Hiii! I read your works alot because it's one of the active twst writers I see (I'm a dead writer myself LMAO)
Savanaclaw, riddle and Azul with a reader who's cheery and often bouncing with optimism that always has the mind boggling stories to tell. What do you mean that they literally man handed a lion because it won't stop messing around? What do you mean they were in a pit full of scorpions because they accidentally rolled down a hill? What do you mean they literally escaped a real decapitation (hinting towards Riddle LMAO) because he put one spoon full of herbs instead of a teaspoon? Like— they could go on forever! And the thing is, they have evidence of it.
Thank youuu 🫶🫶🫶🫶
A/N: Thank u so much I've been trying to stay on top of writing but it can get so hard!! But I really do try to keep this fandom alive w some goodies, anyways I'll stop yapping heres
Savanaclaw, Azul, and Riddle with a cheery, adventurous Reader!
Leona:
He didn't exactly always question your storytelling before he got to get to know you as he would rather spend time sleeping. But it seemed like literally everyone was captivated by your latest entertaining experience.
As you guys' relationship grew, it got to the point where he couldn't ignore you dropping an insane piece of lore about yourself.
"Yeah, I was accidentally poisoned before-"
"What did you just say-"
"It's okay though, the gnome did apologize and I got my stomach pumped but everything is all good!"
He makes sure to keep an eye out on you, and honestly your stories are the main thing that keep him awake during the day especially because they're real. And although it may seem he's nonchalant when you message him about where you're at, Leona always makes sure to respond as he does care.
Jack:
As your first friend at NRC and protector kinda, he would get paranoid when you would sometimes disappear. However at first Jack believed you were an independent person, and wasn't up to any nefarious activity.
Until you came back with a gorgon head in a brown sack where he was studying in the autobiography section in the library talking about that you accidentally defeated it.
He screamed in terror upon seeing the thing, causing for him to be shushed completely by offended students. But he could not care less due to the sliced head within the sack, however he quickly took you both outside and you being you didn't exactly see the problem in this situation.
Once you where in an open area near NRC's well he began to question you.
"Why-? A-And how? Why are you like this, do you know how much danger you were in?!"
"To answer all your questions in order, 1. I got lost and she had a huge problem with me, 2. I got scared and ran with my eyes closed with the sword and BOOM, just clean off, and yes I know I was in a lot of danger and I'm very sorry for not responding to your calls."
He was way too scared for both you and himself to respond and learned his lesson to keep an eye on you more.
Ruggie:
Ruggie always told you that he was a "see it to believe it" type person and he was never really believing your wild tales you would tell even if you came back with a little souvenir. He always just assumed you were pulling his leg for a bit.
Until he texted you one day over Magicam, since it was a slow day at the Savannaclaw dorm. Only for you to reply with a video, making him click on it not knowing what he should expect.
Queue you to being in an extremely angry dragon's mouth,
"Hey Ruuggieee! I'll get back to you later since I'm in a pickle right now, but I promise I'll call you when I'm done!"
He nearly passed out upon the sight because what in all of the sevens' names doing inside of that deadly beast. The beast man ended up walking to Ignihyde to possibly get Idia to track your location based on your I.P address, only for his phone to ring just as he was about to blab about what happened.
It was you!
He quickly picked up his phone to hear your excited voice blaring on the phone, "I told you I would call you back! Anyways, come over to my house I have something to show you."
You ended up bringing home a dragon's tooth and treasure and while Ruggie was overjoyed, he reprimanded you for being irresponsible.
But he wouldn't mind it too much if you brought back goodies like this just make sure to let him know so he could tag along.
Azul:
You were running late to a meeting about mending a contract between students he scammed. Since you know him quite well and is a good friend of his, the students thought your kind hearted nature could persuade him out of binding them to the Monstro Lounge for an entire semester.
He written in a small font on the contract that if you were over 15 minutes late, you would be unable to host this meeting and the deal would be off completely. The white haired boy glanced at the clock as the time ticked and he would have his own free work force.
Until you had to come 30 seconds from it being called off completely out of breath.
"Sorry Azul! But I got you a little present from the desert," you said dropping down in your seat and digging through this brown sack.
The ancient golden scarab of the Hot Sands.
"Is that-"
"The golden scarab included with the jewel eyes? Yup and I did it all by myself!" You said, extremely proud of yourself.
"Do you understand the value of what you have in your hand? And what were you doing all the way out there by yourself I just talked to you a day ago and that is damn near a 5 day journey?"
