benblvckwood

[benblvckwood]

her words came pouring out in a frantic rush, and ben found himself having to concentrate to make sense of them. his brow furrowed, expression on his face completely nonplussed as he gazed around at the artefacts she gestured to. he liked to think he had a strong sense of intuition, and though logic dictated there was nothing to fear in here, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention just looking at them, never mind being trapped in a musty basement with them.

"i'm fine, i'm fine," he waved off her question, sidestepped around a particularly grotesque statue that he had overturned in his little tumble, head cocking as he examined it. "they have a talent for bad decor, i'll give them that. what sort of madhouse is this?" his tone was light, meant to distract her from her anxious state, though his humour faltered as she explained how she got in this predicament, the frown returning to his face. "well, that's convenient timing, isn't it? stepping out just as you come down here?"

it was as though one could see the cogs physically turning in his brain as he thought, going over the scenarios she presented. "locking you in a basement full of tacky ornaments and leaving isn't the most efficient way to go about robbing someone," he pointed out. "more likely he meant to ransom you." he regretted the words almost as soon as he spoke them. she was clearly shaken, and he did not think his words would help with that. "you're not hurt, though?" he added, hurriedly. "a bit of fresh air and you'll be all right, yeah?"

there was a thud from behind him, and he turned just in time to see a man hurtling down the stairs like a sack of grain, a sandwich coming apart as it arched through the air. for a moment, ben could only stare as the man crashed to the ground, in almost the exact spot he himself had fallen, before the absurdity of the situation set in. it was all he could do to press his lips tightly together to keep from laughing.

"fucking hells," he muttered under his breath. he strode to the shopkeeper and crouched, checking his pulse in a way he had done a thousand times before in the aftermath of battle until he felt the steady thud of it in his neck. not dead. he opened his mouth to tell the woman as much, though her next words quickly silenced him. when he looked at her once more, his expression was back to confusion.

"you're telling me," he began, taking steady breath to calm himself," your mother was burned alive, and this," he gestured to the shopkeeper's crumpled form. "this is what's doing you in?" she shook his head, as though trying to register what she had just said. was she mad? was he mad? ben didn't even know anymore.

he straightened as she made her way up the rickety staircase, not relishing the idea of being left with an unconscious man. but then, the man groaned at his feet, and ben was leaning down again. "wait!" he called after her. "he's alive, he's awake! come back!" he reached out a hand to help the shopkeeper to a sitting position, the man muttering something he couldn't quite hear. "what was that, mate?" he asked, his attention on the shopkeeper. he could see no blood, and no obvious breaks, his head and his neck seemingly intact. it was a good sign.

"my... my lunch..." croaked the shopkeeper, and this time, ben couldn't help the laugh that escaped him as he brushed a stray piece of bread from the man's shoulders. he looked to naelys, hovering upon the stairs like some sort of nervous sparrow, in disbelief, as though to confirm she had heard what he had.

"you nearly broke your neck, man, and you're worried about some bread and cheese," ben pointed out, almost completely deadpan in your delivery. "come on. put your arm around my neck and i'll help you back up the stairs. then you can explain what you think you're playing at, locking girls in your cellar."

¿

"...i can't go anywhere!"

naelys stumbled back as the door crashed open, her heart pounding wildly as the man—her unexpected saviour—stepped through the splintered frame. relief flooded her, though it did little to calm the frantic beat of her heart or the tremor in her voice. naelys gasped as the man before her fell, the thud of his body against the wooden steps a sickening sound that seemed to echo through the room. without thinking, her feet were already moving, the instinct to help pushing through the fog of her own confusion and relief. she rushed forward, her hands outstretched, but he was already at the bottom, crumpled in an ungainly heap.

but then, instinct kicked in. she rushed forward, her heart hammering in her chest as she moved to where he lay sprawled on the ground, one arm instinctively reaching out to him. "oh, gods, are you all right?" she gasped, her hands hovering uncertainly over his body, unsure where to touch. "can you see me?" she asked, in a voice that was probably too loud and there was no need for it. his tumble had been violent, his body now twisted in an awkward position on the floor, his face contorted in pain. and then he suddenly jumped back to his feet, and she found herself needing to jump back to avoid clashing.

“thank you, thank you,” she gasped, her words tumbling over one another in a rush of gratitude and lingering anxiety. “i don’t know what i would have done if you hadn’t heard me. it was so—so suffocating down here. the air, the dust, and those dreadful... things.” her eyes flicked nervously to the strange, unsettling artefacts scattered around the dim room, each one seeming to pulse with an unspoken menace. her hands fluttered to her dark violet gown, brushing at invisible dust, a nervous habit that did little to steady her.

“i didn’t even realise the door had locked behind me. one moment i was admiring the tapestries, and the next... i was trapped. and the shopkeeper, he just vanished. i thought... perhaps he’d left, or something worse had happened. or he was planning to rob me with many many others."

her gaze shifted to the man before her, noting his calm, almost casual demeanour despite the chaos he had just broken through. he didn’t seem fazed by her predicament, which only heightened her embarrassment. as she spoke, the sound of footsteps echoed above them. the shopkeeper, evidently unaware of the commotion below, returned with a wrapped bundle—his lunch, naelys guessed. her eyes widened as he approached the stairs, balancing his meal in one hand, oblivious to the broken door and the scene unfolding in his storeroom. “wait, no! the stairs-” naelys cried out as the shopkeeper began his descent, his foot catching on the edge of a loose step. in a horrible, slow-motion moment, he pitched forward, his lunch flying from his grasp as he tumbled headfirst down the stairs.

without thinking, naelys rushed forward, her hands outstretched in a futile attempt to catch him. “oh, gods, again?” she exclaimed, her voice high with panic as the man landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom. “are you all right?” she knelt beside him, her fingers trembling as she reached out, unsure of what to do. her eyes darted back to her rescuer, her voice filled with desperate urgency. “he fell—what do we do? we should... we should check if he’s seriously injured.” her mind raced with a thousand thoughts at once, the relief of her own rescue quickly overshadowed by the shopkeeper’s misfortune. she looked and noticed his head was not bleeding, and let out a low exhale. she then crawled backward, as though she had decided she would no longer touch the shopkeeper.

“this day,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “i don’t think i’ve ever had a day quite like this.” she watched as the rescuer seemed to struggle with the shopkeeper, and naelys then realised she had piece of his cheese in her lap; she brushed them off absentmindedly. her words were nervous as she got to her feet, clambering back up the stairs carefully to try get some help. "and my mother was burned alive, so this...this is saying something...one second, i'll get help. stay there!"

