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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Pentos, Essos
Daenerys traced her fingers along the dragon egg's midnight scales, feeling the stone's impossible warmth pulse against her palm. The black egg sat heavy in her lap while its brothers—one cream and gold, the other deep green bronze—rested on silk cushions beside her bed. Illyrio's wedding gift. Three stones worth more than kingdoms, he'd said, petrified remnants of Valyria's lost glory.
Another pulse. Stronger this time.
She jerked her hand back, violet eyes wide. The egg's surface rippled—no, that couldn't be right. Stone didn't move like water. Stone didn't breathe.
"Princess?" Doreah's voice drifted from beyond the curtained alcove. "The seamstresses have arrived with your wedding silks."
"Send them away." The words came out sharper than intended. Daenerys pressed her palms against her temples, trying to ease the building pressure behind her eyes. "I'm... I'm not well."
Footsteps retreated. Good. She needed silence, needed space to think through what kept happening whenever she touched the eggs. The visions had started two nights ago, the moment Illyrio presented them in their ornate chest. Just flashes at first—snow falling on dark stone, ice that burned blue-white in the darkness. But each time she held them, the images grew clearer. Stronger.
Daenerys reached for the cream egg, bracing herself. The moment her skin made contact, the world tilted.
Snow. Endless snow stretching to a horizon where a wall of ice scraped the belly of the sky. Children stood in a circle beneath a bone-white tree, their faces young but their eyes ancient. Power radiated from them—not fire, not blood, but something else. Something that sang to the marrow of her bones.
A man in black moved between them, his movements fluid as water. In his hand, a blade of pure green light hummed with lethal promise. When he spoke, though she couldn't understand the words, she felt their weight. As a guardian, lighting the path .
The vision shifted. Dragons wheeled overhead—not her stone eggs but living creatures of scale and flame. Below them, a boy with dark hair and grey eyes that held winter's promise and a red haired boy with eyes as blue as the ocean, dueled. The red haired boy seemed to stop and he turned toward her, when their gazes met across the impossible distance of dream and prophecy, she felt—
"Sister."
Viserys's voice shattered the vision like a hammer through glass. Daenerys gasped, the egg tumbling from nerveless fingers onto the silk coverlet. Her brother stood in the doorway, his pale eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"You missed the fitting." He stepped into her chambers uninvited, as was his right. Everything was his right. "The Dothraki arrive tomorrow. You will not embarrass me by appearing at your wedding dressed like a beggar."
"I said I wasn't well."
His hand cracked across her face before she saw it coming. The familiar sting bloomed across her cheek, copper flooding her mouth where her teeth cut the inside of her lip.
"You will be well when I command it." Viserys's fingers tangled in her silver-gold hair, yanking her head back. "You will smile when that horse lord mounts you. You will birth him strong sons. And when I have my army, you will thank me for the honor of serving your true king."
He released her with a shove that sent her sprawling across the bed. The dragon eggs rolled, clicking against each other with a sound like distant thunder.
"Cover that." He gestured at her reddening cheek. "Khal Drogo paid for a princess, not damaged goods."
The door slammed behind him. Daenerys remained still, counting heartbeats until she was certain he'd gone. Then, with trembling fingers, she gathered the eggs back to her, cradling them against her chest.
I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself. The words felt hollow as bird bones. Dragons were fire made flesh, Viserys always said. Masters of sky and flame. But these visions showed her ice and snow, children who wielded power without dragons, without fire, without the blood of Old Valyria.
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. "Princess? Magister Illyrio sends word that Ser Jorah Mormont has arrived. He wishes to present the knight to you before tomorrow's ceremony."
Jorah Mormont. The name meant nothing to her, but Illyrio had mentioned him—an exiled knight from the North, he'd said. From Westeros. From the land of ice and wolves and that impossible wall that scraped the sky.
"Tell them I'll receive him in the garden." Daenerys set the eggs carefully back on their cushions, though her fingers lingered on the black one's warm surface. "In an hour."
She needed time to compose herself, to paint away the evidence of Viserys's temper. But more than that, she needed to think. These visions weren't mere dreams. The eggs pulsed with life, with purpose, with a pull that had nothing to do with the Dothraki sea or her brother's iron throne.
