A/N:Sigh. This chapter took a while to work on. I think I revised it 4 times to get it to a point I liked it lol. Hope everyone enjoys it!!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
The Roseroad near Bitterbridge, The Reach
Luke stared at the cylinder in his hand. His heart hammered against his ribs in a frantic rhythm that warred with the lingering, icy dread of his vision. Robb was out there freezing in the dark and touching the void, but here in Luke's palm was a lifeline.
He pressed the transmit stud. His thumb slipped on the sweat-slicked metal before finding purchase.
"Han?" Luke asked. His voice cracked. It was the first time he had spoken Basic to anyone other than himself in months. "Han, do you copy?"
The static hissed. A white noise wave crashed against the silence of the tent before it cleared.
"Yeah, kid. I copy," Han's voice came through, rough and laced with a relief so palpable it almost knocked the wind out of Luke. "Good to hear your voice. We thought... well, Chewie thought the worst."
A mournful, wailing roar erupted in the background, loud enough to distort the transmission. It was a sound of pure Wookiee heartbreak turning into joy.
"Get off the mic, you big furrball!" Han shouted, his voice distant as he wrestled with the co-pilot. "I'm trying to talk to him!"
"LUKE!"
Leia's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding enough to silence both smugglers instantly. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation, a relief, and a hug all at once. "Luke, where have you been? Do you have any idea how—"
"I know," Luke said, his throat tight. He leaned over the small table and gripped the edge with his mechanical hand. He looked at his reflection in the polished surface of the Tyrell helm sitting nearby. The face looking back was older, weathered by a sun that wasn't his own. "It's been a long road, Leia. A strange one. But I'm in one piece."
"You'd better be," Han's voice returned, closer now. "Because if I flew halfway across the galaxy just to find out you tripped on a rock, I'm billing the Rebellion."
Luke managed a weak smile. He thumbed the activation switch on the side of the cylinder. "I'm transmitting my locator beacon now."
"Got it," Han crackled back, his tone shifting to business. "I'm locking onto your beacon. Sensors are reading a massive cluster of heat signatures right on top of you. Looks like a party down there. I'm initiating descent. I can drop her right in the middle of the heat cluster to save you the walk. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Luke's eyes widened. He looked up at Jon.
The young Stark was staring at the small metal device as if it were a demon caught in a bottle. His face was pale. His grey eyes held a mixture of terror and awe. Outside the tent, tens of thousands of men, knights, and horses were gathered in a powder keg of superstition and blood waiting for a spark.
"No!" Luke shouted into the comlink. "Han, listen to me. Do not land at the beacon. Abort descent."
"Abort?" Han sounded annoyed. "Luke, I've got a visual on a lot of campfire smoke. If you're in trouble I can—"
"This is a pre-industrial society, Han," Luke said urgently. He forced himself to speak clearly to bridge the gap between his two realities. "They don't know what a starship is. If you drop the Falcon in the middle of a tourney, they won't see a rescue. They will see a metal dragon and they will attack it. You will start a war."
There was a pause on the other end. The static hummed.
Then Leia's voice returned, crisp, authoritative, and carrying the weight of the Rebel Alliance High Command.
"He's right," Leia said. "Planetary contamination protocols are in effect. We are not starting a riot, Han. We land quietly, or we don't land at all."
"Fine," Han grumbled in the background. "But if I scratch the paint landing in a swamp, you're explaining it to Chewie."
"Luke," Leia said, her voice softening just a fraction. "Give us a vector. Somewhere safe."
Luke closed his eyes for a second. He reached out with his senses. He expanded his awareness past the canvas walls, past the teeming minds of the encampment, past the drunk knights and the scheming lords. He followed the flow of the Blueburn River to seek solitude.
As his awareness stretched upward toward the ship in orbit, he felt them.
First he felt the jagged, bright confidence of Han. Then the solid, hairy mountain of loyalty that was Chewbacca. Then he found Leia. She shone like a star in his mind, but she was not alone.
Luke gasped. Nestled within Leia's presence, he felt a second, smaller pulse. No, two pulses. Two distinct, flickering lights orbiting her soul. They were bright with potential and already strong in the Force.
Twins.
A smile broke across Luke's face, genuine and unbidden. "Leia... I can feel them."
"Focus, Luke," Leia said, though he could hear the smile in her voice too. "Coordinates first. Reunion later."
