Hi, i was wondering how the uppermoons react to the reader aka the love of their life crying herself to sleep after a huge argument, like they walk into their shared bedroom to find the reader laying on the bed with tear stained cheeks flushed face mouth slightly open, i know i know it's way too angst-y but i love being comforted when i cry and i am a cry baby so... Pretty please🥺
wowie😂 y’all seem to dig the crybaby reader headcanons so here’s some angst my lovelies!!
➤ Uppermoons comforting reader after an argument.
pairing/featuring: crybaby!reader x the three uppermoons! content warning: lots of angst, douma has emotions, OOC!uppermoons, semi-nsfw, smaller reader, size difference, crybaby!reader.
— note: sorry if this comes off as cheesy! this is pure fluff headcanons for those who are sad and find comfort in our three lovely demons! so i wanted to go all out😅 so the uppermoons aren’t going to be THAT in character. [not proof read btw]
KOKUSHIBO <3
Kokushibo (the uppermoon one) and you got into one extremely heated and serious argument that day..
Is argument even the right word at this rate? more like a fight.
Like so bad you guys were screaming at each other the same way toxic parents who weren’t ever in love would fight. 🥲
The fight was so severe to the point where kokushibo just upped and left you alone for hours. He didn’t desire to fight that night and was exhausted from your constant screaming.
However..
Returns later that night to apologize since the fight was his fault only to find you crying in y’all’s shared bedroom..
Gods.. what has he done?!
Okay now he feels even worse. this is going to be troublesome considering he already has a hard time being intimate and expressing his feelings.
After all, koku here is very avoidant. but he’s not trying to be.
You immediately stop crying once you feel his presence. How long has he been standing there?
you want to tell to go away
you want to tell him you hate him (you don’t)
you want to say you love him
you want to say so many things
But nothing comes out.. you just can’t speak properly due to the utter anguish you’re in over the fight..
you’ve always been the biggest crybaby, a sensitive soul.
Kokushibo has always reassured you that he loved that about you. as if you’re the purest and most beautiful flower. an angel sent from the gods themselves.
Finally, you muster up the courage to speak
But right before you blurt out anything Kokushibo gathers you up on his arms and cradles you on his lap.
The gesture makes you eyes water more and you just end up sobbing into his shoulder muttering: “i’m sorry” over and over again.
some phrases you’ll hear from Kokushibo while crying are;
“i’m deeply sorry, my love. my intention was to never make you shed this many tears. That’s the last thing i want to do..”
“Please, no more tears, my dearest petal. I can’t stand witnessing you in such a state of misery. I’m so sorry for leaving you alone.. it’s my fault and i should’ve tried to communicate with you instead of leaving you alone like that.. you’re my one and only and i’ll never do something this foolish ever again.”
Koku isn’t the very best at communication nor is he the talking type but when it comes to you he’ll go out of his way to talk to you all night long until you feel better! <3
The both of you end up cuddling all night.
He plays with your soft hair and keeps an eye on you as you rest.
Even if you fall sleep he still won’t leave. He’s going to hold you in his protective embrace while you sleep me until you wake.
DOUMA <3
Oh my! his poor sweet lotus crying to themselves after an argument? now, this won’t stand..
Now let’s skip the part where he feels emotions for you.
Anyway-
Douma is not really an argumentative kind of guy..
i mean, sure, he’ll joke around with lord-akaza but that’s all for great fun! :D
And lets not forget the numerous times muzan has chastised him or when he had to listen to his long-rants about how worthless he and his superiors are for not being able to seek out the blue spider lily.
So, when you two break out into an argument.. he doesn’t yell back. he kinda disregards your feelings and accuses you of being silly and just teases you for it.
I mean, you are being over-dramatic, right?
Honestly, he’s not used to it when you yell and break down afterwards..
Douma’s never seen you so upset before! :(
Okay, he may know how to ‘comfort’ people but we all know that’s a façade.
Deadass doesn’t know what to do. it’s different because with you he actually cares (more than you know.)
Is torn between giving you space and just forcing you into his embrace and babying you until you stop crying like how he does with his disciples.
Douma is clingy. he’s always been very clingy and touchy. this rainbow-eyed man is glued to you 24/7. 🥹
As predicted, his clingyness gets the better of him and he follows you like a lost puppy once you runaway in tears.
He didn’t mean for this to happen nor to make you so upset.
You’re crying on your futon and he stands there for a good second witnessing you in distress. he’s still feeling hesitant.
He isn’t used to these emotions bubbling up into his gut right now.. and doesn’t like it one bit! he needs it to vanish as fast as possible.
Douma ignores your protests while he gathers you up into his strong arms and lays you across his lap bridal-style.
Kisses your tears away and gives you love bites since he has a habit of doing that. usually it makes you giggle when he does that but this time you only recoil from his touch.
“Aw, don’t pull away from me!”
**cue the pouting**
Douma will legitimately comfort you this time instead of putting on that act he does with his followers.
Some phrases you’ll hear from douma are:
“Hush now, my darling! it’ll be okay! i- i didn’t mean to upset you, honest! i can’t let you go.. i can’t leave you alone when you’re crying like this..”
“Hey, hey! shh.. it’s okay sweetie! i’m here for you! let’s wipe those tears off your pretty face, hm? oh, you’re beautiful no matter what even if you’re crying but i would much rather you smile for me! can you do that for me, dear?~”
“I love you so much, [name]! I promise i didn’t mean to make you upset.. it won’t happen again! please just try to communicate with me more so we won’t fight like this again!Of course i’ll do the same in return.. these emotions i felt today were something i never want to experience gain!”
Much like kokushibo. Douma isn’t the best communicator either.
Sure, the man may be a yapping machine but it takes him a hot minute to realize his wrong-doings and talk it out with you!
By the way he’ll probably tease you after this night so be prepared.
Probably would initiate sex to make you relax since you’re so damn tense but will understand if you decline. 
AKAZA <3
Good lord, he’s the MOST emotional and sympathetic out of everyone.
Akaza tends to yell a lot, he suffers from anger issues and can be passive aggressive so it’s quite easy to get him riled up.
This fight in particular was worse than usual.
Like wayyyy worse.
Akaza actually hates, hates, HATES, HATES, fighting with you.
So he’s on the verge of tears himself and angry with himself for being so weak to argue with you back instead of being the bigger and stronger person in this situation.
More importantly, he made you cry, he’s most disappointed in himself for that.
Akaza isn’t too clingy, on very rare occasions he is though.
Akaza has attachmemt issues but doesn’t show it that often (that’s my headcanon for him)
So bro’s attachment issues are literally SPIRALING in this moment.
Calls out for you when you runaway but you don’t turn back and that’s what he knows he’s fucked up.
Will do ANYTHING to make you forgive him and to stop crying.
Wants to respect you but he knows he’ll go apeshit if he leaves you alone so he takes a hot minute before running after you.
He’ll knock on your door. f you don’t answer he’ll just waltz right in like he owns the place.
Starts yapping as soon as the door swings open.
Poor thing, he’s flipping out. 😭
“Baby!! please don’t cry!! shit.. i’m sorry!”
You look at him
Is he.. tearing up?
You feel guilty for overwhelming him but you’re also still mad at him.. you can’t bring yourself to apply him with the reassurance and comfort he craves in that moment even though you want to..
Akaza will get more needy if you ignore him and crawl into bed with you to spoon you from behind. His hands swiftly snake around your waist and you feel your back flush against his bare chest as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.
He’s mumbling “i’m sorry, pretty girl..” under his shuddering breath.
He is NOT letting you go until morning.
