Kermit Tully bids his fondest farewells, but he shall not be returning, for he has found true love and wishes to honor it—blah, blah, blah.

He had been groped, kissed, slapped, and, at one particularly low moment, cornered by three women who seemed genuinely determined to keep him as a replacement. He had extracted himself with all the grace of a man escaping a burning building, waving a pouch of gold like a torch to light his way out.

Benjen did not sleep with prostitutes. It was a rule. A principle. Mostly because the moment coin entered the equation, things got complicated, and Benjen preferred his complications to be of the ‘climbing out the window before her husband arrived’ variety.

His coat reeked of rose oil. There was lipstick on his collar. His patience had died two brothels in.

By the fifteenth establishment, he could barely muster the energy to deliver the same speech he’d repeated all night: Kermit is in love. No, I don’t know why. Yes, I am certain. No, he’s not coming back. Yes, you can take it up with the gods if you think they’ll listen. No, I’m not interested in softening the blow personally.

His greatest mistake had been lingering long enough for the women to cycle through the five stages of grief. The bargaining was particularly exhausting. He had been offered free wine, free rooms, free companionship, and, in one case, what he could only assume was an illegal amount of opium—all in exchange for convincing Kermit to change his mind or, failing that, staying the night himself.

By the time he reached the Tully estate, he felt like a man returning from battle. Victorious, perhaps, but utterly ruined. He shoved the door open with the force of someone who had been personally wronged by it, stomping in like vengeance incarnate.

Kermit was waiting, practically vibrating with anticipation. Benjen didn’t even pause. He yanked off his coat, tossed it onto the nearest chair, and held up one finger, silencing any words before they could leave his friend’s mouth.

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse from overuse. “Not a single word. Not one syllable. Don’t even breathe in my direction until I’ve had several drinks.”

He collapsed into a chair, rubbing his temples as though he could physically press the memories from his skull.

“The whores?” he continued, eyes still closed. “Devastated. I watched a woman knock over an entire table in grief. Another bit a handkerchief like a widow at a funeral. I was grabbed, Kermit. Clawed at. Pinned against a wall at least twice. I had to pay for two bottles at the Silk Kiss because someone threw the first one at my head.” He cracked an eye open, leveling a glare at Kermit. “Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve single-handedly destabilized the local economy. I expect an award from the merchants' guild for my efforts.”

He exhaled sharply and, finally, let himself slump against the back of the chair. His limbs felt like lead. His soul had withered. But at least it was over.

And then he saw him.

Edrick. Sitting there. Drinking tea, of all things, swathed in a cloak like some unholy specter of mischief.

Benjen narrowed his eyes, slowly straightening. He studied the boy for a long moment, then arched a single brow. That was his ‘going out’ cloak. His ‘I want to mingle with the common folk’ cloak. The same cloak Benjen was contemplating strangling him with right now.

“Did you follow me?”

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick blinked slowly, tilting his head like a particularly unimpressed owl. Or maybe a very wise owl. He felt wise. Unbothered. Smooth, even.

“Follow you?” he repeated, dragging the words out, as though he needed to taste them first before committing. Then he shook his head, taking another sip of his tea—lukewarm now, a tragedy. “No. Not really. Not exactly.”

Instead, he sighed, rolling his head against the back of the chair to stare at the ceiling. “I began following you. And then I made the mistake of stepping into the first brothel you entered.”

He took another sip of tea grimacing. “I left immediately. Walked straight back out. I have never exited a building faster in my life. I almost tripped over my own feet.”

Edrick let the admission sit for a moment before lifting his head just enough to glance at Benjen again. His face was flushed from drink, his words slightly looser than usual, but his usual acerbic wit was softened into something almost fond.

Edrick sighed, tilting his head back against the chair. “I did follow you at first. But then I left. It was all a bit—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Too much. Loud. Sticky. Smelled like… I don’t know. Sex and perfume?” He squinted. “And, gods, the sounds—" He shuddered. "I had to go.”

Benjen made a sound—something between a snort and a grunt of agreement. It was a sound that said yes, welcome to my night of suffering.