[benblvckwood]

[benblvckwood]

a smile crossed ben's face as he slid into the seat jaehaerys offered, his posture betraying an ease that did not align with the years and titles that separated them from their last meeting. his casualness was not deliberate - it just was, as though they were both still the boys they had been, and not the men they had become. he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting upon his knees. it was strange - he could not remember the names of all the men he had ridden into battle beside, nor where half of the skirmishes took place. he did not know the names of most of the men whose lives he had taken, nor those who had swung a sword at him and missed. but the night he spent in jaehaerys' company, he remembered all too clearly. he would remember playing together, as though they were boys with little else in the world to worry about. he could recall sharing rations, and swapping stories, and talking into the night, and the kinship he had felt with a boy only a few years older than him, that was supposed to have been his enemy.

"we're in the same colours now," ben offered, gesturing to his own clothing, a simple black leather jerkin with stitching in red. he'd never noticed before how the colours of the blackwood sigil and the targaryen's were so similar. he had wondered, all those years ago whilst they kicked a ball between the two of them, how different things would be if they were on the same side. now the war was a memory, ben's feelings about it a complicated blur he tried not to think about. "and we're family now, besides." he spoke of jaehaerys' wife, ben's own cousin.

the reminder of the nets had him laughing, a warm, genuine sound. "gods, i'd almost forgotten them," he was clicking his fingers, searching for a name, and when he recalled it, he pointed. "gregor the fish." he exclaimed. "one of the tully's men. got his foot stuck and thrashed around so much the rope went tight. was stood there hollering that if we didn't free him, he'd have to take the foot off. and one of your lot just looked at him, and quick as anything handed him a knife and told him to get on with it. that soon shut gregor up."

his chuckles died out, and he fell quiet for a moment, his smile morphing into something softer. "it's good to see you like this," he said. "alive. whole. too many of those men from that night can't say the same, but i'm glad you're not one of them." he looked younger than his years then, more like the boy jaehaerys had once known for only a night.

Jaehaerys regarded Ben with a thoughtful gaze, though the faintest glimmer of something softer flickered in his violet eyes. At Ben’s words, his lips curved into a subtle smile, an expression that felt almost foreign amidst the weight of rulership. “A shared habit, it would seem,” he said, his voice carrying a tone more reflective than regal. He paused, his thoughts drifting back to the days of the Dance. War had carved its marks into him, even at sixteen, and the memories lingered like old wounds. He remembered the late Baratheon lord—his blade so close it could’ve ended him—and the Riverlord’s knife piercing his side during that cursed night attack some time after Yule. If not for his guards, his story would’ve ended there in the mud of his fancy tent.

He exhaled, pushing those thoughts aside, focusing instead on Ben. “You don’t forget some things,” Jaehaerys admitted, his tone lighter now, as memories not so bitter began to surface. He remembered their armies stopping for the night, boys kicking a ball around while their commanders argued over maps and the freshly bled boys who told the horror stories of dragons and bragged of women they bedded. He recalled the shared rations of salt pork and hard bread, the way Ben’s laughter had broken through the cold when someone cheated at cyvasse. A strange, fleeting camaraderie born out of the hardest of circumstances.

His gaze shifted to the chair beside him, and he gestured toward it. “Sit with me,” he invited, lowering himself into his own seat with a grace that belied the weight of his black-and-red finery. The air felt easier here, away from the suffocating halls of stone and the endless expectations of the feast.

Jaehaerys leaned back slightly, the tension that often gripped his shoulders easing just a touch. “Do you remember the nets the men set up?” he asked, a faint grin pulling at his lips. “They called it a trap for stags, but I swear all it ever caught were boots and tempers. I think I spent more time helping men out of them than I did sleeping that night.” For a moment, Jaehaerys allowed himself to forget crowns and kingdoms, letting the past breathe in the present.

[benblvckwood]

it might have been strange, the way the two of them sat around casually talking about their deaths, but it didn't feel that way to ben. perhaps it was a side effect of what vilde did, her innate connection with death, or it was because he himself was a man who had danced too closely to it, but it felt oddly normal, even comforting in a way. he was quiet for a moment, her calm acceptance of death itself striking a chord in him. it wasn't the answer he expected, but then again, he hadn't really known what he had been hoping for to begin with.

"fair enough," he said, his voice soft. "not for the likes of me to question it then, is it?" he leaned back, gaze drifting to the expanse of sky above him. no, it wasn't for him to poke at what cleverer, more devout men than he had already determined, but a part of him did anyway. it was the vulnerabilities he tried not to show, that little need for reassurances nobody could truly give him that when his time was done, it would be all right. "things don't last so long for no reason," he said, more to himself than to vilde.

he glanced back at her then, his expression showing what he did not say out loud - that he'd never once considered the possibility of outliving vilde harclay. for a moment, he remained quiet, before the faintest hint of a smile tugged his lips. "you'd do a good job of it, though. if it came down to it, i mean. you know me. you'd know what to do."

Ben's line of questioning left her pensive and silent for a moment. Vilde didn't want to even entertain the idea that what she did —what she had done— might not be enough. It was a disarming thought to consider it, for then it all would have been for nothing. “It is enough,” she said then, convincing herself as much as she tried to do him. “They are ancient rituals, Ben. As old as our gods. If they were not enough, we would have stopped a long time ago”. The old gods endured, and so did the practices attached to their unknown names.

She didn't say it, but what she experienced during the rituals —the beauty and the horror—, that was real. It was the only proof she needed that something sacred intervened as well, and that cleansing did take place.

Vilde observed the Blackwood lord for a moment, who spoke of his concerns about his brother. She couldn't help but wonder if those concerns were about himself, and if he only was using Lucius' name as a veil to his fears. His last question served as a sort of confirmation for that suspicion. “I could be, if I don't die before you do,” she replied, her tone strangely calm, somewhere between resigned and calm. The experiences of the war had made it so common for young people to contemplate their own deaths as something that might not be too far into the future. Vilde had no way of knowing for sure, perhaps it was her own closeness to death, but she'd grown with the suspicion that she would not live to old age.

