Garmund Hightower

The youngest child of Lord Ormund and his second wife, Lady Ellyn. Garmund is 19, and currently in service as the secretary and sworn sword of his eldest half-brother, Ser Lyonel. Part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

[garmundhightower]

Language of Love

Starter with @thefourthstormfloris

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The corridors of the Red Keep always felt too narrow, too full. Garmund kept his steps measured as he wound his way through the torch-lit halls, careful to avoid lingering glances from the castle’s servants.

The sapphire pendant was small but well-crafted, glinting even in the dim torchlight as he turned it over between his fingers. It was no grand gesture, not a thing of extravagant splendor, but it was thoughtful and he has spent many hours searching for it amongst the wares of oldtown's merchants. He had chosen well, ensuring the silver setting was delicate, the chain fine enough that it would not look too heavy upon her neck. The color was right, deep blue, suited for a daughter of House Baratheon and matching her eyes. It was not a betrothal gift, not formally, but it was a token of his affection nonetheless.

When he reached Floris’s chambers, the guards outside gave him only a cursory glance before allowing him to pass. He had the right to be here, yet he still hesitated before stepping inside. The air was scented with something soft—lavender, perhaps—blending with the lingering smoke from a burned-out candle. Floris was seated by the window, half-lit by the afternoon sun, her long hair loose over one shoulder.

Garmund swallowed and forced himself to speak before he thought better of it. “I brought you something.”

“A gift,” he murmured.

“I thought it would suit you,” he said after a moment, shifting his weight. “It reminded me of you, may I– would you like me to put it on you?”

[thefourthstormfloris]

There was a lot on Floris’ mind lately, and pondering about it in her room by the windowsill had become a habit of hers. Back on Storms End, she had always been in her room by the window there, but here things were different. Kings Landing had no stormy weather that Storms End did, and her room back at home had not as many decorations as it did here.

It felt scary how much she felt at home here, when she had fought so hard to not come to Kings Landing in the first place, and so she pondered that. She knew it had to do with three people; Garmund, Lady Sam, and Maris. She had a sense of belonging with these people, and that was something she hadn’t had back at home. She never felt she even needed such a feeling, but she supposed these things happen when we least expect it.

It may go wrong, the pessimistic voice in her head constantly told her. He may grow to hate you and you’ll be alone again. But she could ignore this voice whenever she was with Garmund, and that proved to her that he was more special than anyone she’d ever known.

The Hightowers who held her heart and her sisters were on her mind now, and looking out the window she continued to think. But, a sudden noise had startled her into reality, and she realized quickly that it was the door opening. Her Garmund walked into the room, and her heart melted at his sweet face and brown curls. She had never been one to fawn over lords and handsome men the court deemed excellent suitors, but with Garmund, things were different. She could not help but stare.

“Garmund.” Floris said softly. Her greetings had always been short and never very formal, but with him she always had a fondness in her voice. She did not speak the words aloud that she knew he already knew. I’m glad you’re here, and, I missed you. She waited now for him to speak, noticing how he seemed almost nervous.

After he spoke, she immediately looked to his hands where the gift was. “Oh!” She said, the reaction coming out without her wishing it to. They stood for a moment, her admiring it, and him shifting. She did not have the words to express her love for him and gratitude at the moment.

It was beautiful, and it took her breath away. “Thank you…” She whispered. At his next words she blushed. He had that effect on her, to make her blush when it was so rare for her to do so before.

“Yes, please come put it on me.” Floris walked closer to Garmund, and before she turned around and pulled her hair back, she decided to take his hand. “You are the kindest person I know.” His hand was soft and warm, and she held it tighter. She wanted to suddenly hold him, and kiss him, but she did not. She let go and turned around, moving her hair to give help him put it on her easier.

“Where did you get it from? You have truly picked out the most beautiful necklace… I am grateful”

[garmundhightower]

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Garmund let out a slow breath, willing his hands to remain steady as he stepped closer. He had faced the judgment of his peers, the chaos of court, the unrelenting weight of expectation—but nothing made his pulse quicken like Floris Baratheon.

She took his hand, warm and sure, and the simple gesture undid him. Her words—you are the kindest person I know—settled somewhere deep in his chest, a truth he wanted so badly to believe, because she believed it. When she let go, turning to pull her hair aside, Garmund hesitated for the barest moment, taking in the curve of her neck, the delicate slope of her shoulders.

Then, carefully, he lifted the chain and draped it around her. His fingers brushed against her skin as he fastened the clasp.

"It was in Oldtown," he answered, his voice quiet, steady. "I spent longer than I should have looking for it." He exhaled a soft, almost self-conscious laugh. "Nothing seemed good enough. But when I saw this… I thought it almost matched your beauty."

The necklace settled against her collarbone, the sapphire catching the light. He wanted to tell her how well it suited her, how he had imagined this moment far too many times, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he lifted a hand, fingertips barely grazing her shoulder.

"I'm glad you like it." It was not enough to say, not nearly, but it was all he could manage when his heart felt too full.

There was a silence then—not awkward, comfortable. He did not move away, though he knew he should. His fingers itched to follow the path of the chain, to trace the warmth of her skin, to tip her chin up so he could see her striking eyes.

But she had allowed him this—this closeness, this touch. So instead, he swallowed hard and let his hand fall away, though his voice was softer when he spoke again.

"It looks perfect on you, my love."

[garmundhightower]

Melancholy

Starter with @lady-samantha-of-hightower

His boots crunched softly on the gravel paths. The day was beautiful with blooming roses and damp green earth, a perfect kind of quiet that gave him a rare moment of peace. Hell, the pretty flowers, besides being very pretty, also nicely covered the pervading smell that clung to King's Landing. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs, their pale purple petals swaying in the morning breeze and daisies and jasmines and pansies.

As he moved further down the stone path, Garmund’s eyes caught the delicate arch of ivy creeping over the wrought iron gate that separated the more cultivated parts of the garden from the wild, untamed stretches of nature. The soft rustle of leaves above him was punctuated by the occasional chirp of a bird hidden in the treetops. It was peaceful—quiet, it was a beautiful day, the kind that made you want to gaze at sunrises and sunsets and twilight skies and stars and then write poems about them, then why in the seven hells was he feeling like he wanted to cry?

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across the ground. As he turned another corner, the sight of his good-sister, Samantha, came into view. She was standing near a marble fountain, her back to him. For a brief moment he looked around for his brother; certainly Lyonel would be with her betrothed, wouldn't he? It seemed like it had been ages since Garmund had seen him. It's been—it's definitely been a long time, alas, his brother was not there, and he tore his eyes from their surroundings.

“A beautiful day, isn't it…...stepmother?”

[lady-samantha-of-hightower]

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

Samantha had always been fond of her stepchildren. Not in the same way she had fell for Lyonel, but as if they were her siblings. Garmund was no exception. He was like a little brother to her, and it hurt her seeing treating her with such formality. She couldn’t exactly blame him, though. She had been the closest thing he had to a mother, just as Lyonel was the closest thing he had to a father, but it still stung.

She smiled at him, giving him a warm smile, masking that slight pang of hurt she felt almost perfectly, and nodded curtly.

“It is a beautiful day, my boy”, she said to him, her tone warm. “Though, there’s no need for you to call me ‘stepmother’, dear, you know that. It makes me feel older than I am. I’m only thirty”.

She motioned for him to sit next to her on a nearby bench and, once they were both seated, she held his hand with the tenderness of a mother and the warmth of a sister. It was a small gesture, but a soothing one. She could tell he was troubled, something under the surface that wasn’t easily noticed, and Garmund was a sensitive young man, there was definitely something there.

“Are you alright, Garmund?”, she asked him, gently stroking his hand with her thumb. “You seem troubled. You know you can tell me anything, don’t you, dear?”.

[garmundhightower]

For a moment, Garmund only stared at their joined hands, at the contrast between his long, slender fingers and hers—so warm, so steady. The softness of it, the quiet concern in her voice—it was enough to make him feel like a child again, and he hated that. Or perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he only hated that he wanted it so badly. He swallowed thickly, blinking hard against the sting behind his eyes. It was foolish to feel like this. There was no reason for it, no great tragedy that had befallen him, no cause for such heaviness in his chest. And yet, the weight was there all the same.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

And he did. Sam had been there for him for a long time, patient and kind in a way that sometimes unsettled him. He was used to love, of course—Lyonel loved him, Bethany loved him, so did all his other siblings even if he was born from the corpse of his mother.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he lifted his gaze to hers. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he admitted, brows furrowing slightly. “I should be happy. It’s a beautiful day. Floris is lovelier than the morning sun and the midnight stars. My duties are going well enough. Lyonel is—” His voice caught, just slightly, before he forced himself to continue. “—he is proud of me. I know he is.”

Garmund let out a breath, shaking his head as he glanced toward the fountain. Water trickled from the carved stone, soft and ceaseless. “And yet, I feel as though I am…” He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Untethered.”

His breath hitched, and he let out a soft, humorless laugh. “It’s foolish, isn’t it? The day is beautiful, there is no reason to feel as I do. And yet—”

And yet, the ache would not leave his chest. It sat there, heavy and quiet, like a bruise

Garmund finally turned to her, meeting her eyes for a fleeting moment before glancing away again. “I think—I miss Lyonel,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

watching the birds

( a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood )

starter with @garmundhightower

With the weather quickly turning cold, Joffrey knew the time for outdoor activities was going to be limited and he should take advantage of every last warm day possible. Today was warm enough to do something, he thought, and there was no better activity to do than go bird watching. He had never been a fan of bird watching, or any sort of animal watching in general, but he believed he was not very well learned in the study of animals, so before the snow got too much for him to bear he thought it now to be a good time to start his pursuit of learning different types of birds. His older brother Jace's steward, Robin, was extremely fond of birds, and Joffrey had looked up to Robin his whole life, so he wanted to do this now.

Joffrey walked alone, which was highly unusual for him, but he believed with a somewhat warm day like this that someone would for sure have the same idea of bird watching as him. Perhaps one of his friends would be there, or even better, he could make a new friend. His walk outside stopped when he eventually spotted someone else.

A tall, curly brown haired man came into view. Joffrey recognized this face, it was Garmund Hightower. Garmund had spent lots of time in Kings Landing, and Joffrey had never truly had a conversation with him. Garmund seemed shy, perhaps, though that never stopped Joffrey from talking to someone. Joffrey thought about what he knew of Garmund... He was betrothed to Floris Baratheon, who did not like Joffrey very much, unfortunately for him. Joffrey had once asked Floris to dance at an event, hoping to take her away from the shadows and become her friend, but it had only sent her running from him and now a sour look from her whenever they saw each other.

But, that would not stop Joffrey from making a friend of Garmund. Perhaps it would warm Floris to him even, he thought as he made his way towards the other man. He stood next to Garmund, bowing his head. He quickly made his introduction.