Luke gathered himself. He found a spot three miles downstream. A deer trail cut through a dense thicket of trees and opened into a wide, flat clearing near the riverbank. It was quiet there. Empty.
Luke adjusted the frequency dial on the comlink. He keyed in the local coordinates relative to his beacon and translated the geography into data the Falcon's nav-computer could process.
"I'm sending a burst transmission now," Luke said. "Target coordinates are three miles east of my current position. There's a clearing near the river bend. It's secluded."
"Received," Han said. "Coordinates locked. We're coming in hot, kid. Keep your head down."
"Silent running," Luke warned. "Lights off. Repulsorlifts only. I need you to be a ghost, Han. No sonic booms."
"Boring but copy that. Silent running engaged. See you soon, Luke."
The connection severed with a sharp click. The static vanished to leave only the heavy silence of the tent and the distant, muffled roar of the tourney crowds.
Luke stood frozen for a moment. He stared at the dead comlink. The device felt heavy in his hand, a tangible anchor to a life that felt like a dream. He clipped it back onto his belt next to the lightsaber.
He turned to Jon.
Jon hadn't moved. He was still staring at the spot where the voices had come from. His hand was gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles were white.
"That was them," Jon said quietly, his voice rough. He looked up at Luke, his grey eyes searching. "Your friends. The ones from beyond the stars."
Luke clipped the cylinder back to his belt. "No, not just friends. Family."
Jon looked down at the dead device, then back at the darkening sky outside the tent. He was piecing together the strange words he had heard, tasting them like a foreign spice.
"She spoke like a Maester reading a decree," Jon said slowly, furrowing his brow. "Protocols? Contamination? She spoke of us... as if we were a sickness. A plague to be avoided."
He gestured vaguely at the iron armor, the wool cloaks, and the dirt floor of the tent.
"They aren't supposed to be here, are they?" Jon asked, the realization hitting him. "It is forbidden. Not because we are enemies... but because we are savages to them... to you."
Luke paused. He looked at his student—sharp, intuitive, and dangerously perceptive.
"Not savages, Jon. Just... younger," Luke said gently. "But yes. My people have laws against interfering with worlds that haven't found their own way to the stars yet. It can cause chaos."
"Chaos," Jon repeated, a dry, bitter humor touching his lips. "As if we don't have enough of that already."
Luke allowed himself a brief, grim smile. "You have no idea."
Luke grabbed his cloak from the chair. He swung it over his shoulders.
"We have to go," Luke said. He moved to the tent flap to check the line of sight outside. The sky was darkening, turning a bruised purple in the west, but the camp was still teeming with activity.
Luke let the flap fall back. "But not yet. There are too many eyes."
Jon blinked, shaking off the paralysis of the unknown. The Stark resilience kicked in. "The feast," he realized. "King Renly is hosting all the lords and knights tonight. When the wine flows, the guards will be distracted."
Luke nodded. "Exactly. We move when the moon is high."
Jon took a step forward. He looked at the comlink on Luke's belt, then up at his Master's face. The delay gnawed at him.
"Can we reach him?" Jon asked, the desperation bleeding through. "Can we get to Robb before the cold takes him?"
"I can," Luke said firmly. "But there is no 'we', Jon. I am going to save Robb. You are staying here."
"Staying?" Jon's face flushed with immediate, hot anger. "My brother is freezing in the dark! I am not sitting in a tent while he dies! I am going with you!"
"You need to stay here," Luke said.
"What?!" Jon argued, stepping closer. "If you have a way to cross the distance, then take me with you!"
"Jon, listen to me," Luke explained, struggling to find the words to bridge the gap. "Jon… the ship can travel faster than the wind. Faster than a dragon. Faster than thought."
Jon frowned, skepticism warring with trust. "How fast?"
"I can be at the Wall in twenty minutes," Luke said.
The silence in the tent was absolute.
Jon stared at him. "Twenty... minutes?" He tried to process the concept. It took weeks to ride to the Wall from where they were. Months for a royal procession. "That... that is magic."
"It's technology," Luke said. "But yes. I can be there before the moon sets."
A new light entered Jon's eyes. The desperation vanished, replaced by a fierce calculation. "Then I am definitely coming."
"Jon—"
"If it takes twenty minutes," Jon cut in, his voice rising with excitement, "then I can go, save Robb, and be back in this tent before Renly even knows I'm gone! I won't break my oath. I won't desert my post. I can do both!"
