"𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓'𝑠 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑," their father always called it. Could make a man or woman wild in a sense, unpredictable, and powerful. And when a violet-eyed twin born to the Lord Eddard Stark, all knew that the boy would have it. And he did.
Beside his...
꧁~~~Benget Stark~~~꧂ ꧁~~~298 After Conquest~~~꧂ ❄❄❄
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꧁The soft strums of a lute call out through the wooded cover of the Kingsroad, a whistle every so often when he had stopped singing. Jon on occasion grows a little annoyed by the singing but usually finds it amusing, finding the songs of his brother soothing on the long trek through the Northern wilderness to the mighty Wall, one of the great wonders of the world, far better than the likes of Qarth, in Benget's opinion. Though, he wouldn't know any better about that subject, he's never been to Essos.
"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun And her kisses were warmer than spring
But the Dornishman's blade was made from blacksteel, And it's kiss was a terrible thing!"
"Quite a musical lad, aren't you?"
Lord Tyrion Lannister asks from his horse, glancing at Benget as the Stark-Dayne sits side-saddle with his leg crossed over his knee as he leads his horse along almost effortlessly as he strums the cords to his loots, a carefree smile worn on his face.
"My brother used to sing around Wintertown, see how much he could make in a day."
"And what did he do with it after?"
Tyrion asks as though Ben were not there, to which the oldest Stark doesn't really mind as he stops whistling, still strumming the strings smoothly, acting as though it was second nature to do so as he grins at the Lannister.
"Depends really. Most times I would go around and give what I made to the poor around Wintertown or Winterfell. One time I got terribly drunk.."
Jon and Tyrion laugh at that as Benjen, who rides in the front of the small pack of wolves, a lion and misfits smiles to himself at his nephew's words. The woods surrounding them are darkened, even though it is only a little time past midday. The silence surrounding them all is broken through by the strums of the lute, the musical notes calling out in the air as the tall trees blot put the pale grey sky, cutting the soft breeze short.
It's calm. Almost too calm in Benget's professional opinion as his soft strumming of his lute slowly ends and he puts the straps of said instrument over his head, letting it settle on his back as he shifts his leg back over to the other side, putting his feet into his steed's stirrups.
"Oh, I was enjoying the music."
"Sorry, Lannister. I'm not your own personal bard."