"I did this since I did the calculations and about an 1/4 of the wages that the students owe you is in the value of this jewel bug here. So if I split the riches with you, will you let them go?"
You did all of this for some measly students you knew in passing? How could you jeopardize yourself like that?
But he at the same time, respected you greatly and for your trouble and kind heart.
However, he told you to not go anywhere without telling him.
And no of course it's not because he cares about you and was scared once you told him where you went...of course not...
Riddle:
Is the first person who noticed you were gone because he likes to keep tabs on his friends. He didn't know what to expect but the red head just believed you were busy.
So, Riddle decided to shoot you a text as everyone was hanging out in the Heartslabyul dorm and he really wanted to see you.
'Good afternoon, Y/N please feel free to stop by the Heartslabyul dorm. Your company is very appreciated :)'
You quickly texted back, 'Hey Riddle! I'm gonna swing by with a surprise ;D'
He smiled at his phone, unknowing as to what you were going to bring by. Thinking you might bring by muffins or a sweet treat as such.
Not the sword of Excalibur.
You opened the door, bursting in loudly with the enormous sword slung on your back as Grim carried two sacks of gold. Everyone was completely flabbergasted, as the sword had been known to be a mythological thing not yet proven like the fountain of youth.
But there it was on your back as you grinned.
Turned out you picked up your first job at an exploration company and they sent you on a death wish mission to get this damn sword. And in contrary to what everyone believed would be the outcome, you succeeded and retrieved the artifact.
Unfortunately for you, you ended up being scolded for about two hours straight for being completely irresponsible by Riddle with some chime ins from your friends.
He admired your intense tenacity and bravery, but Riddle was super worried about you whenever you take on a quest. He forced you to have a partner whenever you go on missions and call him every time you reached an important point to make sure you were alive and safe.
"So... you really do care about me-"
"By the great seven- YES ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU COULD'VE GOTTEN KILLED IN THAT DAMN ENCHANTED FOREST-"
492 notes
·
View notes
Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood x OC!Tully — pt iii
masterlist | playlist | backward | forward
A/N: hi, this post comes to you from queue while i'm at a festival. i'm back with another chapter and some attempted proof reading <33
Synopsis: news of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen's murder rocks the Seven Kingdoms, intensifying tensions at Raventree Hall. Benjicot urges immediate action against House Bracken, while Samwell advises caution. Serra seeks solace in the godswood amidst growing unease. With the wedding approaching, diplomatic tensions rise as troop movements near their borders escalate, casting a shadow over Benjicot and Serra's impending union
Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation.
Word count: 6.2k
There was no taming the crowd after Samwell’s announcement.
Samwell Blackwood had always been known as a fierce leader who could bring order to any room — stern and formidable in nature, he embodied the traditional values of House Blackwood and its members; a man of thin, slender stature with a quiet voice, he could have been mistaken for being a mild, non-threatening man. If not for his reputation that preceded him his entire life, he might not have appeared as much more than a middle-aged man with tired, sunken eyes that were dark in contrast to his fair complexion, raven-haired with a slight limp that had been acquired from his years of training and small battles that left him permanently scarred — however, quiet as he was, he had a fierce stare that often shifted, like he was constantly analysing his surroundings and a stoic expression most often than not. It was no secret that he was a gifted warrior who was skilled with a sword. At most, the few smiles that he offered were small, ghost-like and never quite reaching his eyes, though reserved for only special occasions.
Serra had witnessed it for the first time in years on the night of her arrival. That little bit of warmth he had in his marrow still, pouring out in small gestures; a squeeze to her hand and reassuring her that her comfort was his utmost priority.
He had been silent the rest of the feast — or whatever it had spiralled into, with his fist pressed to his mouth and expression pinched into one of concentration as the shouting continued; several questions arising amidst the news, “Prince Jaehaerys has been murdered.” It was unsettling to say the least, how calm and collected he was as the words had rolled off his tongue with such nonchalance as though he was only announcing something small such as a shift in the weather; his silence that followed spoke volumes however. His gaze watched the table, the chaos unfolding as men and their own children, and their wives were suddenly in uproar, panic ensuing. Serra vaguely made out the questions, the cries, the slamming of fists on the table that would cause the wood to shudder under her hands; her plate and utensils shaking with the sheer force and clattering against one another. Her gaze had kept down, pinned to the table and unmoving as she eyed the roast goose that had long-since gone cold on her plate, her hands folding in her lap and picking at her nails as she attempted to drown out the noise by the task of ripping at skin until she was near bloody.