[benblvckwood]

the second ryon had uttered his final question, ben was swinging, his fist meeting the dornishman's face with a blow that echoed through the yard. his temper always lingered just below the surface spilling over in the face of goading. for a moment, his eyes shone with something other than anger - satisfaction, the simple joy in finding a fight. it was quickly gone, replaced by nothing but rage.

he didn't wait for a reaction. his other hand grabbed ryon's tunic, dragging him close. "laugh at that." he said, his voice low and seething.

the crowd was stirring uneasily. several of his own men had their hands on the pommels of their swords, but none yet moved to intervene, evidently unsure whether to step forward and intervene, or if this was a matter better settled with fists and pride rather than drawn steel. they were used to scuffling with brackens - but ryon wyl was not a bracken. this was no matter of a blood feud, just two men and a clash of ego.

ryon's ball had rolled across the courtyard, coming to a halt in the dirt. ben released ryon with a shove, walking over to it. with one hand, he picked it up, and with the other, he drew his knife, stabbing it into the leather and slashing so the ball deflated before throwing the sad scrap of leather back into the dirt. he did not care how spiteful of a move it was, did not care if it seemed childish.

"you talk too much, wyl," ben said, wiping his hand against his tunic. "and it's all just fucking noise. just saying anything to make up for the fact you have nothing useful to say."

Ryon didn’t flinch as Ben stepped closer, his grin still wide and easy, though the mocking glint in his eyes intensified. He let the ball roll beneath his boot again, gently nudging it with the same casual precision, as if he were alone in a field and not surrounded by men ready to draw steel.

"Do you need a crowd to tell you how to think, Blackwood?" he drawled, his voice carrying the lazy confidence of a man who had never been at a loss for words. "When to laugh, perhaps? Or are you just upset because you're not the center of attention? I’d say you should’ve spoken sooner, but… well, you know what they say about quiet men, don’t you?" He paused just long enough to let the words linger, letting his amusement grow.

His foot flicked the ball up, spinning it in the air with a simple gesture before he caught it and nudged it forward again, as if the tension didn’t exist.

"Perhaps a man must hold your cock before you can stick it in," he continued, voice almost too sweet, a slow chuckle following as he observed Ben's rigid stance. "Is that the problem, Blackwood? A bit shy, are we?" He took a slow, measured step around the ball, letting it roll away just slightly before kicking it back with practiced ease. "It’s almost sad. You look ready to tear someone apart, but not a soul here cares enough to cheer you on. Might I suggest you take it out on something more entertaining than your temper?"

Ryon’s grin never wavered as he took another half-step, sizing Ben up, almost daring him to make the first move. "You’re quick to stand up for yourself, but it seems you’ve no taste for real fun. Tell me, Blackwood—what's it like to be so very serious all the time? Do you ever laugh?"

[benblvckwood]

the nights at war tended to bleed together. often, ben found it hard to place what happened when he was twelve, and what happened when he was eight and ten, the years little more than a jumble interspersed with violence. it was difficult to order his memories, though there was some things that stuck out more than others.

a cold yule night, a chance encounter with a boy who was almost like him, but who bore banners of green instead of black. a night of conversation, an understanding that neither had seemed to find elsewhere, and ben didn't truly know if he had ever truly felt since. it was one of the rare exceptions that ben could place perfectly, the memory sharp within his mind.

and now jaehaerys targaryen stood before him, more lines on his face, older and taller and broader in the shoulder, but for ben, it was as though no time had passed at all.

ben paused mid-step, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound between them. there was, in the distance, a faint hum, the sounds of the feast drifting on the night's air, but to ben, it may as well have been another world. for a moment, ben looked uncertain - but then, jaehaerys spoke, his voice full of warmth ben did not expect, and his easy, boyish grin broke out across his face.

he bowed then, an acknowledgement to the position jaehaerys now found himself in. "surviving is a habit of mine, your highness," he replied, his tone light enough that it passed as a joke, though it held the edge of something quieter, and more reflective, beneath it. his dark eyes drifted over jaehaerys, taking in the finery that marked him as more than the boy ben remembered, replaced the battlefield steel he had worn last they met. ben had fought for rhaenyra targaryen. jaehaerys' crown was all he had given up his childhood to prevent. and yet, there was no stirrings of bitterness within him. "i see you've done more than survive," he said, and it was clear by the sincerity in his tone that he was glad of it.

"i wasn't sure you'd remember me," ben admitted after a pause. "thought a crown might be enough to forget the face of a boy in the snow." he wouldn't have taken it to heart if it had been the case - but jaehaerys hadn't forgotten. the night on the battlefield was a memory neither of them had let go of, it seemed.

who: @benblvckwood what: an unexpected reunion when: flashback to the gathering in the westerlands. the king of new valyria spots a familiar face. where: gardens outside of a feast

The gardens of Casterly Rock were quieter than Jaehaerys Targaryen had expected. Within the walls of the great keep, the feast roared on, full of laughter, boasts, and the clash of goblets raised in Tyland Lannister’s honor. Yet out here, amidst the cold stone pathways and the fragrant bloom of late-summer roses, the night seemed softer, distant from the clamor of revelry. Jaehaerys had stepped away, a rare moment to himself, his mind turning over matters of war, treaties, and alliances.

Clad in the style of Old Valyria, his crimson and black garments gleamed beneath the moonlight, the embroidery of dragons twisting like fire along his sleeves. The mantle of his station hung heavy on his shoulders, and for a moment, he longed for the simpler days of boyhood when he was not a king but a boy riding a dragon through endless skies.

And then, as he turned a corner near a quiet fountain, he saw him.

The face was older, of course, but unmistakable. Lord Ben Blackwood struck Jaehaerys like a memory made flesh. For a moment, he froze, recalling that Yule night so many years ago. They had been boys then, crossing paths on the battlefield when the world had demanded them to fight. Yet neither had raised a sword. Instead, they had shared a rare understanding, born not of politics but of the innocence both were clinging to amidst a war they did not start.

Now, as the lord of Raventree Hall stood before him, the weight of time pressed heavily between them. Jaehaerys’s lips curled into a faint smile.

“Lord Blackwood,” he said, his voice unusually warm, “it's good to see you survived."

[benblvckwood]

ben watched her in silence, the expression in his dark eyes unreadable as she spoke. his thoughts had drifted, not on mako frey, but on himself, the things he had lost that he rarely let himself think about, and all of a sudden, benjicot felt tired and sad.

he rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers. "i know you do. but no matter how much you prepare him, he'll either be ready, or he won't." mako was a soft boy. that much, ben could not deny. but even soft boys could become fearsome men under the right circumstances.

his gaze shifted to the fire, crackling in the hearth, the light casting shadows in the plains of his face. "but there's a difference between preparing him, and making him carry a weight he's not ready for." his voice was firm. "the world's gonna come for him eventually. don't let it take him before he wants to go with it."

