A/N: Expect the next chapter for Kill The Boy Wednesday! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :)
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
Jon's knees ached against the cold earth, but the discomfort faded as Luke's voice washed over them like warm honey. The godswood held its breath, even the ravens silent in their roosts.
"Now we begin properly," Luke said, settling into that same cross-legged position. "Close your eyes again. This time, don't just feel—reach out. The Force isn't something you possess. It possesses you, flows through you. You're merely a vessel."
A vessel. Jon shut his eyes, trying to ignore how Ghost pressed against his side, radiating warmth through his black wool. The darkness behind his lids pulsed red with firelight from the distant keep.
"Breathe," Luke instructed. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel your heartbeat slow."
Jon's chest rose and fell. Beside him, Arya's breathing came quick and eager, while Robb's measured cadence spoke of forced calm. Bran made no sound at all.
"Good. Now... reach."
At first, nothing. Just cold and damp and the copper taste of coming snow on his tongue. Then…
Gods.
It crashed into him like a hammer to the gut. Not warmth exactly, but presence. Life. The weirwood's ancient consciousness pressed against his mind, vast and patient as stone. Beneath that, smaller sparks—beetles in the bark, worms in the soil, his siblings burning bright as hearth fires beside him. And Ghost...
Ghost blazed like the sun.
Jon's eyes snapped open, gasping. The world looked different. Sharper. He could see the individual ice crystals forming on Arya's dark hair, count the heartbeats in Robb's throat, feel the excitement radiating from Bran like heat from a forge.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed.
"What was that?" Arya's grin stretched wide enough to split her face. "I felt... everything. The trees, the ground, even you lot."
Luke nodded, unsurprised. "The Force connects all living things. What you felt was your first conscious touch of that connection."
"It's like a giant web," Bran said softly. "But... more."
Jon's hands trembled. He clenched them into fists, leather gloves creaking. This power, this presence, it felt too large for his body, like trying to pour the ocean into a wine cup.
"Now," Luke continued, producing a small stone from his pocket, "we'll try something more focused." He set the stone on the ground between them. "Who wants to—"
"Me!" Arya lunged forward.
"Patience." Luke's tone carried gentle reproach. "Jon, you first. You have the strongest connection."
Heat crept up Jon's neck. Bastards aren't supposed to be strongest at anything. But Luke waited, expectant, and his siblings watched with varying degrees of envy and curiosity.
"What do I do?"
"Feel the stone. Not with your fingers, with the Force. Every object has presence, weight in the current. Find it."
Jon stared at the grey pebble, smooth and unremarkable. He reached out again, trying to recapture that overwhelming sensation. This time it came easier, like slipping into a warm bath. The world expanded. He felt the stone's density, its age, the memory of water that had shaped it.
"Good. Now... lift it."
"Lift it?" Jon's voice cracked. "With my mind?"
"With the Force. Will and action are one. Don't think about moving it. Simply move it."
Jon extended his hand, fingers splayed. The stone sat there, mocking him. He pushed, mentally straining until sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold.
Nothing.
"You're trying too hard," Luke said. "The Force isn't a battering ram. It's a river. Guide it, don't force it."
Guide it. Jon exhaled slowly, releasing his desperate grip on the power. Instead of pushing, he... invited. Asked.
The stone twitched.
Arya squeaked. Robb swore. The stone rolled, then rose—barely a finger's width, wobbling like a drunk man.
"Jon!" Bran's voice pitched high with excitement.
The stone dropped. Jon's concentration shattered, and with it came a wave of exhaustion that left him sagging.
"Well done." Luke's approval warmed more than any fire. "Most students take weeks to achieve even that much."
"I moved it." Jon stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. "I actually..."
"Show me how!" Arya demanded. "I want to try!"
"In time. But first—" Luke's expression grew serious. "There's something we must discuss. In my Order, students address their teachers as 'Master.' It's a term of respect for knowledge and experience, nothing more."
The word hung in the air like a blade. Master. Jon's jaw tightened. In Westeros, that word meant ownership. Chains. Everything he'd fought against even as a bastard.
"You want us to call you master?" Robb's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Like we're your thralls?"