“I told you this union would bring nothing but death,” A voice called out, elderly and male, gruff as a clatter of a cup followed. Her head briefly lifted to turn in the direction it came from, finding as an elderly Lord Perryn stood from his seat, “An ill-omen, forged in haste and shadowed by distrust— and what now, Lord Blackwood? You would have my sons die for your own need for more power? Have we not sacrificed enough for your cause, are you not yet satisfied?”
Serra’s head turned to look towards Lord Blackwood, who remained silent and otherwise unbothered by the older Lord’s words, aside from a twitch of his eye as his gaze shifted to her father. She admired the restraint he possessed, unlike his son, and the ability that even when he did not speak, he still oozed self-assured confidence that wasn’t arrogant or reckless but that of maturity and years of experience. She made note for the first time since arrival, that while his son was immature and had yet to grow into himself and his role, she could still see a glimmer of similarity between the two men — both physically and in personality.
She was, however, suddenly startled by the slam of her father’s hand against the table, watching as he stood to his feet with his glare cast down the table. “You would do best to mind your tongue, Lord Perryn,” He loudly warned, a finger jabbing in his direction. “Do not dare curse my daughter’s marriage for the bloodshed.” He continued, his voice shaking with anger.
Serra had never known her father to be a cruel, or angry man. Hell, she had only even heard him shout on a small handful of occasions, thus his reaction left her stunned; staring up at him with wide eyes, watching as he seemed to flip a switch and become a different man right in front of her. Though his outburst did not silence the table entirely, met once again by another voice that shouted from down the table, “Does it not seem strange that coincidentally while you announce your daughter’s betrothal and we are here feasting, children are being murdered in their beds like cattle? Don’t be foolish, Elmo, surely that is some sort of sign—!”
The young Lord who had spoken up second was met with shouts of support, heads nodding in agreement, the anger and tension in the air palpable. She watched then as her father reached quickly for his left hip and withdrew the dagger he kept sheathed there, his hand once again slamming into the table with such force, she visibly jumped in her seat and brought her hands over her ears to cover them from the harsh sound of dishes clattering to the floor; the dagger’s blade lodged into the table as he looked towards the second voice that spoke up, “That is enough, SIT DOWN!”
Serra’s eyes had squeezed shut, head down as the room erupted into further pandemonium, attempting to make herself as small as she physically could in her own seat, wanting nothing but to flee; her feet attempting to push the chair back and away from the table, but unsuccessful. The chair was stuck — she was stuck, and suffocating, drowning as her hands clenched into fists against her ears as she attempted again to shove her chair back, but meeting resistance again. Her chest felt tight with fear and anxiety as her heart pounded in her ears, praying that if this was the moment she died, she would go fast — prayed that the Gods would at least have mercy and that the ground would open up and swallow her whole right then and there.
Her chair was yanked back suddenly, a hand grabbing her left elbow and dragging her upwards and away from the table, like some sort of saviour that had come to answer all her prayers. She gasped in relief, stumbling back and turning to come face-to-face with Kermit, who held her elbow with such a tight grip, she would be sure to have marks in the days to come; but she did not care. She reached out for him, struggling to breathe as he lowered his head to find her gaze, a look of worry on his face as he grabbed her other elbow and gently shook her, his mouth opening with words that she could not quite make out. His head rose to look around, before looking back at his sister and shouting, “Let’s go- now, let’s go!”
She looked at him wide eyed, stumbling over her own feet and thighs bumping into her chair as he turned and began to drag her towards the door, her right elbow in his grasp. A second pair of hands appeared, much larger as one came up and underneath her left bicep, forcing her upright with a sharp jerk that radiated pain throughout the joint as she was rushed out of the great hall. Her head turned to glance behind her and towards where her father remained at the table, along with Oscar who craned his head to look for her from beside their father amidst the havoc. It was only once the doors slammed shut behind them and she was being hurried up the stairs towards her room did she finally breathe, gasping for air as she all but ran to keep up with the longer strides of her brother and the second male who had yet to say anything.
The run back to her rooms felt longer than it ever had, her lungs screaming for oxygen and joints aching as the three approached her door. Kermit reached to open the door as she was then shoved inside, nearly tripping over her dress but steadied by the second’s hand. It was only once she was safe in the confines of her room did she turn to look at him — truly, look at him — finding Benjicot already reaching for the door handle to pull the door closed. He seemed to hesitate, his eyes catching hers and pausing. Even in the dim lighting that the moon provided, streaming in through the window, she saw his eyes narrow and mouth open as if he wanted to say something to her but interrupted by Kermit’s voice.