Cyrene tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, amused smile as she listened to Benjicot’s words. She knew the game he was playing—the teasing, the feigned nonchalance. It was his way of disarming her, of keeping things light when they both knew how much heavier life could be.

“The same thing?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, though there was no sting in her voice. “You’re getting too old for such easy mistakes, Benji. But I suppose I’ll allow it this time,” she added with a playful flick of her hand, a subtle concession.

His boyish grin, so familiar and yet always capable of making her smile, softened the edge of her thoughts. He was right about one thing, though. There were grown men who could barely hold a conversation, yet managed to do well enough in the more trivial aspects of life. She couldn’t deny that.

When Benjicot grew serious, his tone shifting to something more distant, Cyrene felt her expression soften, a hint of protectiveness creeping into her heart. She could see that he was trying to give her advice, the kind that only someone who had known the weight of a burdensome past could offer. And though his words were not always easy to swallow, she listened carefully.

“I know, Benji,” she said quietly, her voice softer now. “But it’s hard. When you’ve seen what the world can do to those too innocent to protect themselves… sometimes, it feels like you have no choice.”

She paused, her gaze turning distant, her thoughts briefly drifting to her children and the weight of her own fears. “I won’t push him away from childhood, but I can’t help but want to prepare him. I lost so much time to things I never saw coming… I don’t want him to face that.”

Her tone softened further, an unspoken sadness hanging between them. “I suppose… I just want him to be ready, for whatever comes.”

[benblvckwood]

alex fitzalan, stories (2023)

[benblvckwood]

ben halted his pacing as he listened to hugo, coming to rest behind the chair he had risen from and gripping the back of it, seemingly not noticing the fact his knuckles had turned white. he knew exactly what hugo was doing - trying to stand firm, trying to wield the authority the queen had given him. his chest rose and fell with breaths that rang with ben's anger, his temper clearly only worsening.

the issue was, now, that hugo was speaking to ben in a way that made him feel like a child. a muscle in his jaw jumped, and he leaned forward across the chair that served as a barrier between them, the look in his eyes dark and unflinching.

"i understand you perfectly, my lord vance. contrary to what you might think, i am not a fucking idiot."

it were the calm before the storm. it was all ben could do to retrain himself from drawing back his boot and kicking the leg of the table hugo sat at. as it was, the more he spoke, the more his voice rose. "this the queen's peace then, is it?" he said with a bitter laugh. "one lord gets to make a move against the other, and the one who has been wronged has to pay for defending what's his. that a fair law to you?"

his finger raised, jabbing in hugo's direction. "how about the fact you've basically told the bracken cunts they can strut around doing as they please, so long as they have the coin to pay you for the pleasure. that seem fair to you, vance?"

he eyed hugo with suspicion then, the wheels turning in his head. it were clear what he was thinking - that hugo had taken sides. it was what he had feared the moment the queen had pinned the badge of the hand upon ronan bracken's chest. "if bracken's men cannot keep their sword sheathed, that is not my problem to pay for. especially when i am yet to see anything that indicates you have any intention of making him pay at all."

Hugo listened quietly, his expression unreadable as Ben’s temper flared. The Blackwood lord’s voice grew sharper, his words like thunder echoing off the stone walls, but Hugo did not rise to meet the anger. He simply stood there, hands clasped in front of him, allowing Ben's outburst to unfold.

When the room fell silent again, Hugo’s wry smile softened, though there was no humor in it now. His green eyes held steady, never leaving Ben’s face. "Ah, Lord Blackwood," he said, his voice steady and measured, though his thick Riverlands accent carried a weight of both authority and familiarity. "It seems we’ve a bit o' misunderstanding, don’t we?"

He took a slow step forward, his boots silent on the stone floor, and leaned just slightly toward the table, as if the proximity might ease the tension. "I’ll tell ye this plainly, so there’s no mistakin’ my words: I don’t take kindly to men causin’ trouble, no matter their banner. Bracken’s lot started this, aye, but I’ve yet to hear one of yer own men tell me that they weren’t involved, just as much as the rest. You ask a Blackwood and they blame a Bracken, you ask a Bracken and it were you lot."

"The law’s simple, my lord," Hugo continued, his tone sharpening ever so slightly, but still carrying that lilt that made it hard to take offense. "I cannae make exceptions, no matter how much I might like to. A merchant’s dead. Men are bruised and bleedin'. And our Queen is new to her reign."

Hugo straightened, taking a step back, his smile returning, though it was faint and serious. "As for the toll, aye, I’ll be seeing Lord Bracken as well. But until then, the law stands. No one’s above it—not even ye, my lord."

[benblvckwood]

for a moment, ben wasn't entirely sure what he had stumbled into when he walked out into the yard. it was a strange sight - a gathering of riverlanders, his own men mingled with that of other houses, forming a ring around a dornish lord kicking a ball like they wanted to chase him over the nearest border. he stopped in his tracks, taking a moment to try and figure out what was going on, why the sight of a man playing with a ball was so contentious. ben liked ball games.

and then ryon wyl spoke, and clarity hit ben at once. it wasn't the football. the man was simply a cunt.

another man, one with more sense and more patience than ben blackwood might have walked away, but not he. he had spent his life much like this, since he was a boy something scratching at him from inside his chest, demanding he find something to fight, because to him, that was the only thing that made sense. it was only quiet when it had acquired a target, but even if it was not there, ryon's words were an insult he could not let lie in front of a crowd. he would not slink away with his tail between his legs for any man.

instead, he stepped closer, his movements almost casual if not for the fact he was clearly coiled tightly under his skin, a man about three seconds away from the reaction ryon wyl clearly wanted. still, when he spoke, his voice did not waver, nor ring with anger, somehow managing to maintain a cool evenness despite his rising temper.

"tell me, wyl," he called out at last, when he was close enough that the two of them stood at the centre of the circle created by the riverlanders. "do you actually think you're funny?" his gaze broke from ryon's, instead glancing around at the crowd, sliding across tense face after tense face. "anyone? anyone think he's funny? no?" he turned again, eyes locking back on ryon's. "you're the only one laughing, man. it's embarrassing for you. so do yourself a favour and pack it in, yeah?"

who: @benblvckwood what: while taking advantage of the hospitality laws in westeros and a connection to jalabhar mooton, ryon wyl spends some time in riverrun on his journey to the north. he decides to make friends the wyl way which is not at all.