"Good day, Ser Garmund! I see you are watching the birds, and I was going to do the same. May I join you? It is a nice day, I am glad to not be shivering with the cold winds." He smiled and studied the other man's face. Garmund's brown eyes were big and his hair a mess of curls. He had to be a similar age to Joffrey, which was always good, as anyone who was a similar age to Joffrey was a potential friend in his mind.

[garmundhightower]

Garmund had not expected company. He had set out alone, hoping for a quiet moment away from the suffocating noise of the court, and had found solace in watching the birds flutter between the nearly bare branches. He liked their quiet industry, the way they moved with purpose, even when the world turned colder.

His gaze had been on a bright red robin perched on a low branch, its chest puffed with pride, then came the voice—bright, unbothered, entirely at ease. He turned his head slightly, meeting Joffrey Velaryon’s eager gaze. A boyish enthusiasm lingered in his expression, he seemed the sort who did not know how to be alone, or at least, had no wish to be.

Garmund hesitated. Not because Joffrey was unpleasant—he hardly knew him—but because conversation was rarely easy. Words often tangled in his mouth when faced with someone unfamiliar, and Joffrey carried himself with such unshaken confidence that it was almost exhausting to consider keeping pace with him.

Still, it would be impolite to refuse.

With a short nod and a quiet “My prince,” he shifted slightly to allow space beside him. He was not quite sure how to entertain a companion while birdwatching. It was not as though the birds would perform for them.

A small, speckled bird perched upon a tree with yellow leaves, tilting its head as if regarding him in turn. He did not know its name. That irritated him. He had read of many birds in his studies, but their names always seemed to slip away when he needed them most.

He kept his hands folded tightly in front of him, aware that his usual reticence might make Joffrey’s natural enthusiasm feel like an overwhelming force. "It is... a nice day," he added quietly, his gaze drifting toward the sky. There was an edge of discomfort in the air, but Garmund tried not to let it show.

[garmundhightower]

Language of Love

Starter with @thefourthstormfloris

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The corridors of the Red Keep always felt too narrow, too full. Garmund kept his steps measured as he wound his way through the torch-lit halls, careful to avoid lingering glances from the castle’s servants.

The sapphire pendant was small but well-crafted, glinting even in the dim torchlight as he turned it over between his fingers. It was no grand gesture, not a thing of extravagant splendor, but it was thoughtful and he has spent many hours searching for it amongst the wares of oldtown's merchants. He had chosen well, ensuring the silver setting was delicate, the chain fine enough that it would not look too heavy upon her neck. The color was right, deep blue, suited for a daughter of House Baratheon and matching her eyes. It was not a betrothal gift, not formally, but it was a token of his affection nonetheless.

When he reached Floris’s chambers, the guards outside gave him only a cursory glance before allowing him to pass. He had the right to be here, yet he still hesitated before stepping inside. The air was scented with something soft—lavender, perhaps—blending with the lingering smoke from a burned-out candle. Floris was seated by the window, half-lit by the afternoon sun, her long hair loose over one shoulder.

Garmund swallowed and forced himself to speak before he thought better of it. “I brought you something.”

“A gift,” he murmured.

“I thought it would suit you,” he said after a moment, shifting his weight. “It reminded me of you, may I– would you like me to put it on you?”

[garmundhightower]

Melancholy

Starter with @lady-samantha-of-hightower

His boots crunched softly on the gravel paths. The day was beautiful with blooming roses and damp green earth, a perfect kind of quiet that gave him a rare moment of peace. Hell, the pretty flowers, besides being very pretty, also nicely covered the pervading smell that clung to King's Landing. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs, their pale purple petals swaying in the morning breeze and daisies and jasmines and pansies.

As he moved further down the stone path, Garmund’s eyes caught the delicate arch of ivy creeping over the wrought iron gate that separated the more cultivated parts of the garden from the wild, untamed stretches of nature. The soft rustle of leaves above him was punctuated by the occasional chirp of a bird hidden in the treetops. It was peaceful—quiet, it was a beautiful day, the kind that made you want to gaze at sunrises and sunsets and twilight skies and stars and then write poems about them, then why in the seven hells was he feeling like he wanted to cry?

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across the ground. As he turned another corner, the sight of his good-sister, Samantha, came into view. She was standing near a marble fountain, her back to him. For a brief moment he looked around for his brother; certainly Lyonel would be with her betrothed, wouldn't he? It seemed like it had been ages since Garmund had seen him. It's been—it's definitely been a long time, alas, his brother was not there, and he tore his eyes from their surroundings.

“A beautiful day, isn't it…...stepmother?”

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Wanted Site Connection:

The youngest child of Lord Ormund and his second wife, Lady Ellyn, who passed away of childbed fever not long after he was born, Garmund is 19, and training to take up the position of House Hightower’s steward for his eldest brother, the newly inherited Lord Lyonel. With a mother he never knew and a father already in his late-fifties when he was born, Garmund has primarily been raised by Lyonel; regarding the brother who's nearly 15 years his senior as both the most important influence in life and his "true" father. Quiet, thoughtful, even dreamy to some, and worryingly introspective to others, Garmund is soft spoken but ever-polite, a talented writer, and enjoys the company of both dogs and rabbits more than nearly all people; save Lord Lyonel, Lady Sam, his older sister Bethany and older brother Maester Goodwyn, and most recently his newly betrothed, Lady Floris Baratheon. The latest subjects of Sam's efforts to coordinate both advantageous *and* enjoyable marriage arrangements, Garmund and Floris were recently betrothed as he prepares to step into the role of the steward of House Hightower in the next couple of years, they share many similar interests and overall natures, though he tends to be a bit more optimistic and openly emotional than Floris' more grounded but sometimes gloomy demeanor, they're still getting to know each other, but by all accounts their subtle variations in personality balance out their relationship even better than initially hoped.  Suggested faceclaim: Josh Whitehouse in Poldark

Note: Character traits, faceclaim, and details are suggestions and can be reworked to a certain extent if discussed with the current members of the RP!

Garmund Hightower is particularly wanted by his betrothed, Floris Baratheon, as well as by Samantha Hightower, Lord Lyonel Hightower, Bethany Merryweather (neé Hightower), Prince Daeron Targaryen, and Lady-Regent Clarice Tyrell

We are a No-Dance!AU and politics, family, and court-drama focused RP. To join, check out our main site, and find out who our court would like to see most on our Most Wanted Page, send us a raven with any questions and once you're ready apply, and then join us for plotting and OOC-chat on our Discord!!

home — wanted — directory — apply — discord — message — q & a

[benjen-mormont]

ﾒ THE GIFT OF PATIENCE ﾒ

(Starter with @garmundhightower)

Benjen wasn’t quick to anger. No, like a bear filing its claws on oaks to cradle a cub, he’d taught himself patience. A patience his blood rebelled against. A patience that kept him standing. He couldn’t hold back the rage; he could only bury it beneath his skin, where it boiled. Only one thing shattered his fragile calm: just hatred. Benjen hated two things in all the world—his late father (may devils gnaw his bones) and men who acted just like him.

Edryk Mormont had been a cruel man. His tongue cut sharper than his sword, his touch scarred more than his blade. He couldn’t laugh without snarling, couldn’t speak without wounding. Benjen prided himself on being his opposite—tempered, deliberate, soft when needed, like steel shaped into shield.

But even steel bends under pressure.

He caught sight of them across the courtyard: two lords draped in silk and self-satisfaction, laughing like circling hyenas. They weren’t hunting for sport; their prey was right in the middle of their little game—a lone man, standing stiff and silent. Lord Garmund, if Benjen wasn’t mistaken. A soft-spoken lordling. Decent enough.

The laughter reached him first. Cruel. Dismissive. He closed the distance slowly, each step sharpening his focus, letting the tension coil.

“What, embarrassed to answer us directly?” one lord sneered, his voice as slick as his hair.

Garmund’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“A little jest scares you, does it? Or are the rumors not true? Perhaps you prefer dueling swords to... swallowing them.”

The other lord wheezed a laugh, the kind of sound Benjen’s father used to make after gutting a deer.

Benjen moved before he could stop himself. “Perhaps the two of you would find better occupations in a brothel than in court,” he said evenly, his tone the edge of a blade. He gave a curt nod to Garmund, whose knuckles whitened on the pommel of his sword. “Though I hear ugly whores like yourselves rarely get work.”

The soft snort from Garmund was almost worth the trouble that followed.

The silk-clad lord’s hand flew to his sword, but Benjen was faster. In a flash, the man’s blade clattered to the dirt as Benjen had him twisted in a headlock. The gasp of the other lord turned into a strangled gurgle of outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Benjen chuckled, his grip tightening. “Not so funny when you’re the butt of the joke, is it?”

He smiled grimly as the man flailed, his face flushing red. Patience was his strength, after all. And he’d wait, just long enough, until the bastard turned blue.

[garmundhightower]

A thousand retorts burned in his mind—none sharp enough, none quick enough. He hated this. He hated them.

Garmund stared, his knuckles still white on his sword’s hilt. He should intervene. Stop this before it escalated. But as he watched the lord squirm and gasp, his face turning a mottled red, yet the strangled lord was not the only one struggling to breathe. Garmund’s throat was tight, his chest hollow, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard and left behind the taste of iron and ash. A part of him—a dark, spiteful part—wanted lord mormont to hold on just a moment longer.

Maybe longer than that.

“Enough,” He said at last, his voice steady despite the heat in his veins. “Let him go.” Garmund’s hand finally fell from his sword. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d gripped it, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding.

Benjen glanced at him, then released the lord with a rough shove. The man collapsed, choking and glaring, but didn’t dare reach for his weapon again.

Garmund straightened, his hand falling from his sword. “You’re not worth it,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes. “Either of you.”

Then he turned to his unlikely savior. “You didn’t have to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Garmund’s shoulders eased. He offered a faint smile—small, but sincere.

“But thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all Garmund had.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched the two men slink away like rats, his lip curling into a faint smirk. Cowards always scattered when faced with someone who didn’t flinch. The thanks that followed caught him off guard, though. What an odd one, this man, thanking him for choking someone out. Benjen decided he liked him.

Lowering himself onto the bench beside the stranger, Benjen set his sword down between them—an unspoken gesture of peace. “No need to thank me. I’ve never minded reminding fools of their place.”

He waited, giving the man time to size him up. Benjen recognized the flicker of wariness in his gaze, the careful calculation of a man accustomed to choosing his battles wisely. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? The game was as old as the halls of Winterfell, and Benjen had no intention of rushing the answer.

“I’m Benjen Mormont,” he said finally, leaning back with an ease that belied his sharp attention. “Lord of Bear Island. And you’re a Hightower, unless all those years of being lectured have gone to waste. It’s a pleasure, truly.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the man’s sword before returning to his face. The weapon was finely made—far too fine for anyone unacquainted with the intricacies of combat. A knight’s sword, no doubt. The Hightowers weren’t known for sending their heirs into the fray untrained.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come to the training grounds to be bullied. If you’re here to train, though, I’d be glad to oblige.” He nodded toward the weapon. Making friends was always easier with steel—or failing that, a good drink. But the nearest tavern wasn’t an option, so this would have to do.