“Stay here.” He instructed, his defeated expression over Benjicot’s shoulder.
Kermit spun and turned on his heel before Serra could muster a reply, leaving the Blackwood heir standing there, his eyes still on her.
“What-” She began to ask but stopped as he blinked a couple of times, snapping out of whatever daze kept him at her door; his mouth snapping shut abruptly and giving her a small nod before he shut the door in her face.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It was a sleepless night for the Blackwood and Tully men. After Benjicot and Kermit had returned to the great hall, the leftover contents of what had once been a celebration now torn apart and ruined at the hands of angry men, Benjicot had spent the remainder of the evening playing at damage control. Naturally, on their own, men and their families had started to trickle out the door, muttering and scoffing as guards nearly shoved them out of Raventree’s looming halls. It had taken several hours to clear everyone out and even get the hall close to presentable, but it had been done — however, the pressing issue at hand had yet to be resolved.
War was coming — Benjicot was no fool. He was also not foolish enough to believe his betrothal had any hand in the matter, either.
Amidst overseeing that everything was cleaned and put back together as best the hall could be, he had found himself wandering, pacing around the table and trying to offer a hand in cleaning up chalices and dishes that had been strewn about in the madness; stacking them in his arms as he circled. His pace was slow, gaze lingering as his eyelids grew heavier with exhaustion -- soon enough an hour passed into two, and by the time the hall looked even close to what it had previously been, the sun was already rising; Kermit having since retreated to his chambers at his insistence. He hadn’t been much company in his tired state, silent and lurking as he tried to help, but instead getting in the way more often than not — he knew his friend hadn’t slept much the night prior either, having been riddled with anxiety over the arrival of his father and worried about whether he had been successful in his duty, and Benjicot would not have asked him to stay up again.
The glow of sunrise was streaming in through the windows by the time the last of the chairs had been returned to their place and the last dish brought to the kitchen, servants beginning to make their way back to their own quarters, leaving him sat alone in the great hall; his tired gaze out the window as he perched himself in the window’s ledge that overlooked the gardens. His hands were preoccupied by a cup that had been thrown among the fighting earlier that night, him entering the hall just as it missed Oscar’s head, slamming into the wall behind him and splattering wine against the cool, marble walls; Elmo having dragged him out of the way just in time. The cup had been thrown by a young Bigglestone boy after Oscar had made a snide remark in his direction after an insult had been muttered about his sister — the soon-to-be-bride — a comment that had labelled the poor girl as his ‘Blackwood bitch’. Benjicot had simply chosen to tune him out and ignore him as he attempted to taunt the heir, muttering a lewd comment at him as he brushed past the youth who implied he’d defiled her in his short leave from the room because there was no use fighting with him and making things worse than they already were in the given climate of things.
He slid from his spot in the window, his gaze dropping to the cup in his hand as he slowly dragged himself towards the table that was spotless; a ghost of last night’s events as he approached the head. The cup was set down, his eyes being drawn to the chip in the wood where Lord Elmo’s dagger had pierced itself; having left a visible mark in the dark wood, splintered in the process of yanking it from its depths. Benjicot could still see his father’s roll of eyes when his peer had yanked the dagger out, noticing the new mark — before landing on him again, giving him a raised eyebrow. He had given him a nod as if to answer that ‘she was alright’, tucked away in the safety of her room — Elmo wouldn’t have ever forgiven him if anything had come to her, if he broke his word.
“Have you slept at all?”
His head whipped around towards where his father stood in the doorway, his expression plain and still as he eyed his son, his hands at the hilt of his sword at his waist.
“No.” Benjicot admitted, his gaze turning back to the table towards where Serra had sat prior.
He heard his father hum as his hand reached out to brush over the chipped wood, fingers memorising the imperfection, “Any particular reason?” Samwell asked.
His tone was flat and held no particular emotion — but Benjicot had never really known his father to be an expressive man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He had always been reserved and stoic, and the type of man you had to read between the lines with — he cared, somewhere deep down, Benjicot knew he cared, but he didn’t show it the way other parents did. It had been a confusing trait as a child, but as he grew, he’d come to terms with it and understood it better; not perfected, but just enough to communicate. Even if he recalled his childhood and thought of his parents, and the relationship they shared, Benjicot never knew them to be warm and affectionate in the way other parents were — not in the way he had witnessed between the Tully’s; with Elmo and his wife, with their open affection and adoration for one another, their loyalty to each other possessing a depth that Benjicot wasn’t sure he could understand. He’d envied it, even as a boy.