The leather ball rolled lazily beneath Ryon Wyl’s boot as he stood in the shadow of Riverrun’s towering walls, the faint scuff of his heel against the dirt making the only sound. Dressed down for once, Ryon’s usual layers of Dornish finery were replaced by simple traveling leathers, though his belt bore a small, gleaming dagger that suggested he wasn’t entirely unarmed. His dark hair were damp with sweat, and the flush of his cheeks hinted at exertion, though his sly smirk betrayed no hint of exhaustion.

He nudged the ball forward with a casual flick of his foot, letting it roll before kicking it back to himself with an effortless precision that spoke to his ease. Around him, men looked on with barely concealed irritation, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords as if the Dornishman’s very presence warranted drawing steel. Yes, there was a small dust up on the road but he wouldn't be questioned by anyone.

"You know," Ryon drawled, his accent thick, with a cadence that made even insults sound pleasant, "I was expecting more from the men of Raventree Hall. Dead God sigil right?" His smile was almost pleasant, "On the road, I thought I was being harried by wolves, but when I turned to look, it was just you lot. Pity, really."

He grinned as the leather ball thudded against the ground, then darted forward to give it a hard kick, sending it sailing in a lazy arc through the air before it bounced back near his feet.

He glanced toward the gathering crowd of Blackwood men, his grin widening as he lazily passed the ball between his feet. "What's it like to be men with moon's blood I wonder."

[benblvckwood]

ben shifted where he stood, the soft dirt of the riverbank shifting underneath him. "don't have any wisdom to give you, aidan," he admitted. "not unless battlelines are drawn. but i don't think anybody wants to see that." he had always been more at home with steel in his hand than fumbling over his words. this politicking, talk of silences and declarations, it wasn't his domain. perhaps if his father had lived longer, he might have been better at it, but somehow, he doubted it. there was a certainty to battle, in having a clear enemy and a clear goal, that did not exist here, standing by the river while the fate of the kingdom's future was spun behind closed doors. give him a sword, and ben could carve a path. but with this, he was blind.

but something stirred uneasily within him. as a boy, he had never thought to question aidan when he made a statement, and he still did not now, but ben's thoughts lingered on his words. he spoke of those with the power to take a crown, of not wanting to shut himself out from things, and ben searched the word for meanings that seemed to dance just out of his reach. the riverlands did not need the upheaval of a succession crisis - not when they had already crowned iona their queen.

but this was aidan. he had always put his trust in his cousin without hesitation. it were enough that ben pushed all doubt to the side, casting it off like discarded armour. he claimed he did not want it, and so ben clung to that. whatever was going on, whatever talks were being had, it did not matter. he would put his trust in the fact that aidan was not a man trying to pull the strings. he was family, and someone ben would without a doubt trust to fight and bleed beside him. and so, he nodded his head.

"well, that's cause you aren't a fool," he paused, then let out a chuckle. "and if you are, then i'm a bigger one. but if the banks of the river burst - well, i'll be there beside you, won't i? a man can't turn back the current alone." his friendship, and his loyalty, went without saying, but he voiced it anyway in quiet tones. his gaze flicked back to the hall, and he drew himself up a little straighter, as though steeling his spine. "if you're going back in, i'll follow," the grin on his face was self-deprecating. "but if i end up disappearing later, tell everyone i drank too much and passed out by the stables. seems more dignified that way." he alluded to the women, the fact the sight of them, in all their glory, had his flustered.

he paused before beginning to walk, and took a step towards aidan, throwing his arms around him in a brief, tight hug. "glad you're home," he muttered, before releasing him, clapping him on the back, and returning to the chaos of the feast.

Aidan leaned against the stone by the river, his blue eyes studying the dark water as it rippled beneath the stars. Ben’s words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking into Aidan’s chest. He didn’t know what was more unsettling—the certainty in his cousin’s voice or the fact that the idea of being king was something he hadn’t been able to shake, even if he tried.

“Well, it’s no secret that the Riverlands would rather have a Tully sitting on that throne,” Aidan muttered, more to himself than to Ben. He took a deep breath, the cool night air biting at his skin, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the hall. “It’s not about who wears the crown. It’s about who has the power to take it when it matters. If the council keeps circling like vultures, then I’ll be damned if I let them tear us apart.”

He ran a hand through his messy auburn curls, lips twitching with a half-smile. "As much as I love a good scrap, I don't much care for the politics of it all. I’ve never been one for sitting in a room full of dull, scheming men and women as it would seem, making decisions that’ll only make things worse. But, as much as I hate to admit it, someone has to do it. I suppose I just need to make damn sure it’s not me and it stay Iona. Declaring for her though, shuts me out of things."

Aidan looked back at Ben, his eyes narrowing as he considered his cousin’s words. "You’re right. I have to choose my next move carefully. You say they might see silence as a declaration. Maybe. But I don’t care about their expectations. I’m not here to please anyone. I’ll do what’s needed when the time comes, and not a moment before."

He shifted his weight and stood up straighter, turning to face Ben fully. "I trust you, cousin. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a damn fool. But even you know—sometimes being in the right place at the right time makes all the difference." Aidan’s grin returned, though it was more wry than warm. "I’ll make sure the riverbanks hold. I may not want the throne, but the Riverlands will never sink as long as I’m still breathing."

He clapped Ben on the shoulder, his tone lighter. "But don’t let me drag you into all of this tonight. You came to drink and enjoy yourself, not listen to me sulk." Aidan flashed a grin. "Let’s go back inside before someone decides we’ve abandoned the party entirely. And if ye wish, do a runner now and I'll say ye had to go."

[benblvckwood]

ben exhaled a laugh, corner of his mouth turning upwards in a half-smirk. "all right," he admitted. "i don't know how to dance. anyway, don't matter how big your foe is, it's different when they're wearing silks and looking at me like - well, like a lannister does." the words came tumbling out, half-defensive and half-amused. there was something in the way brandon's eyes stayed on him, as though the battlefields that had become memories that taunted ben in the night lingered in his gaze, the shadows of it he'd tried to bury making themselves known in the breeze of the night.

"besides, usually they're trying to hack me to bits, not lead me in a waltz. think i'd prefer the blade to the embarrassment."

he was grateful they had stepped outside - in the dark, brandon would not be able to see the red flush that had crept up his neck. besides, it was easier to think clearer out here, the laughter and music fading behind them as they walked. there was something easy about making jabs at the frey's expense, they way it had always been, even as his own cousin served as the lady of the crossing. "what can i say? i'm a font of wisdom." he let out a laugh, as though the very idea that he could be wise was ridiculous.

brandon's words hung between them, light enough to pass, but ben felt the weight of them regardless. it wasn't just freys he was willing to poke at these days. the itch to fight something, anything, was ever present, and didn't much care where the blade landed. "he is," his eyes darkened, making no attempt to hide his displeasure at the fact ronan bracken sat as hand of the kingdom. "dunno if the queen meant it as a dig or what. makes my teeth itch." he kicked a pebble at his feet, sending it skittering into the dark.