"No." Luke shook his head. "I see this troubles you. In my culture, it simply means teacher. One who has mastered the ways of the Force and passes that mastery to others. But if the word offends—"
"It's what slaves call their owners!" Arya spat.
"Then we'll find another term." Luke's calm never wavered. "Teacher, perhaps. Or simply Luke. The title matters less than the learning."
Jon studied the man's scarred face, searching for deception. Found none. "Where you come from... this is normal? Students calling teachers 'master'?"
"For thousands of years. But I'm not in my homeland now. I'll adapt to your customs."
"Master," Bran said firmly. "We'll call you Master."
Luke inclined his head. "As you wish."
The tension eased, but questions gnawed at Jon like hunger. Where did this man come from, that students willingly called teachers 'master'? What Order taught men to move stones with thought alone?
"Again," Luke said, placing the stone back in the center. "Arya, your turn."
As his little sister attacked the exercise with characteristic ferocity, Jon caught Robb's eye. His brother's expression mirrored his own thoughts.
What have we gotten ourselves into?
But beneath the fear, beneath the questions, something else stirred. Power. Purpose. For the first time in his life, Jon Snow felt like he might be meant for something more than just a bastard's lot.
The stone jumped under Arya's glare, and her whoop of triumph echoed through the godswood.
----------------------------------------------------
Catelyn found her husband beneath the heart tree, its bone-white bark gleaming like old ivory in the filtered afternoon light. The godswood held that peculiar stillness it always possessed—not silence, but a muffled quality that made the world beyond its walls seem distant and unimportant. Snow dusted Ned's shoulders where he knelt before the weirwood's carved face, those terrible eyes weeping red sap that looked too much like blood.
The parchment in her hand crackled as her fingers tightened. Such a small thing to carry such enormous weight.
"Ned."
He didn't startle—he never did when she found him here. His head turned slightly, acknowledging her presence without breaking whatever communion he sought with his gods. The old gods, not hers. Even after all these years, she felt like an intruder in this place.
"Cat." His voice carried that particular roughness it held after prayer. "What brings you to the godswood?"
She stepped closer, her boots crunching through the thin crust of snow. The cold bit through her woolen cloak, but the chill running down her spine had nothing to do with winter.
"A raven came from King's Landing."
Now he turned fully, rising from his knees with the careful movements of a man who'd been still too long in the cold. His grey eyes—so like the storm clouds gathering overhead—found hers immediately. He knew. Of course he knew. Bad news traveled on black wings.
"Jon Arryn?"
"Dead." The word fell between them like a stone into still water. "The fever took him quickly, Pycelle writes. Five days from hale to grave."
Ned's jaw tightened, the only sign of the grief that must be tearing through him. Jon Arryn had been more than his foster father—he'd been the man who shaped him, who'd raised him alongside Robert in the Eyrie's cold halls.
"There's more." She held out the second parchment, this one bearing the royal seal. "Robert rides for Winterfell. He'll be here within the moon's turn."
"Robert is coming here?" The surprise in his voice might have been amusing under different circumstances. "After all these years..."
"He needs a new Hand." She didn't need to say more. They both knew why Robert would make such a journey.
Ned took the letter, breaking the seal with deliberate care. His eyes moved across the words, and she watched the understanding dawn on his face, followed swiftly by something that looked dangerously like dread.
"He means to ask me."
"He means to command you." Catelyn moved closer, close enough to smell the pine resin and old leather that always clung to him. "You know Robert. He won't take no for an answer."
"No." The word came out firm, decisive. "My place is here. The North needs—"
"The North needs its lord alive." The sharpness in her voice surprised them both. "Ned, Jon Arryn is dead. Your foster father, a man who survived the Mad King and a rebellion, dead of a fever that took him in days. Does that not strike you as strange?"
"Cat." His hand found her arm, warm even through the layers of wool. "Not here."
She glanced around the empty godswood, then back at his face. Understanding bloomed cold in her chest. Even here, even in this sacred place, he feared listening ears. What had happened to them, that they must guard their words in their own home?
"There's something else." She kept her voice low, though anger began to kindle beneath her breastbone. "I went to find you in the yard. To tell you about Jon Arryn. Imagine my surprise when I found our children—all our children—being instructed by that stranger."
Ned's expression didn't change, but she knew him well enough to see the slight tension around his eyes.