Luke sighed. He had walked right into that one.
"The flight is fast, Jon," Luke corrected gravely. "But the search? That is what takes time."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean? You have the Force. You can sense him."
"Not at the Wall," Luke said. "The Wall is a nexus of power that clouds everything. It's like trying to find a candle in a blizzard. I can fly there in minutes, yes. But finding Robb amidst that static? It could take hours. It could take days."
Luke stepped closer, looking Jon in the eye.
"If I am gone for days, your absences will be noticed," Luke said softly. "You miss the parley. Renly will notice. He will brand you a deserter. You will break your oath, and the North loses its voice in the South."
"But Robb..."
"I will find him," Luke promised. "I have the training to hunt in the dark. But I need you here."
Jon looked down, torn between his blood and his honor. "Why? Why does it matter if I am here? I am a bastard. Renly has a hundred lords to advise him."
"Because the Force wills it," Luke said.
Jon looked up.
"I feel it, Jon," Luke said, tapping his chest. "A pull. An anchor. The Force is screaming that you need to be here. Something is going to happen. If you leave now, the balance shifts."
Luke gripped Jon's shoulder tighter. "And there is another reason. My sister."
Jon paused. "Lady Leia?"
"She is with child, twins in fact. She is strong in the Force, and so are they. I cannot take her to the Wall. The darkness there... the sheer pressure of the Cold Void... it could hurt them."
Luke's expression softened. "She must stay here. But she and Han are strangers to this world. If I leave them alone in a camp of vipers, they will start a war by accident. They need a guide. They need a protector."
Jon stood there, the conflict warring in his face. Every instinct screamed at him to run to his brother. But the logic was ironclad.
"You want me to watch over your family," Jon said, his voice thick with emotion, "while you save mine."
"I want you to hold the line," Luke corrected. "Protect them. And I swear to you, on my honor as a Jedi... I will bring Robb back."
Jon took a deep breath. He let it out slowly.
"Alright," Jon whispered. "I will stay but please save him."
"I will," Luke promised.
"But," Jon added, "if they are staying... they cannot look like they do."
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"We need armor," Jon said, his mind shifting to practicalities. "And leathers. Your friends... do any of them look like they belong in a castle?"
"Han looks like a scoundrel," Luke admitted. "Leia looks like a queen. And Chewie... well, Chewie is a problem."
"A big problem?"
"About seven feet of fur and muscle. And he's heavy."
Jon stared at him, his mind racing through the logistics of the camp. Then he let out a short, incredulous breath.
"Seven feet," Jon repeated, doing the math. "A palfrey will buckle under him. Even a courser might throw him if he's that heavy."
He turned toward the tent flap, his movements snapping into a sharp, military efficiency.
"I need to find plate," Jon muttered, ticking the list off on his gloved fingers. "Massive plate to hide the fur. And horses."
He paused, looking back at Luke. "I need to steal two extra mounts. And one of them cannot be a riding horse. It needs to be a heavy warhorse. It's the only thing strong enough to carry a giant in plate armor without breaking its back."
Jon reached for the tent flap, but Luke stopped him, his hand resting on Jon's arm.
"Jon," Luke said. "Tell the others. They need to know I haven't abandoned them. Tell them I'll be back in a few days."
Jon nodded once.
"Good," Luke said. "Now, let's move."
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The Stark supply wagons were parked in a loose circle near the edge of the encampment, a small island of Northern austerity amidst the sea of Southern excess.
Jon moved through the shadows with the silent tread of a hunter. He kept his head down, his cloak pulled tight to obscure the flash of his face in the passing torchlight. The revelry of the feast still roared in the distance, a dull, rhythmic thumping of drums and shouting voices, but here, the silence was heavy.
He reached the third wagon, the one Jory had indicated earlier. The wood was rough under his gloved hands as he threw back the canvas cover. Inside, piles of wool and leather lay stacked like cordwood. He rummaged through the chest, his fingers seeking the familiar texture of Northern gear. He bypassed the heavy chainmail hauberks; they would be too noisy, too cumbersome for what Master Luke intended. Instead, he pulled out a bundle of sturdy riding leathers and two woolen cloaks.
He threw the bundle over his shoulder, the weight settling familiarly against his back.
Jon turned to leave, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.