“So I wandered. Got drunk and then had a bite to eat.” He tapped a thoughtful finger against his cup. “Something fried and spicy. Very spicy. And then something sweet. Like strawberries. But… wrong.” His brows furrowed. “I think it was lying about being a strawberry.”

Benjen’s expression did not shift from its resting state of deep skepticism.

He waved a lazy hand, as though dismissing the whole questionable food experience. “Then I met a dog. Very fat. Very round. Just sitting in the street like he owned the whole damn city. He barked at me once, then ignored me completely. I respect him more than anyone else in this entire place. Good fellow. Had one eye. Looked like he’d seen things. Shared some of my food with him. Almost kept him.” A pause. “Didn’t. Probably for the best. He seemed happier in the streets than I’ve ever seen a noble in a keep.”

Huh, that rhymed. Another sip of tea. He let it sit on his tongue for a moment this time. Very sweet. He swallowed it anyway.

He let out a breath and finally, finally looked at Benjen properly—coat stained, face drawn, absolutely marinated in what could only be the cloying scent of a hundred women’s misplaced affections.

Edrick smirked. “You look terrible.”

Then he poured himself another cup of tea and, after a moment of uncharacteristic consideration, poured one for Benjen and kermit too.

Edrick tilted his head. “Speaking of which…” He turned his attention to Kermit, all polite curiosity. “What is she like then? This lady of yours, worth more than every warm bed in Riverrun?”

[lord-kermit-of-riverrun]

Maybe letting Edrick wander around unsupervised had been a mistake. Only a few hours alone and anything resembling his inhibitions or common sense had vacated him completely.

"She's lovely," Kermit assured Edrick. "Very well-read, very kind." A pause. "I could sing of her virtues for hours on end, but I do not think you are in a state to appreciate it."

Turning back to Benjen, Kermit held out a glass of the better brandy in offering. His friend took it, downed it in one go without a word and immediately began pouring himself another. "For what it's worth," Kermit began, placing another bottle on the table. He had a feeling Ben was going to be grateful for it. "I'm genuinely grateful to you, for doing that. You're a good friend."

Then "A very good thing that my plans, which I suppose I shall have to begin to enact much sooner than my father's death if what you say is true, involve boosting the entirety of the Riverlands' economy. I should hope that the madames and the whores will begin to forgive me when they recieve an influx of handsome traders with deep pockets due to my scheming. Until then, I don't think I'll leave Riverrun without a bodyguard, lest they try to steal me back."

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen made a noise low in his throat, something that might have been amusement if he weren’t too tired to commit to it. He took the cup Edrick poured for him, staring at the tea as if it had personally offended him. It wasn’t what he needed. But it was warm. And Edrick being kind was rare.

“Someday, all that wandering of yours is going to have a price,” he muttered, watching Edrick over the rim of his cup. “What if someone robbed you? Snatched you right off the street? With your luck, it wouldn’t even be bandits, it’d be pirates. I can already see you, halfway to Lys in some smuggler’s hold, arguing about the quality of their wine.”

Benjen would never forgive himself if something happened to Edrick, even if it was Edrick’s own recklessness that led to it. The pest seemed determined to test the limits of his mortality, as if daring the gods to strike him down. Benjen dropped his hands to his sides and squinted at Edrick, studying him with a mix of disbelief and relief. He couldn’t quite fathom how he had managed to return unscathed this time.

One day, Benjen knew, he would regret his leniency. One day, he would decide enough was enough and lock Edrick within the walls of Winterfell, where he could keep him safe, even if it meant chaining him to the stone.

But clearly, that day was not today.

“Honestly, I almost wish the dog had followed me back instead. Better company. At least he knew how to survive in the streets.”

Benjen was on the verge of tuning out, exhaustion dulling his ability to process the devils before him. But then Edrick turned to Kermit, and something in his tone—just a shade too casual, too deliberate—caught Benjen’s attention. It was curiosity, uncharacteristic and revealing, a flicker of intent that betrayed more than Edrick likely intended.