Akaza will pepper feather-like kisses upon your neck from behind and squeeze your waist while whispering comforting words into your ear.
He’s really not letting you go until you forgive him. 😞
Phrases you’ll hear from Akaza after an argument:
“Come here, honey.. i’m really sorry. believe me, i didn’t mean anything i said. i was a damn idiot!”
“Sweetheart, i love you so so much it hurts.. you mean the fucking world to me! i would kill for you, i would even die for you.. you bring out this special part of me in which i feel like myself.. only YOU have the power to do that. i would never leave you or let anything bad happen to you, honest!”
He embraces you and will probably end up turning you around so you can face him.
he appreciates it when you look into his eyes when he’s talking to you about something important.
You making eye-contact with him sends him onto cloud nine 😩
Akaza just wants to see your pretty face! 💗💗
Even if you take your time forgiving Akaza he will understand and never love you any less.
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Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood - pt ix
Synopsis: in the aftermath of the Battle by the Lakeshore, the Dance of Dragons continues to rage on. Benjicot returns home and confides in his wife about the horrors of war as he prepares for another return to the battlefield and makes a plea to Rhaenyra.
Content warnings: MDNI 18+ — 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, mention of major character death, depiction of childbirth & mention of miscarriages (no depiction).
masterlist | audio playlist | backwards — 8 | forwards — 10
A/N: you guys are going to hate me but the editing on this was minimal because I am so burnt out it’s wild but I am working on it as we speak x
Word count: 11.6k
“And…deep breath, my lady,” the midwife softly instructed, her hand closing around her shoulder.
Serra winced, swaying from side-to-side in an effort to alleviate the unbearable pressure that rested in her pelvis and abdomen; the pain tore through her, radiating to every inch of her body as her head leaned back into the midwife’s shoulder in an effort to steady herself as she sat on her knees. A low groan of pain echoed through the room, cut off by a sudden sob as another contraction shot up her spine, every muscle in her body going taut while trembling hands gripped the stained sheet behind her. The mattress dug into her shoulders as she pressed into it — she could have gone a thousand years of not knowing this pain, but Serra found herself sat against her bed, crouched on the cold marble floor that tempered her feverish, sweat slicked skin, the fine hairs that rounded her hairline damp as it clung to her temples, “Again, push.”
She let out a whimper, chin dropping to rest against her chest as she bore down, the pain intensifying as she let out a cry, “Good!” The elderly midwife in front of her encouraged, a hand on her knee as she glanced up at her anguished face, “I can see the head! The head is coming through!”
She let out a sharp breath, having to pause and catch her breath that came in quick pants; a damp cloth being dabbed against her cheeks from the woman behind her who stroked her shoulder, “Almost there, my lady— breathe,” she instructed in a soft, soothing voice, “again, push!”
“It’s too early,” Serra had been weakened by the hours-long labour that seemed to have no end, slumped against the bed and writhing in agony as her expression crumbled in a sob, “please, it’s too early— ahagh!”
“Bring her, let’s get her on her back—” The suggestion was quiet, but quickly challenged as it reached her ears.
“No, please no,” She cried out, feeling as hands closed around her knees and ankles as they attempted to pull her forward — the midwife froze abruptly in response to her right foot flinging out and kicking her hand away, looking up at her young Lady who shook her head and pulled from her. She could not go through this again — she was overcome by a sudden anxiety and fear as she moved, unable to bear the thought of losing another.
Serra shoved herself upright and shifted back onto her backside, pressing further into the bed as another contraction tore through her as she then released a final groan, bearing down with the very little strength she still possessed. She writhed, her knees parted and chin resting to her chest as she pushed, barely present enough to feel the comforting hand on her shoulder from behind her; drowning out the soft voices that reluctantly encouraged her and overcome by an overwhelming sense of nausea that had followed every searing contraction that radiated to each and every end of her body. Every muscle clenched so tight she felt her bones might snap and each nerve pinched in discomfort that caused her to let out a, her hands releasing the sheets finally and finding rest against the floor at her sides as she arched back into the bed and let out a moan that resembled that of an injured animal that slowly raised into a whine — she was suddenly startled by the gush between her thighs, staining the floor as relief washed over her, paired with a sudden emptiness.
She was aware now as she tuned back into her surroundings at the feeling of a babe’s shoulders sliding past her thighs and letting out a high pitched shriek; she quickly reached down underneath her chemise and found the infant who squirmed, face scrunched up in a cry that echoed through the room. The midwife, too, reached for the babe, aiding them to her chest and wrapping a thin blanket around it as she finally slumped back into the bed again; a cry of relief leaving her.
“He’s here!”
Serra took a moment to collect her thoughts, seeking rest as her head rested against the bed and panting heavily, her eyes fluttering shut — her heart continued to race and she felt cold from the shock, numbed by adrenaline but faintly able to feel hands instantly pressing to her abdomen and palpitating while another pair of hands assessed the child in her arms. It was then that she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the midwife with tired eyes, “A boy?”
Serra looked down, admiring his small, rounded face that was framed by a familiar head of dark hair; using her left hand to wipe away some blood from his forehead as he squirmed, mouth open with lively screams that announced his arrival -- he was here, at last. She let out a weak, emotional sob and looked up at the midwife.
The elderly woman smiled wide and bright, with her rosy cheeks and eyes lit with excitement as she softly spoke, “A boy, my lady,” she said, “a fine, handsome heir for Raventree.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
He could hardly hear over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears — the sound of blood thundering loud over that of the rain that poured down in sheets that made his vision blur, squinting to see his hand outstretched in front of him as he blindly pushed forward. The only thing that guided his movements was the sound of anguished outcries, grunts of exertion, and the harsh clatter of weaponry; swords clashing into one another in battle that had dragged on for hours — he did not particularly like battle, but it only felt necessary these days. There seemed to be no avoiding it. Perhaps he chose to no longer avoid it.
The sun had hardly risen, hung low over the horizon as it slowly crept high into the sky as the light of morning spread across the shores of God's Eye; no inch untouched by the already unbearable heat despite the treacherous rain, humid and thick as the men only found relief by the subtle breeze that blew across the sea and towards the battle.
Benjicot had not seen the early days of this battle -- a day late, but the carnage that already haunted the shores was undoubtedly beyond what he could have ever prepared himself for when he arrived that morning. With every step he took, there was a new body, slashed and bloodied — his boots sunk into the mud that had turned red with blood each step forward; soaked up to his knees and heaving for air as he found himself stumbling forward and twisting awkwardly into his right knee.
Faintly, he could see the knight in front of him — the familiar regal red and gold of his house colours, clumsy and equally blind as he stupidly swung his sword out at the sound of a grunt from Benjicot as he pushed up from the ground. His eyes narrowed, blinking harshly and trying to use his hand to wipe the water from them as they stung, struggling to keep his eyes open. He caught his balance, his foot coming free from the mud with a disgusting slosh and fumbling to readjust his sword in his hand — they were only inches apart, but the weather made it near impossible for him to move with any grace, his arm swinging out and catching the tip of his blade in an awkward clatter that felt far from deliberate — he heard a startled noise from the young knight who stumbled back, free hand flinging behind him in an effort to catch himself.