His head tilted, eyes still downcast on the table as his shoulders rose and fell with a breath, unsure why he had stayed up all night. Surely, he wasn’t obligated to stay awake and watch over the staff as they cleaned up — they would have done well on their own. He shrugged, while dragging his thumb across the splintered wood, noting the sharp ridges that just pricked his finger, but not enough for the wood to pierce his skin and embed itself into his finger, “Figured…I would stay here, oversee that everything was fixed. Made presentable again.” He mumbled, his voice quiet as it carried across the room to where his father watched him.
“They would have been fine.” He stated, sharing his exact thoughts. He didn’t answer, his gaze lifting and looking at Serra’s chair, his eyes falling on a handkerchief that had fallen into her seat sometime in the scuffle to get her out of there, “How is Serra?” Samwell asked.
“Shaken. Terrified…seems like everything scares her though.” He admitted.
The image of her face, screwed up in fear, with her hands over her ears like a frightened child was still ingrained in his mind, helpless to flee from the conflict. He had only noticed her terror upon seeing Kermit’s face, across the table and waving Benjicot up as her chair crashed into his knee when he turned to stand; he had tried to grab the chair, stop her and move the chair with more grace, but was again slammed by the chair as it jammed into his chest. In that very moment, he felt sorry for her — his shoulders relaxing and truly feeling sorry for the girl who had not a single violent, angry bone in her body.
“She’s a sensitive girl,” His father stated, falling into a silent pause before speaking again. “She always has been, if you remember.” He quickly added, trying to gauge his son’s reaction on the matter.
He sighed under his breath, “Yeah, I’m aware.”
Benjicot finally looked over at his father, their eyes meeting, sensing that his father wanted to say more. But he was silent, his own dark eyes settling on the handkerchief embroidered with flowers in the Tully’s house colours.
His father had always had a soft spot for Serra, even as children. He couldn’t count anymore how many times he and his father had quarrelled over the subject of being kinder to her -- maybe it was in part because Samwell had only ever had the one child, a son, and he felt the paternal instinct to protect her. Maybe he considered her like a daughter in those moments, and it made him wonder if the idea to betroth them had always been there, somewhere in the background and Benjicot had just failed to see it.
“I realise you would probably prefer to rest but we have a meeting. I advise you to go, clean up and change before the council gathers to discuss last night’s news.” Samwell said, eyeing his son’s appearance, his expression softening just the smallest bit — the only way that Benjicot had come to recognize it, by the way the tension in his brow eased.
Benjicot nodded, feeling worse than he probably appeared, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair a tousled mess. His clothes from the night prior were probably covered in wine and food, caked somewhere to the fabric if he looked, but he knew he probably smelled even worse; with yesterday’s events still on his skin like a layer of grime that only he could feel. He waited, however, until his father turned to leave before he moved, circling the table towards the chair that had once seated the Tully girl. His fingers snapped up the fabric that had been abandoned, balling it into his fist as he then strode out of the hall, following in tow of his father’s prior movements.
And even as he returned to his room, dressed and splashed some water onto his face from the basin, he still did not feel any better. He did not feel any less hollow and heavy, limbs pinned at his side with exhaustion as he returned a mere few moments later to the familiar private solar that belonged to his father. His feet dragged as he walked, trudging his way through the castle, and even before the doors had opened, he could hear the voices of the men inside; already in debate.
There was a pause when he entered, their eyes turning to greet him as he forced himself to walk across the room and take his place by his father’s right. Benjicot noted that while the group was smaller than usual, he recognized the lords from the night prior; much calmer than the last time they had been in the same room as his father had hesitated, voice faltering mid-sentence at his arrival, “I understand the concern over what happens next following the death of the prince, but we do not have any reason to suspect that the Brackens will use this as an opportunity to move in.” Samwell resumed, his gaze briefly flickering to his son before it cast down to Lord Charlton.
“They already have begun, I hear— there are whispers that your men patrolling the borders say they spotted a camp of Bracken men close to the boundaries in the early hours of the morning.” He stated, his eyes expectant and waiting for an answer.