“Well, now. What’s this?” He drummed his fingers lazily against the table. “You never ask about that sort of thing.” He let the silence stretch, waiting to see if Edrick would fidget, would shift, would betray himself in that carefully laid-back posture. However, the little bastard didn’t budge, not even a hair out of place. “Gods, don’t tell me you’ve finally gone and fallen for someone. What a tragedy. I should have known something was amiss when you started waxing poetic about a one-eyed dog.”

His amusement flickered, thinly veiling the wariness that lingered beneath. With a faint, almost imperceptible tension in his gesture, he turned to Kermit and waved a hand dismissively. “Well? Go on, then. Humor him.”

Kermit talked. Benjen was sure the words had meaning if he paid enough attention. He poured himself another glass of brandy instead. The heat of it settled in his chest, grounding him in a way the tea never could. His fingers tapped idly against the glass. The conversation blurred. Plans, schemes, something about trade, something about love.

Love.

The word curled in his mind like smoke, hazy and insubstantial. He had never quite understood the fuss. Love was compromise, expectation, duty dressed in softer words. He had seen what it did to men, how it unraveled them, made fools of them. A sickness, a fever that burned through reason and left only ruin in its wake. And yet, they all longed for it, chased it like moths to flame.

“A woman as lovely as you say, as well-read, as kind… what does that even mean? What good does it do?” He scoffed, shaking his head. Maybe once, long ago, he had wondered what it might feel like to belong to someone, to be known in that way. But he had seen too much since then. Love was a weapon, wielded as easily as any blade. A bargain struck in whispers, a contract bound in longing and inevitable disappointment.

Another road to ruin.

“Books. Bloody books. You can’t be misplacing your affections over that. What’s next? Writing love letters to a dictionary?”

Benjen set his glass down, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Kermit was in love.

And gods help him, Benjen wasn’t sure whether he envied it or pitied it more.

“Doesn’t matter. I wish you luck with your economy schemes, truly. But if you start talking to me about love, Kermit, I’ll be needing a lot more to drink.” He tilted his head back, downed the rest, and slammed the empty glass on the table. Where were the new bottles? He was desperately going to need them.

“Y’know, love is like…” He gestured vaguely, words loosening with the liquor. “When you’re young and foolish—you certainly need to be foolish—you’re walking through a garden. Then you see an apple. You take it, plant it in your own backyard, the tree grows and abandons you for a vineyard, then you abandon the apples for… let’s say, a peach. Ever had a peach? The Dornish really went all out with that one—”

Before another fruit-laden metaphor could form, delicate hands settled on his shoulders.

May it be the warm embrace of death, not—

“Dear Ben, what happened to you? And sweet Edrick… you two look dreadful!”

Lady Jenny. Lovely Jenny. Clueless-as-a-septa Jenny.

“Kermit Tully, what did I tell you about day-drinking?! Give me that.”

Jenny reached across the table, and with her, went Benjen’s salvation, embodied in the amber glow of brandy.

May the old gods damn him where he sat.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick did not move as Jenny swept in like a particularly determined storm, her hands quick and deft. Instead, he took a leisurely sip of his tea, watching Benjen’s slow descent into despair with the detached amusement of a man witnessing a tragedy he had absolutely no intention of stopping, Well his not-brother shouldn't have bought up ridiculous ideas like him falling for a women, Ha him.

Benjen, to his credit, held himself together remarkably well, considering the situation. He merely sighed—long, heavy, utterly defeated—and rubbed a hand over his face as if he could scrub the exhaustion from his very bones. Jenny was already fussing, motherly and righteous, the way only women who had never personally endured true suffering could be.

And oh, how Benjen suffered.

Edrick smirked, shifting slightly in his chair, letting the room settle around them like a stage play where only he and Kermit were aware of the script.

He tilted his head, watching the way Benjen’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly as Jenny poured what was surely a completely unnecessary amount of judgment into a single glance.

“Drinking in the middle of the day?” she chided, lips pursed. “Really, Ben, is that the kind of example you want to set?”

Edrick took another sip of tea, eyes twinkling.