North, whispered something deep in her blood. The answers wait in the North.
But how could she reach it? Tomorrow she would be wed to a horselord who spoke no civilized tongue. Carried off to spend her days in a grass sea that stretched forever beneath foreign stars. Viserys would never let her go—she was his last coin, his final bargaining chip for an army.
Unless...
Daenerys rose, moving to her window. Below, Pentos sprawled in the afternoon heat, the harbor thick with ships from every corner of the world. Escape would mean leaving everything behind. Her brother. Her name. The only life she'd known, however cruel it had been.
The black egg pulsed again, warm even from across the room. In her mind's eye, she saw the boy with winter eyes turn toward her once more. Felt that strange pull, that recognition that defied explanation.
I am the blood of the dragon, she thought again. But this time, the words carried different weight. Dragons flew where they willed. Dragons chose their own path.
She had an hour before meeting this Ser Jorah. An hour to decide if she was truly dragon enough to spread her wings.
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Winterfell, The North
The pre-dawn air circled Eddard's cloak as he made his way to the godswood. Ice crystals crunched beneath his boots, the sound sharp in the stillness. He needed clarity before the journey north, needed the old gods' wisdom—or perhaps just their silence—to settle the unease coiling in his gut.
Leaving Luke Skywalker at Winterfell felt like leaving a wolf to guard the sheep. Yet what choice did he have? The man's abilities defied reason, but Ned had seen the change in his children these past weeks. Jon moved with new confidence, Arya's wildness had found focus, even Bran seemed steadier, more grounded. Whatever Luke taught them, it made them stronger.
The heart tree loomed before him, its carved face weeping red sap in the grey light. Ned knelt, the cold seeping through his breeches, and closed his eyes. No prayers came. Only the memory of Luke making that pitcher dance through the air.
"Father?"
Ned opened his eyes. Robb and Jon stood at the edge of the grove, their breath misting in the cold. Ghost padded silently beside Jon, while Grey Wind pressed against Robb's leg. Both direwolves seem to be growing steadily, already as large as small hounds.
"You're up early." Ned rose, brushing snow from his knees.
"We wanted to speak with you before you left." Robb glanced at Jon, some silent communication passing between them. "About Master Skywalker."
Ned's jaw tightened. Master. "What of him?"
"You're worried about leaving him here," Jon said. Not a question. The boy—no, the young man—had grown perceptive these past months. "We can see it."
"Should I not be?" Ned studied his sons, noting how they stood straighter, moved with more purpose. "I leave a stranger to train you in arts I barely comprehend, while I ride north to investigate tales that grow darker by the day."
"He's taught us to defend ourselves better than any master-at-arms," Jon added. "Not just with swords. With..." He gestured vaguely, struggling for words. "With awareness. Connection. I can sense Ghost even when he hunts miles away. We can even feel the mood of a room before entering."
"But not simply martial prowess." Robb's voice carried quiet conviction. "His wisdom has shown us how… lacking we are towards the smallfolk. He sounds as if he speaks from experience…" He trailed off, but Ned understood.
"These abilities." Ned's voice dropped low. "They don't trouble you?"
"They did." Robb met his father's gaze steadily. "But Luke says power itself isn't good or evil. It's how we use it that matters. Like Ice—it can execute criminals or defend the innocent."
Jon nodded. "He speaks often of control, of not letting emotion rule us. Of protecting those who cannot protect themselves." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
Despite himself, Ned felt his mouth twitch. The boy had him there. "And you trust him? Both of you?"
The brothers exchanged another look. "As much as we can trust anyone we've known so short a time," Robb said carefully. "But Father, when he speaks of protecting us, he sounds as if there is danger ahead and I sense... there's truth in it. I can feel it."
"So can I," Jon said quietly. "Whatever threat we have to deal with in the future, we'll need every advantage to face it."
Ned studied his sons—Robb with Tully auburn in his hair catching the weak light, Jon with the long Stark face and grey eyes that missed nothing. When had they grown so wise?
"Very well." The words came easier than expected. "Luke remains. But you watch him, both of you. Any sign of deception, any hint he means harm to this family—"
"We'll put steel through him ourselves," Robb finished grimly.
"Though I doubt our swords would reach him before he sensed our intent," Jon added with dark humor.