[garmundhightower]

“I didn’t,” Garmund admitted at last. His voice was quieter than he’d intended, but at least it didn’t waver. “Come to train, I mean.”

He glanced down at the sword on his hip, as though properly seeing it for the first time. A knight’s sword, finely made, yes, but it felt heavier than it should have. Too heavy for someone who hadn’t drawn it in earnest for months.

“And yet...” Garmund stood, pulling the blade free with a quiet hiss of steel against leather. The weight in his hand was familiar, even comforting, in a way he hadn’t expected. He turned back to Benjen, meeting the man’s gaze evenly.

“And yet, perhaps it’s time I did.”

Garmund squared his shoulders, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. He wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to accept the offer. Maybe it was Benjen’s easy confidence, or the fact that Garmund still felt raw, exposed, after the courtyard spectacle. Maybe it was the simple truth that he hated feeling powerless.

“But I won't go easy on you, my saviour,” he said lightly, stepping into the sparring circle. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping worn smooth from years of use.

And then he moved, faster than Garmund had expected, his blade arcing through the air in a calculated strike. Garmund barely raised his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing out like a bell.

It had been too long, but his body remembered. His arms strained, his footing faltered, but he held. The first blow turned into a second, then a third, Benjen pressing forward like a tide that refused to break.

Garmund found himself grinning, despite everything. For the first time in weeks, he felt steady. Whole.

For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

[benjen-mormont]

The clash of steel faded into a tense silence as Garmund lowered his blade, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. Across from him, Benjen leaned against his sword, its blunt edge braced in the dirt. His sharp eyes swept over Garmund, appraising every detail, from his stance to the faint tremor in his grip. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Benjen finally spoke.

"Not bad," he admitted, his tone carrying the faintest note of approval. "Instincts are good. Quick on your feet, even if your footwork could use some polish. I’ve seen worse." He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hell, I’ve trained worse. With the right touches, you might even be worth following into battle someday."

Garmund said nothing, his expression guarded. Benjen tilted his head, a brow quirking in faint amusement. "But tell me this," he pressed, gesturing with the tip of his sword. "Why let those fools corner you in the first place? A man who can fight like that shouldn’t be turning the other cheek."

Garmund shrugged, his silence more telling than any words could have been. Benjen’s gaze dropped, catching the glint of silver at Garmund’s wrist. A bracelet—finely wrought and unmistakably deliberate in its design. Its craftsmanship was as intricate as it was distinctive, marked with the sigil of the Hightower.

Benjen chuckled softly, stepping closer as he sheathed his sword. "Well, now. That’s not something you see every day. A gift, I’d wager." He waited, watching as Garmund’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. His grin widened. "A woman, then?"

Garmund’s silence betrayed him again, and Benjen took a seat on a nearby bench, the teasing edge in his voice softening, though his amusement remained. "Floris, I’d guess. Your betrothed, isn’t she? The Baratheon rose. They all sing about her—the beauty promised to a Hightower of virtue and duty. A match made in the heavens, or so they say."

For a fleeting moment, Benjen’s gaze flicked past Garmund, drawn to the horizon as if by some distant memory. His teasing faded, replaced by something quieter, almost wistful. But just as quickly as it had come, the flicker of introspection was gone. Benjen straightened, his grin returning as he slapped his knee.

"Ah, well," he said, his voice lighter now, "love’s a fine tale for someone else’s song. Not for me. A free man can’t be broken, after all." The words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, though there was a faint edge of bitterness beneath them, buried too deep for most to notice.

Rising from the bench, he stretched, rolling his shoulders before looking back at Garmund. "Since I’ve played the wise lord for you, how about you buy the next round once we’ve caught our breath?" He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "And while you’re at it, tell your savior: what’s it like to have found the kind of love every man in Westeros dreams of? Or is it as much trouble as I suspect?"

[garmundhightower]

Garmund stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on the spot where Benjen sat, his words still hanging in the air between them. A twinge of discomfort gnawed at him, but he kept his face neutral. Benjen was a strange one—sharp and easy with his tongue, but there was an odd honesty to him. The kind of honesty that could either cut you down or make you feel something akin to respect.

Garmund’s hand went instinctively to his wrist, brushing over the silver bracelet. He felt a subtle warmth in his chest, a mixture of pride and unease. He didn’t think about it often—his betrothal, the weight of duty that came with it. Yet, it all felt so far away, so out of reach. The promise of a future together seemed more like a story, something his father had written for them both. And maybe she was okay with it. Maybe she didn’t mind the way he stayed in the background, silent, dutiful.

“It’s... more than I deserve,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “Floris is... well, she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” He glanced sideways at Benjen, almost apologetic. “You probably don’t care to hear me ramble about her. But since you asked...”

He swallowed, the lump in his throat threatening to break through. He’d never talked about her like this, never with anyone. “She’s... like a poem, Benjen,” he said, the words slow and thoughtful, “one that’s written in the kind of ink that fades, but you can never forget it. She’s got this softness to her, but there’s a sadness in her, too. Sometimes, it’s hard to know if I’m the one who can fill that gap for her, or if I’m just–”

He shifted on his feet, trying to adjust to the familiar discomfort of conversation. It wasn’t that he disliked talking about her, it was more that his words never felt enough to capture her. But Benjen’s eyes were fixed on him now, and Garmund wasn’t sure if he wanted to be understood or left to his own thoughts.

“Maybe it’s trouble,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Maybe it’s worth it, too.”

He wanted to explain more, but the words didn’t come. Floris was everything but he couldn’t help the doubt that crept in at times, the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for her.

Benjen’s quiet attention made him shift again, but he didn’t back away. He wasn’t sure what Benjen expected—if the other man was poking fun, or truly curious. Garmund hadn’t quite figured out Benjen yet, but he had no intention of lying, either.

When Garmund finally spoke again, his words were slow, almost hesitant, as though testing the waters of something deeper than he’d intended. “I don't know why I didn't fight back.........but do you ever feel... like you’ve been living someone else’s life?" His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "Like the life you’re supposed to have, the one they expect you to, just doesn’t... belong to you?"

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched Garmund closely, the other man’s words settling into the quiet space between them. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—just let the weight of what had been said linger, as though the silence itself might shape the meaning better than words ever could. There was something raw in Garmund’s voice, something that caught Benjen off guard. It reminded him of the gleam of a blade—not in how it cut, but in how it shone when you held it to the light.

"Do you ever feel like you’ve been living someone else’s life?"

Benjen leaned back slightly, arms crossed, but his gaze never wavered. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Garmund’s doubt—he understood it all too well. He just wasn’t sure what to do with the mirror Garmund had unwittingly held up.

Habits. That’s what it came back to. The rituals that filled the gaps where meaning should have been. Benjen had learned early how easy it was to slip into the roles others cast him in. The sharp-tongued heir to a proud house. The restless boy who never quite fit. He’d worn those masks for so long, they felt like a second skin. Yet in the quiet moments—when no one was watching—he could feel the hollowness beneath them.

The stranger’s beds. The stolen moments. The soft press of lips that tasted of longing, of escape. They weren’t just habits. They were his rebellions. Fleeting defiance against a life he hadn’t chosen, as if he could carve something real out of the emptiness. But no matter how far he ran, morning always came. And with it, the same ache gnawed at the edges of his chest, a familiar ghost.

Benjen’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Garmund, who looked so painfully earnest, his doubts laid bare. Garmund wrestled with the life others had written for him, while Benjen had rewritten his own in ink so dark it often felt like blood.

“I know what it’s like,” Benjen said at last, his voice quieter, rougher than usual. “To live a life that doesn’t feel like your own. To wonder if the choices you’ve made—or the ones made for you—are the ones you’ll have to live with forever.”

And isn’t that the worst of it all?

“It doesn’t get easier when you run from it. Whatever it is you’re afraid of… failing her, failing yourself, it won’t disappear just because you bury it. You can chase every distraction, drown yourself in a thousand fleeting moments, but it’ll follow you like a shadow,” Benjen paused, the silence between them heavy again, but this time, it felt less hollow. “The only way to make it yours is to stop running from it. Maybe it’s trouble. Maybe it’s worth it. But that’s something only you can decide.”

Benjen straightened, his weight shifting as he pushed himself upright. He told himself he’d remember to pray to the old gods later—for Garmund, for Floris, for that starry-eyed hope they seemed to share. Maybe he’d pray for himself, too.

“Lady Floris is lucky, though,” Benjen said, his lips curving into an easy smile. He clapped Garmund on the shoulder, the gesture firm enough to make the other man stumble. “She’s marrying a poet who loves her enough to compliment her without bragging. That’s no small thing.”

And if Garmund's footwork was still unsteady, well, he had time to find his balance—especially now that Benjen called him a friend.

[garmundhightower]

The slap on his shoulder jolted Garmund out of his thoughts, nearly sending him stumbling forward. He glanced at Benjen, who stood there with a grin that was somehow both infuriating and reassuring. The man had a knack for cutting through walls Garmund hadn’t even realized he’d built.

Poet. Garmund scoffed inwardly at the word. If only Benjen knew how often his thoughts about Floris felt more like tangled knots filled with yearning than poetry.

Stop running. Make it yours. He wondered if it was as simple as that—if claiming his life could be as straightforward as lifting a sword or stepping into the sparring circle. Somehow, he doubted it. But still, the thought clung to him, refusing to be ignored.

Garmund shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The tension in his chest was still there, but it felt less suffocating now, like a knot loosened but not yet untangled. He glanced at the courtyard, now empty except for the two of them. The lingering echoes of steel and cruelty had faded, leaving only the crisp bite of the evening air.

“Fine,” he said at last, slipping his sword back into its sheath. “Let’s get that drink. I believe I owe you one—or a few—for saving me from those lords, even if your methods were... unconventional.”

He gestured toward the path leading from the training grounds. “There’s an inn down the road. Decent ale. Fewer lords. I’ll try not to drink you under the table”

“Oh and If I get drunk enough to start reciting poetry, please stop me,” Garmund said, his tone dry but the faintest hint of humor curling at the edges of his words.

[benjen-mormont]

The inn was quiet, save for the low murmur of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. The hearth crackled, throwing flickers of orange light across the uneven stone walls, the warmth doing little to soften the chill that clung to Benjen’s thoughts. He leaned against the battered wood of their table, their four bottles nearly empty—though he’d stopped counting drinks hours ago. Across from him, Garmund sat nursing his ale, his gaze distant, though his steady persistence in questioning Benjen’s heart had worn on them both.