“Well, in fairness, Lady Tully, he’s only drinking because Kermit forced him to break the hearts of every working girl in Riverrun,” he said smoothly, flicking a glance toward Kermit, who had the audacity to look only mildly abashed. “A noble sacrifice, truly. I think he deserves more sympathy.”

Jenny blinked, frowning. “What?”

“Oh, you don't know,” Edrick murmured, setting his cup down with a delicate clink. “It’s a riveting tale. There was wailing, wine, a bottle thrown at his head—tragedy, truly.” He glanced at Jenny, feigning deep concern. “I think they might compose songs about it. ‘The Mourning maids of Riverrun’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jenny looked at Benjen, who merely exhaled through his nose like a man who had lost the will to live. Then she turned back to Edrick, narrowing her eyes.

Jenny sighed, setting the brandy aside, much to Benjen’s visible despair and honestly Edrick would've preferred to take a couple of swings more since Cregan never let him drink a lot. “Regardless, you shouldn’t be drinking so much.”

Edrick’s lips twitched.

“Oh, but Lady Jenny,” he drawled, tilting his head, watching the way Benjen refused to look directly at her, “he only drinks like this when he’s suffering. Have some pity.” He placed a delicate pause, then added, in the smoothest, most innocent tone he could muster, “Perhaps you could comfort him?”

Benjen choked.

Jenny, unaware of the significance, merely patted his arm in what she clearly thought was a reassuring gesture. “You poor man,” she sighed, completely missing the way Benjen was now visibly debating between fleeing the room or strangling Edrick on the spot.

Edrick just smiled, sipping his tea, perfectly content, hopefully Kermit doesn't banish them both yet, he hadn't even met the man's siblings yet!

Ah. Life was good.

[lord-kermit-of-riverrun]

Would banishing Lord Cregan's younger brother destroy much the goodwill he had built up with the north? Most likely. Was Kermit tempted to do so anyway? Very much, yes.

Not before giving Edrick a swift kick beneath the table, Kermit turned to his mother and asked her about the new candles in the Sept. They were imported from Essos this time, instead of the Vale. While seemingly mildly suspicious of the quick subject change, his mother humoured him, reporting that the wicks were of good quality. Then she remembered something of great import and left, taking the bottle with her.

"There's more in the dining hall," Kermit told Benjen wearily. "The cabinet on your left, aove the third drawer. Do not let my mother catch you."

Ben went off quite quietly, to his credit. When Edrick tried to get up and follow, however, Kermit laid a hand on his arm and said "Absolutely not." At Edrick's confused look, he elaborated "I'm cutting you off for today. Tomorrow, you can do as you like, but today you will not drink more in this castle. And I don't think the boatsman will take you back out."

While Edrick huffed, he did not complain. Well, not within Kermit's earshot after he left, citing the need to work on drafting up plans for new canals.

[thefallenprincesss]

starter for @edrickofwinterfell

the weather was brighter than other days, as the princess went towards to the training grounds. the snow was cleaned off the grown, to create a clean pathway.

The princess had her arrow on her back as she wanted to practice what was taught by her husband. She unlatched it on from her back belt… as she started to set it up.

She knew how hard the arrow was… she had her leather gloves on as she started to look at the target.

She had to relax, calm her head down. The princess knew how much she had a temper, a targaryen temper. But this was something she had to work on especially when she shot an arrow.

Rhaenya was focusing on her arrow needing to shoot it at the target. the Princess had focused on the target her eyes trying her best to shoot it.

Her hands shook as she pulled back on the bow but her hands shook. The arrow came down as she lost balance as she sighed.

She wanted to throw the arrow break it snap it. This was frustrating as she looked at the at the target. She tried her again… but her hands were unstable and unsteady once more.

Which made her lose her balance. But she didn’t expect a small audience to be watching her. She turned to look back as she gave up on her bow and arrow… and saw Edrick… Cregan’s younger brother watching her.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick stood with his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched the Targaryen princess struggle with her bow. He hadn’t planned to stop and observe—he had merely been passing through the training grounds when the sight of her fumbling attempts caught his eye. It was amusing, in a way– too amusing to ignore. It wasn’t often one saw a dragon brought low by something as simple as an arrow.

