benjen essos 👀 for the ask game
(wip game)
sigh. oh this au. my baby. I wasn't sure if I was going to include it, because I always told myself if I ever wrote this, it'd go on my alt account. But that's assuming it ever gets written.
I literally only have Ned's initial POV, then a bit of Benjen's written. Nothing past that because all the sudden I hit Actual Plot and Politics and my brain goes fuzzy :)
but here, have the first portion!
NED
Ned crests the hill, and Winterfell comes into view. At the sight of it, something tightens around his heart. He has not been home since he called his banners, since he marched south to avenge his father, his brother, his sister. In truth, it feels as though he has not truly been home since he was eight years old, when he was sent away to foster in the Eyrie.
Now he returns as the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, with a silent babe in his arms.
There were times, on the road, that Ned wondered if the babe had died, it was so quiet. He remembers Benjen and Lyanna being born, remembers the way they squalled, especially Lyanna. On his journey, Ned would often stop his exhausted mare and look at the bundle strapped to his chest, just to make sure the boy was breathing. The wet nurse he’d found, Wylla, had assured him some babes were simply quiet, but Ned always needed to make sure.
Promise me, Ned.
He had thought of little else on the journey home, from the mountains of Dorne to within sight of Winterfell. He intends to keep that promise, treason or not. Robert must never know, must never find out - the fates of Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon always present in Ned’s mind.
He hugs the boy closer to his chest, a tightening in Ned’s throat as the babe’s tiny mouth opens in a yawn, and he strokes the dark curls on the babe’s soft head with one calloused finger.
“There,” Howland Reed says, and Ned looks up to see three horsemen traveling towards them from the gates of Winterfell, as his raven had requested.
“Go,” Ned says, and Howland nods and kicks his horse forward, riding to meet the envoy. In the center is a man with the long face of the Starks. That one rides forward while the two guards stay back, and Ned carefully dismounts as Benjen meets him at the top of the hill.
“Brother,” Benjen says, dismounting his own horse and rushing forward, but he is caught when he sees the bundle in Ned’s arms, the woman at his side, on her own horse.
“Wylla,” Ned says, “could you please give us a moment?
The woman does not argue, and she moves her horse towards Howland and the guards. Ned is lucky to have found her, he knows. The boy was close to death when Ned had stumbled upon her at a roadside inn, when she saw how desperate he was and offered to nurse the babe, her own having died just days before. If she wonders where he got the child or who its mother is, she does not ask.
Benjen stares at the boy, and Ned knows what he must be thinking. It is a thought Ned had often enough on the road, that he will pretend the babe is his. Raise it as his own bastard. A Snow. He made a promise.
“You mustn’t tell anyone about this,” Ned says. He hates that he must do this, hates that it must be a secret.
“I think you’ll have a hard time hiding that from your wife,” Benjen says, standing rigid and uncomfortable. Ned has barely seen his younger brother since they were children, and it sends a pang of hurt through him that Benjen seems to have assumed the worst. Do they know each other so little? “I doubt she’ll want to nurse it alongside her own.”
Her own.
Ned feels dizzy at the idea - his own son, waiting for him just inside the walls of Winterfell. Catelyn and the boy had made the journey here once peace was declared, and Ned aches to go, aches to see his own child, but he must do this first. Ned looks down at the babe he currently holds and wonders if his own son looks like this. Does his son have the same dark hair? They would be brothers, if Ned claimed this boy as his own.
“It is not mine,” he tells Benjen, who only looks at him in confusion.
Ned does not want to explain, does not want to remember, though the image of Lyanna bleeding out in her birthing bed haunts his dreams.
Promise me, Ned.
And so he tells Benjen, with as little detail as possible. He will spare Benjen the nightmares, if he can.
In the end, Ned looks down at the bundle in his arms, the way those tiny hands grip at his finger as Ned brushes it against the boy’s soft, rounded cheek. “I’ve named him Jon,” Ned rasps. A name he tries not to use, because he knows he must give the boy up.
“What will you do?” Benjen asks, eyes looking past Ned, towards the horizon. Ned can see the way Benjen’s jaw clenches, the way his throat works as he swallows roughly. He and Lyanna were always close. Lyanna had loved him fiercely.
“Robert can never know,” Ned says. He tries not to think of Aegon and Rhaenys.
“A bastard is a dangerous thing,” Benjen says carefully. “And your new wife won’t like it.”
“That’s why I’ve called you out here,” Ned says. “I must ask something of you. I must ask that you take the boy. Leave, go somewhere and hide him. He is too old to pass off as your own here-” Ned’s voice falters, then. He is asking too much of his younger brother - the youngest of them all. Left alone to be the Stark in Winterfell for nearly a year, and now Ned is asking Benjen to banish himself from their home. It is not fair, but Ned has learned that very little is. All he can do is try to honor his sister’s last request. The promise he made.
Benjen says nothing at first, but then slowly, he nods. “I was planning on taking the black, anyway,” he muses. “Running Winterfell has shown me what it is like to have a purpose. A duty.” His eyes meet Ned’s and he gives a rueful smile. “Do not worry, brother. I have no plans on continuing as Lord of Winterfell. I’ll leave that burden to you. But…” his eyes drop to the bundle. “Yes. I’ll take him.”