The northern brew was thick enough to chew, but it wasn’t strong enough to drown out the noise in Benjen’s head: Garmund’s prodding, the fire’s crackle, the ghosts of answers he didn’t want to give. For three hours, Garmund had been trying to chip away at him. Who was his first love? Who did he love now? Who waited for him back home?

“Don’t,” Benjen said abruptly, leaning back until his shoulders met the groaning wood of his chair. “Don’t look at me like I’ve got the answers you’re looking for. Love and I…” He waved a hand vaguely, as though gesturing toward something lost on the horizon. “We don’t see eye to eye.”

He reached for his tankard again, pouring more ale from the pitcher at their table. His hand trembled slightly, but he caught it quickly, bracing himself against the sturdy edge of the table. For a long moment, he stared into the dark amber liquid, watching how the firelight rippled on its surface.

“I’ve spent my life chasing it… the idea of it, at least. Thought I could steal it in fleeting moments. In kisses that meant nothing. Or didn’t mean enough.” He paused, the corners of his lips curving into a bitter smile. “The more I ran after it, the farther it slipped away. Like trying to catch shadows.”

Benjen lifted the tankard, drinking deeply, the ale burning its way down. When he set it down, the smile remained on his lips, but his eyes betrayed him. There was no humor there, only the faint shimmer of something he didn’t dare to name.

Benjen had never been a good liar. He wasn’t about to become one.

Garmund’s gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, steady and searching, and Benjen hated how heavy it felt. He exhaled slowly, still not meeting Garmund’s eyes.

“You’re different, though,” he murmured, hands raising in surrender. “I see it. That hope in you. Like you think love can save you.”

The fire hissed in the silence that followed.

“Maybe it can,” his lips twitched, but the smile was gone. “I hope it does.”

Without hesitation, he drained the tankard, the motion swift and practiced, as though the ale could bury the words he’d just let slip.

“Come on, poet,” he said, the grin sliding back into place like a well-worn mask, easy and practiced. Whatever flicker of vulnerability had surfaced was gone now, tucked safely behind his eyes. “Ask me something I can actually answer—or I’ll haul you back to Lady Floris myself.”

[garmundhightower]

Garmund didn’t speak immediately. He watched Benjen, the silence between them now laden with something softer. Benjen had let something slip, a crack in the armor. The sincerity in his words lingered, though it seemed to be buried under layers of distance and deflection.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his tankard, Benjen might think he was hiding behind humor, but Garmund had spent too many years studying faces—watching for the subtle shift of an eyelash, the slight quiver of a jaw—to be deceived by a smile.

The last of the ale sliding down with a warmth that didn’t quite reach his chest. He set it down with a muted thud and finally broke the silence. His voice was quieter now, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something gentler. “You talk like you’ve given up on it. On love.”

“It's a difficult thing, I'm well aware of that– but–” Garmund sighed deeply before continuing, “you’ve chased shadows long enough, I know hope's a fool's game, don't you agree? But love is what makes life worth living. It doesn't always come how you expect. It doesn’t always fit into the neat little boxes we try to put it in. But you can’t avoid it forever.”

"Maybe I sound like a love-struck green boy but you sound like you're ready to run," Garmund replied, his tone still light but with an edge of something deeper.

He cleared his throat, the grin flickering back into place, not as practiced as Benjen’s, but just enough to offer some levity. "Alright," he said, the shift in his tone undeniable. "I’ll ease up. For now." His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. "But only because you’re buying the next round. You’re not getting away that easily. Now tell me Have you ever fought a bear?”

[benjen-mormont]

ﾒ THE GIFT OF PATIENCE ﾒ

(Starter with @garmundhightower)

Benjen wasn’t quick to anger. No, like a bear filing its claws on oaks to cradle a cub, he’d taught himself patience. A patience his blood rebelled against. A patience that kept him standing. He couldn’t hold back the rage; he could only bury it beneath his skin, where it boiled. Only one thing shattered his fragile calm: just hatred. Benjen hated two things in all the world—his late father (may devils gnaw his bones) and men who acted just like him.

Edryk Mormont had been a cruel man. His tongue cut sharper than his sword, his touch scarred more than his blade. He couldn’t laugh without snarling, couldn’t speak without wounding. Benjen prided himself on being his opposite—tempered, deliberate, soft when needed, like steel shaped into shield.

But even steel bends under pressure.

He caught sight of them across the courtyard: two lords draped in silk and self-satisfaction, laughing like circling hyenas. They weren’t hunting for sport; their prey was right in the middle of their little game—a lone man, standing stiff and silent. Lord Garmund, if Benjen wasn’t mistaken. A soft-spoken lordling. Decent enough.

The laughter reached him first. Cruel. Dismissive. He closed the distance slowly, each step sharpening his focus, letting the tension coil.

“What, embarrassed to answer us directly?” one lord sneered, his voice as slick as his hair.

Garmund’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“A little jest scares you, does it? Or are the rumors not true? Perhaps you prefer dueling swords to... swallowing them.”

The other lord wheezed a laugh, the kind of sound Benjen’s father used to make after gutting a deer.

Benjen moved before he could stop himself. “Perhaps the two of you would find better occupations in a brothel than in court,” he said evenly, his tone the edge of a blade. He gave a curt nod to Garmund, whose knuckles whitened on the pommel of his sword. “Though I hear ugly whores like yourselves rarely get work.”

The soft snort from Garmund was almost worth the trouble that followed.

The silk-clad lord’s hand flew to his sword, but Benjen was faster. In a flash, the man’s blade clattered to the dirt as Benjen had him twisted in a headlock. The gasp of the other lord turned into a strangled gurgle of outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Benjen chuckled, his grip tightening. “Not so funny when you’re the butt of the joke, is it?”

He smiled grimly as the man flailed, his face flushing red. Patience was his strength, after all. And he’d wait, just long enough, until the bastard turned blue.

[garmundhightower]

A thousand retorts burned in his mind—none sharp enough, none quick enough. He hated this. He hated them.

Garmund stared, his knuckles still white on his sword’s hilt. He should intervene. Stop this before it escalated. But as he watched the lord squirm and gasp, his face turning a mottled red, yet the strangled lord was not the only one struggling to breathe. Garmund’s throat was tight, his chest hollow, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard and left behind the taste of iron and ash. A part of him—a dark, spiteful part—wanted lord mormont to hold on just a moment longer.

Maybe longer than that.

“Enough,” He said at last, his voice steady despite the heat in his veins. “Let him go.” Garmund’s hand finally fell from his sword. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d gripped it, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding.

Benjen glanced at him, then released the lord with a rough shove. The man collapsed, choking and glaring, but didn’t dare reach for his weapon again.

Garmund straightened, his hand falling from his sword. “You’re not worth it,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes. “Either of you.”

Then he turned to his unlikely savior. “You didn’t have to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Garmund’s shoulders eased. He offered a faint smile—small, but sincere.

“But thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all Garmund had.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched the two men slink away like rats, his lip curling into a faint smirk. Cowards always scattered when faced with someone who didn’t flinch. The thanks that followed caught him off guard, though. What an odd one, this man, thanking him for choking someone out. Benjen decided he liked him.

Lowering himself onto the bench beside the stranger, Benjen set his sword down between them—an unspoken gesture of peace. “No need to thank me. I’ve never minded reminding fools of their place.”

He waited, giving the man time to size him up. Benjen recognized the flicker of wariness in his gaze, the careful calculation of a man accustomed to choosing his battles wisely. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? The game was as old as the halls of Winterfell, and Benjen had no intention of rushing the answer.

“I’m Benjen Mormont,” he said finally, leaning back with an ease that belied his sharp attention. “Lord of Bear Island. And you’re a Hightower, unless all those years of being lectured have gone to waste. It’s a pleasure, truly.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the man’s sword before returning to his face. The weapon was finely made—far too fine for anyone unacquainted with the intricacies of combat. A knight’s sword, no doubt. The Hightowers weren’t known for sending their heirs into the fray untrained.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come to the training grounds to be bullied. If you’re here to train, though, I’d be glad to oblige.” He nodded toward the weapon. Making friends was always easier with steel—or failing that, a good drink. But the nearest tavern wasn’t an option, so this would have to do.

[garmundhightower]

“I didn’t,” Garmund admitted at last. His voice was quieter than he’d intended, but at least it didn’t waver. “Come to train, I mean.”

He glanced down at the sword on his hip, as though properly seeing it for the first time. A knight’s sword, finely made, yes, but it felt heavier than it should have. Too heavy for someone who hadn’t drawn it in earnest for months.

“And yet...” Garmund stood, pulling the blade free with a quiet hiss of steel against leather. The weight in his hand was familiar, even comforting, in a way he hadn’t expected. He turned back to Benjen, meeting the man’s gaze evenly.

“And yet, perhaps it’s time I did.”

Garmund squared his shoulders, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. He wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to accept the offer. Maybe it was Benjen’s easy confidence, or the fact that Garmund still felt raw, exposed, after the courtyard spectacle. Maybe it was the simple truth that he hated feeling powerless.

“But I won't go easy on you, my saviour,” he said lightly, stepping into the sparring circle. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping worn smooth from years of use.

And then he moved, faster than Garmund had expected, his blade arcing through the air in a calculated strike. Garmund barely raised his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing out like a bell.

It had been too long, but his body remembered. His arms strained, his footing faltered, but he held. The first blow turned into a second, then a third, Benjen pressing forward like a tide that refused to break.

Garmund found himself grinning, despite everything. For the first time in weeks, he felt steady. Whole.

For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

[benjen-mormont]

The clash of steel faded into a tense silence as Garmund lowered his blade, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. Across from him, Benjen leaned against his sword, its blunt edge braced in the dirt. His sharp eyes swept over Garmund, appraising every detail, from his stance to the faint tremor in his grip. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Benjen finally spoke.

"Not bad," he admitted, his tone carrying the faintest note of approval. "Instincts are good. Quick on your feet, even if your footwork could use some polish. I’ve seen worse." He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hell, I’ve trained worse. With the right touches, you might even be worth following into battle someday."

Garmund said nothing, his expression guarded. Benjen tilted his head, a brow quirking in faint amusement. "But tell me this," he pressed, gesturing with the tip of his sword. "Why let those fools corner you in the first place? A man who can fight like that shouldn’t be turning the other cheek."

Garmund shrugged, his silence more telling than any words could have been. Benjen’s gaze dropped, catching the glint of silver at Garmund’s wrist. A bracelet—finely wrought and unmistakably deliberate in its design. Its craftsmanship was as intricate as it was distinctive, marked with the sigil of the Hightower.

Benjen chuckled softly, stepping closer as he sheathed his sword. "Well, now. That’s not something you see every day. A gift, I’d wager." He waited, watching as Garmund’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. His grin widened. "A woman, then?"

Garmund’s silence betrayed him again, and Benjen took a seat on a nearby bench, the teasing edge in his voice softening, though his amusement remained. "Floris, I’d guess. Your betrothed, isn’t she? The Baratheon rose. They all sing about her—the beauty promised to a Hightower of virtue and duty. A match made in the heavens, or so they say."

