A/N: Expect the next chapter for Kill The Boy tomorrow! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :)
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Luke stood among the Stark household, positioned carefully where he could observe without drawing attention. The morning air bit sharp against his skin, carrying the mingled scents of horse sweat, leather, and the ever-present pine from the wolfswood. Through the Force, anticipation rippled across Winterfell's courtyard like heat waves—servants scurrying with last-moment preparations, guards straightening mail that already gleamed, children peering from every window and doorway.
The royal wheelhouse lumbered through Winterfell's gates first, a monstrosity of gilded wood and crimson silk that groaned with each turn of its wheels. Luke's jaw tightened. Even without the Force, he could sense the decadence radiating from it—excess for its own sake, wealth displayed like a weapon.
Then came the riders.
The Force recoiled from Joffrey Baratheon like oil from water. The prince sat his white courser with practiced elegance, golden hair catching the weak northern sun, but beneath that polished surface lurked something rotten. Luke had encountered darkness before—Vader's crushing presence, Palpatine's corrosive evil—but this was different. Petty. Cruel for cruelty's sake. The boy's green eyes swept the assembled crowd with the casual disdain of someone who'd never been denied anything.
A spoiled child with too much power, Luke thought, watching how Joffrey's hand drifted to his sword hilt when a stable boy moved too slowly. But dangerous for all that.
Behind the prince rode his uncle, and Luke's attention sharpened. Jaime Lannister was a flickering light in the Force—brilliant, complex, torn between light and shadow. Pride wrapped around him like golden armor, but beneath it... Guilt? Shame? The emotions tangled too tightly to separate, though Luke caught flashes of something involving the the woman in the wheelhouse —
The queen's litter appeared next, and Luke's stomach turned. Cersei Lannister's presence in the Force felt like silk over steel, beauty covering something sharp enough to cut. Her emerald eyes found her twin brother immediately, and the emotions that passed between them—
Luke looked away, uncomfortable with the intimacy of what he'd sensed. Some secrets weren't meant to be known.
Movement caught his eye. From atop a supply wagon, a small figure dropped with surprising grace. Tyrion Lannister. Luke found himself leaning forward, intrigued despite himself. Where his siblings burned bright with beauty and darkness, the dwarf's Force signature was... fascinating. Sharp intelligence wrapped in bitter humor, pain transmuted into wit, a mind that never stopped calculating. Here was someone who'd learned to make weapons from words because the world had denied him every other kind.
King Robert himself came last, and Luke fought to keep his expression neutral. The Force around the king felt... diminished. Like a great fire burned down to embers, glory days smothered under wine and fat. Yet traces remained of what he'd been—the warrior who'd crushed his enemies, the man who'd won a throne with his warhammer. Now that strength served only to haul his massive frame from his horse.
"Ned!" Robert's voice boomed across the courtyard. "You've gotten fat!"
The forced joviality couldn't mask the exhaustion beneath. Luke sensed how the journey had taxed the king, how his joints ached, how each breath came harder than it should. This was a man racing toward his grave and trying to pretend otherwise.
The formal greetings proceeded with practiced precision. Lord and Lady Stark knelt with their household, words of welcome flowing like water over stone. Luke kept his position, noting how young Sansa trembled with excitement at her first glimpse of Prince Joffrey, how Arya's face scrunched with disappointment that the prince looked nothing like the heroes in stories.
Then Robert's bloodshot eyes found him.
"You there," the king called, gesturing with a meaty hand. "Don't recognize you. Come forward."
Luke stepped from the crowd, bowing precisely as Lord Stark had instructed. Not too deep—he wasn't nobility requiring elaborate courtesy—but enough to show respect. The Force whispered warnings as he approached. Curiosity from the king, sharp interest from the queen, calculation from the Imp.
"Your Grace," Luke said, pitching his voice to carry just far enough. "I am Luke, a simple instructor Lord Stark has engaged for his children."
"Instructor?" Robert's eyes narrowed, taking in Luke's posture, the way he moved. "Fighting? Dancing? Don't look like either."
Lord Stark interceded smoothly. "Letters and numbers, Your Grace. The children require education in their sums."
Luke felt Ned's discomfort through the Force—the lord hated lying, even by omission. But they'd agreed: the king couldn't know about the Force training. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Robert's interest evaporated like morning dew. "Sums," he grunted, already turning away. "Waste of time. The boy needs to know how to swing a sword and lead men. Rest is women's work."