"dunno what his game is either, but it's nothing good for me and mine. something's coming for me. i can feel it in my chest." there were things that ben was utterly clueless about, but his intuition was always spot on. there was a shadow closing in on him, waiting for the moment to strike, and he was sure that the one who cast it was ronan bracken.

"got to be ready, don't i? for when it gets here." and thus was the truth of benjicot blackwood. brandon had urged him not to let the battles define him, but the truth was it was far too late for that, had been too late since the very first time someone had uttered the name bloody ben. "aint no different for you though, is it? in the north. i'm not stupid. you've got battles of your own up there that have nothing to do with the freys throwing their weight about."

♞

brandon’s lips opened into a bark of a laugh as ben’s grumbling reached him. "giant of a woman, aye?" he repeated, letting the words roll out with a lazy drawl, his northern burr thick. "and there i were thinkin’ you’d conquered bigger foes, benny. though, by the look of you, maybe not." he chuckled, low and rough, his arms still crossed over his chest as he surveyed the younger man. there was something about ben—always had been. he weren’t a boy anymore, but brandon couldn’t shake the memory of him, all fire and fury and too little sense on a battlefield where no child should’ve stood.

he clapped ben on the shoulder as they stepped toward the open air, the bonfires crackling in the distance. "aye, let’s breathe somethin’ that ain’t sweat and southern perfume. stiflin’, that lot." the cool night air greeted them, sharp and crisp, and brandon took a long breath, letting it fill his lungs. "nobody likes the freys, you say?" he shot ben a sidelong glance, his smile broadening. "that might be the wisest thing to’ve come out your mouth all night. aleks’d raise a mug to that. though gods forbid he’d ever trust your men for it—he’s too stubborn, worse than me, and that’s sayin’ somethin’." the teasing tone softened the barb, though there was no missing the way his eyes lingered on ben’s face, searching.

brandon leaned against the stone railing, the flames casting their light across his weathered features. he didn’t speak for a moment, letting the crackle of the bonfires fill the silence. finally, his voice came quieter, more thoughtful. "pokin' at the freys from the south?" he ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling sharply; lord blackwood was young, and had not been able shadow his father in his duties as ruling lord for long enough - and now here he was, ruling lord. "don't be makin' enemies at home for me and aleks sake...you need yer allies, ain't ronan bracken now hand?" he asked, his arms crossing over his torso as he looked upon him.

he still saw a small, war-torn boy with eyes that appeared unstable. fearful, even. unsettling. quick to jump to violence, quick to shed blood.

"why you so quick to jump to yer sword lad? you can fight all your life and still find there’s nothin’ left worth winnin’ when it’s over." he straightened, his gaze steady. "you’ve got a mind for war, aye, but don’t let it define you. there’s more to life than battles and freys, hard as it is to believe." his grin returned, faint but genuine. "now, tell me true—was it her height that rattled you, or the fact you can’t dance for shit? be honest, benny, it’s just us northerners out here."

[benblvckwood]

ben let out a little noise in the back of his throat, something in between exasperation and amusement. "four, three, it's all the same thing," his hand waved dismissively. "how old's his sister, then?" he asked. he was being facetious now, asking her questions he knew she would scoff at, knowing well cyrene's children were twins.

"'sides, i know fully grown lords who can't hold a conversation. they eat peas like champions, though," the grin on his face was boyish, making him look younger than his years. "look, i get it. you are his mother. you want him to be smart and strong and all that." that was what mothers do, isn't it? he had never known one. he could not be entirely sure.

"but listen to me when i tell you this," he paused, looking at her to make sure she was paying attention. "let the lad be a lad. nothing will come from forcing him to let go of what it is to be a child before his time." there was a strange note to his tone, his expression suddenly a little more detached and distant. they were talking of things now that ben did not often talk about, actively avoided. "you'll regret it if you don't."

Cyrene stifled a sigh, though her lips curved into something like a reluctant smile. Benjicot’s comments, though sometimes far from refined, were a welcome reprieve from the rigid formalities that defined her life. She could always count on him for a little levity, even if it came at the expense of accuracy.

“He’s four, Benji,” she corrected, her tone soft but firm, as if she had said it a hundred times before. She didn’t mind the mistake, not really. It was more the principle of it.

At his suggestion, she raised an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of amusement in her gaze. “You might be right about the dinner manners,” she replied dryly, “though I am more concerned with whether he’ll be able to hold his own in a conversation with a Lord before he learns how to properly eat peas."

[benblvckwood]

the expression on ben's face was one of utter boredom. his sister had wanted to visit lannisport, asked him to accompany her, but had caught sight of a long-lost friend from the north and dashed off, leaving him to wander the streets alone. the bustling street had little to offer him - just clusters of fine wares and overpriced indulgences that he did not need. and when he listened carefully, he thought he could hear something in the din, a woman's voice that carried with it a tinge of distress. his brow furrowed, and he moved down the street, wandering if he was hearing things upon seeing nothing untoward.

but no - there it was again, a little louder this time. but still faint upon the sounds of the merchants calling out their prices. he was sure he had heard something now, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword in anticipation. perhaps it were a mugging in an alley, something he would be better off ignoring, but the urgency pulled at his instincts.

the rattle of iron, and the voice was louder again. you there. was it coming from the ground? he turned his gaze downwards, blinking as his eyes met another pair, wide and desperate, at the level of his boots. he moved closer without hesitation, crouching as he did so, wheels turning in his head as he attempted to make sense of her situation. "locked in?" he repeated, reaching out to rattle the iron bars himself, testing if there was a way to loosen them, but they held firm. knees in the dirt of the ground, he peered through the bars at her. "all right. i'm coming to get you. just... wait there." it did not seem to occur to him that she had no other option but to wait. she could not go anywhere else.

he rose to his feet, tracing a path around the building until he came to the shop's entrance. his hand shot out, testing the handle of the door. locked. of course it was. he did not pause to think, instead taking a step backwards, drawing back his boot, and kicking hard. the door shuddered, the wood letting out a groan, but the latch held. a second, heavier blow saw it crack, crumbling in on itself enough for him to step inside.

his footsteps echoed on the warped floorboards, gaze canning the narrow shop and faded tapestries upon the walls. the light from the window barely reached the back of the room - but he could make out a second door on the wall. "stand away from the door, my lady," he called out to her, hoping that if she was behind it, she could hear him. he took a moment to press against the door - it looked sturdier than the one at the entrance, without an obvious lock to kick, and he wanted to test it's resistance, how much give it had in it.

he took several steps back, putting some distance between himself at the door. and then, he ran, aiming his shoulder at it. the first solid hit cracked the frame, and the second caved it in entirely. ben stumbled into the basement, all but tumbling down the stairs and into the room and finding himself sprawled upon the ground, fragments of wood from the door and bits of whatever it was he had crashed into under him.

he rose to his feet, brushing splinters from his clothing as he straightened, and then, there she was, stood in the far corner of the room, looking a little worse for wear, but thankfully unhurt. "you all right?" he asked, moving to her and offering an arm to guide her out of the basement and back to the street above them. "not hurt, are you?" his own shoulder was smarting from his collision with the door, and his back and knees from the fall down the stairs, but it was nothing that would leave lasting damage.