For a fleeting moment, Benjen’s gaze flicked past Garmund, drawn to the horizon as if by some distant memory. His teasing faded, replaced by something quieter, almost wistful. But just as quickly as it had come, the flicker of introspection was gone. Benjen straightened, his grin returning as he slapped his knee.

"Ah, well," he said, his voice lighter now, "love’s a fine tale for someone else’s song. Not for me. A free man can’t be broken, after all." The words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, though there was a faint edge of bitterness beneath them, buried too deep for most to notice.

Rising from the bench, he stretched, rolling his shoulders before looking back at Garmund. "Since I’ve played the wise lord for you, how about you buy the next round once we’ve caught our breath?" He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "And while you’re at it, tell your savior: what’s it like to have found the kind of love every man in Westeros dreams of? Or is it as much trouble as I suspect?"

[garmundhightower]

Garmund stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on the spot where Benjen sat, his words still hanging in the air between them. A twinge of discomfort gnawed at him, but he kept his face neutral. Benjen was a strange one—sharp and easy with his tongue, but there was an odd honesty to him. The kind of honesty that could either cut you down or make you feel something akin to respect.

Garmund’s hand went instinctively to his wrist, brushing over the silver bracelet. He felt a subtle warmth in his chest, a mixture of pride and unease. He didn’t think about it often—his betrothal, the weight of duty that came with it. Yet, it all felt so far away, so out of reach. The promise of a future together seemed more like a story, something his father had written for them both. And maybe she was okay with it. Maybe she didn’t mind the way he stayed in the background, silent, dutiful.

“It’s... more than I deserve,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “Floris is... well, she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” He glanced sideways at Benjen, almost apologetic. “You probably don’t care to hear me ramble about her. But since you asked...”

He swallowed, the lump in his throat threatening to break through. He’d never talked about her like this, never with anyone. “She’s... like a poem, Benjen,” he said, the words slow and thoughtful, “one that’s written in the kind of ink that fades, but you can never forget it. She’s got this softness to her, but there’s a sadness in her, too. Sometimes, it’s hard to know if I’m the one who can fill that gap for her, or if I’m just–”

He shifted on his feet, trying to adjust to the familiar discomfort of conversation. It wasn’t that he disliked talking about her, it was more that his words never felt enough to capture her. But Benjen’s eyes were fixed on him now, and Garmund wasn’t sure if he wanted to be understood or left to his own thoughts.

“Maybe it’s trouble,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Maybe it’s worth it, too.”

He wanted to explain more, but the words didn’t come. Floris was everything but he couldn’t help the doubt that crept in at times, the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for her.

Benjen’s quiet attention made him shift again, but he didn’t back away. He wasn’t sure what Benjen expected—if the other man was poking fun, or truly curious. Garmund hadn’t quite figured out Benjen yet, but he had no intention of lying, either.

When Garmund finally spoke again, his words were slow, almost hesitant, as though testing the waters of something deeper than he’d intended. “I don't know why I didn't fight back.........but do you ever feel... like you’ve been living someone else’s life?" His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "Like the life you’re supposed to have, the one they expect you to, just doesn’t... belong to you?"

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched Garmund closely, the other man’s words settling into the quiet space between them. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—just let the weight of what had been said linger, as though the silence itself might shape the meaning better than words ever could. There was something raw in Garmund’s voice, something that caught Benjen off guard. It reminded him of the gleam of a blade—not in how it cut, but in how it shone when you held it to the light.

"Do you ever feel like you’ve been living someone else’s life?"

Benjen leaned back slightly, arms crossed, but his gaze never wavered. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Garmund’s doubt—he understood it all too well. He just wasn’t sure what to do with the mirror Garmund had unwittingly held up.

Habits. That’s what it came back to. The rituals that filled the gaps where meaning should have been. Benjen had learned early how easy it was to slip into the roles others cast him in. The sharp-tongued heir to a proud house. The restless boy who never quite fit. He’d worn those masks for so long, they felt like a second skin. Yet in the quiet moments—when no one was watching—he could feel the hollowness beneath them.

The stranger’s beds. The stolen moments. The soft press of lips that tasted of longing, of escape. They weren’t just habits. They were his rebellions. Fleeting defiance against a life he hadn’t chosen, as if he could carve something real out of the emptiness. But no matter how far he ran, morning always came. And with it, the same ache gnawed at the edges of his chest, a familiar ghost.

Benjen’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Garmund, who looked so painfully earnest, his doubts laid bare. Garmund wrestled with the life others had written for him, while Benjen had rewritten his own in ink so dark it often felt like blood.

“I know what it’s like,” Benjen said at last, his voice quieter, rougher than usual. “To live a life that doesn’t feel like your own. To wonder if the choices you’ve made—or the ones made for you—are the ones you’ll have to live with forever.”

And isn’t that the worst of it all?

“It doesn’t get easier when you run from it. Whatever it is you’re afraid of… failing her, failing yourself, it won’t disappear just because you bury it. You can chase every distraction, drown yourself in a thousand fleeting moments, but it’ll follow you like a shadow,” Benjen paused, the silence between them heavy again, but this time, it felt less hollow. “The only way to make it yours is to stop running from it. Maybe it’s trouble. Maybe it’s worth it. But that’s something only you can decide.”

Benjen straightened, his weight shifting as he pushed himself upright. He told himself he’d remember to pray to the old gods later—for Garmund, for Floris, for that starry-eyed hope they seemed to share. Maybe he’d pray for himself, too.

“Lady Floris is lucky, though,” Benjen said, his lips curving into an easy smile. He clapped Garmund on the shoulder, the gesture firm enough to make the other man stumble. “She’s marrying a poet who loves her enough to compliment her without bragging. That’s no small thing.”

And if Garmund's footwork was still unsteady, well, he had time to find his balance—especially now that Benjen called him a friend.

[garmundhightower]

The slap on his shoulder jolted Garmund out of his thoughts, nearly sending him stumbling forward. He glanced at Benjen, who stood there with a grin that was somehow both infuriating and reassuring. The man had a knack for cutting through walls Garmund hadn’t even realized he’d built.

Poet. Garmund scoffed inwardly at the word. If only Benjen knew how often his thoughts about Floris felt more like tangled knots filled with yearning than poetry.

Stop running. Make it yours. He wondered if it was as simple as that—if claiming his life could be as straightforward as lifting a sword or stepping into the sparring circle. Somehow, he doubted it. But still, the thought clung to him, refusing to be ignored.

Garmund shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The tension in his chest was still there, but it felt less suffocating now, like a knot loosened but not yet untangled. He glanced at the courtyard, now empty except for the two of them. The lingering echoes of steel and cruelty had faded, leaving only the crisp bite of the evening air.

“Fine,” he said at last, slipping his sword back into its sheath. “Let’s get that drink. I believe I owe you one—or a few—for saving me from those lords, even if your methods were... unconventional.”

He gestured toward the path leading from the training grounds. “There’s an inn down the road. Decent ale. Fewer lords. I’ll try not to drink you under the table”

“Oh and If I get drunk enough to start reciting poetry, please stop me,” Garmund said, his tone dry but the faintest hint of humor curling at the edges of his words.

[benjen-mormont]

ﾒ THE GIFT OF PATIENCE ﾒ

(Starter with @garmundhightower)

Benjen wasn’t quick to anger. No, like a bear filing its claws on oaks to cradle a cub, he’d taught himself patience. A patience his blood rebelled against. A patience that kept him standing. He couldn’t hold back the rage; he could only bury it beneath his skin, where it boiled. Only one thing shattered his fragile calm: just hatred. Benjen hated two things in all the world—his late father (may devils gnaw his bones) and men who acted just like him.

Edryk Mormont had been a cruel man. His tongue cut sharper than his sword, his touch scarred more than his blade. He couldn’t laugh without snarling, couldn’t speak without wounding. Benjen prided himself on being his opposite—tempered, deliberate, soft when needed, like steel shaped into shield.

But even steel bends under pressure.

He caught sight of them across the courtyard: two lords draped in silk and self-satisfaction, laughing like circling hyenas. They weren’t hunting for sport; their prey was right in the middle of their little game—a lone man, standing stiff and silent. Lord Garmund, if Benjen wasn’t mistaken. A soft-spoken lordling. Decent enough.

The laughter reached him first. Cruel. Dismissive. He closed the distance slowly, each step sharpening his focus, letting the tension coil.

“What, embarrassed to answer us directly?” one lord sneered, his voice as slick as his hair.

Garmund’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“A little jest scares you, does it? Or are the rumors not true? Perhaps you prefer dueling swords to... swallowing them.”

The other lord wheezed a laugh, the kind of sound Benjen’s father used to make after gutting a deer.

Benjen moved before he could stop himself. “Perhaps the two of you would find better occupations in a brothel than in court,” he said evenly, his tone the edge of a blade. He gave a curt nod to Garmund, whose knuckles whitened on the pommel of his sword. “Though I hear ugly whores like yourselves rarely get work.”

The soft snort from Garmund was almost worth the trouble that followed.

The silk-clad lord’s hand flew to his sword, but Benjen was faster. In a flash, the man’s blade clattered to the dirt as Benjen had him twisted in a headlock. The gasp of the other lord turned into a strangled gurgle of outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Benjen chuckled, his grip tightening. “Not so funny when you’re the butt of the joke, is it?”

He smiled grimly as the man flailed, his face flushing red. Patience was his strength, after all. And he’d wait, just long enough, until the bastard turned blue.

[garmundhightower]

A thousand retorts burned in his mind—none sharp enough, none quick enough. He hated this. He hated them.

Garmund stared, his knuckles still white on his sword’s hilt. He should intervene. Stop this before it escalated. But as he watched the lord squirm and gasp, his face turning a mottled red, yet the strangled lord was not the only one struggling to breathe. Garmund’s throat was tight, his chest hollow, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard and left behind the taste of iron and ash. A part of him—a dark, spiteful part—wanted lord mormont to hold on just a moment longer.

Maybe longer than that.

“Enough,” He said at last, his voice steady despite the heat in his veins. “Let him go.” Garmund’s hand finally fell from his sword. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d gripped it, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding.

Benjen glanced at him, then released the lord with a rough shove. The man collapsed, choking and glaring, but didn’t dare reach for his weapon again.

Garmund straightened, his hand falling from his sword. “You’re not worth it,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes. “Either of you.”

Then he turned to his unlikely savior. “You didn’t have to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Garmund’s shoulders eased. He offered a faint smile—small, but sincere.

“But thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all Garmund had.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched the two men slink away like rats, his lip curling into a faint smirk. Cowards always scattered when faced with someone who didn’t flinch. The thanks that followed caught him off guard, though. What an odd one, this man, thanking him for choking someone out. Benjen decided he liked him.