A lantern flared to life directly in his path.
Jon froze.
Margaery Tyrell stood ten paces away, bathed in the warm, golden glow of the lantern held by Falia. The light caught the gold thread in Margaery's gown, turning her into a statue of shimmering brilliance against the dark backdrop of the woods. She was not smiling.
Behind her, barely visible in the gloom, stood Ser Robar Royce. The Rainbow Guard's hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his stance relaxed but ready. He was not threatening, not yet, but his presence was a clear statement: You are not alone.
Jon's heart hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to push the sudden spike of adrenaline down into the cold place in his gut where he kept his fear.
Margaery signaled with a small flick of her hand. Falia stepped back, lowering the lantern slightly so the light pooled on the ground between them. Robar turned his back, watching the perimeter, granting them a semblance of privacy that was entirely illusory.
Margaery stepped forward. The scent of roses hit Jon again, sweet and suffocating.
"Ser Jon," she said. Her voice was soft, stripped of the performative projection she used in the Great Hall. "I did not get a chance to congratulate you properly. Your victory against my brother, Loras, was... unexpected. And impressive."
Jon shifted the bundle on his shoulder, feeling the rough wool scratch against his neck. He felt exposed, caught in the act of theft, though these were his house's own supplies. He looked past her shoulder, the praise sitting uncomfortably on him like an ill-fitting doublet.
"Thank you, my lady," Jon said, the words coming out stiff and formal. He didn't know how to play this game, so he stuck to the truth. "Your brother fought well."
"He fought arrogantly," Margaery corrected gently. She took another step, closing the distance until he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "And you fought with a wisdom he lacks."
She paused, her gaze searching his face. The calculation that was usually so visible in her eyes had softened into something more guarded, more human.
"And..." she hesitated, her fingers twisting a ring on her hand. "I must apologize for the gardens. For the kiss. I fear I was too forward. The moon, the wine, the uncertainty of what comes next... they make fools of us all. I would not want you to think I trifle with your honor."
Jon looked at her. Really looked at her. He saw the girl beneath the queen, the anxiety beneath the ambition. She wasn't terrified but she was standing on the edge of a war that would bleed the realm dry. In the godswood, amidst the schemers and liars, she had reached out for the only thing that felt authentic, even if just for a moment.
He softened. The tension in his shoulders eased.
"You have no reason to apologize, my Lady," Jon said quietly. "It was... a kindness. One I am not sure I earned. But we were both caught in a moment that belongs to the night, not the day."
A complex expression crossed Margaery's face—part relief that he wasn't offended, part annoyance that he was dismissing the connection so easily, as if a queen's favor was a mere 'kindness.'
Then her eyes dropped.
Her gaze landed on the bundle in his arms. The dark wool cloaks. The riding leathers. The lack of courtly finery.
The vulnerability vanished. The Queen returned. Her eyes narrowed, the calculation snapping back into place like a visor slamming shut.
"Stark riding leathers?" Margaery asked. Her voice was sharp, inquisitive. "In the middle of the feast? Why are you changing out of your silks, Jon? The night is young, and the King expects the son of Eddard Stark to drink with him."
Jon stiffened. His mind raced for a lie that would hold water against her sharp intellect.
"A hunt," Jon said. The lie tasted like ash. "Master Luke wishes to hunt at night. It is... a Northern meditation. To clear the mind after battle."
Margaery stared at him. Her eyebrows rose, skeptical arches in the lantern light.
"A hunt?" she repeated, her tone flat. "In the dark? Without horses? Without hounds?" She stepped closer, invading his personal space, her voice hardening into accusation. "You are terrible at lying, Jon Snow. Packing bags in the dark, sneaking away from the feast... this looks like desertion."
She gestured to the bundle. "You are leaving. You are running away before the march to Storm's End."
"I am not running," Jon said, defensive anger flaring.
"Then what is this?" Margaery demanded. "Renly will see this as betrayal. My grandmother will see it as an insult. If you leave now, you break the alliance before it has even begun."
She reached out as if to grab his arm, to physically stop him.
Jon leaned in. He dropped his voice to a whisper, a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in his chest. He let a sliver of the wolf slip into his tone, the cold, predatory edge he usually kept chained.
"We do not need hounds, my lady," Jon whispered. "We have the wolves. And they are hungry tonight."
