❄︎ HOW NOT TO LOSE A STARK ❄︎
(Starter with @edrickofthenorth)
“Marge Marge?” Cregan asked for what had to be the umpteenth time that afternoon, eyebrows glued to his hairline.
“Did you and Hugo become parrots?” Benjen muttered, not looking up from his cup.
It still felt unreal, one of those fragile moments that might shatter if he examined it too closely. Marge was back. Not a dream, not a cruel trick of memory dredged up by too much wine. Marge was back, flesh and bone and laughter, and Benjen’s mind refused to decide whether he deserved such a miracle while his heart tried valiantly to claw its way up his throat to go find her on its own.
“Rude,” Cregan scoffed, laughter in his eyes as he leaned against the side of Benjen’s chair, casual and familiar, like a cat that knew it had gotten away with stealing the cream and would do it again. “So,” he added lightly, drawing the word out, “may I finally refer to you as the Lord of Bear Island?”
“Fuck off,” Benjen replied, fondness softening the bite of it.
It was strange how the title fit now, how it settled on his shoulders with a quiet certainty it had never had before. At eight-and-ten he’d worn it like armor two sizes too large, blood-soaked and heartbroken, drowning beneath the weight of expectations while wrapped in a monster’s pelt pretending to be a lord. Now it felt earned. Lived-in. Real.
“Asshole,” Cregan shot back warmly. “You’ll be missed around here.”
“No,” Cregan said solemnly, “worse. You’re marrying the love of your life.”
Well. Wasn’t that just perfect?
The usual reflexive defensiveness didn’t rise to meet the words. Instead, Benjen smiled, small and private, lifting his cup for another sip of wine. The day had been long, exhausting, and strange in the best possible way. A good meeting. A better future. Marge would like Cregan, Benjen was absurdly pleased by the thought already.
“Well,” Cregan continued, “with you and Edrick both marrying, I suppose I’ll be all alone—”
The wine went up Benjen’s nose.
He choked violently, coughing as he lurched forward, the sound somewhere between a bark and a death rattle. “What the actual fuck?” he wheezed, fist slamming against his chest as his eyes watered. “Edrick?!”
“Yes, Edrick,” Cregan said helpfully, reaching out to clap him on the back before Benjen could choke himself into an early grave.
“Edrick?” Benjen repeated, voice climbing an octave.
“Now you’re just going in circles.”
Edrick. Edrick was getting married.
Benjen stared at Cregan as if he’d announced the sun was falling out of the sky. Edrick, the boy whose diapers he had changed, who he’d burped and bounced and carried on his hip through the halls. The boy whose scraped knees he’d tended, whose nightmares he’d chased away with promises of safety. Yesterday, practically yesterday, Edrick had been a child. Benjen wasn’t even convinced the boy knew how to properly peel an apple without taking half his thumb with it.
Madness. Pure, unfiltered madness.
“Why?” Benjen demanded. “Who? How in all the frozen hells did you allow this?”
Cregan only grinned, infuriatingly calm.
“Where is he?” Benjen asked, already standing, already bracing himself for whatever foolishness he was about to walk into.
“Don’t do what I think you’re about to do.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Benjen huffed, raising his hands defensively at the look Cregan gave him, the one that clearly translated to no shit. “Nothing drastic. I just want to talk to him.”
Not in my heart. Not in the way I remember him.
“I know,” he said, forcing a smile that felt tight as a drawn bowstring. “I know. I still want to talk to him.”
Cregan hesitated. “He’s sleeping.”
Benjen nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
Which meant, of course, that the little fucker was almost certainly sneaking out a window or plotting something equally ill-advised.
A ghost of a grin tugged at Benjen’s mouth as he turned toward the door.
“Edrick fucking Stark, if you don’t step away from that I swear to all the gods I’ll drag you back inside by the ankles—”
The words tore out of him sharp and instinctive, the kind of threat that lived permanently on the tip of his tongue whenever Edrick was involved. Benjen didn’t even realize he’d crossed the corridor until he was there, boots scraping stone, heart pounding harder than it had any right to. The draft from the passageway carried the scent of cold air and snow, and through the narrow, window-like opening he could already see one leg swung out, boot searching blindly for a foothold.
That was what his own mother had always called him, half-fond, half-exasperated. Always hovering, always counting heads, always making sure the younger ones were fed, warm, and not actively trying to kill themselves. The nickname had followed him like a shadow, clinging tighter with every scraped knee and ill-advised adventure he’d interrupted. Maybe it was some sort of savior complex, bred into him by years of cleaning up after other people’s messes. Maybe it was the quiet, stubborn need to prove he was better than his father had ever been, more present, more careful, less violent. Or maybe, Benjen just had the soul of a worried aunt trapped in the body of a man.
Maybe he just really, truly loved this tiny dipshit.
Said tiny dipshit was currently balancing halfway out of a hidden passage like the laws of gravity were merely suggestions. One hand braced against the stone, the other gripping the edge, Edrick moved with the reckless confidence of someone who’d never had to face consequences that couldn’t be laughed off later. Benjen could already imagine it—the slip, the fall, the sound of bone against stone—and his stomach twisted.
Cregan’s voice floated unhelpfully through his head. He’s grown, Benjen. You can’t treat him like a child forever. Right. Grown. Fully grown men famously never make terrible decisions.
Benjen swallowed hard, jaw tightening.
“You’re… I’ve heard you’re betrothed,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out sideways, grasping for anything that wasn’t the immediate urge to yank Edrick back inside. He pulled his hand away, curling it into a fist at his side. “Great news. Truly. Fantastic.”
Edrick blinked, froggy motherfucker.
Benjen forced a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, teeth worrying the inside of his cheek as he tried to remember how to be calm. How to be reasonable. “We should… talk about it. At some point. Definitely talk about it. Like responsible adults. On solid ground. Preferably not halfway out of a bloody wall. Perhaps before you fling yourself into the courtyard and explain to your future wife why you walk with a limp?”
He gestured vaguely at the opening, then scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He could feel the familiar ache settle in his chest, the fear he never admitted to, the weight of loving someone who made danger look inviting.
“Just,” he muttered, “come back inside, yeah?”
