Bennard's hate

Winterfell
Gaemon POV
103 AC

Gaemon awoke with groggy eyes, a long yawn escaping his lips as he blinked away the remnants of sleep. He pushed off his covers and made his way to the only window in his chamber, shoving it open with a slight push. The crisp morning air rushed in, carrying with it the golden rays of dawn, the chill sharp enough to chase away whatever drowsiness remained.

Without hesitation, he moved through his morning routine, ending with a bath—though not without difficulty. Closing the doors behind him with deliberate care, he let out a sigh, exasperated at the fifteen minutes he'd wasted arguing with Winterfell’s maids and servants, who seemed insistent on assisting him. He had no need for their help, yet they had lingered outside the door, their hushed whispers and hesitant footsteps still audible.

With a relieved huff, he sank into the steaming water, letting out a quiet, involuntary giggle as the heat enveloped him. He chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the sheer pleasure of warmth against his skin. A flicker of temptation arose—to push the heat further, to make it truly scalding—but the thought of calling the servants back and giving them another excuse to hover made him discard the idea. He had no doubt that, once inside, they wouldn’t leave.

As the moments stretched, his mind drifted from the bliss of warmth to his future. He was five name-days old—too young to wield any true influence, yet mentally old enough to recognize that time was not something he could afford to waste. For now, his best course of action was to train, strengthen himself, and forge bonds with those in the North whom he might trust when the world inevitably descended into chaos.

Because make no mistake, chaos would come. The Dance was inevitable. He had no magical means to save Aemma Arryn, and as long as his father—Daemon Targaryen—or Otto Hightower lived, the game of power would persist. Neither man was the type to leave enemies standing, nor to suffer rivals unchallenged. Sooner or later, war would come, regardless of what choices he made.

But that did not mean he had to dance to their tune.

Why not claim the throne for himself?

The thought was tempting but fleeting. The weight of responsibility was too great, and the mistakes of his ancestors were too numerous to correct in a single lifetime. No, he was not one to take on burdens he had no desire—or certainty—to carry to completion. The realm was vast, full of unknown lands and untouched opportunities. Why chain himself to a throne where each day would be spent drowning in flattery, deceit, and the ambitions of others? There was a world beyond King’s Landing, beyond the Red Keep’s suffocating walls.

And yet, freedom was a fool’s dream.

For lords, for kings, for those of noble birth—true freedom did not exist. Privilege came at a price, and those who sought to break free from it were labeled rogues or exiles, forever cast out from the power they were born into. He knew this truth well. He had learned, in the life before this one, that no man could truly control the future.

Aye, the choices one made shaped the road ahead—but not in a world like this.

With that in mind, Gaemon reached a decision. His ambitions could wait. For now, he would focus on the one thing within his control: himself. He would grow stronger, sharpen his skills, and prepare for the storm he knew was coming.

By the time he rose from the bath, the water had cooled, and the heat had long faded. He stepped out, dried himself, and put on fresh clothes. With one last glance at his reflection, he straightened his posture and made his way to the great hall for breakfast.

One step at a time.

**G**T**S**I**

Gaemon reached the hall, took his seat at the table, and watched as servants bowed and continued their work placing their breakfast on the table. The sound of footsteps rang from the doors, and Gaemon turned his head to watch who had arrived, as he was the first to reach the hall. His cousin Bennard Stark, with his usual black outfit, entered with his icy cold mask on his long face. But that soon changed when his eyes landed on Gaemon as he raised an eyebrow in surprise and increased his pace to reach the table.

Bennard sat in the chair opposite him and looked at him with slightly squinted eyes. "Good morning, cousin. I must say you sure knew how to ride, as you used to shout all around the keep." His grey eyes were alight with mischief and mirth, and his tone was clear. 

"Good Morning to you, too, cousin. I admit it was stupid of me to go all alone and unsupervised, but fret not—I won't make the same mistake again." Gaemon nodded his head and smirked inwardly, and shock came over his cousin's face.

"Make no mistake, I really am happy that you learned your lesson. But why do I feel that you're up to no good?" Said Bennard with suspicion, clearly in his tone.

"Whatever you mean by that, cousin. I'm just admitting my mistake and no more." Said Gaemon with a shrug. Silence prevailed between them as Bennard didn't speak and just gazed at him with a puzzling look in his eyes like Gaemon was some mystery that he couldn't solve. "Say, cousin. Could you by any chance start to train me in the way of swordsmanship?" Gaemon asked, breaking the silence and revealing the original motive for him to speak cordially with his cousin.

Bennard's face broke into a triumphant smile, "And here I was worrying that you had gotten up to another one of your mischiefs. So this was all because you want me to train you. You could have asked me directly, cousin. You know I wouldn't have refused you. But we have to get my brother's permission, as you know how protective he and his lady wife are of you. Not that I blame him." The smile on his face was gone until the end and the same icy cold mask was back.