Benjicot lunged forward, moving based on hope alone and potentially false optimism that he wouldn’t miss — that he wouldn’t just crash into the ground, face first and put himself in a worse position. His neck and shoulder collided with the waist of the boy in front of him, losing his footing in the slippery terrain and lurching the pair of them forward as a hand slammed against his back in an effort to find hold on something, anything — instead, the collision was followed by the clamour of armour as they tumbled backwards. His brow slammed into his chin as the two men hit the ground, eliciting a pained help from the Lannister knight — Benjicot could have sworn his vision had given out entirely for a moment, pain shooting in behind his left eye and radiating until through his temple as a hand slammed into his face; shoving and fighting to get him off — his head jerked sideways, straining backwards awkwardly. He fumbled to shove his hand away, crawling up him like a struggling inch worm and punching his wrist as he reached for his sword that had been lost in the muck — the hand reached again, wriggling underneath him, and Benjicot growled in frustration.
He gritted his teeth, feeling the sharp sting of pain shoot through his body as the Lannister knight beneath him thrashed, desperately trying to dislodge him, but Benjicot's determination outweighed his exhaustion. His fingers scraped through the mud, finally closing around the hilt of his sword just as the knight's knee slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs.
With a feral growl, he pushed back, using the knight's moment of distraction to twist the blade up between them. The knight’s hand shot out again, grasping for Benjicot’s arm just a moment too late — the blade met its mark, driving into the gap between the golden lion’s breastplate and shoulder guard. Benjicot could feel the shock in the knight’s body as his muscles went rigid beneath him, his eyes widening as he stared up, mouth agape and frozen; a silence befalling them as his mouth opened and choked out a series of sounds, wet and coughing, his lips being stained by blood.
For a moment, the battle seemed to stop — the distant clash of swords and the roar of men faded into the background. Benjicot met the knight’s eyes through the haze of rain and pain, seeing the disbelief in the young man’s gaze, and something worse: fear. The kind of fear that a child experienced when they heard thunder and sought their parents for comfort, something boyish. Benjicot had never liked the killing — not like some men did — but war had taken that choice from him long ago.
The knight’s grip on Benjicot’s arm weakened, his body growing limp. He hesitated before he wrenched the blade free, the Lannister collapsing back into the muck with a groan that barely registered against the storm. Benjicot rolled off him, chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he lay in the blood-soaked mud, his back becoming wet as water seeped through the plates of armour; leaving the layers beneath clinging to his skin as his eyes closed. He did not know how long he lied there — it felt like an eternity, listening to the sound of death that surrounded him, his sword by his side and wracked by exhaustion.
“—halt!”
Footsteps stomped towards him, unwilling to move as he waited — waited for the inevitable and unwilling to fight more, he slowed his breathing and opened his eyes to look up at the grey skies that hung overhead, forcefully blinking through the relentless downpour, “Benjicot!” The voice shouted, coming towards him, “Ben!”
He registered the voice suddenly as Emrys, soon finding him at his side and dragging him up by the collar. A look of relief crossed his cousin’s features as Benjicot sat up, grabbing his shoulder and supporting his weight, “You had me worried there, my lord,” Emrys breathed out, a hint of forced humour in his voice.
He couldn’t even muster a laugh, finding the thought alone draining as he closed his eyes and slumped in relief, his own hand clinging to his cousin’s elbow, “I am still here,” He muttered, “you are not free of me yet.”
His cousin laughed, “There is plenty more to celebrate today then.”
Emrys stood, offering a hand to him -- his eyes darted to it, a dull ache settling into his bones at the thought of moving, “I cannot.”
“Yes, you can,” Emrys replied, a young knight being summoned forward from behind him, both men quickly taking either side of him. Benjicot let out a choked yelp, groaning as they dragged him up to his feet, stumbling a step and wincing as he struggled to remain on his feet; the adrenaline of battle had begun to wear off already, “Easy now…take it slow.”
His face screwed up in pain, letting out a sharp exhale from his nose and gritting his teeth as Emrys wrapped an arm around his middle and watched his expression with a clear look of concern that only reached his eyes, “Are you ready?”
Benjicot gave a short nod -- although his legs still felt weak, he did not want to appear vulnerable, his movements slow and shaky as he stood upright. He could feel as Emrys kept a hand close, hear the sound of his leather gloves as his fingers wriggled, ready to catch him, “What updates do you bring from the frontlines?” He quietly asked, his voice still possessing a weak tremor. His cousin hesitated, watching him a moment longer before he glanced towards the knight who looked equally as prepared to catch and break his fall.
“Lord Charlton and Lord Forrest Frey have too been slain,” Emrys announced, his eyes scanning his appearance as the young lord turned, limping on unsteady feet to achieve the task. Benjicot exhaled sharply, “As well as two thirds of the winter wolves, but there is more…”
The losses seemed to accumulate and with each man down, Benjicot felt a sense of dread grow heavier by each passing minute, resting in his chest and slowly sinking into the pit of his stomach and churning there. His brows twitched, worry lines etched deep into his young features as he sighed deeply and nodded as if to encourage him to speak; however, he was met by an optimistic glint in his cousin’s gaze as he shifted, “Both sides suffer heavy losses…”
“Why are you so smug about that?” He breathlessly asked.
“They retreat,” He suddenly interrupted, too excited for his own good. His voice lowered, watching as Benjicot struggled to process his words, “In exchange, your uncle has intervened in their efforts to summon for more men and we have slain Humffrey Lefford himself, leaving them crippled-- today, those who remain have begun to retreat. If they do not meet death by sword, they drown. Today, we celebrate a success for the Blacks.”
His gaze settled on him, his words sinking in finally. He glanced past him towards the sight of some remaining men, mounted on horseback that circled the grounds, rounding up some remaining men -- the distant clash of battle was lighter, the sound of an anguished shriek filling the field, a horse whinnying…it did not feel like a win, but his words sparked some hope, “This will be a success for our men,” Emrys repeated, “Raventree and its heir stand still, the rest of the craven Lannister men retreat, like a dog with its tail between its legs.”
“Lord Swyft? The men of Crakehall?” He asked, his blade being shoved into the ground and leaning into it for support. His eyes shifted again towards his cousin.
“Few remain,” Emrys replied.
“Have we accounted for Lord Reyne?” He asked, dismissing his celebration as he withdrew his sword from the mud and slowly pushed past him to ascend the field once again. He could still hear and faintly make out the bodies, the sound of battle reverberating from up the hill with the harsh clash of weapons; trudging through the mud. Pain tore through his ribs, sore as he moved and listened, his cousin in tow.
“Throat slit, he was found among a pile of wolves,” He replied quickly, glancing down at his own feet as he stepped over the body of the young Lannister knight -- Benjicot, however, avoided to dare look down; disregarding the sickening crunch beneath his right foot as he nearly tripped over the arm of another boy who lay only a few feet away, “I assume the poor fuck did not stand much a chance against them. Looked as though they surrounded him and took their turns apparently.”
The thought made his stomach turn, grimacing in disgust as a shudder ran through him, glancing over his shoulder to witness his cousin’s nonchalance on the matter. He understood that war was gruesome and violent, bloody and messy -- it had a way of bringing out the worst of men. But he could not help the inkling of sympathy he felt for Lord Reyne in that moment, repulsed by the image and fighting the urge to vomit as he hesitated, swallowing thickly as he pushed forward -- some sun had managed to peer through the clouds, his eyes narrowed as he let out a gruff hum in response.
He knew Lord Reyne had a wife and children back home -- two young boys that Benjicot had grown up alongside, having met them briefly in his childhood. He’d never considered them friends, and especially nothing anywhere close to the brotherhood he shared with the Tully boys, but he wondered how they would react to the news of their fathers passing. He had struggled with the news of his own father’s death and had been numb in the weeks afterwards, but he had been a man grown with his own responsibilities that forced him to keep moving forward — he couldn’t imagine still being a boy of what, ten-and-four? He couldn’t quite remember their ages, nor picture what time had done to change their faces, but he imagined they looked more like their father as the years passed — an idea that felt more daunting the more he pondered the thought, knowing that his wife would have to come face-to-face with that reminder every day of what they had done to him.