Lowering himself onto the bench beside the stranger, Benjen set his sword down between them—an unspoken gesture of peace. “No need to thank me. I’ve never minded reminding fools of their place.”

He waited, giving the man time to size him up. Benjen recognized the flicker of wariness in his gaze, the careful calculation of a man accustomed to choosing his battles wisely. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? The game was as old as the halls of Winterfell, and Benjen had no intention of rushing the answer.

“I’m Benjen Mormont,” he said finally, leaning back with an ease that belied his sharp attention. “Lord of Bear Island. And you’re a Hightower, unless all those years of being lectured have gone to waste. It’s a pleasure, truly.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the man’s sword before returning to his face. The weapon was finely made—far too fine for anyone unacquainted with the intricacies of combat. A knight’s sword, no doubt. The Hightowers weren’t known for sending their heirs into the fray untrained.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come to the training grounds to be bullied. If you’re here to train, though, I’d be glad to oblige.” He nodded toward the weapon. Making friends was always easier with steel—or failing that, a good drink. But the nearest tavern wasn’t an option, so this would have to do.

[garmundhightower]

“I didn’t,” Garmund admitted at last. His voice was quieter than he’d intended, but at least it didn’t waver. “Come to train, I mean.”

He glanced down at the sword on his hip, as though properly seeing it for the first time. A knight’s sword, finely made, yes, but it felt heavier than it should have. Too heavy for someone who hadn’t drawn it in earnest for months.

“And yet...” Garmund stood, pulling the blade free with a quiet hiss of steel against leather. The weight in his hand was familiar, even comforting, in a way he hadn’t expected. He turned back to Benjen, meeting the man’s gaze evenly.

“And yet, perhaps it’s time I did.”

Garmund squared his shoulders, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. He wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to accept the offer. Maybe it was Benjen’s easy confidence, or the fact that Garmund still felt raw, exposed, after the courtyard spectacle. Maybe it was the simple truth that he hated feeling powerless.

“But I won't go easy on you, my saviour,” he said lightly, stepping into the sparring circle. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping worn smooth from years of use.

And then he moved, faster than Garmund had expected, his blade arcing through the air in a calculated strike. Garmund barely raised his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing out like a bell.

It had been too long, but his body remembered. His arms strained, his footing faltered, but he held. The first blow turned into a second, then a third, Benjen pressing forward like a tide that refused to break.

Garmund found himself grinning, despite everything. For the first time in weeks, he felt steady. Whole.

For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

[benjen-mormont]

The clash of steel faded into a tense silence as Garmund lowered his blade, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. Across from him, Benjen leaned against his sword, its blunt edge braced in the dirt. His sharp eyes swept over Garmund, appraising every detail, from his stance to the faint tremor in his grip. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Benjen finally spoke.

"Not bad," he admitted, his tone carrying the faintest note of approval. "Instincts are good. Quick on your feet, even if your footwork could use some polish. I’ve seen worse." He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hell, I’ve trained worse. With the right touches, you might even be worth following into battle someday."

Garmund said nothing, his expression guarded. Benjen tilted his head, a brow quirking in faint amusement. "But tell me this," he pressed, gesturing with the tip of his sword. "Why let those fools corner you in the first place? A man who can fight like that shouldn’t be turning the other cheek."

Garmund shrugged, his silence more telling than any words could have been. Benjen’s gaze dropped, catching the glint of silver at Garmund’s wrist. A bracelet—finely wrought and unmistakably deliberate in its design. Its craftsmanship was as intricate as it was distinctive, marked with the sigil of the Hightower.

Benjen chuckled softly, stepping closer as he sheathed his sword. "Well, now. That’s not something you see every day. A gift, I’d wager." He waited, watching as Garmund’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. His grin widened. "A woman, then?"

Garmund’s silence betrayed him again, and Benjen took a seat on a nearby bench, the teasing edge in his voice softening, though his amusement remained. "Floris, I’d guess. Your betrothed, isn’t she? The Baratheon rose. They all sing about her—the beauty promised to a Hightower of virtue and duty. A match made in the heavens, or so they say."

For a fleeting moment, Benjen’s gaze flicked past Garmund, drawn to the horizon as if by some distant memory. His teasing faded, replaced by something quieter, almost wistful. But just as quickly as it had come, the flicker of introspection was gone. Benjen straightened, his grin returning as he slapped his knee.

"Ah, well," he said, his voice lighter now, "love’s a fine tale for someone else’s song. Not for me. A free man can’t be broken, after all." The words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, though there was a faint edge of bitterness beneath them, buried too deep for most to notice.

Rising from the bench, he stretched, rolling his shoulders before looking back at Garmund. "Since I’ve played the wise lord for you, how about you buy the next round once we’ve caught our breath?" He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "And while you’re at it, tell your savior: what’s it like to have found the kind of love every man in Westeros dreams of? Or is it as much trouble as I suspect?"

[garmundhightower]

Garmund stood there for a long moment, eyes fixed on the spot where Benjen sat, his words still hanging in the air between them. A twinge of discomfort gnawed at him, but he kept his face neutral. Benjen was a strange one—sharp and easy with his tongue, but there was an odd honesty to him. The kind of honesty that could either cut you down or make you feel something akin to respect.

Garmund’s hand went instinctively to his wrist, brushing over the silver bracelet. He felt a subtle warmth in his chest, a mixture of pride and unease. He didn’t think about it often—his betrothal, the weight of duty that came with it. Yet, it all felt so far away, so out of reach. The promise of a future together seemed more like a story, something his father had written for them both. And maybe she was okay with it. Maybe she didn’t mind the way he stayed in the background, silent, dutiful.

“It’s... more than I deserve,” he said at last, his voice quiet. “Floris is... well, she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” He glanced sideways at Benjen, almost apologetic. “You probably don’t care to hear me ramble about her. But since you asked...”

He swallowed, the lump in his throat threatening to break through. He’d never talked about her like this, never with anyone. “She’s... like a poem, Benjen,” he said, the words slow and thoughtful, “one that’s written in the kind of ink that fades, but you can never forget it. She’s got this softness to her, but there’s a sadness in her, too. Sometimes, it’s hard to know if I’m the one who can fill that gap for her, or if I’m just–”

He shifted on his feet, trying to adjust to the familiar discomfort of conversation. It wasn’t that he disliked talking about her, it was more that his words never felt enough to capture her. But Benjen’s eyes were fixed on him now, and Garmund wasn’t sure if he wanted to be understood or left to his own thoughts.

“Maybe it’s trouble,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Maybe it’s worth it, too.”

He wanted to explain more, but the words didn’t come. Floris was everything but he couldn’t help the doubt that crept in at times, the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for her.

Benjen’s quiet attention made him shift again, but he didn’t back away. He wasn’t sure what Benjen expected—if the other man was poking fun, or truly curious. Garmund hadn’t quite figured out Benjen yet, but he had no intention of lying, either.

When Garmund finally spoke again, his words were slow, almost hesitant, as though testing the waters of something deeper than he’d intended. “I don't know why I didn't fight back.........but do you ever feel... like you’ve been living someone else’s life?" His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "Like the life you’re supposed to have, the one they expect you to, just doesn’t... belong to you?"

[garmundhightower]

Midnight music

Starter with @thefourthstormfloris

Garmund paced the red keep, his footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors, their rhythmic beat marking out a restless, repetitive pattern as he walked back and forth. The cover of night had cast its dark veil over the city, but sleep remained elusive for Garmund. Despite the heavy exhaustion that weighed upon him, his mind refused to quieten, his thoughts a chaotic maelstrom that kept sleep at bay. He stalked around, the dim light from the torches casting harsh shadows on the stone walls as he moved restlessly. 

Garmund paused his pacing, his eyes drawn instinctively towards the night sky. The stars glittered in the vast, dark expanse overhead, their countless points of light like tiny pricks of light in the velvety black canvas. They seemed to gaze down upon him coldly, their distant beauty untroubled by the worries of the mortal world. 

Bored out of his mind he wondered if he might catch a glimpse of the ghosts haunting the keep. There was the cruel Maegor, forever wandering the secret passages or the witchlike unfortunate Rhaena and her little daughter Aerea. As he turned the corner, He stiffened as he heard a strain of music. It was faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. He recognized the sound of a piano, the haunting, mournful notes hanging in the air. The music was beautiful, but strange, out of place in the dark night. Could it be a real ghost? thought Garmund cautionusly.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself slowly making his way in the direction of the sound. The music grew louder, the notes takiing on a bittersweet lilt that tugged at something deep within his heart. As he approached theplace from which the music emanated, the sound washed over him like a wave, filling his senses. their sorrowful charm pulling him closer still. He hesitated for a moment, hand on the door handle, then pushed the door open, revealing the source of the song.

His eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure hunched over a piano.

[thefourthstormfloris]

It was late at night, Floris knew, but she could not sleep. It was a rarity for her to ever sleep early, as she was most active when the sun had gone down and others were ready for bed. She spent her nights playing her music and her mornings asleep trying to fight the tiredness that came from staying up.

This night, she had decided she would improve her skills on the piano. Floris was mostly skilled with her harp as well as her flute and did not often put the time into other instruments as she knew she should. Being in Kings Landing, she had access to a whole new set of instruments for her to use, and so once she had found the piano she knew she had to take advantage of this opportunity.

Her fingers fumbled with the keys at first, trying to find her perfect tune. But now, she had gotten into the flow of the music and began to play a song she had written long ago. It was a sad song, one she wrote when she was only twelve years old and curious about the piano. Believing she was alone, she played on.

Her eyes rarely left the keys as the music filled her ears, but once she had come to a small pause in the song she looked around her. Seeing a figure next to her caused her to jump up, gasping quietly at the surprise. She now stood, eyes wide in fear, looking at this person who had decided to watch her play. She was shocked there was anyone who was up at this time of night, as well as someone who was coming to this room.

It took her only a second to realize it was Garmund Hightower. His soft brown locks and dark eyes were extremely recognizable to her, as she had thought about him quite a lot in the past few days. He was her potential betrothed, something that was extremely new and confusing for her. Floris had decided to trust Lady Samantha Hightower in her decision to betroth the two, as Lady Samantha had made her feel safe unlike she had in a long time. She wanted to believe that this boy in front of her was good and kind, but in truth, she barely knew him. Their first meeting had been very monitored and full of pleasantries. She did not know what to think of him besides the fact that they were to be potentially married one day and that Lady Hightower seemed to be extremely fond of him.

She studied him for a moment, shocked he was truly here with her. It was extremely quiet and dark. "Ser Garmund, a pleasure to see you, you scared me a bit, that is why I had that reaction..." She trailed off, looking around the two of them, studying their surroundings. "I was just- uhm, playing the piano. I have a hard time falling asleep, so..."

[garmundhightower]

“Err, hello my lady, a good day– i mean night to you I apologize if I have disturbing you,” said Garmund, bowing slightly and feeling vastly out of his element. He gently brought her knuckles to his lips and muttered a more formal, respectful greeting under his breath.