The dismissal stung less than the casual ignorance behind it. Luke had known men like this in the Empire—those who confused strength with brutality, who saw education as weakness. He stepped back, forgotten already as Robert embraced Ned properly, the two old friends disappearing toward the crypts.
"Fascinating."
The voice came from hip height. Luke looked down to find Tyrion Lannister studying him with those mismatched eyes—one green, one black, both sharp as vibrodaggers.
"Lord Tyrion," Luke acknowledged, unsure of the proper address.
"Just Tyrion will do. We're neither of us lords here." The dwarf's smile held edges. "Tell me, Master Instructor, where does one study to teach... sums... in the North? Your accent suggests warmer climes. Dorne, perhaps? Or further still?"
Clever, Luke thought. The question seemed casual, but Tyrion had noticed the same things that made Luke stand out—his looks, his bearing, the way he'd said 'Your Grace' like someone who'd learned the phrase rather than grown up with it.
"I've traveled widely," Luke said, keeping his tone pleasant but uninformative. "Knowledge has a way of crossing borders."
"Indeed it does." Tyrion's gaze didn't waver. "As do men with secrets. Tell me, do you play cyvasse? I find myself desperately in need of intelligent conversation on this journey, and you strike me as someone who might provide it."
The Force rippled with warning and... opportunity? Luke couldn't quite parse the feeling, but he sensed this moment mattered. Tyrion Lannister was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with swords or strength. That mind would dig and probe until it found answers.
Better to give him something to chew on. A mystery he could investigate that led away from the truth.
"I'm afraid I don't know the game," Luke admitted. "But I'm always willing to learn. Lord Stark keeps a board in his solar, I believe."
"Excellent." Tyrion's smile widened. "I'll send word once we've settled. I have a feeling you and I will have much to discuss, Master Luke..."
"Luke. Skywalker."
"Just Luke…Skywalker who teaches sums and speaks like a traveled man and moves like a warrior." The dwarf chuckled. "Yes, we'll have much to discuss indeed."
He waddled away, and Luke released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The Force swirled with possibilities, paths branching in every direction. Some led to disaster—Tyrion discovering too much, the queen's paranoia focusing on him, Joffrey's cruelty finding a new target.
But others...
Luke thought of the sharp intelligence in those mismatched eyes, the pain transformed into humor, the way Tyrion had seen through surface lies without malice. Here was someone who understood being different, being dismissed, being underestimated.
Perhaps, when the time came to reveal larger truths, the Imp might prove an unexpected ally.
The crowd began dispersing, servants rushing to prepare chambers and feasts. Luke caught sight of Jon Snow near the stables, shoulders hunched as he watched his trueborn siblings greet the royal children. The boy's Force signature pulsed with familiar loneliness.
Soon, Luke would need to resume their training. The children's abilities grew stronger each day, and with the royal party here, keeping their secret would become infinitely harder. But perhaps that was the Force's design. Perhaps—
"Skywalker."
The queen's voice cut like winter wind. Luke turned to find Cersei Lannister regarding him with those calculating green eyes. Up close, her beauty was weaponized—every strand of golden hair placed perfectly, every fold of her crimson gown designed to emphasize power and allure.
"Your Grace," Luke bowed again, sensing the trap closing before he understood its nature.
"You're the one teaching the Stark children." Not a question. "Lord Stark seems to value your... instruction... highly. Tell me, what qualifications does a sellsword possess to educate noble children?"
The Force screamed danger. One wrong word and—
"I make no claim to nobility, Your Grace," Luke said carefully. "Only to knowledge. Lord Stark found my skills sufficient for his needs."
"His needs." She stepped closer, and Luke smelled her perfume—roses over something sharper. "And what needs might those be, I wonder? The North has its own maesters, its own traditions. Yet he brings in a stranger. Curious."
Before Luke could respond, a small hand tugged at the queen's gown. Prince Tommen, round-faced and sweet where his brother was sharp and cruel, peered up at his mother.
"Mother, may I see the wolves? Myrcella says they have wolves!"
Cersei's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing genuine affection as she touched her younger son's golden hair. "Later, sweetling. Mother has business to—"
"Your Grace." Jaime Lannister appeared at his sister's elbow, smooth as silk. "The king is asking for you. Something about the feast arrangements."