He sniffled, feeling the sudden sting of tears that welled in his eyes, pressing forward — blinking, he attempted to force them back down. Benjicot was horrified by the thought of things being reversed, imagining Serra being the wife to receive news that her husband had died instead. He was worn and exhausted, and he just wanted to be home and in her arms — he did not want to even entertain the image of her grief-stricken and left to raise their child alone. He let out a quiet sob, a choked sound that he attempted to conceal with a cough, clearing his throat as he was suddenly grateful for the rain.
Finally, he paused and scanned the shore. Benjicot's hand trembled as he clutched the hilt of his sword, the rain dripping off its blade like blood washed away by the gods themselves. He stared down at the bodies that littered the shore, the slain men no different than he had been mere hours ago — sons, fathers, husbands.
The stillness of death suffocated him, each face a reflection of what could have been, what still might be. The Lord Reyne he had struck down had not been so different from him — a man with a family, with duties, with hopes for a future that would never come. His chest tightened as the image of Serra’s face drifted into his mind again. He imagined her receiving a letter, trembling hands ripping it open to reveal the worst news a wife could hear. He pictured her alone in their chambers, clutching their child, eyes red from crying.
He shut his eyes tight, letting the raindrops mingle with his tears. Would she move on? Could she? Benjicot cursed himself for thinking it. He had been raised on the stories of glory and valour, where men died heroes and songs were sung of their deeds. But this, this was not glory. This was hell. The bitter taste of it was on his tongue as he swallowed hard, pushing down the emotions that clawed at his chest.
“My lord?”
He turned his head slightly, finding the young knight who had helped him to his feet — he recognized him from years of training alongside one another, a man only a year younger, looking at him with a subtle frown, “We must find Robb,” he thickly replied, avoiding his eyes as he sniffled again.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Serra watched the babe in her arms with a look of awe, his face scrunched up as he awkwardly fumbled around, mouth open and growing increasingly frustrated as the moments passed. Her fingertip brushed his small nose, rounded and perfect as the room was filled by a soft shushing, attempting to soothe him when he released an angry whine, a tiny, clenched fist rising against her chest and bumping against her sternum; he squirmed against her body, “Patience, my little love…” she sweetly said, her voice quiet, “find your way.”
Serra quickly lifted her gaze to the wet-nurse who was silent throughout the whole duration of her attempt, her eyebrows tugging into a worried frown, “I feel as though he does not want me,” she sighed, “is it something I am doing?” She asked, looking down again at her son.
The wet-nurse watched from her place near the wall, eagerly ready to step forward and intervene at the first sign of distress as she held her breath — her hands anxiously twitched at her skirt, “It takes them time to find the breast sometimes, m’lady,” She finally spoke, her accent thick and voice soft and nurturing, “I have always found boys to be a little slower to take to nursing, they require a little more guidance. Might I?”
She let out a defeated sigh, giving a feeble nod as she allowed the wet-nurse to approach. The woman knelt in front of her, gently tucking the blanket down more from his face that had become red with frustration, letting out a cry that made Serra want to shrivel up and die, disheartened as she softly shushed him again and gently bounced him; his nose bumped her nipple when he turned his head, mouth opened and blindly seeking her, but only meeting flesh, “Bring him closer,” the nurse instructed.
She adjusted him in her arms, bringing him closer with assistance from the nurse, his arm outstretched against her ribs and wailing, “I know, my dear boy, I know…I’m sorry,” she softly spoke, anxiety beginning to creep up within her chest.
“Align his nose…” she instructed, “with the nipple, and bring him…” she murmured, her voice trailing off as she supported his head in her palm for a moment to fix his positioning.
The nurse withdrew her hands to her lap as Serra wordlessly obeyed, bringing her son into her chest and guiding him to her breast as she’d been directed — a wave of relief washed over her as his mouth finally found her, latching around her and reluctantly suckling, “There you go,” she whispered encouragingly. She looked up, giving the nurse a tired smile and letting out a soft laugh as she bowed her head with a warm smile of her own and stood to her feet.
The room was once again silent, filled only by the uncomfortable sigh from Serra after a moment as she was overcome by her let-down and her son’s breathing. The sensation was not one she had yet to become accustomed to, but one she welcomed as a means to bonding with the sweet boy who appeared content for the first time that afternoon. She withdrew a hand from underneath his back, still supporting him with her left arm in order to tenderly stroke his cheek as he fed, absentmindedly rocking him from side-to-side, “Is it normal…to experience pain?” She asked in a quiet voice that was barely above a whisper after some time had passed, finding that he had begun to nod off to sleep.
“At first,” The nurse replied.
“It’s been nearly two months, though.”
Her nurse hesitated, glancing towards the babe, “I can summon the maester if you would like, my lady.”
“I do not wish to bother him,” she said, shaking her head, “I can bear some discomfort, I just worry.”
The nurse smiled, “You needn’t worry, my lady. You are a natural, it is a gift from the gods.”
Serra wanted to laugh out loud, feeling like anything but after struggling with the simple task these past weeks, angry that her body seemed to fail where it should have thrived — something so natural did not come with ease, the way she had expected. She had not been prepared and that had become abundantly obvious when he had first been born, terrified of doing anything wrong and upsetting him; every cry made the hair on the back of her neck stand and she felt as though she had been on edge since his birth. There was no tea or herbal remedy that could have prepared her for the amount of anxiety that had flooded her body the minute he was born, and what came after, once he was no longer safe and protected by her womb. Her wet-nurse meant well, but she was bitter and tired, lowering her head to look down at her son again and watching as he suckled, even in his sleep; his eyes closed and fluttering, fine, dark hair curling into his forehead.
The quiet hum of the nursery lulled Serra into a brief sense of peace as she continued to rock her son, her eyes trained on the soft rise and fall of his chest. His dark lashes rested delicately against his cheeks, still flushed from the earlier ordeal, but now serene and undisturbed. Serra allowed herself a tender smile, brushing her fingers gently through the fine curls that framed his forehead. Yet beneath that fragile peace, the weight of worry gnawed at her. She felt it in her bones, an ache that ran deeper than the discomfort in her chest. It wasn’t just the challenges of motherhood that plagued her now—there was a tension she could not shake, a fear that had taken root since Benjicot had ridden off to battle. It was the not knowing, the endless waiting that frayed at her already delicate nerves. The thought of her infant son becoming the Lord of Raventree made her sick with nausea, debilitated by fear of the idea.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the fading light of day was giving way to dusk. The lake was out there, somewhere beyond the mist and trees, where her husband fought to protect their home and people. She wanted to be hopeful, to believe in his strength and the bravery that had always defined him. But every distant sound, every muffled voice beyond the nursery door set her on edge, her mind conjuring the dark possibilities.
The soft rustle of the wet nurse’s skirts drew her attention back to the room. The woman had moved to the corner, silently keeping watch, her expression one of gentle concern. Serra gave her a quick glance, but words stuck in her throat. Another sigh escaped her lips as she shifted her son slightly, cradling him closer against her body.
A soft knock filled the room, a pause following — her eyes found the nurse who immediately stepped forward and used her body as a shield, Serra’s hand reaching for the blanket that surrounded her son to lift it to cover herself as much as it would allow, “Come in,” Serra announced as the door then slowly edged open.
Grace crept inside, quickly closing the door behind her and keeping her head lowered as she entered the room, “I apologise for my disturbance, my lady.”