"... how did you manage to get locked down here?"

who: @benblvckwood when and where: semi flashback, a bustling side street in lannisport, lined with elegant stone townhouses and vibrant market stalls. she finds herself in a lesser-used storeroom filled with dusty tapestries and supposedly cursed items and, without realising it, manages to lock herself inside the lower level of the storeroom.

naelys had never felt more out of place in her life. a woman of noble blood, standing in the dust-filled basement of a forgotten shop in lannisport, of all places, in a room brimming with relics that had seen better centuries. this wasn’t her world—this musty little storeroom, the forgotten tapestries, the strange trinkets that gave off an unsettling air of antiquity. she had thought it would be quaint, just a quick stop for some idle amusement while she wandered the busy streets of the city, waiting for marcella to be finished with whatever it was she was doing.

but now, she was locked in. she had been poking around, mindlessly trailing her fingers over dusty, ancient fabrics, when the door had somehow shut behind her with a soft click. one small, harmless push. she hadn’t realised the latch had caught until it was too late. her heart had leapt into her throat the moment she tried to leave. there was no response despite how much she banged on the basement door, how much she insisted that something was wrong with the door. and now she was here, standing on a rickety stool, her fingers pressed against the iron bars of a small window, peering out into the world she couldn’t reach.

what if no one could hear her? was the shopkeeper was gone? asleep, or worse, dead? had he died somehow? how long would it be until someone found her? the panic swelled in her chest, twisting like an iron band, no doubt because of the dark stuffiness of the basement room and the dust she continued to breathe in. the strange objects looking at her only inflamed her sense of panic. she tried to swallow it down, but it only made her throat dry, her palms slick against the bars. she was faced with the boots of passers by, the hooves of animals, and the dirt on the streets of lannisport. it made her push back a gag.

she let out a shaky breath, the sound of bustling market life outside the storeroom doors strangely distant. voices, the clink of metal, the murmur of pedestrians all seemed muffled, as though she were sinking deeper into something she couldn’t escape. “hello?” she called out, but the words seemed so small, so desperate, even to her own ears. she hated the way her voice quivered, the way it trembled with rising dread. “can anyone hear me? i—i’m locked in here!” there was little use in trying to shake the iron bars, though over the sound of the wagons and the loud chattering and the sound of the flutes, she could audibly hear her voice drowning.

her breath hitched as her eyes flicked to the dim room, half-expecting one of the objects to come to life and mock her for her predicament. she caught her reflection in a dusty mirror, her wild hair and pale face, and wondered how she'd let herself be trapped in such a ridiculous situation. “hello-hello? i need help!” she tried again, her voice slightly more firm this time, though she could feel the panic bubbling beneath. she stood taller, the wooden stool creaking dangerously beneath her, and tried to peer through the small window at the world she had thought she could easily walk back into.

and then—through the bars—she saw him. a man, with dark, unruly hair, standing just outside the shop, a casual air to his stance as though he didn’t quite belong to the city either. he was probably just passing through, perhaps a traveller or a nobleman on his way to somewhere important.she was sure she had never seen him before, but she found herself banging on the iron rails and increasing the loudness of her voice. “you there!” she called, waving her hand frantically, her voice much louder now, a sharp contrast to her previous hesitance. “can you hear me? i—i need help!” her words felt thick and clumsy in her mouth, the embarrassment heavy in her chest. she wasn’t used to pleading. to asking for help. it felt so… vulnerable. but there was no other choice. the helplessness made her stomach twist painfully.

“please,” she added, almost breathlessly as he finally met her gaze, a look of confusion crossing over his features. “i’m locked in here.the shop keeper knew i was down here, i don't know where he's gone...the door, the door is broken and he won't respond.”

[benblvckwood]

there was a moment where ben was listening to hugo, his expression polite, if not particularly interested in the topic of conversation. so blackwoods and brackens had clashed - it was hardly news. they fought each other all the time. but the more hugo vance spoke, the more ben saw red, the polite smile wiped from his face and a storm brewing in his dark eyes.

"so let me get this straight," his grip tightened on the leather of the armrest, his voice low, but hard as iron. "bracken's lot sweep in and start it, and you expect my men to pay the price? have i actually heard you right there, lord vance?" he paused for a moment, the fire crackling the only sound in the room. he were giving hugo the opportunity to tell him he had heard wrong, that he was utterly mistaken, but it did not come.

"no." he said, flatly. "my men will be paying no fines for this, lord vance. if bracken's dogs can't keep their hands off our carts, then the blood's on them. you will not punish us for defending what's ours." suspicion clouded his expression as he sat forward, his whole body taut like a bowstring ready to snap. had a fine really been issued to both sides, or was hugo saying that to placate him? was he allowing ronan to do as he pleased, because he wore the hands pin, while demanding ben pay reparations for it? "you want coin for a dead merchant? send your riders to stone hedge. bracken started this. if there's a toll to pay, he can pay it in full."

ben's jaw was tensed. it was clear he was trying to control his temper, but succeeding horribly in that task. he rose to his feet, chair legs making a horrible screeching sound as they scraped against the stone floor, and began to pace, hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. "i'll not be setting a precedent that blackwood men stand by and let bracken take what he pleases from us without answer. and i'll not have you," he jabbed a finger at hugo, "lumping them in with the bastards that struck first. bracken's fine is fair. mine is not."

he let out a huff of air, a deep, exasperated sound. hugo sat there, grinning at him like he was trying to patronise ben into lying down and showing him his belly, and talked of not making exceptions as though he could not see how unfair this was.

who @benblvckwood what: lord vance speaks with lord blackwood about some issues on the roads.