“I too could not fall asleep. It appears we have that in common; at the very least,” he offered a smile, trying to ease her. His betrothed looked almost as uncomfortable as he felt, but in the dim light emitting from the windows and the heavenly bodies of the sky, she looked ethereal as a lovely creature like a mermaiden or faerie, he could see why she was called the most beautiful of the four storms.

A strange, heavy stillness fell over them, Garmund found himself at a loss of words what could he possibly even say?

“That was a beautiful song, bittersweet yet bewitching, but I'm afraid I haven't heard it before,” he began finally after a moment of disquieting silence. 

[thefourthstormfloris]

“You have not disturbed me.” Floris spoke softly, but with little emotion. It was true, she had not felt disturbed by his presence, so she felt no need to say anything but the truth. She was not one to use many words when speaking to others, her sentences blunt and truthful. She spoke often coldly or in a way others found rude, even if it was not her intent.

When her betrothed brought her hand to his lips, she could only stare at him. He looks soft, and he is very gentle, she thought. She gave him a slight smile, more than what she offered to most. “Yes, I am most active at night...” She could not think of anything else to say, so she stood, continuing to examine him. In the duration of her life, she had never been fond of cooing over the looks of men as other ladies around her had been. But this boy was different, and she could not tell if it was because she was going to marry him, or if he had such a unique beauty that she could only continue to stare.

“Oh!” The mention of her music had done to perk her up. “It is a song I wrote. It’s about… my sister.” Floris looked away from him, wondering why she had revealed that piece of information to him when she had never told anyone before. “I know you like music as well. Are you fond of the piano? I admit, I don’t spend as much time practicing it as I should, so that is why I am here this night.” The words seemed to pour out of her mouth without her being able to stop them. Music was a topic she could speak endlessly about.

“I would like to hear you play…” She admitted, looking towards the piano keys, hoping he’d say yes.

[garmundhightower]

Garmund shifted uneasily, his fingers brushing against the edge of his tunic as he tried to find his bearings. The quiet weight of the moment pressed against him, His usual discomfort around people, especially those like her—the beautiful, poised betrothed of a man she hardly knew—felt all the more pronounced in the quiet of the room.

"Your sister," he repeated quietly, his gaze briefly drifting to the floor as if seeking to anchor himself. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Would it be odd to ask more? Too personal? He didn’t want to overstep.

Garmund cleared his throat awkwardly as he began “i can't say I've ever made a song for my siblings but I've dedicated an awful lot of poetry to them– especially my eldest brother.”

"I—" He stopped, feeling his words falter, unsure of how to follow up. He had intended to say something polite, but then the idea of playing music suddenly settled over him. The piano was suddenly a far more complicated thing in the room than it had seemed before. His fingers twitched at his sides. He had always been self-conscious about his own playing. Music wasn’t a realm he had delved deeply into. Sure, he could hum a tune or strum his harp in the privacy of his quarters, but to play before someone else—let alone Fair Floris, his betrothed—it felt like a daunting prospect.

He swallowed, the words slipping out in a way he hadn’t quite intended. “I’m not very good, my lady… I don’t know if you’d want to hear me, I’m not sure I could match your… skill.” He had always preferred the quieter strings of his lute or harp or even the flute, where his fingers could glide over familiar shapes and sounds. The piano, with its vast expanse of keys, felt too wide and impersonal for him.

After a beat, he let out a quiet sigh, resigned to the quiet stretch of silence that hung between them, her request, the gentleness of her voice, made him pause long enough to consider it. "But," he said, his voice steadying just slightly, "I’ll play, if you truly wish it." He took a slow step toward the piano, trying to quiet the sudden rush of nerves in his chest.

The first note he struck was soft, hesitant, like the beginning of a story he wasn’t sure how to tell. His fingers followed instinctively, though slowly at first, trying to recall the simple melody he had learnt long ago.

When the song came to a halt, he looked up at her, feeling his face flush in a way he had hoped would remain unnoticed.

[benjen-mormont]

ﾒ THE GIFT OF PATIENCE ﾒ

(Starter with @garmundhightower)

Benjen wasn’t quick to anger. No, like a bear filing its claws on oaks to cradle a cub, he’d taught himself patience. A patience his blood rebelled against. A patience that kept him standing. He couldn’t hold back the rage; he could only bury it beneath his skin, where it boiled. Only one thing shattered his fragile calm: just hatred. Benjen hated two things in all the world—his late father (may devils gnaw his bones) and men who acted just like him.

Edryk Mormont had been a cruel man. His tongue cut sharper than his sword, his touch scarred more than his blade. He couldn’t laugh without snarling, couldn’t speak without wounding. Benjen prided himself on being his opposite—tempered, deliberate, soft when needed, like steel shaped into shield.

But even steel bends under pressure.

He caught sight of them across the courtyard: two lords draped in silk and self-satisfaction, laughing like circling hyenas. They weren’t hunting for sport; their prey was right in the middle of their little game—a lone man, standing stiff and silent. Lord Garmund, if Benjen wasn’t mistaken. A soft-spoken lordling. Decent enough.

The laughter reached him first. Cruel. Dismissive. He closed the distance slowly, each step sharpening his focus, letting the tension coil.

“What, embarrassed to answer us directly?” one lord sneered, his voice as slick as his hair.

Garmund’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“A little jest scares you, does it? Or are the rumors not true? Perhaps you prefer dueling swords to... swallowing them.”

The other lord wheezed a laugh, the kind of sound Benjen’s father used to make after gutting a deer.

Benjen moved before he could stop himself. “Perhaps the two of you would find better occupations in a brothel than in court,” he said evenly, his tone the edge of a blade. He gave a curt nod to Garmund, whose knuckles whitened on the pommel of his sword. “Though I hear ugly whores like yourselves rarely get work.”

The soft snort from Garmund was almost worth the trouble that followed.

The silk-clad lord’s hand flew to his sword, but Benjen was faster. In a flash, the man’s blade clattered to the dirt as Benjen had him twisted in a headlock. The gasp of the other lord turned into a strangled gurgle of outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Benjen chuckled, his grip tightening. “Not so funny when you’re the butt of the joke, is it?”

He smiled grimly as the man flailed, his face flushing red. Patience was his strength, after all. And he’d wait, just long enough, until the bastard turned blue.

[garmundhightower]

A thousand retorts burned in his mind—none sharp enough, none quick enough. He hated this. He hated them.

Garmund stared, his knuckles still white on his sword’s hilt. He should intervene. Stop this before it escalated. But as he watched the lord squirm and gasp, his face turning a mottled red, yet the strangled lord was not the only one struggling to breathe. Garmund’s throat was tight, his chest hollow, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard and left behind the taste of iron and ash. A part of him—a dark, spiteful part—wanted lord mormont to hold on just a moment longer.

Maybe longer than that.

“Enough,” He said at last, his voice steady despite the heat in his veins. “Let him go.” Garmund’s hand finally fell from his sword. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d gripped it, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding.

Benjen glanced at him, then released the lord with a rough shove. The man collapsed, choking and glaring, but didn’t dare reach for his weapon again.

Garmund straightened, his hand falling from his sword. “You’re not worth it,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes. “Either of you.”

Then he turned to his unlikely savior. “You didn’t have to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Garmund’s shoulders eased. He offered a faint smile—small, but sincere.

“But thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all Garmund had.

[benjen-mormont]

Benjen watched the two men slink away like rats, his lip curling into a faint smirk. Cowards always scattered when faced with someone who didn’t flinch. The thanks that followed caught him off guard, though. What an odd one, this man, thanking him for choking someone out. Benjen decided he liked him.

Lowering himself onto the bench beside the stranger, Benjen set his sword down between them—an unspoken gesture of peace. “No need to thank me. I’ve never minded reminding fools of their place.”

He waited, giving the man time to size him up. Benjen recognized the flicker of wariness in his gaze, the careful calculation of a man accustomed to choosing his battles wisely. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? The game was as old as the halls of Winterfell, and Benjen had no intention of rushing the answer.

“I’m Benjen Mormont,” he said finally, leaning back with an ease that belied his sharp attention. “Lord of Bear Island. And you’re a Hightower, unless all those years of being lectured have gone to waste. It’s a pleasure, truly.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the man’s sword before returning to his face. The weapon was finely made—far too fine for anyone unacquainted with the intricacies of combat. A knight’s sword, no doubt. The Hightowers weren’t known for sending their heirs into the fray untrained.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come to the training grounds to be bullied. If you’re here to train, though, I’d be glad to oblige.” He nodded toward the weapon. Making friends was always easier with steel—or failing that, a good drink. But the nearest tavern wasn’t an option, so this would have to do.

[garmundhightower]

“I didn’t,” Garmund admitted at last. His voice was quieter than he’d intended, but at least it didn’t waver. “Come to train, I mean.”

He glanced down at the sword on his hip, as though properly seeing it for the first time. A knight’s sword, finely made, yes, but it felt heavier than it should have. Too heavy for someone who hadn’t drawn it in earnest for months.

“And yet...” Garmund stood, pulling the blade free with a quiet hiss of steel against leather. The weight in his hand was familiar, even comforting, in a way he hadn’t expected. He turned back to Benjen, meeting the man’s gaze evenly.

“And yet, perhaps it’s time I did.”

Garmund squared his shoulders, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. He wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to accept the offer. Maybe it was Benjen’s easy confidence, or the fact that Garmund still felt raw, exposed, after the courtyard spectacle. Maybe it was the simple truth that he hated feeling powerless.

“But I won't go easy on you, my saviour,” he said lightly, stepping into the sparring circle. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping worn smooth from years of use.

And then he moved, faster than Garmund had expected, his blade arcing through the air in a calculated strike. Garmund barely raised his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing out like a bell.

It had been too long, but his body remembered. His arms strained, his footing faltered, but he held. The first blow turned into a second, then a third, Benjen pressing forward like a tide that refused to break.

Garmund found himself grinning, despite everything. For the first time in weeks, he felt steady. Whole.

For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

[benjen-mormont]

ﾒ THE GIFT OF PATIENCE ﾒ

(Starter with @garmundhightower)

Benjen wasn’t quick to anger. No, like a bear filing its claws on oaks to cradle a cub, he’d taught himself patience. A patience his blood rebelled against. A patience that kept him standing. He couldn’t hold back the rage; he could only bury it beneath his skin, where it boiled. Only one thing shattered his fragile calm: just hatred. Benjen hated two things in all the world—his late father (may devils gnaw his bones) and men who acted just like him.

Edryk Mormont had been a cruel man. His tongue cut sharper than his sword, his touch scarred more than his blade. He couldn’t laugh without snarling, couldn’t speak without wounding. Benjen prided himself on being his opposite—tempered, deliberate, soft when needed, like steel shaped into shield.

But even steel bends under pressure.