Serra tilted her head to look around the nurse, finding Grace’s eyes, “It is quite alright, Grace,” she assured, “what is it?” She asked, her eyes lowering to where her son shifted in his slumber.
Grace visibly hesitated, her hands clasping and unclasping in front of her, “It is your lord husband, my lady,” she quietly said.
Serra felt herself tense up, her eyes lifting and clenching her teeth as she found her nurse looking at her — she had yet to hear the next words, but she was frozen in place as dread settled heavy in her bones, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as she absentmindedly brushed her son’s cheek, “What of him?” She finally choked out after a moment, her voice low in an effort to sound steady.
She could hear the slow, hesitant shuffle of Grace’s footsteps that crossed the room until she was inches away; stopping so she could kneel in front of her, her gaze fixed on her face, “Many have been wounded in battle, my lady,” She said, her voice soft and warm, but holding a firm edge to it. Serra wanted to let out a cry, nodding stiffly after a pause, “But he has returned. The maesters are with him and his men as we speak…” She continued to explain.
Despite her words, Serra felt shame in admitting she did not care about the others -- she did not care that the other men had made it home, or that they were wounded -- she did not care for any of them at that very moment. The only thing she could focus on was the mention of her husband, hanging onto her words as she was overcome by a confusing slew of emotions, storming within her like a downpour of rain and thunder that enraged the seas, like the gods themselves had crafted it and taken vengeance out on the common and noble folk alike. Her relief was muddled by her sadness, her grief, fear of what almost was, still on edge and anxious like she was expecting to be told there was some mistake and that Benjicot had not made it home; that this news was some sort of miscommunication and that his body had been so mangled, they had mistook him for another man. Her stomach churned, clutching her son closer to her body and fixing his blanket with a restless, shaky hand as her eyes focused on his sleeping face.
“...Ser Henry was wounded but he is expected to make a full recovery...”
She wondered if it made her a terrible person to care so little for others in favour of Ben, as long as it meant he was unscathed and safe. There had been no doubt that the war would take, take, and take from all those of the realm as far South and North as one could fathom, and that nobody would be left untouched by the carnage and grief that would entail, but there had been no preparing for just how bare the battles would leave the realm in the aftermath -- with each battle, she felt as though Raventree became emptier and quieter than it had been all those months prior; once lively and full, she now noticed the gaps as time progressed.
She, too, still noticed her father’s absence.
It hadn’t yet been a year since his passing and the loneliness that had followed was not something she could have prepared herself for, either. She hadn’t seen her brothers in months and had been forced into mourning his loss alone whilst they were off to their own devices; she had sent ravens but only received three each in the time since they had left four months earlier. Kermit had since returned to Riverrun to take over as Lord Paramount, and Oscar was sent to the frontlines of battle and distracted by the new found responsibilities of Knightship. She found herself envying them for having something to distract themselves in those early days, while she had been ordered to bedrest almost immediately after she had found out she was expecting; news that, while good for Raventree and its future, she struggled to find comfort when she first felt the barely there little flutters and stirring in her belly. She had barely had time to mourn the first babe she had lost months earlier, only for her father to pass forty-five days into his ascension to head of House Tully; forty-five days after her grandsire. The past year had been a blur of grief and tears and anger that still lingered.
“…I can summon him, if you would like,” Grace suddenly said.
She was drawn from the thought, her eyes lifting to find hers; a greyish blue that Serra found rather pretty in the light — she was a pretty girl, she had come to conclude over the past year, but for once, she couldn’t concentrate on the thought. Instead, she silently stared at her, processing the suggestion and listening to the rhythmic, quick sound of her son’s breathing for a moment; deep and steady as he let out a tired whine, rolling against her as a small hand came up to rub his face. She looked down, catching his fist with her fingers and pulling it away from his cheek as tiny nails attempted to scratch at the delicate skin, leaving behind a faint red line from where he had made contact, “No…no,” she quickly replied, “I will not summon him like a dog to heel, I can go to him.”
“My lady?” The nurse asked.
Serra slowly stood, withdrawing her son from her chest and beginning to pull the front of her dress up and back over her chest; unsteady on her feet as she steadied herself against the chair briefly. The nurse quickly took the babe from her arms, a look of uncertainty being passed between the two women as Serra sucked in a shaky breath, attempting to straighten out her dress, “Help me, please— I cannot go to him looking a mess,” She instructed.
Grace snapped into action after a short-lived hesitation, coming forward and working quickly to straighten the low shoulders of her dress; she stepped around her to straighten the backing against her shoulders with swift, nimble fingers. Her hands rose to smooth out her hair, pulling it back from the loose hanging style after having eagerly torn out the pins from earlier; cascading down her back and curling around her face from the sticky humidity that trickled in through the window and left the air thick and hard to choke down, “Shall I braid…”
“No,” Serra sighed out, “no…it is fine. Just leave it.”
She felt a hand grab the back of her dress as she attempted to step forward, forcing her back again as Grace let out a soft breath, “Let me at least pin it from your eyes, my lady,” She quietly said, reaching up and beginning to pull the few stray strands that hung in her eyes back.
She wanted to protest further, but found herself unable to, settling into silence and allowing her to pin the hair back; secured by a pin at the back of her head with one final brush with her fingers, attempting to tame the curls. Her hands smoothed down the front of her dress as she leaned forward to press a final kiss to her son’s forehead, giving him one last look before she heaved out a sigh and hurried towards the door.
Grace stepped back as Serra adjusted the front of her dress one last time, her fingers trembling slightly. She cast a final glance at her son, now dozing peacefully in the nurse’s arms, the red mark already fading from his cheek. For a moment, her resolve wavered — the pull to stay, to hold her child just a bit longer, was strong. But she knew she had to see him. She had to see Benjicot.
With a deep breath, Serra straightened her spine and nodded to Grace. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned toward the door.
The cool air of the hall greeted her as soon as she stepped outside the room, the thick humidity fading slightly. Her heart raced in her chest, the familiar excitement bubbling up again. She couldn’t help it — the eagerness was overwhelming, nearly impossible to restrain as she heard an uproar of cheers from beyond the walls. Without thinking, Serra gathered her skirts in her hands and began to move, her steps quickening with each passing moment.
She did not mean to run but she could hardly contain her eagerness to see him, skirts gripped in her hands as she rushed down the halls of Raventree, eyes wide and turning her head to try and look outside through the windows; attempting to catch a glimpse out the window of the returning men and her husband through the yard, though unsuccessful. She could hear the voices, however, excited and clamouring to approach and congratulate the men on their success at Lakeshore outside the great hall, already picturing the council gushing over her husband, his face smug and probably just eating it all up. She could barely move fast enough for her liking, a handmaiden on her heels as she just about leapt down the stairs.
“My lady!” Grace gasped, reaching for her as Serra launched down the stairs, hand reaching out to grip the railing with her eyes cast down to wake sure she didn’t trip over her own feet; bare feet padding across the cold, stone floors.
She could now see the clamour of men, armour amidst the crowd but her husband was still hidden from view, wildly searching for him among the men. Suddenly, she noticed the councilmen huddled around a figure, clasping the man’s shoulder and nodding, pridefully beaming as they spoke in hushed tones, “You did good, my lord. A great success for Raventree and the Riverlands.” The old, balding man praised with a hand on the shoulder of her lord husband, whose back was turned to her.