"Including the bastard." The word tasted bitter, as it always did. "You gave him leave to train Jon Snow alongside our trueborn children? And the girls, Ned? What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking of their safety." His voice remained maddeningly calm. "Skywalker has skills that could protect them."
"Protect them?" She pulled away from his touch. "From what? He's filling their heads with talk of mystical powers and impossible things. Arya came to me yesterday claiming she could make her cup move without touching it. Sansa asked if the Faith is wrong about magic. What poison is he feeding them?"
"It's not poison." But doubt colored his words.
"Then what is it? Sorcery? Some foreign magic?" Her voice rose despite her efforts to control it. "And you let him near our daughters—"
"My lady. Lord Stark."
The voice came from behind them, soft and unassuming, but Catelyn spun as if struck. Luke Skywalker stood at the edge of the grove, and she had not heard him approach. No snow crunched beneath his feet. No branch had announced his passage.
"Forgive the intrusion." He inclined his head, that strange courtesy of his that seemed both foreign and familiar. "I sensed... distress. I thought perhaps I might help clarify."
"You sensed?" Catelyn's fear crystallized into anger. "What right have you to sense anything about me?"
"None, my lady." He stepped forward, and she fought the urge to retreat. There was nothing threatening in his manner, yet something about him set every instinct screaming. "But the Force—what I call this gift—it connects all living things. Strong emotions create... ripples."
"More sorcerer's talk."
"Cat—" Ned began, but she cut him off with a gesture.
"No. I'll not have my children corrupted by…" She stopped, searching for words. "By whatever this is."
Luke studied her for a long moment, those strange blue eyes seeming to see more than they should. Then he extended his hand, palm up, empty.
"May I show you something, Lady Stark? Nothing harmful, I promise. Just a demonstration."
She glanced at Ned, who nodded slowly. Against her better judgment, she gave her consent with a sharp jerk of her chin.
Luke's eyes unfocused slightly, and the snow around his feet began to swirl. Not blown by wind—there was no wind. The flakes rose in a perfect spiral, dancing around his outstretched hand like white butterflies. They formed shapes—a wolf, a fish, a crown—before dissolving back into gentle falling snow.
"A trick," she breathed, but her voice lacked conviction.
"The beginning of understanding." Luke's hand lowered, and the snow returned to its natural fall. "Your children are special, Lady Stark. All of them. They have a connection to this energy, this Force, that could help them in the trials to come."
"What trials?" Ned's voice sharpened. "You spoke of darkness beyond the Wall."
Luke's expression grew distant, troubled. "I see... fragments. Visions granted by the Force. Ice and death marching south. A long night that seeks to swallow all warmth." His focus returned to them. "Your children will face choices that could save or doom thousands. Would you have them face such moments unprepared?"
"You speak in riddles." But Catelyn heard the fear beneath her own anger. "Visions and prophecies!"
"Not prophecies. Possibilities." Luke's voice gentled. "The future is always in motion. But I've seen enough to know that winter is coming, as your words say. And it will be unlike any winter your histories record."
"The Others are gone," Ned said quietly. "Dead eight thousand years."
"Death is not always final." Luke's words sent ice through Catelyn's veins. "And some things that sleep are merely waiting for the right moment to wake."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the heart tree's faint groaning in the wind. Catelyn found herself staring at those weeping eyes, the red sap that looked so much like blood. Like tears.
"Even if I believed you," she said finally, "why should I trust you with my children? You appear from nowhere, speaking of powers and distant threats. For all we know, you could be the danger you warn against."
Luke smiled then, sad and knowing. "A fair question, my lady. I can offer only this—judge me by my actions. I've asked for no payment, made no demands. I seek only to prepare them for what's coming."
"And Jon Snow?" The name burned her throat. "Why include him?"
"Because his strength could make the difference between victory and defeat." Luke met her gaze steadily. "I understand your pain, Lady Stark. But the boy didn't choose his birth. And in the trials ahead, you'll need every sword, every gift, every soul willing to stand against the dark."
She wanted to rage at him, to deny his words, to forbid him from speaking of things he couldn't understand. But something in his eyes and the way his eyes bore into Ned stilled her tongue.