He let out a low chuckle, just loud enough for her to hear. “Giving up already, princess?” His tone was edged with mockery, but there was no true malice in it.

"Don’t stop on my account, good sister," he drawled,"I was just wondering if I should call for a maester. It looks like you’re struggling with a grave illness—shaking hands, weak stance. Tragic, really."

"You know," he smirked, taking a few steps forward, "I've seen green boys handle a bow better than that." His smirk was lazy, bordering on smug. "Are you trying to kill the target, or yourself? Because at this rate, you’re more of a threat to the snow beneath your feet."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying. If you keep holding that string like you’re trying to strangle it, you’ll never hit anything."

Rhaenya exhaled sharply through her nose. Edrick chuckled. Oh, this was going to be fun.

He reached out, tapping the hand she clutched the bow with. “Loosen your fingers. Breathe before you pull back. Unless, of course, you prefer to miss.”

[thefallenprincesss]

The princess took a deep breath as she looked at him, she had dealt with Aemond, what was the worse she could that happen. His voice was quite irritating. Rhaenya tried to focus, as she looked at look at the target, but all she could hear is the most irritating voice screeching in her ear. She wanted to just throw everything on the floor but she couldn't give up. The princess knew him... even if they hadn't known each other for long. Princess Rhaenya had known the sassy attitude the boy had, very much had the same attitude as hers. She couldn't be seen weak or any of the sort. She looked at the target, hearing his voice... slightly loosening her fingers as she aimed for the target. The arrow launched as it went a completely different direction of where the target was. The princess looked back at Edrick, "It was my first attempt, so do judge me, I can hear you laughing already." She grabbed another arrow, as she took another deep breath, as she tried her hardest to focus. She aimed towards the target, as she shot it once more, and a miss again. A frustrated groan escaped her lips, hoping Edrick wouldn't judge her once more. She wanted to scream and throw a tantrum, but she wasn't at home... and she wasn't the baby of the family. She kept her cool. "Don't throw it... don't throw it... don't throw it..." Rhaenya whispered to herself, she tried to think of the positive things her siblings would say to her.

[edrickofwinterfell]

For a moment, he simply observed. It was easy to tease, easier still to poke at the pride of a Targaryen, but something about the way she bit back her frustration made him hesitate. She was stubborn. He had to give her that, besides he should be nicer to girls.

With a sigh, Edrick ran a hand through his dark hair, stepping up beside her. “Alright, that was... better,” he admitted, though a smirk still tugged at his lips. “But you’re thinking too much. You can’t force it.” He reached for her hands, hesitating before lightly adjusting her grip. “Here. You’re holding it too tight—like you’re trying to wrangle a wild horse. Archery requires immense strength in your arms of course but it’s also about control– not force.”

He glanced at her face, watching for any sign of irritation. “Breathe in when you pull back, and exhale as you release. Stop thinking about missing. Just feel it.”

Stepping back, he crossed his arms again, watching as she set up another shot. “And if you miss again,” he added, smirking slightly, “well… at least you’ll be the most determined archer in the North and I promise I'll only laugh on the inside.”

She hesitated, glancing at him as if expecting another snide remark. But for once, Edrick was quiet.

Rhaenya inhaled, steadied herself, and let the arrow fly. It didn’t hit the center, but it landed on the outer edge of the target.

Edrick nodded in approval. "Better," he admitted. "Still terrible, but better."

[thefallenprincesss]

Rhaenya looked at him, as if her stare was icy cold. She hated being taught, she always just had things handed to her... sometimes. The princess looked at the boy... "Maybe I'm holding it tight like I want to rip your pretty boy hair out," she snapped. That was mean... she had to admit. But she had to let it out... but she felt herself loosing the string as she pulled back on it. She listened to his advice as she pulled back on the arrow and breathing out when she let it go...