Brother and sister exchanged a look that held entire conversations. Cersei's lips thinned, but she nodded.
"We'll speak again, instructor," she said, making the title sound like an accusation. "I'm very interested in your... teaching methods."
She swept away in a rustle of silk, Tommen trotting to keep up. Jaime lingered a moment longer, studying Luke with those green eyes that matched his sister's but held depths hers lacked.
"Word of advice," the Kingslayer said quietly. "My sister's interest is rarely healthy. Whatever you're doing here, be careful."
Then he too was gone, leaving Luke alone with the certainty that his simple life at Winterfell had just become infinitely more complicated.
----------------------------------------------------
The feast stretched before them like a mummer's farce, all false smiles and hollow laughter. Eddard Stark watched Robert drain another horn of wine, red droplets staining the king's yellow beard as he roared at some jest from Tyrion. The man who'd once led armies with fierce precision now struggled to fit behind the high table.
How do I deny him?
The question gnawed at Ned like winter hunger. The Hand's chain would come with the offer, golden links to bind him to King's Landing's nest of vipers.
Eddards gaze drifted to where Luke Skywalker sat among the household guards. The mysterious instructor ate sparingly, those strange pale eyes scanning the hall with the wariness of a man who'd seen too many battles. Just days ago, Ned's understanding of the world had tilted on its axis. Objects floating without touch. His children moving stones with thought alone. Powers that belonged in Old Nan's tales, not his own solar.
The Force. Even the name felt foreign on his tongue.
"You're brooding again."
Benjen's voice pulled Ned from his thoughts. His younger brother slipped onto the bench beside him, lean where Robert had grown fat, still carrying that easy smile despite the black he wore.
"Ben." Eddard clasped his brother's shoulder, noting new lines around his eyes. "You look tired."
"The Wall ages a man." Benjen's smile faltered. "We need to talk, Ned. Away from..." He glanced meaningfully at the revelry.
They found privacy in the covered bridge between the Great Keep and the armory. Snow fell beyond the windows, muffling sound. Benjen's breath misted as he spoke.
"The Watch bleeds men like a gutted stag. We're down to less than a thousand, scattered across nineteen castles. Most are rapers and thieves who'd sell their mothers for warm meal."
"The crown could—"
"The crown." Benjen spat into the snow. "Your friend sends us the dregs of his dungeons and calls it aid. We need builders, Ned. Trained fighters. Not more mouths that can barely hold steel."
Ned studied his brother's drawn face. "There's more."
"Aye." Benjen's voice dropped. "Strange things beyond the Wall. Wildling villages empty, not a soul left behind. No bodies, no blood. Just... gone. The rangers whisper of blue eyes in the darkness. Cold that burns worse than fire."
The words struck Ned like a crossbow bolt. Luke's warning echoed: Ice and death marching south. The deserter's ravings about White Walkers suddenly seemed less mad.
"How long since a ranging found wildlings?"
"Two moons. Maybe three." Benjen rubbed his face. "Mormont thinks they're massing for an attack, but I'm not so sure. You don't abandon villages before an attack. You fortify them."
"Unless you're running from something worse than the Watch."
Benjen's dark eyes sharpened. "What do you know?"
"Enough to be worried." Ned couldn't speak of floating pitchers and children who moved stones with their minds. Not yet. "The old stories may hold more truth than we believed."
"The old stories say the Wall was built to keep out the Others."
"Aye. And who's to say it wasn't?"
They stood in silence, watching snow fall like ash from a pyre. In the Great Hall, Robert's laughter boomed through stone walls. The sound grated against Ned's ears—the careless mirth of a man who'd forgotten winter comes for all men.
"Robert will name you Hand," Benjen said at last.
"I know."
"You'll accept?"
Once, Ned would have said yes. Duty demanded it. Honor required it. But now... His children trained in powers he barely understood. Darkness gathered beyond the Wall. And Robert had become a stranger wearing his friend's face, drowning himself in wine and whores while not a care of those around him.
"No," Ned said, tasting the word's finality. "I'll not go south."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "He won't take that well."
"Let him rage. The North needs its lord. And the Watch..." Ned met his brother's eyes. "The Watch needs more than the crown's leavings. I'll send what men I can spare. Good men. And supplies for the winter."
"That's more than I dared hope for." Benjen pulled him into a brief embrace. "The Old Gods keep you, brother."