Ned gripped their shoulders, one hand on each son. "Watch over your siblings." Ned looked at Robb. "Your mother. Each other."
"We will," they said in unison, and Ned believed them.
The words hung between them like an oath sworn before the heart tree. Jon's grey eyes—so like his own—held that particular intensity that always made Ned's chest tighten. The boy watched him with the stillness of a wolf scenting the wind, waiting.
Ned's jaw worked.
"Jon." The name came out rougher than intended. Ned cleared his throat, tasting the words he'd swallowed for fourteen years. They sat like stones in his gullet. "When I return from the Wall..."
The boy's stillness shattered. "When I return," Ned continued, each word dragged from some deep place, "we'll speak of your mother."
Jon's throat bobbed. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white as bone. "Father?" The word came out cracked, young. Not Lord Stark. Not my lord. Father.
The ache in Ned's chest sharpened to a blade's edge. He'd carried this secret like a man carries a wound that won't heal—carefully, constantly aware of its weight. Now, looking at the naked hope in Jon's eyes, he felt that wound tear fresh.
"You have my word." He gripped Jon's shoulder, feeling the tremor that ran through the boy's frame. Beneath his palm, Jon's muscles were coiled tight as bowstrings. "Whatever comes, whatever you learn—remember you are my blood. Remember that."
The great hall buzzed with activity as Ned's party made ready. Thirty men would ride with him—good men, loyal men, led by Jory. Enough to handle bandits or wildlings, not enough to concern the Umbers with shows of force.
Catelyn waited by the lord's chair, her face carefully composed. But Ned knew his wife's moods like he knew the turning of seasons. Worry lurked in the tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers twisted in her skirts.
"My lord," she said formally, then softer, "Ned."
He drew her aside, away from curious ears. "I'll send ravens from Last Hearth. And from Castle Black."
"It's not the distance that troubles me." Her blue eyes searched his face. "It's what you might find. What might find you. What Benjen told you..."
"I know." He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin. "But the North remembers, Cat. If something stirs beyond the Wall, we must know."
She leaned into his touch. "And our children's teacher? You're certain—"
"The boys spoke for him. They see more clearly than we might wish." He managed a wry smile. "When did Robb grow so wise?"
"When we weren't looking." Her own smile was bittersweet. "I wish I could hold his cubby cheeks again."
"I wish that as well" he agreed. " But winter is coming, and it makes men out of boys."
Sansa appeared, still in her nightrobe with a fur cloak thrown over. "Father? Must you go?"
"Aye, sweetling." He kissed her forehead. "But I'll return before the moon turns. Watch over your mother for me."
Arya burst through the doors, fully dressed and breathless. "Father! You weren't going to leave without saying goodbye?"
"Never." He caught her up in a fierce hug, this wild daughter who reminded him so much of Lyanna. "Practice what Luke teaches you. But carefully, Arya. Always carefully."
"I will." She pulled back, grey eyes serious. "He says I'm getting better at moving quietly. Yesterday I snuck up on Sansa twice."
"I heard you," Sansa protested. "I just didn't want to encourage you."
Bran came last, Rickon's small hand in his. "Bring me something from the Wall?" Bran asked.
"What would you have?"
"A piece of ice that never melts," Rickon piped up. "For Summer to play with."
Ned ruffled the boy's auburn curls. "I'll see what can be done."
Luke waited in the yard, standing apart from the bustling preparations. His strange black garments made him a shadow against Winterfell's grey stones. Amidala lay at his feet, the white direwolf watching everything with intelligent eyes.
"Lord Stark." Luke inclined his head as Ned approached.
"Walk with me."
They moved to the godswood gate, out of earshot. The heart tree watched them with its ancient eyes.
"I had hoped to bring you north," Ned said without preamble. "Your insights might prove valuable at the Wall."
"And leave your children's training incomplete?" Luke shook his head. "We both know where I'm needed most."
"Do we?" Ned studied the younger man's face, searching for deception and finding only calm certainty. "I'm trusting you with everything I hold dear."
"I know." Luke's blue eyes—so oddly bright, like summer skies in a winter face—met his steadily. "Lord Stark, where I come from, we have a saying: 'Do or do not, there is no try.' I don't try to protect those in my care. I do it."
