A/N: As promised, the next chapter is here! I has to create a language barrier as this is a unknown planet to the Galactic Republic's data base so any translator would need time to adjust. I was going to add another scene with Eddard and Luke talking privately but this chapter would be too long, so look forward to it in the next chapter. Also please check out my other fic Kill The Boy if you havn't already and a quick update on that is that I am also working on editing the next chapter so keep a lookout for that soon. Please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter with a review :)
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Year 298 AC
Kingsroad, The North
The snow fell in lazy spirals through the weak winter sunlight, catching on the fur-lined cloaks of Eddard Stark's party as they rode through the Wolfswood. Ned's breath clouded before him, mingling with that of his mount. The afternoon light filtered through the ancient sentinel trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor.
"The deserter was found near Long Lake," Ned told his sons as they rode. "A ranger from the Shadow Tower. He abandoned his post and fled south."
Robb, riding at his right, nodded grimly. "The third this year."
"Something drives them from the Wall," Jon Snow added quietly from behind. "More than just wildlings."
Theon Greyjoy snorted. "Fear drives them. Nothing more."
Ned glanced back at his ward, then to young Bran, who rode a pony between his brothers. The boy's eyes were wide, taking in everything. His first time witnessing the king's justice. Too young, perhaps, but winter was coming. Northern children couldn't afford long childhoods.
Jory Cassel, captain of Ned's household guard, suddenly raised a hand. "My lord," he called, voice low with caution.
Ned followed his gaze to a snow-covered rise ahead. A lone figure stood there, dressed in black, silhouetted against the pale winter sky.
"Hold," Ned commanded, his party immediately halting. He studied the stranger with narrowed eyes. "Not one of ours."
The figure made no move to flee or approach. Simply stood, watching them.
"A wildling scout?" Jory suggested, hand moving to his sword.
"Perhaps." Ned raised his arm, signaling his men to form a perimeter. "Theon and Tom, stay with Bran. Robb, Jon, Heward, Desmond guard our flanks." He nodded to Jory. "With me."
They urged their horses forward, approaching the rise with measured caution. As they drew closer, Ned assessed the stranger with the practiced eye of a battle-commander.
The man wasn't too old—perhaps of a decade younger than him—with light hair and a lean build. His garments were black, but unlike anything Ned had seen before. Not the rough-spun wool of the Night's Watch, nor the furs of wildlings, nor any fashion known in the Seven Kingdoms. The material seemed almost to shine in places, with fastenings unlike any Ned recognized. A peculiar cylinder hung at the stranger's hip.
Despite the odd appearance, the man carried himself with quiet dignity. Though Ned noted signs of recent injury—dried blood on his temple, the careful way he held himself—the stranger showed no fear as they approached.
Ned halted his mount twenty paces from the figure, hand resting on Ice's pommel. "Identify yourself," he called, voice carrying across the snow.
The stranger spoke, but the words were utterly foreign—no language Ned had ever heard in all his travels. The man seemed to realize this, for he stopped, then gestured to himself and spoke more slowly: "Luke Skywalker."
"Luke... Sky-walker," Ned repeated, testing the strange name. He glanced at Jory. "Not a wildling. His clothes are too fine, strange as they are."
"No wildling I've ever seen," Jory agreed. "Nor any man of the Watch."
Ned nodded. "Eddard Stark," he replied, tapping his chest.
The stranger smiled slightly, seeming pleased at this small breakthrough. He gestured expansively at the horizon, then pointed back the way they had come.
"Far lands," he said carefully. "Vessel... damaged."
Ned frowned, parsing the broken words. "You traveled from distant shores? And your ship was wrecked?"
Luke nodded, his hands mimicking waves. "Great… waters." He made a crashing motion with his hand.
Ned was about to speak again when movement at the treeline caught his eye. A massive shape emerged from the forest—white as the snow itself, with eyes that gleamed like amber in the winter light. A direwolf, her belly swollen with pups.
"Gods be good," Jory gasped, drawing his sword.
Behind them, the rest of the party reacted with alarm. Horses nickered nervously as weapons were drawn. Ned himself felt a cold shock run through him. No direwolf had been seen south of the Wall in his lifetime, nor his father's before him.
"Steady," Ned commanded, drawing Ice with a metallic whisper. The Valyrian steel caught the pale sunlight as he prepared to defend against the beast.
But the direwolf paid them no mind. Instead, she padded directly toward the stranger in black, her movements deliberate but showing no aggression. The man—Luke—turned toward her without fear.
Ned watched in astonishment as the stranger knelt, extending his hand. The direwolf approached, massive head level with the kneeling man's, and allowed him to touch her between the ears.
"By the old gods," Ned whispered, "I've not seen the like in all my years."
The tableau before him seemed drawn from Old Nan's tales—a mysterious figure communing with a creature of legend. The direwolf, a beast that could tear a man's throat out in an instant, stood docile as a hound before this stranger.
Robb urged his horse forward to Ned's side, his young face a mixture of wonder and wariness. "Father, what manner of man is this? No wildling commands direwolves."
Jon Snow had approached as well, his dark eyes studying the stranger intently. "Look how he stands. He's a warrior, though strangely not armed."