"I don't trust you," she said finally. "I don't trust this power you claim to wield. But if Ned believes you can help protect our children..." She looked at her husband, seeing her own fears reflected in his eyes. "Then I'll not stand in your way. But know this, Luke Skywalker, if any harm comes to them through your teaching, no power in this world or any other will save you from a mother's wrath."
Luke bowed deeply. "I would expect nothing less, my lady."
Before either of them could question him further, he turned and walked away, his footsteps finally making sound in the snow. Catelyn watched him go, this strange man who spoke of powers beyond understanding, who claimed to see fragments of the future.
She reached for Ned's hand, needing the solid warmth of it.
"I'm frightened," she admitted, the words barely a whisper.
His fingers tightened around hers. "So am I."
----------------------------------------------------
Sansa sat at her dressing table, ivory comb trembling in her hand. The polished silver mirror reflected a face she barely recognized—pale as fresh milk, with shadows beneath her Tully blue eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.
Sorcery. The word tasted bitter on her tongue, like the medicine Maester Luwin gave for winter fever. She'd been taught the stories, of course. How the Andals brought the light of the Seven to Westeros, driving out the dark magic of the First Men. How only in the North did men still cling to their heart trees and old ways.
But this was different. This was real.
The comb caught in a tangle, and she winced, working it free with practiced fingers. Through her window came the familiar morning sounds of Winterfell. The ring of hammer on anvil from Mikken's forge, the baying of hounds in the kennels, Ser Rodrik's gruff voice calling instructions in the yard. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Not like the whisper of that branch rising without wind. Not like the stone dancing between her siblings' hands.
"My lady?" Jeyne Poole peered around the door, brown curls bouncing. "Shall I help with your hair?"
"No." The word came sharper than intended. Sansa forced a smile, the kind Mother had taught her—lips curved just so, never showing teeth. "Thank you, Jeyne. I'll manage."
Jeyne's face fell slightly, but she bobbed a curtsey and withdrew. Sansa turned back to her reflection, fingers working automatically to braid her auburn hair. The motions soothed her, each twist and fold a small rebellion against the chaos in her mind.
She'd run. Like a child frightened by shadows, she'd fled the godswood, leaving her siblings to... to what? To learn dark arts from a stranger who made snow dance and spoke of powers beyond understanding?
The braid slipped. She started again.
Arya hadn't run. Arya never ran from anything, the little wolf. Even now, Sansa could picture her sister's grey eyes bright with excitement, that fierce grin splitting her long face as the stone wobbled upward. Look, Sansa! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it!
The memory sent something sharp and ugly twisting through Sansa's chest. Not fear this time. Something worse.
She secured the braid with a blue ribbon—Tully colors, Mother would approve—and smoothed her grey wool dress. Everything proper. Everything as it should be.
Except it wasn't. Because while she'd been learning to curtsey and embroider and sing, Arya had been learning to move objects with her mind. While she'd memorized the lineages of great houses, Jon Snow—Jon Snow—had made a stone float.
The unfairness of it burned. She was the one who did everything right, who remembered her courtesies and kept her dress clean and never spoke out of turn. She was the one who would marry a great lord someday, who would be great lady… maybe even Queen.
"The king arrives within the fortnight," she whispered to her reflection. "Prince Joffrey will come."
Golden-haired and handsome, like the princes in her songs. Surely when she saw him, when she danced with him in Winterfell's great hall, this strange ache would fade. Surely a true prince would drive away thoughts of floating stones and mysterious teachers and the way the godswood had thrummed with something ancient and alive.
She rose, skirts rustling, and made her way to the sept. The seven-sided building stood apart from Winterfell's heart, its very stones a reminder that she was her mother's daughter, not just her father's. Here, at least, the world made sense.
But even as she knelt before the Maiden's altar, even as she mouthed the familiar prayers, she couldn't forget the look in Luke Skywalker's strange blue eyes. Patient. Knowing. As if he saw something in her that she couldn't see herself.
All of you are special, he'd said.
"Please," she whispered to the painted face above her. "Please let Prince Joffrey come soon."
Let him come and make her forget this Force, this power that called to something deep in her Stark blood. Let him come and remind her who she was meant to be.
A proper lady. Not a sorceress.
Never that.