He let the Force flow through the words, adding a weight of primal menace that hit her on a level deeper than hearing. He wasn't threatening her life, but he was making it clear: I am doing something dangerous, and you do not want to stand in the way.
Margaery recoiled. She stepped back and glanced toward the dark woods behind him, her eyes wide. For a moment, she saw the white shadow of Ghost, the stories of direwolves tearing out throats in the night.
The fear in her eyes was real, but she straightened, recovering her mask of courtly composure, though her breathing was shallow.
"Then hunt well, Jon Snow," she whispered, her voice laced with a cold suspicion. She glanced back at Robar, ensuring the knight hadn't heard. "But be careful. If you do not return by tomorrow... I cannot promise the King will be as understanding as I am."
Jon didn't wait. He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin, and turned on his heel. He vanished into the darkness of the trees, leaving the Rose of Highgarden standing in the pool of lantern light, staring into the shadows.
The woods behind the camp were a tangle of ancient oaks and thick underbrush. Jon moved fast, the bundle of leathers thumping against his back. He navigated the roots and rocks by instinct and the faint, guiding pull of the Force.
He found Luke waiting in a small clearing a quarter mile from the wagons. The Jedi stood beneath the canopy of a massive oak, looking entirely at ease in the darkness. Beside him, a massive sack made of burlap sat on the ground, bulging with uneven shapes.
Ghost and Amidala were there as well. The two direwolves rose from the undergrowth as Jon approached, as silent as shadow. Ghost padded to Jon's side, pressing his cold nose against Jon's hand. Amidala remained by Luke, her amber eyes reflecting the scant starlight filtering through the leaves.
"You have the leathers?" Luke asked. His voice was low, calm.
"Aye." Jon adjusted the bundle. "Margaery saw me. She knows something is wrong."
"She won't raise the alarm," Luke said confidently. He bent down and hoisted the massive burlap sack. "Unless, at least, you don't return."
Luke swung the sack over his shoulder with one hand. Jon stared. That sack was filled with pieces of plate and chainmail Luke had scavenged from the discarded piles of the armory. Yet Luke carried it as if it were filled with feathers. It was a casual, terrifying display of strength that Jon was still getting used to.
"We need to move," Luke said. "The clearing is another four miles east."
They set off through the treeline, moving parallel to the river. The Blueburn murmured to their right, a dark ribbon of water reflecting the moon. They moved quickly, the wolves loping ahead to scout, Jon and Luke falling into a rhythm of silent travel.
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The night sounds of the forest—the chirp of crickets, the hoot of an owl—were soothing after the noise of the camp. But Jon's mind was churning. He knew the plan. He had agreed to it. But not going North felt like a betrayal of his blood. He had to trust that a ship could outfly a dragon.
He stopped abruptly.
His boots skid on the pine needles. He didn't know why he stopped. He just knew he had to.
"Jon?" Luke paused, turning back. "You feel it?"
Jon didn't answer. He closed his eyes. He reached out, not with his ears, but with his feelings, pushing his awareness outward and upward.
It was there.
"Something is coming," Jon whispered. He opened his eyes and looked up at the canopy of leaves, trying to see the stars. "The air... it feels thick."
He swallowed, his throat dry.
Luke smiled. It was a genuine, proud smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Good," Luke said softly. "Your senses are sharpening."
The peace of the forest was shattered as the wind didn't die; it erupted. Leaves were stripped violently from the ancient oaks, swirling into a chaotically. The water in the river churned and frothed, whipped into whitecaps by an invisible, crushing weight. A strange, rhythmic thrumming began, so low it was felt in the teeth rather than heard. It was a vibration, a deep, hum that made the hairs on Jon's arms stand up.
Jon looked up, shielding his eyes against the flying debris. The stars vanished.
A shadow had detached itself from the night. It was vast, blotting out the constellations. A strange vessel made of metal descended through the gap in the trees. It didn't fly like a bird; it hovered, defying everything Jon knew as being real.
The Millennium Falcon descended.
Jets of unseen air blasted the ground beneath it. The river water was blasted outward, spraying a heavy mist into the air. The trees around the clearing bent and groaned, their branches whipping in all directions. The mud in the clearing was pressed flat by an invisible giant's hand.
Jon did not cower.
Fear clawed at him, primal and screaming that this was a dragon, a demon, a monster. But training took over. Instinct honed by months of meditation and sparring kicked in.
