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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Sansa's fingers trembled against the rough stone of the corridor wall. The feast hall's warmth still clung to her skin, but ice crawled through her veins, spreading from where Prince Joffrey's fingers had dug into her wrist.
She'd been such a fool.
The memory burned behind her eyes—how she'd approached him with her best curtsey, the one Septa Mordane praised. How her voice had lilted perfectly when she'd complimented his doublet, green and gold thread catching torchlight like armor. She'd practiced the words in her mirror, imagining his golden smile.
But when he'd smiled...
Sansa pressed her palm against her stomach, fighting the urge to retch. Something had twisted inside her when their eyes met. Not butterflies or maiden's blushes—something wrong, like meat left too long in summer heat. The feeling had crawled up her throat, thick and choking.
"You're prettier than your sister," he'd said, and the words should have pleased her. Wasn't that what she'd wanted? To be the beautiful one, the perfect lady?
But his eyes had moved over her like she was horseflesh at market. When she'd tried to step back, make some excuse about finding her mother, his hand had shot out. Those soft fingers that had never held a sword had wrapped around her wrist with surprising strength.
"We're not finished talking." His voice had stayed pleasant, pitched for the crowd, but his grip had tightened until her bones ground together.
The bruises would bloom by morning. Purple and yellow, like the flowers in the glass gardens, except these she'd have to hide beneath long sleeves.
Sansa forced her legs to move, slippers whispering against stone. Her father's solar wasn't far. She could still hear the feast—laughter and music bleeding through the walls—but it felt leagues away. Another world where princes were gallant and she was still a girl who believed in songs.
The door stood before her, solid northern oak. She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. What would she say? That the prince had grabbed her? That she'd felt something... wrong? Father would think her mad. Or worse, think her a silly girl frightened by court games.
But beneath her ribs, that wrongness still squirmed. Like looking at spoiled milk before the smell hit. Like touching something dead before realizing what it was.
She knocked.
"Enter."
Her father sat behind his desk, papers spread before him. When he looked up, something shifted in his face. The air around him seemed to drop in temperature, though the fire still crackled in the hearth.
"Sansa?" He rose, and she felt it again—that strange knowing that had been plaguing her since Luke Skywalker arrived. A coldness radiating from her father, sharp as winter wind. "What's wrong?"
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Prince Joffrey, he—at the feast, I tried to leave but he grabbed me and—"
"Show me."
She pushed up her sleeve. The marks were already darkening, five perfect ovals where his fingers had pressed.
The cold around her father intensified. Not the comforting chill of the godswood in snow, but something harder. Deadlier. His jaw worked silently, grey eyes fixed on her wrist.
"Did he do anything else?"
"No. We were in the hall, people could see..." She pulled her sleeve down, shame heating her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I know I should have been more careful—"
"Stop." His voice cut through her apologies. He moved around the desk, kneeling before her chair so their eyes were level. "You did nothing wrong. Do you understand me? Nothing."
Tears burned her eyes. "But I wanted to meet him. I thought—"
"You thought he was a prince from the songs." His hand covered hers, warm and steady. "There's no shame in hope, sweetling. The shame belongs to those who abuse it."
She leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scents of leather and ink. "I felt something. When he looked at me. Like... like there was something rotten inside him."
Her father went still. When he pulled back, his eyes searched hers with new intensity. "You felt it?"
"I don't know what I felt. Just wrongness. Like my stomach knew something my head didn't."
He stood slowly, one hand still on her shoulder. "You won't have to worry about him anymore."
"Father?"
"Trust me." The cold had returned, but now it wrapped around her like armor. "Prince Joffrey will not trouble you again."
----------------------------------------------------
The morning mist clung to the Wolfswood like a shroud, muffling the sounds of horses and hounds. Eddard Stark rode beside Robert, watching his old friend sway slightly in the saddle. The king had been drinking since dawn, fortifying himself against the cold with strongwine that did nothing to improve his aim.
"Seven hells, Ned!" Robert's voice boomed through the trees, sending a murder of crows scattering. "You ride like you're heading to your own funeral. Where's that wild boy who used to race me through the Eyrie?"
"He grew up." Ned kept his voice level, though his stomach churned with what he had to do. The bruises on Sansa's wrist had darkened overnight, five perfect marks that made him want to put his fist through Joffrey's face. But he was the king's son.