She stopped at the base of the stairs, watching as he nodded, voice quiet in replying his thanks to the men, head turning slightly to glance at the men who were still buzzing with excitement over their win; bloodied and rowdy, though her husband was quiet, sighing as she watched his eyes scan the crowd. He turned slowly as though he was searching for someone, his mouth pressed into a fine line and eyes narrowing, the bags under his eyes signifying his exhaustion — he’d aged significantly these past weeks, exhausted by the war, evident even from afar. He looked the opposite of what she had imagined, something bordering melancholic appearing on his face as his gaze found her, expression softening and shoulders relaxing at the sight of his wife; his clenched fists wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword on his waist belt. He released his hold on the weapon for the first time in days as he started to approach her; shoulders bumping bodies, caring very little that he shoved men in the process as he moved towards her. He was just eager to be near her — another first in the past month, as he reached for her once he was close enough, his hand finding her waist and gripping the fabric of her dress to pull her towards him.
She clung to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as his arms slid round her back and reaching a hand up to press to the back of her head whilst burying his face into her hair. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of her. They stood in silence like that, content with each other's embrace for the moment before he reluctantly leaned away, her hands cupping his cheeks to hold his face in her hands, still chest-to-chest as they stared back at one another.
Benjicot couldn’t find it in himself to do much speaking, silent as he withdrew at the sudden realisation that something had changed. His features pinched into a frown, confused as his eyes dropped to her belly, any signs of being swollen with babe fading as her body slowly worked to go back to what it had previously been and heal; one hand reaching out to brush his fingers down her belly, stopping just below her naval — a comforting gesture that Benjicot had gotten used to doing throughout the past several months, palm resting flat against the bump of where their child grew each day. Though this time, there was emptiness when his hand stroked over her abdomen, nearly flat and almost as though their babe had never even been there — though both her hips and chest were fuller, changed in order to support the life that grew within her.
Her hands moved to both cover his, taking his hand between both of hers and bringing the bloodied knuckles to her mouth in a sweet kiss, drawing his eyes back to hers. A feeling of dread settled deep into the pit of his stomach, bile crawling up the back of his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, fearful of the worst as his fingers laced through hers, his mouth opening. Though he was left wordless and stammering stupidly as a small whine came from behind her as a wet nurse came down the stairs behind his wife, her arms filled by a wiggling bundle that reached up with small, chubby hands — both his wife and him turned towards the woman who approached them, her gaze down at the small face that peered back at her; small features screwed up with a cry.
“Here, I can take him.” Serra said, releasing her husband's hands to retrieve the infant from the wetnurse, slow and ever so cautious as she took the bundle into her arms; making sure to adjust her arms correctly as she then turned in the direction of Benjicot, who stepped forward, “Come meet your boy, Benjicot,” She softly said, voice barely above a whisper as she smiled, shy as she looked up at him.
He scanned her face, blinking before looking down at his son, hesitantly closing the gap until he stood over the both of them, his right hand lifting to gently stroke his son’s head amidst the blankets. Pride swelled in his chest at the sight of their infant son, letting out a chuckle that was more air, in awe as he then brought his hand to the cheek of his son, his finger stroking the soft, youthful skin, “A boy.”
“Aelor Blackwood.” She quietly said, his gaze shooting up to her face quickly in response to her words.
His other hand lifted to cup her cheek, a smile spreading across his own face as he let out a content sigh, “My beautiful wife,” he said, his voice laced with adoration as he leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. His gaze returned to the boy in her arms as he squirmed, face screwing up with a soft whine after being woken from his slumber — Aelor blindly turned towards his hand with an open mouth and attempted to bring the digit to his mouth for comfort, “and you my dear boy, you will make a fine knight one day,” He quietly said.
“Might I hold him?” He asked after a moment, looking up to find her eyes.
She seemed taken aback, a smile slowly spreading across her face as she leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Of course. He’s as much your boy as he is mine.”
He felt foolish asking, he realised, as she was right -- from the curve of his nose to the dark hair that curled into his temples, his eyes aimlessly wandering to watch no particular thing as he cooed. He watched as his fists balled, gaze scanning his surroundings and briefly pausing to look up at him -- Benjicot swore his heart stuttered, softening immediately as he looked upon Aelor, who was so blissfully unaware of all that he had done or who he had been before that moment. He was innocent in all of this.
Benjicot slowly stepped around her, his head lowered and disregarding any further need for engaging with the council and their mindless chatter, praising him -- he didn’t need to listen to know what more they had to say to him. He felt as she clung to his side, her hand finding his elbow and following his slow pace up the stairs, afraid to disturb his son with any sudden jostles; his steps slow and cautious as they ascended the stairs, ever so grateful as the men remained silent behind him. There would be celebrations for days -- he knew that. But they could begin without him, only once he was nestled away in the safety of his chambers.
It would only be then that he could mend from the day’s events, and breathe for the first time in days. Feel safe for the first time in months.
Serra’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, her fingers carding through his hair and brushing her thumb along his nape; her wide, brown eyes watching him with a look like he was a living god among them, a shy smile threatening the corners of her mouth. Her hand dropped between his shoulders as they walked, finding his eyes when he slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The room was still filled by the soft coo of Aelor, while Benjicot sat on the edge of the bed and held him in his lap, cradling him to his chest as the babe sucked on his fingers. The bunched up blankets were loose, allowing him to freely wriggle as he dozed off, his eyes half closed already as the fire continued — Serra had been grateful for the extra hands, belonging none other than to her son’s father, rather than that of another wet nurse. She admired the women who committed their lives to raising noble children almost as though they were their own, and she could not have survived those early days without them — but she did not enjoy the practice of becoming so uninvolved with one’s children, that women would never hold their own child for years at a time; she could hardly fathom the thought of not having Aelor in her arms for more than a couple of hours, used to the weight of him against her chest and cradled into her like he was a piece of her that existed outside of her body.
Her mother had been so hands-on and involved with her and her brothers, having established a strong bond with her own children from birth — Serra wanted nothing less for her own children.
Watching Benjicot, she relished in the thought that Aelor would have exactly that — just as she did, content and knowing the safety of his parents arms as Ben caressed his cheek with a thumb; lulling him to sleep with quiet stories of his own youth, revelling in the fact that he was a Blackwood through and through. He was a spitting image of his father, and that of his before him — she could only imagine the relief that he had a piece of his father again, one to love and cherish and carry with him even in his passing. His adoration for the boy was already clear, his eyes softening and voice soft, quiet and loving as he spoke, unwilling to let him go; gently using his fingers to bring his hand down and away from his mouth as Aelor attempted to suck again on his fingers, his face scrunching up in a frustrated whine, head twisting to the side -- he let out a soft ‘sh’ in an effort to soothe him.
Serra watched from the fireplace, brushing out her hair as she sat on the bench in front of it, her eyes never leaving the pair. It warmed her to watch the interaction, a small smile on her face as she briefly slowed her pace in fixing her hair, pausing a moment as Aelor released a final whine; his eyes closed as sleep overcame him. It was a miracle, she thought, how he could find sleep even in his father’s lap so quickly -- there had been no buffer period in which he needed to warm to Benjicot, and seemed to instinctively already know he was safe and that this man was no stranger -- like he knew this was the man who had spoken to him for several months from outside the womb, whispering stories to him before he had entered the world.
She set down the brush, standing slowly and twisting her ring as she approached her husband, careful not to make any noise, too scared to breathe in fear of waking the raven-haired infant whose breathing slowed with slumber; his eyes fluttering with dreams of whatever peaceful things babes dreamt of. She planted a hand on Benjicot’s shoulder, resting her chin upon it and looking down to where he was still hyper focused on their son, afraid to look away for even a moment; he quietly fixed the blanket, tucking it around him with cautious, gentle movements, “The ladies should be taking him to the nursery soon,” She softly said, her eyes on him.