He threw up his hand. He didn't think; he just acted. He pushed with his mind, forming a bubble in front of his face.
A wall of flying mud and debris slammed into his invisible shield and diverted around him. He stood firm in the gale, his cloak whipping violently behind him, watching the metal beast settle.
The ship touched the mud with a heavy, metallic thud. The invisible wind died instantly. The ship sat there, dark and silent, save for the ticking of cooling metal that sounded like a dying stove.
Silence crashed back into the clearing. It was heavy, absolute silence.
Jon lowered his hand. He stared at the machine sitting in the mud. It was scarred, scorched, and magnificent.
"By the Old Gods..." Jon breathed. The words felt small against the scale of the vessel. His worldview didn't just crack; it fractured. Twenty minutes to the Wall. Looking at this beast, Jon finally believed it.
A ramp hissed open from the underbelly and bright light spilled out from the interior, stark and white.
Jon's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, his fingers cramping around the leather grip, but the blade remained in its scabbard. He couldn't draw. He couldn't move. Beside him, Ghost and Amidala did not charge. They dropped low, their bellies brushing the mud, ears flattened against their skulls. They snarled, hackles raised, backing away with jerky, uncertain movements. They didn't sense a beast of flesh and blood.
Luke stepped forward instantly. He didn't look at the ship; he looked at the figures emerging. He reached into his belt and pulled out the small metal cylinder—the comlink.
"See-Threepio!" Luke shouted. He followed the name with a string of sharp, staccato words that meant nothing to Jon, a language he couldn't understand.
Luke tossed the device through the air.
A golden figure at the top of the ramp caught the device with a clumsy, mechanical motion.
"Oh my!" the golden man exclaimed. But the words that followed were a stream of high-pitched, mechanical gibberish, a rapid-fire dialect that sounded like a saw cutting through wood.
The figure plugged the device into a place on his chest. There was a sharp squeal of a strange sound, followed by a descending chime.
Then, the gibberish snapped into clarity.
"...dreadful! I shall corrode!" the golden man continued, the transition seamless and jarring. "Captain Solo, I really must protest this landing site!"
"It's working," Luke said to Jon. "The translator is active. You can understand them now."
A huge creature stepped out behind the golden man. Taller than Hodor. Broader than the Mountain. Covered in shaggy brown fur that rippled in the wind. It wore a bandolier of metal boxes across its chest and carried a weapon that looked like a crossbow made of metal and glass.
To Jon, it was a demon of the Long Night. A giant from the stories, come to eat human flesh.
Jon's hand convulsed on the hilt of his sword again, his knuckles turning white. He took a staggering step back, his neck craning up, and up.
"Seven Hells..." Jon whispered, the blood draining from his face. The warning Luke had given him—he is large, but he is gentle—warred violently with the primal terror seizing his limbs.
The creature threw its head back and roared.
It was a deafening, warbling cry that echoed through the forest, vibrating deep in Jon's chest. But it wasn't a roar of anger as it had a melodic, mournful quality to it.
Jon stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a terrified awe. This was a beast of the Old Gods, a creature that belonged in the Age of Heroes, not here in the mud of the Reach.
"Easy, Chewie," a third figure said, emerging from the ship.
It was a human man. He wore a vest over a white shirt, dark pants with a red stripe, and a low-slung belt with a strange weapon holstered at his hip. He looked tired, scruffy, and entirely unimpressed by the direwolves or the terrified boy.
"Hey, kid," the man said, nodding to Luke. Then he looked at Jon. He eyed the white-knuckled death grip Jon had on his sword hilt. "Nice sticker. But you might want to let go of the handle. The walking carpet gets nervous when people get twitchy."
The Wookiee roared again, a softer, chuffing sound this time.
Jon blinked, the trance breaking. The golden man. The furred giant. The scruffy man. It was a mummer's farce come to life, but the fear in the wolves was real.
"Ghost," Jon managed, his voice raspy. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers from the leather grip of his sword, though his hand hovered inches away. "Stay."
The wolves stopped backing away, but they didn't relax. They watched the Wookiee with unblinking suspicion, their bodies coiled like springs.
"Han, stop antagonizing Luke's young friend."
A woman's voice. Sharp. Commanding.
A fourth figure emerged from the ship. She was small, dressed in white combat gear that looked practical and worn. Her hair was braided intricately around her head. She walked down the ramp, ignoring the mud that made the golden man fret. She ignored the giant Wookiee. She ignored the scruffy man.