Robert laughed, a harsh sound that held no real mirth. "Grew old, more like. Marriage does that to a man." He took another pull from his wineskin. "Though your Catelyn's kept her looks better than my Cersei. Cold fish, but pretty enough."
The casual insult to his wife made Ned's jaw tighten. This was the opening he needed, though he'd hoped for better circumstances. "Robert, we need to talk."
"Talk?" Robert wheeled his destrier around, nearly unseating himself. "We're hunting, not holding court. Save your Northern gloom for later."
"It can't wait."
Something in Ned's tone must have penetrated the wine-fog. Robert's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Out!" he roared at the hunting party. "All of you, leave! Give me and Lord Stark some privacy, or I'll have your heads on spikes!"
The courtiers scattered like leaves before a storm. Ser Barristan hesitated, hand on his sword hilt, until Robert waved him away with a curse. Soon it was just the two of them in the cold morning air, their horses' breath steaming.
"Well?" Robert's face had gone red, though whether from wine or anger, Ned couldn't tell. "What's so bloody important you'd ruin a perfectly good hunt?"
"I cannot accept the position of Hand."
The words hung between them like a blade. Robert's face went from red to purple, veins standing out on his neck. For a moment, Ned thought his friend might strike him.
"Cannot?" Robert's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Or will not?"
"Will not." Ned met his gaze steadily. "The North needs me, Robert. Benjen came to me last night with news from the Wall. The wildlings are massing. Whole villages beyond the Wall stand empty. My brother speaks of rangers who won't patrol anymore, who whisper of things moving in the darkness."
"Wildlings." Robert spat the word. "Savages with stone axes and fur cloaks. Send your second son if you're so worried. That's what the Watch is for."
"It's more than wildlings." Ned chose his words carefully, thinking of Luke Skywalker's warnings about ice and death. "The Watch is down to less than a thousand men, most of them rapers and thieves. If the wildlings break through—"
"They won't." Robert's hand slashed through the air. "They never have."
"There's always a first time." Ned's voice hardened. "My lords are already grumbling about the king's visit, the expense of it. If I abandon them now, with danger gathering beyond the Wall, they'll name me craven. Or worse, they'll think I care more for Southern honors than Northern lives."
"Southern honors?" Robert's voice rose to a bellow. "Is that what you think our friendship is? Some pretty bauble to hang around your neck?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
"Do I?" Robert wheeled his horse in a tight circle, making the beast dance nervously. "Twenty years, Ned. Twenty years since we were boys together, and now you spit on my offer like it's nothing."
"I'm not spitting on anything." Ned kept his voice calm, though inside he raged at having to refuse his friend. But Sansa's bruises, Benjen's warnings, Luke's impossible abilities—they all pointed to the same truth. His place was here. "You're my brother in all but blood, Robert. You know that."
"Then act like it!" Robert's shout echoed through the trees. "I need you, Ned. The realm needs you. That nest of vipers in King's Landing will eat me alive without someone I trust beside me."
"You have other options—"
"Who? Tywin fucking Lannister?" Robert's laugh was bitter as wormwood. "Might as well hand him the crown and be done with it. Stannis? He'd have half the court executed for corruption before the moon turned. Renly's a boy playing at lord. Who else is there?"
Ned said nothing. The truth was, there were few good choices. But that wasn't his burden to bear.
"What about the betrothal?" Robert's voice turned sly. "Your Sansa and my Joffrey. Or does Northern honor mean nothing when it comes to that?"
The mention of Joffrey made Ned's hand itch for his sword. He forced the feeling down. "The betrothal can stand. When Sansa's old enough to wed, I'll bring her south myself. She's only twelve, Robert. There's time."
The lie tasted like ash, but it was necessary. By the time Sansa was old enough, Ned would find some excuse. A broken betrothal was better than a broken daughter.
Robert stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. "You're serious about this."
"As serious as winter."
"Fuck." Robert deflated like a punctured wineskin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He took another long pull of strongwine. "You're really going to make me beg Tywin Lannister, aren't you?"
"There are others—"
"No." Robert's voice turned bitter. "No, if I can't have you, might as well have the richest man in the kingdoms. At least he can pay for his own funeral when the job kills him."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the hunting party. Ned felt the weight of their friendship, twenty years of brotherhood, straining under the weight of duty.
"I'm sorry, Robert."
"No, you're not." Robert's smile was sad. "You're too much your father's son to be sorry for doing what you think is right. It's why I wanted you in the first place." He gathered his reins. "Come on, then. Let's kill something. Maybe if I'm drunk enough, I can forget my best friend just told me to go fuck myself."