Ned reaches out with his free hand and clasps his brother on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to charge you with this,” Ned says, and he sees the sorrow in his brother’s eyes. It disappears quickly, though. Benjen is good at hiding it.
“Here,” Benjen says, holding out his arms awkwardly, and Ned realizes this is the moment. He must give up the babe. It is the best course of action.
Yet still, he hesitates.
Benjen is just a boy himself, though Ned must remind himself that he was not much older when he rode off to war. Still, Ned thinks he’d rather face a war than have to raise a babe on his own, far from home.
Benjen waits until Ned finally passes the bundle over.
“Keep his head up,” Ned tuts, using his hand to raise Benjen’s elbow.
Benjen stares down at the boy, and Ned feels both a weight lifted off him, and a great pain in his chest.
Promise me, Ned.
The promise belongs to Benjen now.
…
When Ned finally enters through the gates of Winterfell, his wife is waiting for him, a babe held in her arms. His son, Robb.
Ned makes his way over and greets his wife - a woman he has been married to for nigh on a year, but barely knows. She stands beautiful and serene, though he can see the hesitation in her eyes as she hands over the child, and Ned sees that while he at first thought the boy bald, there are little wisps of hair atop his head. Red, like his mother.
“Thank you,” Ned whispers, holding the babe tight to his chest, just as he had done with Lyanna’s boy. He wishes to never let his son go.
In that moment, Ned makes another promise - to Lyanna, to his father and mother, to Brandon and Benjen, to his wife, to Robb. He will be a good Lord. He will be a good father.
He looks up, and Catelyn smiles at him.
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If you had to live in any part of Essos, where would you live?
For obvious reasons, it’d have to be a place with no slavery (or at least not mentioned), no cannibals/demons, no obvious diseases, as well as clean water and permanent housing. That narrows it down quite a bit.
There’s Braavos, which is technologically advanced, an arts/science center, has religious tolerance, several famous landmarks, a good bank…however, there’s no trees, shadow assassins will hunt you down if you don’t pay on time, and everything is expensive.
There’s the sister cities of the Patrimony of Hyrkoon, where girls are trained from a young age to be warriors, it has thick fortified walls, a thriving trading system…on the other hand, it sacrificed thousands of Jhogos Nhai to their gods to win a war against them.
Saath has an interesting history being the last remnant of a great kingdom, caught between the Dothraki and Valyrians but adopting none of their ways wrt slavery, they breed amazing horses, they’ve survived on trade with Lorath and Ib…but it’s not a secure area, the people are not friendly to outsiders and they’re tall.
Then there’s the Isle of Elephants, their biggest city Zabhad is part of the trader’s circle, it’s close to the “paradise island” Marahai, their ruler lives in a palace of ivory (sure they do, Corlys. It’s not like ivory is incredibly dense and rare making building a permanent palace impossible)…and it has many elephants. Since it’s not a big island I assume they’re pocket elephants such as the Bornean and Sumatran elephants irl. I see no drawbacks to living in this place thus far.
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crown of midnight. sender dances with the receiver at a masquerade. / x
MUSIC FILLED THE KEEP'S HALLS, a celebration that made mockery of the Prince Viserys' impending betrothal, at least in his eyes. Had he any say in the arrangement, he may have enjoyed himself. The day's tourney had turned out in his favor, after all. But he cared not for the grandeur, the romance and mystery that hung in the air like the moon & stars. He was set on fire & blood, his eyes a shade darker purple from behind his scaled mask, and Daenerys knew one word from her may wake the dragon.
But she cared not if he danced, or had fun, or enjoyed himself even a little – she was not as bothered as he was that her silver hair gave her away to anyone who saw her, mask or no mask. A small part of her delighted in it; her king brother had gifted her with her late mother's rubies for the evening, strung around her neck like drops of blood set in silver. Daenerys wanted nothing more than to be seen in them – to be admired by the people as her mother had been. And it would still be quite entertaining to not know who she spoke to, who she danced with . . .
Fingertips rose, ghosting across the jewels throughout the evening. It was a nervous habit as lilac eyes roamed the room, though the silver princess was never left alone long. Many young women from the great houses found their way to her side, floating in and out of conversation – some were her ladies-in-waiting, but others Dany could not recognize from behind intricate masks. It was no matter, they still giggled and speculated who the fine young men were and who would be brave enough to approach them. They commented on the room, and the tourney, and the rubies that hung from Dany's neck and she would smile graciously each time, touching them again as nerves faded and the women were swept away.
The strings stilled as the song died, the sounds of laughter and boisterous voices filling the space as the next song began, and Daenerys smiled at a young girl with flaming hair – no older than she – across the way. She had been standing so long, would not anyone be bold enough to dance with her ??? Perhaps even gentlemen were not so gallant or brave as to risk being caught in the dragon's fire.
Daenerys twisted through the crowd, her arms outstretched as she took @northsblood's hands in her own, "Please, you must dance with me. I've been waiting all evening for someone to ask me – and I'm dreadfully bored of the gossip."
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