"And you."
Benjen vanished into the swirling snow, black cloak rendering him one with the night. Ned remained at the window, decision crystallizing like ice in his chest. Tomorrow, he would refuse his king.
Tonight, he would prepare for the storm that followed.
----------------------------------------------------
The feast hall pressed against Robb's skull like a smith's vice. Laughter crashed over him in waves—King Robert's booming laughs, his mother's practiced courtesy, the shrill giggles of southern ladies unused to northern ale. He pushed mutton around his trencher, the meat growing cold in its own grease.
Focus.
Luke's instruction echoed in his mind. Feel the connections between all things. Let the Force flow through you.
Robb closed his eyes, trying to shut out the cacophony. His breathing slowed, chest rising and falling in the measured rhythm Luke had taught them. The noise faded to a dull roar, then further still, until—
Nothing. Just the pounding of his own pulse and the scrape of a hundred knives on pewter.
He opened his eyes, frustration burning in his gut. Jon had lifted that cursed stone on his second attempt. Arya managed it before the lesson ended, her face split by a wild grin. Even Bran showed promise, though he'd trembled with the effort.
And Robb? The heir to Winterfell, eldest of Eddard Stark's trueborn sons? He'd strained until sweat beaded his brow, accomplishing nothing but a headache.
Gods, I'm brooding like Jon.
The thought startled a quiet laugh from him. How many times had he teased his half-brother for staring into wine cups and fire pits, face dark with unspoken thoughts? Now here he sat, scowling at perfectly good food while a king feasted in his father's hall.
Grey Wind stirred beneath the table, the direwolf's pups head resting on Robb's boot. The warmth of that connection sparked something. Not the Force—not yet—but a reminder of bonds deeper than blood.
Robb straightened his spine and tried again. This time, he didn't fight the noise. Let it wash over him like river current. Let himself drift within it rather than against it.
The Force whispered at the edges of his awareness. Faint as morning mist, but there. He felt Grey Wind's steady presence, a pillar of loyalty and barely-leashed wildness. His father's iron core of duty. His mother's fierce love wrapped around her children like castle walls.
And something else. Curiosity bright as a candle flame, drawing closer.
"Lord Robb?"
The voice shattered his concentration. Princess Myrcella stood beside his chair, hands clasped before her in perfect southern courtesy with the Lannister gold spun into her hair and eyes green as summer grass. Too young for the knowing looks her mother cast about the hall, but old enough to blush when their eyes met.
"Princess." Robb rose, offering a slight bow. "You honor me."
"I wondered..." She glanced at the empty space beside him where Theon usually sprawled. "Might I sit? Mother says I should practice conversation with noble lords."
And she chose me over Theon. Robb bit back a smile. "Please."
She settled onto the bench with practiced grace, spreading her skirts just so. This close, he caught the scent of whatever oils southron ladies used—something flowery that had no name in the North.
"Are you enjoying the feast, my lord?"
"Well enough." He gestured at the chaos of the hall. "Though I fear we're poor competition for the splendors of King's Landing."
"Oh, but it's wonderful here." The words tumbled out in a rush, her careful composure cracking. "Everything's so... solid. Real. In the Red Keep, you never know if someone's smiling because they like you or because they want something."
"And here?"
"Here, there aren't eyes in every corner, waiting for you to make a mistake," Her eyes danced. "Here, you say what you mean."
"Careful, Princess. Speak too well of northern ways and your mother might think we're corrupting you."
Pink bloomed across her cheeks. "Would that be so terrible?"
The question hung between them, heavier than her years should allow. Robb found himself studying the curve of her smile, the way torchlight caught in her hair. She'd be beautiful grown, this little lioness. Beautiful and dangerous, if she learned her mother's games.
"Robb!" King Robert's bellow saved him from answering. The king swayed on his feet, wine sloshing from his horn. "Where's my friend's eldest? Come! Drink with your king!"
Robb met Myrcella's eyes, reading disappointment there. "Duty calls, Princess."
"Of course." She rose with him, dropping into a curtsey. "Perhaps we might speak again? I'd love to hear about..." She glanced at Grey Wind. "About your wolf."
"I'd like that."
He left her there, weaving through the crowd toward the king's table. Behind him, he felt that bright curiosity following his movement, warm as hearthfire.
Focus on the Force, he told himself. Master it first, everything else comes second.