As she watched the arrow fly... there was a difference... at least she had made it onto the target. Rhaenya looked at the arrow... she still had a small pout. She was determined to accomplish this... "This is why I carry a dagger..." She muttered to herself, "and I let the men do the hunting..." She continued to try again, as she it was somewhat better... she didn't understood how anyone did it. "Maybe a crossbow might be easier..." Rhaenya always muttered to herself when she was furious... especially when things didn't go her way. It didn't help, that she was a perfectionist. If she had to... she was going to practice all night to get this arrow to hit the target. "Your comments aren't helping," she whispered, as she started working on another arrow. She aimed it... her eyes focusing on the target... her finger taking the string before she exhaled and let it go....

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick watched as the arrow flew through the cold air, its path straighter than before, though still far from perfect. He let out a low hum, tilting his head slightly as he observed her. “Not bad,” he mused. “Still wouldn’t trust you to hit anything that wasn’t standing perfectly still, but progress is progress.”

He leaned against the wooden post beside him, arms crossed over his chest as he studied the princess with a mixture of amusement and—something more thoughtful. It was strange, watching her like this. Rhaenya was no different than the other dragons that nested in the capital, she was prideful, impatient, and entirely too stubborn for her own good.

“Do you always talk to yourself when you’re annoyed?” he asked, raising a brow at her muttering. “Or is that just a Targaryen thing?”

And yet, something about her frustration, the way she bit down on it rather than let it consume her, felt… familiar.

Still, he couldn’t resist the jab. “If you’d like, I could fetch Lyarra. My sister has no taste for combat, but I wager even she could outshoot you.”

Rhaenya shot him a glare that could’ve melted Winterfell’s snow. Edrick only grinned.

It wasn’t a lie, though. Lyarra had always been the opposite of him.

“Aren't you a twin too?”

[thefallenprincesss]

Rhaenya looked at him rolling her eyes as she put the arrow down, as she stretched her fingers. As she gently brushed her hair out of her face. She looked at Edrick. "I talk to myself when I'm upset and quite annoyed," Rhaenya whispered. She looked at him... as she wanted to pick the arrow back up, but she was slightly getting tired. She didn' t want to give up as she picked up, the bow and arrow and started to aim for the arrow once more. This time it was closer, she was getting quite proud of herself for how hard she was working. She knew she couldn't give up this quickly, but she looked back as she pointed the arrow down. "I like your sister, a sweetheart she is," Rhaenya smiled.

The glare at that she gave him, she was full of annoynce, she hated being compared to people in her life. That's all her life was about being compared to everyone in her family. The princess focused back to the target before shooting once more arrow, now closer to the target more than ever. Rhaenya looked back at Edrick... "Yeah... I'm a twin... what about it?" What was it with everyone in the North... asking her about her twin.... Rhaenya thought to herself.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick exhaled through his nose, shifting his stance. “Nothing about it,” he replied, his tone more even than before. “Just curious.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his smirk dimming into something more thoughtful. “Lyarra and i have always been close. I suppose it’s just strange for me to meet another twin who doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about theirs.”

"She and I..." He exhaled, glancing toward the distant towers of Winterfell before looking back at her. "We're different. Always have been. She’s softer than me, kinder. But that doesn’t mean she’s weak." His voice turned just a touch sharper, a warning beneath the words.

His smirk returned, softer this time. "So tell me, princess… are you the sensible twin, or the reckless one?"

For a moment, there was silence. Just the crisp air between them, the sound of her breathing, the faint creak of the bowstring as she pulled back.

"Steady…"

And then, she released.

The arrow flew—landing just shy of the center.

Edrick let out a low whistle. "Hells," he muttered. "Maybe I should mock you more often if it gets you to shoot straight."