Samwell’s gaze was unflinching, hands planted on the table in front of him as a hushed series of mutters broke out in response, the young Lord Edric Charlton who Benjicot recognized — not quite the head of his house yet, rather, he was the heir apparent to his father, Lord Jon Charlton. He was barely ten-and-seven, tall and thin with a boyish face despite his efforts to appear older underneath an unruly beard and knight uniform that was too big, making him resemble a boy playing pretend with his father’s clothes. The sight of him brought Benjicot a sense of relief that while he had never been as strong and sturdy as a Northernman, he had at least grown into his height and filled out enough that at least his clothes flattered him, fitting just right and not hanging from his limbs like some sort of sack.
“They know better than to set camp on Blackwood land,” Samwell asserted, his tone dismissive. “They are not of any concern at this point in time.”
“And then what, when they do decide to make their move?” The voice this time comes from Lord Jason Mallister, his voice a low timbre that cut through the mutters among the men who quietly debated in between questions.
“Then rest assured, we will be prepared.” Elmo spoke, the confidence in his voice unwavering, stepping forward from his previous position close to the wall.
“I will not have any unnecessary bloodshed without a suitable cause.” Samwell continued, standing upright from his leaned position.
“So, we sit and wait and allow the Brackens to have the upper hand, by growing stronger every day in the meantime?” Benjicot suddenly interrupted, his voice quiet as he looked at his father. It was a bold decision for him to defy his father’s orders, even just challenging them, but his exhaustion and distaste for the Brackens lessened his inhibitions in speaking. The room turned to stare at the heir, who had otherwise been silent up to that point — his own father turned, too, looking at him. In a moment of bravery, he cared little for trying to hold back and restrain himself, restless as he let out a breath and rolled his shoulders, “The news from King's Landing is a clear sign that we must act. The Targaryens are vulnerable, and the Brackens are undoubtedly planning to exploit this chaos. This is only a warning. We need to take decisive action before they do. We cannot delay it any longer.” He slowly explained, the room hanging on his every word, earning a couple of low hums in agreement from the room.
His father, however, remained silent and stared at him; Benjicot held his eye for a moment, “Benjicot, your passion is commendable,” he said, emphasis on his last word, “but we must temper it with wisdom. Rushing into conflict without a clear strategy could lead to our ruin. We need to gather more information and strengthen our alliances before making any move.”
“Your father is right. We cannot afford to act rashly, especially with the news from King's Landing still uncertain. A misstep now could shatter our alliances.” Elmo interjected, cutting through the palpable tension between the Blackwood father and son.
He was grateful for Elmo’s interruption, giving him reason to drop his father’s gaze and shifting his eyes to look towards Lord Elmo, “Forgive me, I only mean to suggest we should pressure the Bracken cunts into remembering their place.” He explained. “They encroach on our lands, in an effort to test our defences. We need to show them that House Blackwood and its allies will not be intimidated. Send me, I will take a small fleet of men to confront them at the borders—”
“Absolutely not. I will not have you running so freely, making messes while there are more pressing matters at hand—no.” Samwell stated, rambling, his annoyance to the idea clear. “I understand your frustration, son, but impulsiveness will not serve us well. We must consider the wider implications of our actions. The Brackens are not our only concern; the realm is in turmoil. A poorly timed strike could isolate us from other potential allies and make us vulnerable to our enemies.”
Benjicot stepped forward, approaching the table and facing his father who shot him a warning look, “You would truly rather risk giving them the opportunity to make the first move on us? In these times?” He questioned, dumbfounded. “And then what? Would you truly rather sit and wait for them to advance and burn Raventree to the ground?”
“No— no, Gods be good, Benjicot!” Lord Samwell snapped, slamming a hand into the table, “we prepare. We fortify our positions, gather intelligence, and reach out to other houses who share our concerns. We build a coalition that can stand against the Brackens and any other threats that may arise. This is a time for careful planning, not reckless aggression.”
Ben saw reason in his father’s words — he didn’t lack intelligence and was a reasonable man when it came to matters of battle and of council. Reckless, sure, but he was smart enough to see the value in his words and approach, and had always admired his father’s wisdom and experience. But the suggestion of inaction while Brackens taunted them by camping right there, right in their fucking faces — it spurred a deep rage in him, his jaw clenched so hard he felt it would break any moment. He was restless, and anxious these days, to say the least.
“Our people look to us for protection. If we hesitate, we risk appearing weak. The Brackens and any others that stand against us and the rightful queen must know that any aggression will be met with force.” Benjicot countered, his tone persistent and pushing like a child testing their parent’s patience -- a battle that Samwell was used to after twenty-one years. Slowly, Ben dragged his eyes around the room as the sound of mutters rose up once again, met with a few mutters that agreed -- it seemed as though the older, experienced Lords sided one way, in favour of restraint while the younger lords muttered in agreement. The sight emboldened him, squaring his shoulders.