"Very well. With your help, I’m sure convincing him won’t be too difficult," Gaemon said with a small smirk.

His cousin's face paled instantly, panic flashing across his features before he schooled his expression into firm denial. He was just about to voice his objection when the great doors swung open, announcing the arrival of Gaemon's lordly cousin and his wife.

Lady Stark’s face lit up the moment she saw Gaemon seated at the table. Without hesitation, she strode toward him and pulled him into a tight embrace—one that reminded Gaemon of a mother holding her son. He squirmed in her grip, but Lady Stark had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Though Gaemon's body was that of a child, his mind was that of an adult, and such doting was not something he particularly welcomed. Yet, deep within him, a strange warmth spread—happiness, even. Perhaps it was a lingering remnant of the child's personality, a vestige of the boy whose body he now inhabited.

It took Lord Stark’s intervention for his wife to finally release Gaemon, though not without a pointed glare in her husband’s direction. Even then, she fussed over him before reluctantly taking her seat beside him.

"You’re sure you don’t want me to feed you?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Breakfast had just been served, and Gaemon had endured enough embarrassment for one morning. With sheer stubbornness, he clung to the last shreds of his dignity and refused. Lady Stark sighed, sadness flickering across her face, before finally relenting.

A sideways glance at his two cousins, who were enjoying their meal, told Gaemon that they were thoroughly entertained by his predicament. He doubted they knew the real reason behind his reactions, but to them, his discomfort was amusing. Shooting them a sharp glare, he turned his attention to his boiled eggs. He needed to eat well—if he wanted to grow strong, there was no alternative.

Once breakfast was finished, his cousin and his wife wasted no time in questioning him about his fall, their inquiries soon turning into stern reprimands. Punishment followed swiftly—two weeks of stable duty.

Gaemon accepted the sentence with reluctance. His cousin had initially wanted him to muck out the stables for an entire moon, but through careful negotiation, a well-placed tantrum, and support from his cousin-in-law, he had managed to reduce it to just two weeks.

The atmosphere lightened once again, and Gaemon seized the opportunity to broach an important subject—his training.

"I want to start learning how to fight," he announced, turning to his cousin Bennard.

At once, Bennard straightened in his seat, fingers tapping anxiously against the wooden table. A nervous habit. Rickon and his wife noticed it too.

But Bennard did not leave him to fight this battle alone.

"It would be for the best if you allow me to train him, brother," Bennard said, gathering his courage. "That way, he’ll have less energy for mischief, and we should be grateful he’s asking outright instead of trying to practice on his own and getting hurt without proper instruction."

There was a considerable age gap between Gaemon’s cousins, and it was evident in the way Bennard looked up to his elder brother. To him, Rickon was an idol and father figure—but also a man who did not hold back in punishment. Gaemon was the exception. His royal blood shielded him from the harsher consequences, and even if it did not, Lady Gilliane would make sure of it.

Rickon regarded them both with his usual icy gaze. "I have no objections," he said finally. "In a few years, Gaemon will have to learn the ways of the sword regardless. If he wishes to start early, it will only benefit him. However, until he is a little older, I believe it would be best if you oversee his training, brother."

His piercing eyes settled on Bennard. "But be warned—if anything happens to him, the royal family will be at your throat first. Take time to consider whether you are willing to bear that responsibility. I will not hold it against you if you choose not to."

Bennard stiffened, his expression darkening with anger. "Oh, I'm sure that punishment would be given with fake sad faces masking their joy behind it, the Others take me if I’m wrong—the Old King is only breathing to hear of something like that happening to little Gaemon."

His words were treasonous, but fortunately, they were spoken only in the presence of family and trusted servants.

Rickon’s disapproval was immediate. "Control your tongue, Bennard," he reprimanded. "If word of your hatred for the Old King reaches King’s Landing, it won’t just be you facing punishment. You are the heir to House Stark, to the North—think before you speak."

To Bennard’s credit, shame flickered across his face. Not because he regretted his words, but because he had failed to uphold the composure expected of an heir to Winterfell. His cousin took his role so seriously that his greatest weakness was clear—any suggestion that his actions were unbecoming of the Stark heir was enough to make him stop immediately.

Rickon’s gaze remained firm. "Now, your answer?"

Bennard exhaled, his resolve hardening. "I stand by my decision, brother. I will train Gaemon, knowing the risks that come with it."

A smirk tugged at Gaemon’s lips. This was the start. If he wanted to survive this world—this dangerous game of swords and shadows—he would need to become the best. And he would give it his all.

I know this isn’t the chapter you were expecting—apologies for that. I did write Chapter 24 of my Jon Snow SI, but it didn’t meet my expectations, so I decided to take an extra day to refine and improve it before publishing. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading this one, as it will receive consistent updates until I’m fully back on track as I was before my trip. Thank you for your patience!