She didn't look at Jon. She looked at the hooded figure standing amidst the wolves.
"Luke," she breathed.
The Jedi met her at the bottom of the ramp. He didn't bow; he opened his arms. She stepped into them, burying her face in his shoulder. It was a fierce, desperate embrace, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and terrifying distances.
Jon watched, his hand slowly drifting away from his sword hilt. The monsters... they were a family. The sight of the genuine, raw affection between the star-travelers did more to settle his nerves than any explanation could have.
She pulled back, her hands lingering on Luke's arms. She studied his face, her eyes critical but affectionate.
"You look thin," she chided softly, her voice trembling slightly. "And you're wearing… leather armor. Looks good on you."
"It's good to see you too, Leia," Luke said, his smile looking brighter than it had in months.
Only then did she turn.
Her gaze swept past the trees, past the wary direwolves, and locked onto Jon. She stepped away from her brother, moving toward the young Stark with a slow, deliberate grace.
Jon straightened. He knew who this was. The resemblance was subtle, but it was there in the eyes, in the chin.
She stopped three paces from him. She didn't look at his sword. She looked at his face. Her dark eyes searched him, assessing him with a terrifying intelligence.
"He shines, Luke," she said, her voice soft but carrying in the silence. She didn't turn back to look at her brother; she kept her eyes pinned on Jon. "But it's... heavy. Cold. But there is a fire buried deep underneath the ice."
Luke stepped forward to stand beside her. "Jon, this is my sister. Leia Organa Solo."
Jon hesitated, then bowed his head, the gesture automatic and respectful. "My lady. It is... an honor."
Luke gestured to the others. "And this is Han Solo. Chewbacca. And C-3PO."
"Charmed, I'm sure," C-3PO muttered, wiping mud from his golden leg.
Luke turned to the wolves. "And these are the guardians. This is Ghost. And this..." Luke rested a hand on the she-wolf's head. "This is Amidala."
Leia froze.
Her breath hitched. She stared at the white wolf, her eyes widening. The fierce composure cracked, revealing a deep, old wound beneath.
She reached out. Her hand trembled slightly. She touched the wolf's head, her fingers sinking into the fur. Amidala leaned into the touch, whining softly.
"Amidala," Leia whispered. The name sounded sacred and painful on her tongue.
Han watched her, his scoundrel's smirk fading. He knew that name. He stepped up beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back.
"She likes the big wolf, Luke," Han said softly. "That's a good sign."
Luke stepped in, wrapping his arms around his sister. He hugged her tight, burying his face in her hair. Then he pulled back slightly, placing his mechanical hand gently on her stomach.
"I felt them," Luke said softly. "Even from a distance."
Leia smiled through the tears in her eyes. "They're loud. Just like their father."
Jon watched them. The affection was palpable. They were a family. A strange, impossible family from the stars, but a family nonetheless. It made the hole in his own chest ache.
"We don't have much time," Luke said, his voice shifting back to business. The reunion was over. The mission remained.
"You're staying," Leia stated, looking at Luke. It wasn't a question.
"I'm going North of this continent," Luke corrected. "To rescue my other apprentice. But you... you are staying here. With Jon."
Leia frowned, her gaze snapping to the young Stark. "Here? In a war camp?"
"It's safer than the North," Luke said. "The dark side presence at the Wall... it's too strong, Leia. I won't risk the twins."
Leia hesitated, her hand going to her stomach. She nodded slowly. She had felt it too.
"If she stays, I stay," Han said immediately. He crossed his arms, planting his feet in the mud. "I'm not leaving her alone on a planet full of sword-swinging maniacs."
"That's the plan. Jon has agreed to guide you," Luke said. "He knows the politics. He knows the danger. Trust him."
Han looked at Jon, sizing him up. "He's just a kid."
"He's also a Jedi padawan," Luke said. "And he's a survivor."
Jon stepped forward. "I will keep them safe, Master. On my honor."
"I know you will," Luke said.
Luke turned to the massive burlap sack he had carried from the camp. He dropped it into the mud. It clanged heavily, a wet, metallic sound.
"We have a disguise for our... diplomatic envoy," Luke said.
Han looked at the sack. He looked at Chewbacca. He looked back at the sack.