“Benjicot raises a valid point. The Brackens have been testing our boundaries. A show of strength might deter them from further provocations.” A gruff sounding Lord Roose Rivers agreed, an older man that only made an appearance when it mattered most.
Benjicot turned to look at his father, catching the twitch up a scowl on his lip as he sighed, “A show of strength, yes, but not without a plan.” He said. “We need to gather more intelligence, understand their movements, and ensure our own defences are impenetrable.”
Elmo nodded from his father’s left, his gaze scanning the scrolls that littered the table, “Indeed. The wedding is set for a fortnight, and with it, the eyes of many houses will be upon us. Any action we take must be measured and precise.”
For the first time in days, the mention of the wedding returned, and any confidence that Benjicot had briefly experienced was fleeting; his heart pounding suddenly as his head turned to look at his father at the mention of the wedding date. Samwell did not even bother to look at him, though he could see the way he blinked and looked down, his mouth twisting into a subtle frown and avoiding his gaze. There had not even been any consultation that involved him in the decision -- he assumed Elmo and his father had met before they all gathered and made the unanimous decision before he’d even had a chance to protest. He felt sick, swallowing thickly and looking away, remembering to respond before the silence dragged out too long.
“I understand the need for caution, but we cannot wait forever. We…must send a message that we are ready to defend our lands.” He stuttered, his voice quieter now.
He watched as councilman Merrett Rivers leaned forward in his chair,”Perhaps a compromise. We could strengthen our patrols along the border, make it clear we are vigilant. This would show our resolve without committing to open conflict.”
His father spoke, gaze turning to look at Elmo who shrugged, nodding, “That could work. Increased patrols will demonstrate our readiness and buy us time to devise a more comprehensive strategy.” His body turned to face the heir who still felt as though his head was underwater, a sharp pain throbbing behind his right eye and squeezing the hilt of his dagger, “Does that please you, Benjicot?” He asked, his tone sharp.
He reluctantly found his father’s eye, pinning him to his very spot as he slowly offered a nod, “Very well. We will increase the patrols. That way we are ready for them, should they come.”
For the first time in years, Samwell smiled -- though it was not a genuine smile, holding no warmth or sincerity as his mouth pressed into a fine line, tight and visibly forced; it was unsettling, cold, and caused him to swallow again and want to shrink back into his corner. His hand suddenly lifted quickly to his shoulder, coming down heavy enough to jostle him, gripping his shoulder with an almost painfully tight squeeze that feigned an affectionate gesture, ”We will, my son. Trust in the wisdom of caution, and we might navigate these turbulent times together.”
Samwell’s hand slid from his shoulder after a moment, turning his head to look away, though Benjicot remained unmoving and feeling the seething anger that radiated from the older man, knowing he had overstepped. He had overstepped and he wouldn’t hear the end of it, he would be lectured in private for undermining him -- in the heat of the moment, bold and stupid, he had gotten too carried away and felt invincible and brave for a moment.
“Now…onto the next order. We’ve received word of a troop movement from the Swyft household.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
For yet another sleepless night, Serra was plagued by dreams that were hardly more than smears of colour and images of Benjicot’s face.
It seemed as though, the moment she stepped foot into Raventree three days prior, she had not been able to escape him -- both in sleep and awake. He seemed to be at every turn and there was no avoiding him, despite her best efforts. He was the only clear thing that her dreams held on to, her eyelids fluttering with sleep as the night seemed to drag into years for her, waking every hour just to briefly scan her room, only for eyes to close again.
Though, unlike the boy who skulked the halls of Raventree Hall, the boy in her dreams was all soft smiles, pleased and content with gentle eyes and reaching out to touch her cheeks. He was careful and kind, his tone low and sweet as honey -- she couldn’t grasp just what it was he was saying, his mouth moving with words, but her dream prevented her from making sense of it. He was speaking to her but her brain could not comprehend what it was he was saying.
And then there was a boy…dimpled, sweet, and with raven hair.
He reached for her, bouncing on his heels excitedly as he summoned her forward. He was familiar in the way that you remember your first friend, all but three and beautiful. Serra assumed it was Benjicot too, however, the boy in front of her lacked the scar above his lip, and the smile was different. She couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but there was something about him at the tip of her finger that was different.