As they rode back toward the hunting party, Ned allowed himself one moment of regret. In another life, perhaps, he could have gone south. Could have helped Robert navigate the treacherous waters of court.
But in this life, his children were learning to move objects with their minds, his brother spoke of ancient evils stirring, and a strange sorcerer warns of a coming darkness.
The North would need its lord. And its lord would be ready.
----------------------------------------------------
Luke settled into the chair across from Tyrion Lannister, the cyvasse board between them gleaming with carved onyx and ivory pieces. The dwarf's mismatched eyes—one green, one black—studied him with sharp intelligence as he poured wine from a flagon.
"I don't suppose you play?" Tyrion's voice carried the cultured tones of wealth and education. "Most sellswords prefer dice."
"I'm a quick learner." Luke accepted the offered cup but didn't drink. Through the Force, he sensed Tyrion's curiosity burning like a banked fire—controlled but ready to flare.
"Excellent. The rules are simple enough." Tyrion began arranging his pieces with practiced efficiency. "The dragon commands the board, but the rabble can bring down kings. Rather like life, wouldn't you say?"
As Tyrion explained each piece's movement, Luke absorbed the information with the same focus he'd once applied to starfighter schematics. The game reminded him of dejarik, though with more complexity. Within minutes, he grasped the underlying patterns—control of the center, piece development, the delicate balance between attack and defense.
The first game lasted twelve moves. Tyrion's dragon swept across the board, his rabble screening the advance while his crossbowmen picked off Luke's forward units. Luke played reactively, learning the pieces' movements and limitations through each loss. When Tyrion's spearmen cornered his king, Luke tipped the piece with a small smile.
"Well played, my lord."
"Well." The dwarf leaned back, wine cup in hand. "At least you didn't overturn the board in frustration. You'd be surprised how many do."
Luke nodded, examining each piece. The Force whispered patterns to him—probabilities, strategies, connections between the carved figures that went beyond their physical forms. He arranged his own pieces, feeling the game's underlying mathematics unfold in his mind like a star chart.
"Again?" Luke reset his pieces, already seeing where he'd gone wrong.
"By all means." Tyrion's smile held genuine pleasure. "It's rare to find anyone willing to lose gracefully. Tell me, Master Skywalker—where does a man learn such patience? Not in Dorne, I'd wager, despite your claims of desert origins."
Luke moved his rabble forward, establishing a defensive line. "Not all deserts are in Dorne."
"True enough. The Red Waste, perhaps? Though you lack the almond eyes of the Dothraki." Tyrion advanced his cavalry, probing for weaknesses. "The Grey Waste beyond Ib? But no, you're too tall for an Ibbenese."
"Further east than that." Luke arranged his pieces in a completely different formation. "Your dragon—you favor it too much. It's powerful but predictable."
Tyrion's laugh held genuine delight. "Do I now? And what would a teacher of sums know about military strategy?"
"Numbers govern everything, Lord Tyrion. Trade routes, troop movements, the arc of a thrown spear." Luke met the dwarf's gaze steadily. "Even the fall of kingdoms can be reduced to mathematics, if you know which variables to track."
Luke captured Tyrion's cavalry with a coordinated assault. "Men learn many things when survival depends on it."
"Indeed." Tyrion studied the board, his casual demeanor not quite masking his intensity. "And what drives a man from such exotic lands to our frozen North? Surely not the climate."
"Sometimes we don't choose our destinations." Luke moved his dragon, threatening Tyrion's king. "The wind blows where it will."
"Philosophy from a sellsword?" Tyrion blocked with his elephant, but Luke had anticipated the move. "You're full of surprises. Check."
The dwarf's eyes widened slightly as he realized the trap. Three moves later, he tipped his king.
"Remarkable. You learn fast." Tyrion reset the board immediately. "Another game?"
They played three more times, Luke winning each with increasing ease. The Force showed him Tyrion's intentions a heartbeat before each move, but more than that, he understood the dwarf's patterns—aggressive when confident, defensive when uncertain, always probing for information both on and off the board.
"You know," Tyrion mused during their fourth game, "I've met many travelers in my time. Merchants from Yi Ti, explorers from the Summer Isles, even a warlock from Qarth who claimed he could walk through walls." He moved his crossbowmen forward. "None of them made my lord father's guards look like green boys in the practice yard."