[thefallenprincesss]

Rhaenya looked back at Edrick, a slight feeling that she felt guilty for not being excited to talk about Daeron. She was, but she wasn't at the same time... it was just a lot. The princess looked at the boy, "It isn't that I am not excited, it just he always got some... more attention than me growing up. My mother was much stricter towards me, while my brother got away with a lot of the stuff... I had to go through at home..." She whispered. She couldn't hold the grudge against her brother, but they slightly had a difference. The princess looked at Edrick with a smile, "I feel like a lot of people underestimate the female twin... more than the male twin..." Rhaenya looked picked back at the arrow as she tried to aim the target. There was always the comment, of which twin was much more reckless. It always made her upset, because if logically speaking she was much the reckless one... As she pulled back the arrow, as she heard the voice of Edrick saying steady, she looked at the target before she looked released the arrow. She watched as the arrow flew and it landed directly into the middle. A gasp was let out as she looked at the target with wide eyes, and then she looked back at Edrick with wide eyes. "I did it!" She smiled. "Edrick I did it!" Then she looked at him with a smirk, "I'm the reckless one... do you think I got blessing from my mother before I married your brother?" Rhaenya looked with a tiled face.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick stared at the arrow, its shaft still trembling slightly where it had lodged dead center in the target. He hadn’t actually expected her to hit it—not yet, at least. His teasing had been meant to push her, to needle that sharp Targaryen temper of hers until she either proved him wrong or gave up entirely.

But she hadn’t given up. And now, here she was, beaming like she’d just conquered the North itself.

Edrick exhaled, crossing his arms as he looked at her. He wanted to roll his eyes, to throw some sharp remark about how it had only taken her all afternoon to land one decent shot, but the words didn’t quite come.

He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Somehow, I doubt you had permission,” he said dryly. "Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He studied her for a long moment, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Reckless, stubborn, and temperamental… Gods help Cregan.”

Edrick sighed, shaking his head as he looked back at the target. “Well, princess,” he said, pushing off the post, “at least if you’re going to be part of this family, you won’t be entirely useless with a bow.”

A pause, then, in a lower voice, as he glanced at her once more. “Welcome to the North, sister, I'm the reckless one too and I suppose you're not entirely unbearable.”

[creganstarkrp]

Comforting Memories In Winter

starter with @edrickofwinterfell

"Thank you," Cregan nodded his head politely towards the maid who he had ordered to bring him reports of his brother's ailment. Even as he ruled over Winterfell; his family was just as important. Cregan had always known that; even from a young age.

The loss of his parents is still heavily influencing him even now, which is why he kept most at a distance. Still, it had took Cregan longer than he would ever admit to finally come to his brother's chambers.

As ever, Cregan did not knock. It was a habit that many would argue was not a good one. "Brother," the Lord of Winterfell whispered out as the candles flickered in the dimly lit room. The cold breeze making its presence known as the wind howled like the sigil of their house.

He fought the urge not to be reminded of his first wife; his steps nearly faltering. Alas, he was a grown man and had been for a while now. The heavy boots of his echoed in the chambers as he stepped further.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick’s voice cut through the chamber, sharp and indignant. “I said extra blankets, you daft woman! Does this look like extra blankets to you?” His pale hand shot out from beneath the furs, gesturing angrily at the modest pile the maid had managed to scrounge together. His fever-bright eyes glared at her, though there was no real malice in them—just the impatience of a young man who had been sick his entire life and had long since abandoned the pleasantries of suffering in silence.

The poor girl stammered out an apology, clutching at her skirts as she hesitated by the bedside. Edrick groaned, shifting uncomfortably, his body aching from too many days confined to the same damn mattress. He knew he was being unreasonable, but the frustration bubbling inside him needed somewhere to go. And if he couldn't hurl his misery at the gods who had cursed him with this wretched body, then a maid with weak nerves would have to do.

“Go,” he snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “Or better yet, freeze out in the yard for an hour so you understand why I need the damn blankets– and tell someone to get me some broth and I swear if you bring a cold bowl.” The maid practically fled, and Edrick let out a ragged breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his burning forehead.

Then he heard the boots. Heavy, deliberate. His lips curled into a sneer before he even turned his head. “Ah. So you do remember your baby brother,” he drawled, voice hoarse but laced with sharpness. “I was beginning to think you'd only come to pay your respects when I was a corpse.”