She vaguely recalled the boy coming towards her, hand outstretched and planting to her abdomen and shouting something. She had tried to ask him to repeat it but the words still did not reach her ears. Planted against a swollen belly, filled by babe. His face had melted into something of terror then, bloodied and distraught, her gaze drifting behind him where the bodies lay stacked, stiffened with death and the waft of burning flesh -- her skin burned, the heat of the field behind him that was ablaze as he shouted up at her.
And then there he was again -- Benjicot, knelt in front of her as his hand reached out to her smeared in blood as fingers splayed out across her belly. His expression this time, however, pleading to her, begging and sobbing in fear. He looked small for the first time, like a frightened child and it caused her heart to genuinely ache for the boy.
Since dawn, she had found herself in the godswoods behind Raventree, sitting at the foot of the dead weirwood tree looming over her as she observed its trunk. She had heard years ago about the rumours -- the story of Brackens poisoning the once lively, beautiful tree, though the latter vehemently denied the accusations. The source of a long standing feud that more often than not ended bloody.
She had woken to her hand at her belly that morning, right over where Benjicot’s had placed itself, tugging at the fabric of her skirt like a young boy trying to get his mother’s attention. The image of his face haunted her, scared and wide eyed as he pleaded. For what? She did not know. The words had long since faded, slipping from her despite how hard she concentrated on retelling its details.
Her fingers were plucking at the grass, some spots dried and dead around the tree, with its face faded with time. By noon, she had missed breakfast, refusing to leave her spot at its foot and listening to the distant sounds of ravens that hung over the hall and the distant shout from men when Ser Alistair approached her and notified her. It seemed noon would soon too pass and she would miss lunch when a voice cleared their throat from behind her, her gaze not lifting from the grass underneath her fingers, “Yes?”
“Do you plan to join us for dinner?” Kermit asked, his hands folded behind him as he expectantly looked at his sister. He watched as she lifted her gaze briefly, eyes closed and inhaling deeply.
She looked down again, “I don’t think so.”
Her brother hummed in response, nodding slightly behind her. He reluctantly approached her side, kneeling beside her and looking up at the tree in front of them — she glanced towards him from the corner of her eye, “It would have been beautiful to see in its glory.” He suddenly announced, her gaze flickering up towards the tree that held his attention. “I always preferred the godswood here.” Kermit continued.
They were silent for a moment as he just sat and observed the tree, his sister silent and plucking and collecting grass in her fist that she sprinkled down every so often, “You’re getting thin and wasting.” He said, his head turning to look at her.
“It’s only been three days.” She replied, voice soft. “I have eaten.”
“Next to naught.” He quickly countered. “Father worries about you, you know. As do I.”
Her head lifted, squinting as the sun momentarily managed to peek through the clouds that hung over the land, bright in her eyes as she sighed, “Do not patronise me, Kermit. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
She could see him frown from where he sat, “I do not patronise you. I sincerely mean it. You know I care about your wellbeing.”
She scoffed a bitter laugh, “You’ve a funny way of showing that.”
He looked down to his lap, silent once again in quiet contemplation. He remembered what he had done, in his drunken stupor, “I do not find your suffering funny, you know that, Serra.” He said, looking up. “There is no need for theatrics.”
She stared at him then, stunned that he did not seem remorseful, “Theatrics?” She echoed, hurt by the choice of word. “You laughed, brother. He humiliated me and you laughed. After you tried to convince me that he would be an honourable husband to take. You laughed.”
“I did not mean it.” He sincerely said, his voice softening as he deflated with a sigh, looking back to find her eyes. “I would never do that to you. Never in my sober mind.”
“You are supposed to be on my side— you are supposed to defend and protect me.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t do that.”
He quietly spoke above a whisper, “I know.”
She looked away and up at the tree, unsure what else there was to say to him, “if I could undo it, redo everything, I would.” He said. “I wish I could. But do not starve yourself for that— I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.” Kermit said.
She looked at him, right in his face as he glanced over at her. He pushed himself up from the ground, standing over her and leaning to rest a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Please eat.” He encouraged, before he withdrew his hand and returned to the house.
backward | forward
TAGLIST: @username199945 , @cxcilla, @thethiccestdaddy, @deltamoon666 @drwho-ess @callsigncrushx @clarityisnofun @jhepolie @juhdoche @majoso12 @roseheart5 @nixtape-foryou @poppyflower-22 @accidentpronedork @tannyfairy @maximizedrhythms
169 notes
·
View notes