"Pretty words."
"Then let me speak plainer." Luke moved to the heart tree, placing his hand on the pale bark. "By these old gods you honor, by the Force that flows through all living things, I swear to protect your family until you return. I will guard them against all threats, seen and unseen. I will continue their training but never push beyond what they can safely handle. I will keep your trust or die in the attempt."
The words rang with power, though Ned couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the way the air seemed to still, or how Amidala rose to her feet, eyes fixed on her master. Or perhaps it was simply that Luke spoke with the same gravity Ned used when swearing his own oaths.
"The old gods have heard you," Ned said quietly. "As have I."
They returned to find the party mounted and ready. Catelyn stood on the steps, Sansa and Arya flanking her. The boys waited with the household guard. Bran had climbed onto a barrel for a better view, Rickon squirming in Old Nan's arms.
Ned kissed Catelyn once more, tasting tears she wouldn't shed in public. "Guard our hearth."
"Guard yourself." Her fingers clutched his cloak. "Come back to me, Ned. Whatever you find, whatever happens, come back."
"Always."
He mounted his horse, taking Ice from Jory. The ancestral sword's weight felt heavier today, full of portent. As they rode through Winterfell's gates, Ned looked back once. Luke stood with his family, a stranger made guardian, darkness and mystery in man's form.
The die is cast, Ned thought. Old gods help us all.
The north road stretched before them, winding through winter woods toward answers Ned wasn't certain he wanted to find. But the North remembered its duty. And Eddard Stark would not shirk his, no matter what darkness waited beyond the Wall.
Behind him, Winterfell faded into morning mist, taking with it all certainty save one: winter was coming, and his children would face it with powers he'd never dreamed possible.
Whether that would save them or damn them, only the gods knew.
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The morning sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's practice yard, frost still clinging to the wooden posts where training dummies stood like frozen sentries. Luke adjusted his grip on the practice sword—heavier than a lightsaber, its weight still foreign even after weeks of use. Across from him, Robb Stark settled into Form V's opening stance, feet wide, blade held high in both hands.
"Remember," Luke said, circling slowly, "Djem So isn't about waiting. You create the opening."
Robb nodded, jaw set with determination. The boy—no, the young man—had taken to Form V like a fish to water. Where Jon embraced the patient defense of Soresu, Robb thrived on controlled aggression. Luke could sense it through the Force: that burning need to protect, to lead, to strike down threats before they could harm those under his care.
Steel rang against steel as Robb launched his attack. The overhead strike came down with impressive power, forcing Luke to sidestep rather than block directly. Good. The boy was learning not to telegraph his moves.
"Better," Luke said, deflecting the follow-up thrust. "But you're still thinking too much. Djem So flows from instinct."
They exchanged a flurry of blows, Robb pressing forward with each strike. His footwork had improved dramatically—no longer the straightforward charges of a green fighter, but calculated advances that cut off angles of retreat. Still, Luke could see the gaps.
"Your left shoulder," Luke said, tapping it lightly with his blade after slipping past Robb's guard. "You drop it when you commit to the overhead. An experienced opponent will exploit that."
Robb reset, frustration flickering across his features before he smoothed them away. Another lesson learned—emotional control. Luke remembered his own early training, how Master Yoda would prod and poke at every weakness until fixing them became second nature.
"Show me again," Robb said. "The sequence from yesterday."
Luke nodded, appreciating the hunger for improvement. He moved through the advanced Form V combination slowly at first—a feinted high strike flowing into a spinning low sweep, followed by an upward thrust that used the opponent's momentum against them. It was a move that required perfect timing and absolute commitment.
"The key," Luke explained, demonstrating again at half speed, "is selling the initial feint. Your enemy must believe you're fully committed to that overhead strike. When they move to counter—" He spun, blade whistling through the air, "—you're already past their guard."
Robb's eyes tracked every movement, that sharp intelligence dissecting the technique. Luke could sense his mind working through the applications, the scenarios where such a move might turn the tide of battle.
"It's risky," Robb observed. "If they don't take the bait..."
"Then you're overextended and vulnerable, yes." Luke smiled slightly. "But that's the essence of Djem So. Calculated risks. Decisive action. A lord who won't risk himself for victory won't inspire others to risk themselves for him."