The council chamber was quiet now, save for the crackle of the hearth at the far end of the room. Most of the lords had already departed, leaving the faint scent of wine and ink in their wake. The chamber itself was simple yet dignified—a long table of polished oak stretched the length of the room, surrounded by chairs marked with the sigils of their respective houses. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries of rivers and willows, their muted colors soft in the firelight.

Hugo Vance lingered near the table’s head, his posture relaxed but his attention keen. He was dressed in a dark green tunic embroidered with intricate golden patterns at the cuffs and neckline, a subtle nod to his house’s wealth and taste. A black dragon-shaped brooch clasped his crimson mantle at the shoulder, and a thin leather belt held a small knife at his side.

He turned toward Ben with a small, wry smile, though his blue eyes carried the weight of the subject at hand. “Ah, Lord Blackwood,” he began, his words rolling with a lilt that softened the edge of his formality. “Seems th’Fairmarket road’s grown a mite too lively these days, aye? Yer lads an’ Bracken’s clashed again—this time o’er, what was it now? A cart o’ timber, if I’ve heard true. Left a merchant stone dead, three o’ mine bruised an’ bleedin’, an’ th’poor travelers skittish as hares.”

Hugo stepped closer to the table, his hands resting lightly on the smooth wood as he leaned forward, the firelight catching the gold trim on his sleeves. “Now, as ye’d expect, I’ve gone an’ issued fines t’both sides. Bracken’s lot fer their rashness, an’ yer own fer stirrin’ the pot, so t’speak. The law’s the law, my lord, an’ it makes no exceptions—not even fer the likes o’ Bracken or Blackwood.”

Straightening again, he clasped his hands loosely in front of him, his smile faint but present. Though his voice carried warmth, there was no mistaking the seriousness beneath it. The cadence of his words may have sounded effortless, but his tone made it clear that Hugo was a man who expected the law to be upheld.

[benblvckwood]

emira did not respond right away, instead taking a beat where it felt like she was studying him - something only intensified when her brow sloped upwards. he shuffled on his feet, bracing himself for the jab that he was sure was coming. the look on her face gave little away, and in a way, that was worse, leaving him to stew in the anticipation of it all. he had been less nervy with a blade pressed to his throat than he was when faced with emira mallister's stare. it shouldn't be like this, should it? he could not imagine his brother feeling like this when talking with a woman, nor the other men he had known. aidan tully certainly could not be reduced to quaking in his boots at the sight of a woman's rasied eyebrow, nor could brandon karstark.

he needed to get it together.

the jab didn't come. she was definitely teasing him, lips quirking into a small smile, but it did not feel quite so much of a battle as he had been expecting. the sheer ordinariness of it all was enough to coax a laugh from him, the set of his shoulders relaxing. "can a man not be both terrifying and good with his hands?" he asked, head cocking to one side. "a bit of balance keeps things interesting, doesn't it, lady mallister?"

her apology came quickly, almost stumbling over her own jest, and ben looked at her, nonplussed. it was not just that he was surprised to hear the apology - it was that he hadn't thought what she said was that bad in the first place. certainly not enough to warrant it. he shrugged one shoulder, shaking his head. "s'all right. i've heard worse. you're fine."

his eyes made contact with hers, and he said nothing for a moment, merely holding her gaze. his mouth felt oddly dry. he let out an odd little cough, an attempt to clear his throat. "you're nervous. makes two of us. don't think there's a knight in the realm you couldn't bring to his knees if you put your mind to it." he did not mean to say that, but the words had slipped out before he could rein them in.

he laughed again. "you've been listening to too many ballads about me." the words were blunter than he intended them to be, and he deliberately made an effort to soften his tone when he spoke again. "you're not what i expected either," he admitted, tipping his head slightly to the side. "i thought you'd be more... delicate, i suppose." he did not speak as though it was a bad thing that she was not.

"beyond swinging swords and carving birds?" he scuffed her boot on the path, face screwing up in thought. "there's probably not much to tell you that you don't already know," he pointed out. sometimes it felt like the bards knew more about his life than he did. "war came for me early, and i was quite good at it. or at least, just too stubborn to die, i don't know. i was ten when i left home, twenty when i came back." he paused for a moment, trying to gauge how much to share with her. "i suppose i am still trying to figure out the rest. the kind of man i am, and who i want to be."

a beat, and he looked at her again, as though searching for approval in her expression. "i meant what i said about the raven. if you want one, i'll make it. if you'd like that."

.

emira listened intently, her fingers still brushing over the smooth curves of the carved eagle as ben spoke. his voice was steady, but there was a hint of hesitation beneath it, as though he wasn’t quite sure how much to reveal. she tilted her head, her expression carefully composed, though her thoughts churned beneath the surface. so, he whittles to pass the time during war? that was unexpected—almost disarmingly so. she had imagined a man like him, forged in battle and shaped by violence, would have little room for something so quiet, so thoughtful. she wanted to say something about that bu instead, she glanced up at him, one brow arching in a way that had left many a knight squirming.

“well, i must say, lord blackwood, it’s a relief to know you’re skilled with something other than a sword,” she quipped, her tone light but had a edge she had mastered long ago, the faintest smirk pulling at her lips. “though i suppose carving birds is a better use of time during war than brooding around a campfire and terrifying other soldiers.” that's what they said about him right? bloody ben. wasn't he supposed to be scary? terrifying. but here she was looking at a man, and not the myth of him.

she let her words hang in the air, watching for his reaction, before giving him a more appraising look. “a raven next, you say? how ambitious. though i have to warn you, this eagle has set a rather high standard.” she held it up with an exaggerated flourish, as if she were inspecting it for flaws. “if the next one doesn’t impress me, i might be forced to let everyone know that the great ben blackwood’s talents lie in… woodworking and awkward silences.”

her smile faltered as the words left her lips. “i’m sorry… i dont know why i said that. that was mean of me” she was supposed to be here to marry this man not run him away. what would people say then? were they saying anything at all. “i’m nervous i suppose…” she tilted her head up, her gaze locking onto his. she didn’t mean to be cruel, not really—it was just that teasing felt safer than acknowledging the strange flutter of nerves in her chest every time he looked at her. better to keep the upper hand than let him see her uncertainty.

“you’re not at all what i expected,” she said finally, her tone softening slightly like her smile. “i thought you’d be more… brooding, i suppose. all serious and grim. instead, here you are, making birds for me.” she said. “tell me about yourself lord blackwood. i am curious to know more.”

[benblvckwood]

Anne Carson, H of H Playbook