"Lord Stark's guards are well-trained." Luke countered with his spearmen. "Perhaps your father's men rely too heavily on reputation."
"Oh, cleverly done." Tyrion's laugh held genuine appreciation. "Deflect the compliment while delivering an insult. You've spent time at court, I think. Not in King's Landing—I'd remember you. Pentos? Braavos?"
"I've found that courts are much the same everywhere." Luke advanced his dragon, cutting off Tyrion's retreat. "Men scheme for power while pretending friendship. Truth becomes currency, hoarded and spent carefully."
"Spoken like someone who's seen behind the curtain." Tyrion's green eye glittered. "Tell me, what truth would you spend on a curious dwarf with too much wine and too little sense?"
Luke considered the question, sensing layers beneath layers in Tyrion's inquiry. Through the Force, he felt the dwarf's pain—a lifetime of mockery, the desperate need to prove his worth through wit when strength was denied him.
"I would say that the smallest man can cast the longest shadow, if he stands close enough to the light."
Tyrion's hand froze over his king. For a moment, his mask slipped, revealing something raw and vulnerable. Then the sardonic smile returned.
"Careful, Skywalker. Say things like that, and I might think you actually see me as more than a curiosity."
"I see a man who uses others' expectations as armor." Luke met his gaze steadily. "Who lets them see the drunk, the jester, the monster—anything but the truth."
"And what truth is that?"
"That you're probably one of the most dangerous men in Winterfell right now."
Tyrion barked a laugh, but Luke caught the flash of wariness in his eyes. "Dangerous? Me? I assure you, I can barely reach the vital organs on most men."
"The mind is the most vital organ of all." Luke tipped Tyrion's king gently. "Checkmate."
Before Tyrion could respond, Luke felt it—a spike of alarm through the Force, young and terrified. His head snapped toward the window, body tensing.
"What is it?" Tyrion leaned forward, wine forgotten.
But Luke was already moving, the game abandoned. "Your pardon, my lord. I've just remembered an urgent matter."
He left Tyrion staring after him, wine cup raised in a mock salute. "Do visit again, Master Skywalker. It's so rare to find interesting conversation in the North."
Luke barely heard him. The Force pulled him forward, through Winterfell's corridors and out into the courtyard. The sensation grew stronger—fear mixed with curiosity, the particular signature he'd come to recognize as Bran Stark.
He found the boy thirty feet up the side of the broken tower, clinging to weathered stone with the fearlessness of youth. Luke's heart clenched. Through the Force, he sensed what Bran couldn't—two presences in the tower above, locked in an act that would mean death for any who witnessed it.
"Bran!" Luke's voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard. "Get down from there! Now!"
The boy startled, his head whipping around to find Luke. For a terrifying moment, his grip loosened.
"Don't look at me! Watch your holds!" Luke reached out with the Force, ready to catch him if needed. "Climb down slowly. One hand, one foot at a time."
"But I want to see—"
"Now, Bran!" Luke put every ounce of command he'd learned from Jedi Masters into his voice. "Trust me. You need to come down immediately."
Something in his tone must have penetrated. Bran began descending, his movements careful but confident. Luke kept his senses stretched upward, feeling the moment when the two presences in the tower became aware they were no longer alone. The sudden spike of alarm from above—one mind calculating, the other panicked.
Luke didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge what he'd sensed. He kept his focus on Bran until the boy's feet touched ground.
"But I always climb the broken tower," Bran protested, his grey eyes confused and slightly hurt.
"Not today." Luke placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder, already steering him away. "Today, you have training. Remember? We were going to work on sensing living things through the Force."
"Oh!" Bran's expression brightened. "Can we start with Summer? I think I almost felt him yesterday…"
Luke let the boy chatter, guiding him steadily away from the tower. Behind them, he sensed movement at the window—a flash of golden hair, green eyes sharp with suspicion. He filed the information away, another piece in the growing puzzle of this world's dangers.
The Queen and the Kingslayer. Lovers. The Force didn't lie about such things, couldn't disguise the intimacy of that connection. Luke had sensed it the moment they'd arrived, but sensing and seeing were different things. And in a world where such knowledge meant death...
He glanced down at Bran, still talking excitedly about his direwolf. The boy had no idea how close he'd come to disaster. No idea that his curiosity had nearly cost him everything.
Luke would have to watch more carefully. The Force had brought him here for a reason, and keeping these children safe was part of it. Even from dangers they couldn't yet understand.
Especially from those.