He caught sight of them across the courtyard: two lords draped in silk and self-satisfaction, laughing like circling hyenas. They weren’t hunting for sport; their prey was right in the middle of their little game—a lone man, standing stiff and silent. Lord Garmund, if Benjen wasn’t mistaken. A soft-spoken lordling. Decent enough.

The laughter reached him first. Cruel. Dismissive. He closed the distance slowly, each step sharpening his focus, letting the tension coil.

“What, embarrassed to answer us directly?” one lord sneered, his voice as slick as his hair.

Garmund’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“A little jest scares you, does it? Or are the rumors not true? Perhaps you prefer dueling swords to... swallowing them.”

The other lord wheezed a laugh, the kind of sound Benjen’s father used to make after gutting a deer.

Benjen moved before he could stop himself. “Perhaps the two of you would find better occupations in a brothel than in court,” he said evenly, his tone the edge of a blade. He gave a curt nod to Garmund, whose knuckles whitened on the pommel of his sword. “Though I hear ugly whores like yourselves rarely get work.”

The soft snort from Garmund was almost worth the trouble that followed.

The silk-clad lord’s hand flew to his sword, but Benjen was faster. In a flash, the man’s blade clattered to the dirt as Benjen had him twisted in a headlock. The gasp of the other lord turned into a strangled gurgle of outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Benjen chuckled, his grip tightening. “Not so funny when you’re the butt of the joke, is it?”

He smiled grimly as the man flailed, his face flushing red. Patience was his strength, after all. And he’d wait, just long enough, until the bastard turned blue.

[garmundhightower]

A thousand retorts burned in his mind—none sharp enough, none quick enough. He hated this. He hated them.

Garmund stared, his knuckles still white on his sword’s hilt. He should intervene. Stop this before it escalated. But as he watched the lord squirm and gasp, his face turning a mottled red, yet the strangled lord was not the only one struggling to breathe. Garmund’s throat was tight, his chest hollow, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard and left behind the taste of iron and ash. A part of him—a dark, spiteful part—wanted lord mormont to hold on just a moment longer.

Maybe longer than that.

“Enough,” He said at last, his voice steady despite the heat in his veins. “Let him go.” Garmund’s hand finally fell from his sword. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d gripped it, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding.

Benjen glanced at him, then released the lord with a rough shove. The man collapsed, choking and glaring, but didn’t dare reach for his weapon again.

Garmund straightened, his hand falling from his sword. “You’re not worth it,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes. “Either of you.”

Then he turned to his unlikely savior. “You didn’t have to do that.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Garmund’s shoulders eased. He offered a faint smile—small, but sincere.

“But thank you.” The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all Garmund had.

[garmundhightower]

Midnight music

Starter with @thefourthstormfloris

Garmund paced the red keep, his footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors, their rhythmic beat marking out a restless, repetitive pattern as he walked back and forth. The cover of night had cast its dark veil over the city, but sleep remained elusive for Garmund. Despite the heavy exhaustion that weighed upon him, his mind refused to quieten, his thoughts a chaotic maelstrom that kept sleep at bay. He stalked around, the dim light from the torches casting harsh shadows on the stone walls as he moved restlessly. 

Garmund paused his pacing, his eyes drawn instinctively towards the night sky. The stars glittered in the vast, dark expanse overhead, their countless points of light like tiny pricks of light in the velvety black canvas. They seemed to gaze down upon him coldly, their distant beauty untroubled by the worries of the mortal world. 

Bored out of his mind he wondered if he might catch a glimpse of the ghosts haunting the keep. There was the cruel Maegor, forever wandering the secret passages or the witchlike unfortunate Rhaena and her little daughter Aerea. As he turned the corner, He stiffened as he heard a strain of music. It was faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. He recognized the sound of a piano, the haunting, mournful notes hanging in the air. The music was beautiful, but strange, out of place in the dark night. Could it be a real ghost? thought Garmund cautionusly.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself slowly making his way in the direction of the sound. The music grew louder, the notes takiing on a bittersweet lilt that tugged at something deep within his heart. As he approached theplace from which the music emanated, the sound washed over him like a wave, filling his senses. their sorrowful charm pulling him closer still. He hesitated for a moment, hand on the door handle, then pushed the door open, revealing the source of the song.

His eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure hunched over a piano.

[thefourthstormfloris]

It was late at night, Floris knew, but she could not sleep. It was a rarity for her to ever sleep early, as she was most active when the sun had gone down and others were ready for bed. She spent her nights playing her music and her mornings asleep trying to fight the tiredness that came from staying up.

This night, she had decided she would improve her skills on the piano. Floris was mostly skilled with her harp as well as her flute and did not often put the time into other instruments as she knew she should. Being in Kings Landing, she had access to a whole new set of instruments for her to use, and so once she had found the piano she knew she had to take advantage of this opportunity.

Her fingers fumbled with the keys at first, trying to find her perfect tune. But now, she had gotten into the flow of the music and began to play a song she had written long ago. It was a sad song, one she wrote when she was only twelve years old and curious about the piano. Believing she was alone, she played on.

Her eyes rarely left the keys as the music filled her ears, but once she had come to a small pause in the song she looked around her. Seeing a figure next to her caused her to jump up, gasping quietly at the surprise. She now stood, eyes wide in fear, looking at this person who had decided to watch her play. She was shocked there was anyone who was up at this time of night, as well as someone who was coming to this room.

It took her only a second to realize it was Garmund Hightower. His soft brown locks and dark eyes were extremely recognizable to her, as she had thought about him quite a lot in the past few days. He was her potential betrothed, something that was extremely new and confusing for her. Floris had decided to trust Lady Samantha Hightower in her decision to betroth the two, as Lady Samantha had made her feel safe unlike she had in a long time. She wanted to believe that this boy in front of her was good and kind, but in truth, she barely knew him. Their first meeting had been very monitored and full of pleasantries. She did not know what to think of him besides the fact that they were to be potentially married one day and that Lady Hightower seemed to be extremely fond of him.

She studied him for a moment, shocked he was truly here with her. It was extremely quiet and dark. "Ser Garmund, a pleasure to see you, you scared me a bit, that is why I had that reaction..." She trailed off, looking around the two of them, studying their surroundings. "I was just- uhm, playing the piano. I have a hard time falling asleep, so..."

[garmundhightower]

“Err, hello my lady, a good day– i mean night to you I apologize if I have disturbing you,” said Garmund, bowing slightly and feeling vastly out of his element. He gently brought her knuckles to his lips and muttered a more formal, respectful greeting under his breath.

“I too could not fall asleep. It appears we have that in common; at the very least,” he offered a smile, trying to ease her. His betrothed looked almost as uncomfortable as he felt, but in the dim light emitting from the windows and the heavenly bodies of the sky, she looked ethereal as a lovely creature like a mermaiden or faerie, he could see why she was called the most beautiful of the four storms.

A strange, heavy stillness fell over them, Garmund found himself at a loss of words what could he possibly even say?

“That was a beautiful song, bittersweet yet bewitching, but I'm afraid I haven't heard it before,” he began finally after a moment of disquieting silence. 

[garmundhightower]

Hunting

Starter with @theredripper

Hunting alone was a little unusual since most times hunts were carefully planned out and then undertaken with a large merry group, but Garmund had always preferred to be alone rather than suffer in a large group of ridiculous strangers constantly trying to outdo one another.

He doubts he'll get anything large or anything particularly majestic; after all, he's just one man, but today he was hunting purely for recreation, just to get away from the red keep and smell flowers instead of the odor of King's Landing.

He petted his running hound Titus, careful not to dislodge his gryfalcon Evla, who was digging her claws in his shoulders. They were both excellent hunters, probably better than him, he thought wryly.

At a sudden noise, he froze before quickly turning around, what was that? he thought hearing a louder rustle behind him. He aimed his crossbow in the direction of the suspicious noise. Perhaps only a hare? no it can't be; it sounds large. Garmund waited for a few seconds that seemed much longer and to his utmost surprise. Instead of an animal, he saw another man holding a knife.

[garmundhightower]

Gratitude

Starter with @stunningladysam

“Wait a minute, Please just wait a minute right here” he called out to his good sister, halting her steps. These past few weeks had been busy for both of them, and there never seemed to be enough time to talk. No, he does not think he had even seen her at all for at least three days. He doesn't recall the last topic of conversation between them, but now that he finally had a chance, he took it.

He dashed towards his chambers and thanked his lucky stars and the seven that his quarters were so conveniently close by, making the short journey seem lightning fast. He successfully ignored the few people gaping at him for running inside like someone was chasing him. The stares of onlookers barely registered in his mind as he sprinted through the halls paying them no mind at the moment, he would likely be rather embarrassed later on.

Right there in a haste, he rummaged through the drawers on his desk, quickly locating the notebook he was looking for in the third drawer. He picked it up and did not even bother closing his door.

Thankfully, Sam had remained where she was, he gave her a relieved smile and opened his notebook—a well-loved, well-worn book filled with sketches and diagrams. He flipped through the pages quickly, looking for the one specific poem, skipping over unfinished drawings, and at last reaching the page he wanted.

“Here” he thrust it in her direction averting eye contact “take it as a mark of my-my appreciation for you– and your actions, th- that have led to further happiness for me.”

[garmundhightower]

Midnight music

Starter with @thefourthstormfloris

Garmund paced the red keep, his footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors, their rhythmic beat marking out a restless, repetitive pattern as he walked back and forth. The cover of night had cast its dark veil over the city, but sleep remained elusive for Garmund. Despite the heavy exhaustion that weighed upon him, his mind refused to quieten, his thoughts a chaotic maelstrom that kept sleep at bay. He stalked around, the dim light from the torches casting harsh shadows on the stone walls as he moved restlessly. 

Garmund paused his pacing, his eyes drawn instinctively towards the night sky. The stars glittered in the vast, dark expanse overhead, their countless points of light like tiny pricks of light in the velvety black canvas. They seemed to gaze down upon him coldly, their distant beauty untroubled by the worries of the mortal world. 

Bored out of his mind he wondered if he might catch a glimpse of the ghosts haunting the keep. There was the cruel Maegor, forever wandering the secret passages or the witchlike unfortunate Rhaena and her little daughter Aerea. As he turned the corner, He stiffened as he heard a strain of music. It was faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. He recognized the sound of a piano, the haunting, mournful notes hanging in the air. The music was beautiful, but strange, out of place in the dark night. Could it be a real ghost? thought Garmund cautionusly.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself slowly making his way in the direction of the sound. The music grew louder, the notes taking on a bittersweet lilt that tugged at something deep within his heart. As he approached the place from which the music emanated, the sound washed over him like a wave, filling his senses. their sorrowful charm pulling him closer still. He hesitated for a moment, hand on the door handle, then pushed the door open, revealing the source of the song.

His eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure hunched over a piano.

[gifshistorical]

Josh Whitehouse as Hugh Armitage · Poldark 3.05,06,07