"You're joking," Han said. He let out a short, barking laugh. "You want to put him in a metal dress?"
"It's plate and mail," Luke said, kicking the sack open to reveal the rusted, oversized components. "I found pieces that would fit a man of... significant girth. With a closed helm, no one will see the fur."
Han looked at the rusty pile, then up at his co-pilot, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.
"Well then," Han improvised, clearly enjoying this way too much. "Arise, Sir Bacca."
Chewbacca growled a low, vibrating warning that rumbled in his chest.
"Don't look at me like that, pal," Han said, gesturing around the dark forest. "Look at the armor. It's like a storybook gone wrong. A real backwater medieval fair. I bet they don't even have refresher units, just a bucket and a prayer."
Chewbacca roared a sharp, barking rebuke, shoving Han's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
"Han!" Leia's voice cut through the air. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "That is enough."
"What?" Han protested, throwing his hands up. "I'm just saying! It's primitive!"
Chewie growled again, jerking his hairy head pointedly toward Jon Snow.
Han froze. He followed the Wookiee's gaze. Jon stood a few feet away, looking stiff, his grey eyes fixed on Han with a mixture of confusion and quiet, wounded dignity.
The realization hit Han a second later. This was the his home.
Han rubbed the back of his neck, his bravado deflating instantly. He looked from Jon to Leia, then back to Jon.
"Right. Uh..." Han offered Jon a sheepish, half-grimace. "Sorry, kid. No offense meant. Just... used to different scenery. Sir Bacca—I mean, Chewie—he's actually a prince back on his world. Sort of. So the title fits."
Jon froze. His eyes widened, shifting from the scoundrel to the towering mountain of fur. The skepticism vanished, replaced instantly by the rigid teachings of Maester Luwin. In Westeros, you might joke with a sellsword, but you do not insult a royal, even a foreign one.
Jon straightened his spine, his posture shifting from defensive to deferential. He dipped his head low, a formal, courtly bow.
"Forgive me," Jon said, his voice earnest. "I did not know. Welcome to the Reach, Your Grace."
Chewbacca let out a sharp, gargling bark. He reached out a massive, hairy hand and waved it dismissively in front of Jon's face, shaking his head with a forceful snort.
Jon paused mid-bow, looking up in confusion.
"Yeah, don't do that," Han said, translating with a smirk. "He says if you bow, he's gonna think you're making fun of him. We don't really stand on ceremony where we're from."
Chewie grunted an agreement, patting his bowcaster.
"Besides," Han added, leaning in as if sharing a state secret. "He abdicated. Too much paperwork. Prefer's the quiet life."
Jon slowly straightened, looking at the alien "prince" with a new, bewildered respect. "As you say... my lord."
"Just Chewie," Han corrected. "Or he rips your arms off. It's an affectionate thing."
Han clapped his hands together, shattering the awkward moment. "Now, let's get His Highness into that tin can."
"He looks..." Jon searched for a polite word as he watched Luke hold up the rusted breastplate. "Intimidating."
"He looks ridiculous," Han said, grinning. "But in the dark, he'll pass."
"I must remain on the ship," C-3PO said nervously, eyeing the mud with disdain. "I am not built for... rustic stealth. And if I may say so, the humidity here is terrible for my servos."
"Agreed," Luke said. "Monitor the comms, Threepio. And keep the engines warm."
Luke turned to Jon one last time. He didn't offer a hug. He offered a hand.
"Trust in the Force, Jon," Luke said. "Trust in yourself. You are stronger than you know."
Jon took the hand. "May the Force be with you."
Luke walked up the ramp. The hatch hissed shut, sealing him inside the metal beast.
"Clear the landing zone!" Han warned, pulling Jon and Leia back toward the trees.
The Falcon rose. There was no fire this time. Just the whine of the repulsors and the displacement of air. It hovered for a moment, a dark shape against the stars, and then it shot straight up. It vanished into the clouds in a heartbeat, silent and impossibly fast.
Jon stood in the dark, staring at the empty sky. He felt small. But he wasn't alone.
Han Solo stood beside him. He patted the blaster at his hip, then adjusted his vest. He looked at the moody teenager beside him, then at the giant Wookiee in the rusted armor.
"Alright, kid," Han said, his voice cutting through the gloom with practiced swagger. "Lead the way. And if anyone asks... I'm a distant cousin. Twice removed."
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