For the first time in an hour, his gaze lifted to look up at her, “One moment longer,” he pleaded, his knuckles brushing underneath his chin and eliciting a slight twitch of his face as he looked down at him again, “I feel as though I have missed a lifetime already.”
There was a melancholic tone in his voice as he gazed at him, tugging at her heart and replacing her joy with an aching sadness. She couldn’t bring herself to summon the nurses and maidens who would soon take him away; knowing she’d had a month and a half with him, while Benjicot had only a few hours. Though she tried not to dwell on it, she was painfully aware that it was only a matter of time before he would be called back to battle, with no guarantee of returning unharmed and being as lucky a second time around. Serra let out a shaky exhale of air, lowering her head to press a kiss to the crook of his neck.
His head turned quickly at the sound of her sigh, searching for her face as she kept her head down and unable to meet his gaze. Benjicot’s eyebrows furrowed, voice softening as he attempted to beckon her attention back to him, “Serra,” He said, “Look at me.”
She slowly lifted her head, her bottom lip folded between her teeth as she forced a brave, nonchalant front, her eyebrows raising with a simple hum of acknowledgement. But he knew her well enough that he could see the tension that had become of her, her mouth a tight line as her fingers pressed further into his shoulder, holding his clothing tight within her fist as blinking unnaturally. Benjicot swallowed, looking down to her lap, “Let them bring him to the nursery now, it’s growing late.”
She nodded, unwilling to argue as she carefully scooped Aelor from his lap; his hands nervously following hers as he was lifted, cradled to her chest as he leaned forward to press a final kiss to his temple. Serra slowly walked towards the door, her exchange with the wetnurse who hovered outside the door brief and quiet to the point that Benjicot could not make out a word -- his eyes followed her movements as she leaned down to kiss his forehead, sliding him into the older woman’s arms and stroking his head as she turned and began to retreat down the hall with their son. Even then, she remained in the open doorway, leaned against the frame while she anxiously picked at her nails, twirling her fingers.
She closed the door after a moment, clicking it shut and turning to cross the room towards the fireplace where she abruptly stopped. Benjicot settled back on to the edge of the bed, beginning to shed his clothing in preparation for sleep, his eyes still focused on her and unable to tear away; he could make out the wringing of her hands, her shoulders tense and rigid as the silence dragged on, sensing that her thoughts were anywhere but there.
She moved finally, her head turning right slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye.
“What of my brothers?” She asked, referring to Kermit and Oscar. Her dear brother Oscar, who was barely a man-grown, his face still young and boyish when she had last seen him, eyes still possessing some trace of innocence having not seen war before. Her chest ached at the thought of him in battle, bloody and bruised — but he had their father’s blood in his veins, he was fearless and could fight hard, surely.
“Strong as ever.” Benjicot replied in a low voice, feeling as he approached from behind, having listened to the sound of fabric and clinking that dropped over the seat, until he was stripped down to his under layers. His chest pressed to her shoulder blades as he brought her towards him, an arm wrapped around her waist and secured her in place with a firm hold while the other trailed hand trailed up the length of her arm until his fingers wrapped around her shoulder. His forehead rested against the crown of her head, relishing in the warmth she radiated after being away from it for the past month and three weeks, his eyes closing as she let out a sigh, “Your brother has been rather busy with the responsibilities of his new lordship— but he is fierce, brave.” He mumbled into her hair.
Her own arms dropped to place over his own, her hand finding his at her waist while her eyes remained on the flames of the fireplace, emitting heat to the rest of her chamber. She was comforted by word of her oldest brother, a small, pensive smile coming to her face; Benjicot’s hand moving from her hold to press to her abdomen while a hand of hers remained overtop his, “Oscar is as equal a fierce leader,” He said, face moving from her hair to drop to her shoulder, his mouth pressing a kiss to the bare skin there.
It brought her some relief to hear that they were both safe and well, presumably having returned to their house by this point — relieved by the news that they were alive and otherwise safe. The war had already taken enough. Benjicot sighed, a defeated sound as his head twisted to press his cheek to the plane of her shoulder, both arms lacing around her waist. Her fingers absentmindedly traced along his forearm, “I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t apologise, Ben,” she easily replied.
She had counted every minute, every hour, waiting for the day she received word of his return — it felt pathetic at first, eager to receive news that he had come back. But time drew on, and as her anxieties grew, she cared little for how desperate she appeared — she was alone and terrified for six weeks, “I do and I’m sorry I left you to do it alone…” He said, voice small like a child, “I worried about you every day.”
Serra leaned further into Benjicot, relenting and allowing herself to melt into the warmth of his embrace, her eyes still fixed on the flickering flames. “You didn’t leave me alone,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion beneath it. “You were always here, Ben. In my thoughts, in every moment, you never left me.”
Benjicot pressed another kiss to her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. “I should have been here. I should’ve seen him, held him...”
She turned in his arms, placing a hand gently on his cheek, guiding his gaze to hers. “You will. He’s here, and so are you. We’ve all had to make personal sacrifices in these times,” she quietly continued, her other hand bringing his face to hers and releasing a sigh through her nose, “I only worry about you.”
“Please don’t,” he replied, attempting to lean in and press a kiss to her mouth. She withdrew, leaning back and furrowing her brow at him — he hung there, halfway between them and lips still slightly puckered as he sensed her scepticism, letting out a sigh as his gaze scanned her face, “You do not have to worry about me.”
Her expression softened, once again dodging his lips as he leaned forward again, “I’m your wife. It’s my duty to worry about you.”
She offered a small, tight smile before leaning in and finally pressing a kiss to his mouth.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
His fingers trailed up and down along her spine, her chest to his as she sprawled over him on her front, her cheek pressed to his collarbone as she nestled her face into his neck. Benjicot had found her to have dozed off to sleep some time ago, but had found it difficult to follow — instead, he’d found himself focused on the fields beyond the walls of Raventree, watching as sunrise slowly filled their room. The chill of the morning had crept in through a window that had been left ajar, a light breeze blowing in through the room and leaving goose flesh in its wake; only warmed by her skin, soft and possessing a comforting scent of lavender and roses.
He had tried to sleep, but it was useless he’d realised after two hours of trying. He wanted so badly to distract himself momentarily with sleep, but every time his eyes closed, he found himself back on the shores of the Gods eye — covered in dirt and overtop the Lannister boy whose name he’d never known. He wondered if they’d ever met before — if at some point in his twenty-one years, if they had met in passing, and if so, how old were they? Where had it been? Had he remembered him or were they complete strangers?
Serra had stirred against him, her head turning to face away from him, letting out a deep breath as she settled. He leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, his nose nuzzling into her hair and inhaling the familiar scent that he’d come to associate with home and comfort.
He had startled awake after several attempts, his eyes burning with exhaustion but too panicked to find rest, finding that the night had since passed and morning was already upon him. With his heart racing, he accepted that sleep would not come to him — he wondered how long this would last. The night terrors and haunting images of his face, of his men, dead in the sands and leaving behind children and wives. How long would it be, before he found sleep again?
The thought was disturbed by a soft knock, his entire body going tense as Serra twitched, letting out a tired moan of complaint. He waited for a moment, his eyes on the door before a second knock followed after a minute, cursing internally as he peeled himself away from the bed; careful to ease her into the pillows and off of his chest. After he tucked the blanket over her, he sought his shirt amidst the floor and hurried to pull it over his head, hardly in the sleeves as he rushed to the door to open it with a scowl on his face.