[creganstarkrp]

The familiar sound of his brother's voice was welcomed, even with the piercing words he spoke. He was glad to see strength was returning to Edrick, but if Cregan was honest - it had always been there. Still, it took the Lord of Winterfell longer than he would ever admit to finally set eyes on the boy before him. "I see you have not lost your spirit." Cregan finally spoke; completely ignoring his brother's words.

Just as he ignored the situation during most days. Rightly or wrongly, he would become too distracted with his Lordship duties. Still, Cregan wondered if they were just excuses as he stepped closer to the bed. His larger hand reached for the fallen wooden carved wolf; one he remembered creating himself for his brother many years ago. Cregan had thought at the time such prayers could help Edrick. But he was wrong. About many things if he was honest.

In silence, Cregan reached for the goblet of water and began to refill it. "Have you been eating?" The Lord of Winterfell already knew the answer, but he could not think of anything else to say. It was a well known fact that the young Lord was a quiet man. Too quiet, some would say.

Cregan's attention moved to the window; he could never look at his brother for too long. The sound of birdsong moving into the room before those dark eyes of his finally locked onto his baby brother. A moment of silence passed once more before the young Lord brought the large, wooden chair closer to the bedside - committing to staying beside Edrick, for now, at least.

[edrickofwinterfell]

Edrick let out a slow, measured breath, trying to temper the irritation that always simmered just beneath his skin. It wasn’t Cregan’s fault that he was sick, nor was it his fault that Edrick had spent more days in this room than out of it. And yet, the sight of his brother—tall, broad, unshaken as ever—was enough to send a bitter taste crawling up his throat.

It had taken Cregan long enough to come. Long enough that Edrick had convinced himself he wouldn’t.

"Have I been eating?" He repeated, his voice dry as the wind blowing outside. "What do you think, Cregan? Between the fever and the endless supply of broth and soup that tastes like warmed-up ditch water, I’m practically feasting." He tilted his head slightly, watching his brother with sharp, knowing eyes.

His fingers twitched where they rested on the thin furs. He thought, briefly, about reaching for the carving in Cregan’s hands. Thought about holding it again, like he had when he was a small boy.

His brother always had a way of avoiding confrontation, as if pretending it didn’t exist would make everything better. He reached for the goblet instead, but his hand trembled as he lifted it. He stilled, pride keeping him from letting Cregan see the weakness in his fingers. He let the goblet rest against his chest, as if it had been his intention all along.

Silence stretched between them, thick as the northern snowdrifts. Edrick turned his head toward the window, following Cregan’s gaze. The sky outside was an endless gray, the wind still howling against the stone walls. “You don’t have to sit there looking like a scolded hound,” he muttered, though the sharpness had dulled. “It doesn’t suit you and I don't need your damn pity.”

Let the damn man play nursemaid if he so wished, but it wasn’t as if Edrick wanted to be babied by him.

[creganstarkrp]

Cregan had to fight off the urge to smile; the fire that had always burned in his brother shined brightly still. He was glad about it. The Lord of Winterfell would never admit to the amount of worry that coursed through him; Edrick would only confuse his concern for pity - and Cregan could not blame him. Still, he did not make haste to leave the chambers as he normally would. He would stay this time.

His thumb continued to rub circles on the wooden wolf; a small thing that had survived hardship; just as his brother had. Those grey eyes of his caught the slight struggle Edrick had with the goblet and his finger itched to help - alas, he did not.

"Have the maesters spoken of any improvements?" Cregan finally asked, as if he did not have regular updates from them. The question more to fill in the growing silence, that usually he would be comfortable in but now he only began to grow awkward.

This time, he was able to hold his brother's gaze for longer than the small moments as the wind continued to howl around the pair. The sound of rain drops beginning to fall on the window joined the noise.

Gently, he placed the wolf back in its place; easily forgotten about in the way Cregan could only do. The chair creaked beneath his weight as he slowly began to stand. His hand reaching out for the goblet without word; he could always read his brother just as Edrick could him.

"I think Rickon would like to visit," Cregan began as he slowly filled up the goblet only slightly some more. It seemed a newer maid had over spilled and he made a mental note. "If you would like that." His stare returned to his brother now.