Something shifted in Robb's expression—a deepening of understanding that went beyond swordplay. Through the Force, Luke felt the moment crystallize in the young man's mind. Leadership lessons hidden in lightsaber forms.
"Again," Robb said, raising his blade.
This time when they sparred, Luke felt the difference. Robb wasn't just mimicking movements—he was internalizing the philosophy. His strikes came with purpose, each one designed to create specific openings. When he attempted the spinning combination, he nearly caught Luke off-guard with the speed of execution.
"Excellent," Luke said, genuinely impressed. "You're beginning to understand. Djem So isn't about overwhelming force—it's about inevitable victory. Each move builds on the last until your opponent has no choices left."
They continued for another quarter hour, Luke offering minor corrections—angle of the wrist, distribution of weight, breathing patterns that maintained stamina while projecting strength. The kind of details that separated competent swordsmen from true masters.
"Master Luke!" Arya's voice rang across the yard. She perched on the armory roof, having climbed up when no one was watching. "Jon's here!"
Luke turned to see Jon Snow approaching, practice sword already in hand. But something was wrong. The Force around Jon churned like storm clouds, dark emotions barely contained beneath a facade of calm. His grey eyes held a hardness that hadn't been there at breakfast.
"Robb," Luke said quietly, "practice that combination. Twenty repetitions, each side."
Robb glanced between Luke and his half-brother, sensing the tension. "Jon—"
"I'm fine," Jon said curtly, not meeting Robb's eyes. "Just here to train."
Robb hesitated, then nodded and moved to the other side of the yard. Luke studied Jon as he approached. The boy's shoulders were rigid, his grip on the sword too tight. Through the Force, Luke could feel the anger radiating from him—not hot and explosive, but cold and sharp as winter steel.
"Form III," Jon said without preamble. "I want to work on the defensive sequences."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain? Your emotional state—"
"I said I'm fine." Jon's voice carried an edge that would have been insubordination from a Padawan. Here, it was simply pain.
"Very well," Luke said, settling into his own stance. "Show me."
Jon attacked immediately—too fast, too aggressive. His blade work was technically sound, but Form III required more than technique. It demanded serenity, the calm center of the storm. Jon had neither.
Luke deflected the strikes easily, noting how Jon's form deteriorated with each failed attack. The boy was trying to use Soresu as a weapon rather than a shield, turning patient defense into grinding assault.
"Stop," Luke commanded after a particularly wild swing left Jon completely open. "This isn't Form III."
"I'm doing exactly what you taught—"
"You're doing the movements," Luke interrupted gently. "But Soresu isn't about movements. It's about state of mind. Right now, your mind is..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Elsewhere."
Jon's jaw clenched. "My mind is on the lesson."
"Is it?" Luke lowered his blade. "Or is it on this morning's breakfast? On words spoken in anger?"
The effect was immediate. Jon's carefully maintained facade cracked, raw hurt flashing across his features before anger rushed in to fill the void.
"You weren't there," Jon said, voice low. "You didn't hear—" He cut himself off, turning away.
Luke waited. Through the Force, he could sense the battle raging within Jon—pride warring with pain, anger wrestling with the desperate need to be understood. It was a conflict Luke knew intimately. How many times had he stood before Yoda or Ben, trying to pretend his emotions weren't eating him alive?
"She said I should be grateful," Jon finally spoke, still facing away. "That when Father returns, I should remember my place. That I'm lucky to train alongside her trueborn sons." His voice turned bitter. "As if I could forget. As if anyone in this castle would let me forget."
"And this anger," Luke said carefully, "you think Form III will help you suppress it?"
Jon spun around. "Isn't that what it's for? Perfect defense, perfect control?"
"No." Luke shook his head. "That's where you're mistaken. Soresu isn't about suppressing emotions—it's about understanding them. You can't defend against what you won't acknowledge."
He gestured for Jon to sit on a nearby bench. After a moment's hesitation, Jon complied, though his posture remained rigid.
"Tell me," Luke said, settling beside him, "what do you feel when you think about Lady Stark's words?"
"Anger," Jon said immediately.
"Beneath the anger."