Emrys stepped back quickly, giving him room to step out, his eyes widening for a moment and readily offering a quiet apology, “Good morrow, I…apologise for waking you so early, cousin.”
“Whatever it is, could it not wait until this afternoon?” Benjicot snapped, his voice a harsh whisper as he pulled the door against his back, leaving it slightly ajar as his hand tightly gripped the handle of it behind him. The wood pressed into his spine as he briefly twisted his head to glance back inside the room, his gaze falling upon the sleeping frame of his wife, who lay beneath the blankets, clutching to the pillow beneath her and unaware yet of his absence. His departure had yet to be noted, “We’ve only just returned, could you not have at least allowed me one day of rest before bombarding me with matters of council? Serra does not need this so soon.”
“You know I wouldn’t disturb you if it was not urgent, Ben,” Emrys quietly replied.
He turned his gaze back to where Emrys hesitated to say more, his mouth wordlessly opening before he brandished a letter from beneath his belt; still sealed and neatly rolled with the familiar symbol of House Chambers. Benjicot’s eyes flitted between his face and the scroll, his expression hardened as his mouth pursed with a frown, sighing and finally releasing his hold against the door to retrieve it from his grasp — he hands made swift work in cracking the seal and unrolling it, the sound of paper rusting in the silence of the corridor. It wasn’t lost on him that he wouldn’t receive news so soon after his return if it wasn’t something serious, but he’d been optimistic despite his fears that there would at least be a buffer period in which he could find rest, heal his body and soul before even considering the idea of returning to battle — as annoyed as he was, he was sad equally terrified, turning the paper to scan the words that had been messily scrawled across it. His head angled, craning to read it and silently reading with narrowed eyes as Emrys waited for some sort of reply, some sort of acknowledgment to its contents.
His frown mirrored that of his cousin’s, his head shooting up and lowering the letter, “They believe it is Vhagar.”
“And have they confirmed this?” He asked.
“No,” Emrys replied, “based on the reports, they are quite certain however.”
Benjicot let out a bitter laugh, his eyes rolling as he quickly crumpled up the scroll and pressed it back into his hand, “I’d like to confirm the identities of the dragon and its rider before unnecessarily terrifying my wife and son,” he said, shifting his stance.
Emrys gave a curt nod, his gaze lowering — the two men were quiet, Benjicot’s shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh, “Have them write a letter to House Chambers to write to us as soon as they have confirmation, and what they would like for us to do— House Tully should be made aware as well,” He instructed, “have them draft a letter to Rhaenyra, requesting for a dragon for protection in the meantime. We cannot face Vhagar alone if it is true.”
Emrys muttered a soft, “Of course.”
He turned on his heel, attempting to walk away before he was grabbed by the neck of his cloak, pulling him back as Benjicot raised his eyebrows, “Bring the letter to me before it is sent, I would like to personally oversee the task.”
He nodded, “Of course.”
Benjicot released him, giving a singular nod before he allowed him to depart; his eyes following him down the hallway until he was out of sight. With a clenched jaw, he turned and quietly crept back into the room, suddenly overwhelmed and nauseous as he closed the door again behind him, his eyes finding Serra in bed as he did his best to prevent the soft click from drawing any attention to himself. Once he was in the clear, he tiptoed back towards the bed and hesitated at the edge of his side; his eyes downcast on his wife who had yet to wake, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks — he sighed, a hand reaching out to brush over her hair.
He chewed the inside of his lips as he slowly sank back into the bed beside her, her expression twitching as he nudged her back into him and against his chest — she blindly sought him, moving with a huff, “Sorry, my love,” he whispered.
“Who was it?” She asked.
Benjicot shook his head, not wanting to further worry her as her cheek pressed against his sternum, “Just…one of the guards,” he lied, “just some updates from last night’s patrol.”
She tiredly moaned, not seeming to process his reply as he settled back against the pillows. A silence passed, his eyes darting up to the ceiling of their bed before she spoke again.
“Whatever it is that plagues your mind, husband, do not feel as though you must carry its burden alone,” She quietly muttered, her face still against his chest and eyes closed as she spoke. His hand cradled the back of her skull, letting out a deep sigh that moved her, “it is ours to share.”
“This is not…” He began to protest, his eyes squeezing shut.
“Your scars are mine, it is as much mine to shoulder as it is yours,” She interrupted. Her head lifted finally, tired eyes watching him as he looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching, “What is it?”
He didn’t mean to sulk. He would argue that he wasn’t. Her index finger tapped his lips however, pursed as he let out a sharp breath, blinking rapidly and rolling his eyes as his head lolled to the side, while he looked out the window once again. Serra’s finger traced his jaw, brushing back and forth in a soothing gesture despite the internal turmoil he felt -- he soon sighed, any tension melting away from his shoulders as his chest rose and fell with a slow exhale from his nose, “I killed a boy out there and he is all I see when I close my eyes,” he quietly explained, “they haunt me. I see the faces of those I fought against, and the ones I fought beside. I see my mistakes… the ones I made when I was overwhelmed, and the ones I made when I was too calm, too sure of myself. But that boy…”
A silence befell them aside from the quiet sound of their breathing as she rested her chin against his collarbone, watching him as she then moved to sit up on her elbow, “He can’t have been older than five-and-ten,” Benjicot stated, a distant tone in his voice like he was not fully present.
Serra couldn’t have imagined what it would have been like to be his mother — what had he left behind? What life was waiting for him back home? Friends? A betrothed? She could hardly envision being that age amidst a war, a time when her only concern had been worrying over mastering a simple stitch as she embroidered a pillow. She had grown up strikingly different to these men, especially the women who were brave enough to fight alongside them — Serra had never held a sword for longer than a half second as a girl, much less a weapon, as she had been too clumsy to be trusted in their presence and just had never had that urge to fight or learn the craft. Her head turned, dropping her chin and pressing a kiss to his bare chest, she then allowed her lips to linger against his skin.
She could hold him at no fault though — war was a pesky thing that forced even the kindest of men to turn their cloak and embrace the worst, innately dark impulses within themselves. Her heart ached for the thought of the boy whose name she would never know, and the possibility of what he was leaving behind; despite that this was just the routine of war — young boys forced to kill on behalf of ageing men and lose their lives in the process, traumatised and in need of their fathers…she sighed against his skin, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t have done it if you’d had a choice,” She said.
“I did have a choice though, did I not?”
Her hand lifted from his jaw to brush across his forehead and brushing back his hair, scanning his features and taking the opportunity to refamiliarize herself with them; at the core, he was the same man who had left her two months prior, but as she looked at him, she could see the effects of war. A frown line had since etched itself between his brows, embedding itself into his skin that had become dull and dry in appearance, and his once soft lips now chapped. His eyes appeared sunken from the weeks of sleepless nights that she assumed had been plagued by nightmares of his battles — upon moving the hair out of his face, her index finger found a freckle on his forehead, brushing over it with a delicate brush of fingers, “And what choice might that have been, my love?” She asked.
His mouth twitched as though the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he’d yet to figure out how to give them life and say them aloud. His eyes darted around for a moment, “His death and its impact is not mine to understand, but you did what was necessary in that moment,” she softly spoke, “our son and I both needed you and you fought for that. Just let me help mend that wound, do not bear its weight alone and let it crush you, Benjicot— you are only a man.”
He hesitated. Benjicot did not like to lie and had been taught the honour of truth and honesty — but in that moment, he could not bear the idea of worrying her more with the thought of a dragon overhead. He wanted to blurt out the truth, but he knew better, “Okay,” he said, lifting a hand to catch hers and bring it away from his face to bring it to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, “okay.”
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