Jon frowned. "I don't—"
"Close your eyes," Luke instructed. "Breathe. Feel past the anger. What lies beneath?"
Jon's eyes fluttered closed. Luke could sense his struggle, the instinctive recoil from examining deeper wounds. But slowly, carefully, Jon allowed himself to sink past the protective rage.
"Hurt," he whispered. "And... fear."
"Fear of what?"
"That she's right." The words came out strangled. "That no matter what I do, no matter how hard I train or how well I fight, I'll always be the bastard. Less than. Apart."
Luke nodded slowly. "And now you understand why your Form III is failing. You're trying to defend against external attacks while leaving your internal flank exposed. The fear and hurt—they're the real enemies. The anger is just their vanguard."
"So what do I do?" Jon's eyes opened, grey as winter storm clouds but seeking answers rather than conflict.
"You confront them," Luke said simply. "Not with anger, but with truth. Are you a considered a bastard here? Yes. Does that define your worth? Only if you let it. Lady Stark's words have power because part of you believes them. But beliefs can be examined, challenged, changed."
He stood, offering Jon a hand up. "Form III teaches us that the strongest defense is not becoming invulnerable—it's becoming unshakeable. And you become unshakeable not by suppressing your emotions, but by understanding them so completely they can no longer control you."
Jon took his hand, rising to his feet. Some of the tension had left his shoulders, though Luke could still sense the turmoil beneath.
"It's not easy," Jon said.
"No," Luke agreed. "It's perhaps the hardest thing you'll ever do. But consider this—a lord who rules from anger is a tyrant. A lord who rules from fear is weak. But a lord who understands his anger and fear, who has confronted them and emerged victorious?" He smiled slightly. "That is a lord worth following."
Jon's eyes widened slightly at the word 'lord,' but Luke continued before he could protest.
"You have greatness in you, Jon Snow. I've known it since the first day we met. But greatness isn't about blood or birthright. It's about choices. And the first choice—the most important choice—is whether you'll let others define you, or whether you'll define yourself."
They resumed their positions, but this time Luke could feel the difference. Jon's stance was still Form III, but now it carried intent rather than just technique. His movements were slower, more deliberate—not seeking to attack, but to understand.
"Better," Luke said as they moved through the defensive sequences. "Feel how the form changes when you're not fighting yourself?"
Jon nodded, a look of concentration replacing the earlier anger. His blade work became fluid, each parry flowing into the next, creating that sphere of defense that was Soresu's hallmark.
"I still feel it," Jon admitted as they paused. "The anger. The hurt."
"Good," Luke said. "You should. They're part of you. But now they serve you, rather than the reverse. Use them. Let them sharpen your focus, remind you why you train. Not to prove Lady Stark wrong, but to prove yourself right."
From across the yard, Robb's practice caught Luke's eye. The heir to Winterfell moved through the Form V combination with growing confidence, each repetition smoother than the last. Soon he'd be ready for the next level—the philosophical applications that turned good swordsmen into great leaders.
And Jon... Luke watched as the bastard of Winterfell continued his forms, each movement a small victory over the voices that would diminish him. The Force swirled around both boys—young men, really—bright with potential.
They were learning faster than he thought possible, perhaps because they came to the Force with lives already shaped by hardship and responsibility. They didn't have the luxury of temple meditation halls or years of peaceful study. Winter was coming, as the Starks always said, and these boys would need every skill, every hard-won insight, to face what lay ahead.
"Continue your forms," he told Jon. "But remember—Soresu is a conversation, not a lecture. Listen to what your opponent tells you through their attacks."
Jon nodded, already settling back into the meditative rhythm of Form III. The anger was still there, Luke could sense, but tempered now by understanding. It would be a long journey to true mastery—of the form and of himself—but the first steps were often the hardest.
As Luke headed toward the Great Keep, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The Stark children were progressing remarkably well, each finding their own path through the Force. Robb with his natural leadership and tactical mind, Jon with his deep well of determination and hidden strength, Arya with her fierce independence and natural agility, Bran with his growing connection to visions and dreams, even young Rickon showing signs of an unusual bond with living creatures.
Luke could feel it in the Force—darkness gathering in the North, ancient and patient and terrible. But for now, in this moment, it was enough.