Theon, who had ignored Ned's command to stay with Bran, smirked from atop his mount. "Perhaps he's a woods witch in men's clothing, to tame such beasts."
Bran had followed too, his pony nervous but steady. The boy's eyes were wide with wonder. "Father, the wolf doesn't fear him at all!"
Ned sheathed Ice, his decision made. There was something about this man—something that spoke of the old gods. "We'll take him with us. The deserter awaits justice, and afterward we'll bring this stranger to Winterfell." He looked once more at the man communing with the direwolf. "The old gods have placed him in our path for a reason."
Ned dismounted, handing his reins to Jory. He approached the stranger slowly, hands open and empty at his sides to show peaceful intent. The direwolf watched him come, but made no threatening move.
"Luke Skywalker," Ned said, gesturing to the man, then to himself. "Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North."
The stranger nodded, seeming to understand the introduction if not the words themselves. Ned pointed to his horse, then to the path they had been traveling, then made a motion of walking together.
The man—Luke—studied him for a moment, then nodded again. He spoke a few words in his strange tongue, his tone indicating acceptance.
Ned returned to his horse and lifted Bran down from his pony. The boy looked disappointed.
"You'll ride with Robb," Ned told him, then gestured for the stranger to take the pony.
Luke Skywalker approached cautiously. When he reached them, he surprised Ned by bowing formally from the waist—a courtly gesture no wildling would know. He accepted the offered mount with a nod of thanks.
"No common wildling indeed," Ned murmured to Jory as they prepared to depart.
As they turned their horses back toward the path, Ned noticed the white direwolf following at a distance, her eyes never leaving the stranger. The great beast kept pace with them through the trees, a silent guardian to their unusual guest.
"Father," Bran called from where he sat before Robb, "will the wolf follow us all the way to Winterfell?"
"I know not," Ned answered truthfully. "But I believe she follows him, not us."
They rode in tense silence, the men casting frequent glances at both the stranger and the direwolf shadowing their party. Ned's mind turned over the implications of what he had witnessed. A man of unknown origin, dressed in strange garments, with the ability to calm a direwolf—a creature not seen in the North for generations.
Old Nan's stories whispered through his memory—tales of the children of the forest, of skinchangers and greenseers, of the Long Night and the last hero. Ned had never put much stock in such tales, but he was a Stark of Winterfell, and the blood of the First Men ran in his veins. Some things could not be dismissed so easily.
Whatever powers this stranger possessed, whatever strange land he hailed from, Ned would bring him to Winterfell and learn his purpose. The North remembered, and the Stark in Winterfell must know what walked his lands.
The white direwolf followed them all the way to the edge of the Wolfswood, a pale shadow moving between the trees.
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Kingsroad, The North
Luke adjusted himself on the small pony, grateful for the mount despite its size. As they rode, he discreetly activated the universal translator in his belt, hoping the device had survived the crash intact. A soft beep and green indicator light confirmed it was working, beginning to process the unfamiliar language.
The party moved through the snow-covered landscape with practiced ease. Luke reached out through the Force, studying the group that had found him. Their emotions and connections flowed like currents—loyalty, duty, curiosity, and wariness all mingled together. The leader—Eddard Stark, he'd gathered from the introduction—radiated authority tempered with fairness. The men deferred to him naturally, not from fear but respect.
Luke's attention shifted to the three boys. Each glowed differently in the Force, their signatures distinct yet all powerful in ways they likely didn't understand. The quiet dark-haired youth who rode slightly apart from the others caught Luke's attention first. His dormant yet immense Force presence was controlled, disciplined—like a saber held in check—but beneath it lay something hidden, a heritage or destiny not yet revealed.
The eldest son rode beside his father with easy confidence. His Force signature spoke of steady leadership and a powerful sense of duty—qualities that would serve him well if properly channeled.
But it was the youngest boy, now riding with his brother, whose Force presence truly surprised Luke. Though dormant, the child possessed an unusual connection to something mystical—like tendrils reaching into the unseen world. Luke had encountered similar signatures among those with profound Force visions.
Three extremely powerful Force-sensitives in one family Luke thought. Unheard of in any world.
The white direwolf continued following at a distance, her eyes occasionally meeting Luke's. Through the Force, he sensed her wild intelligence and protective nature. She wasn't merely an animal—there was something more there, a connection to this land he didn't yet understand.
As they rode, Luke felt profound gratitude for their hospitality. Despite his strange appearance and inability to communicate, they had offered him shelter rather than hostility. Such kindness to strangers wasn't universal across the galaxy.
After riding for nearly an hour, they crested a small hill. Below, a grim tableau awaited: a ragged man in black clothes knelt on the frozen ground, surrounded by armed guards. His hands were bound, his face haggard with fear.
Luke's translator beeped softly, beginning to decipher fragments of conversation.
"...deserter from the Watch..." came one voice.
"...broke his oath..." said another.
"...the Wall requires..."
The leader—Stark—dismounted, his expression solemn. The others followed, leaving Luke uncertain of protocol. He remained on his pony until one of the men gestured for him to join them.
The prisoner was brought forward, trembling visibly. Luke extended his senses toward the man and recoiled slightly at the raw terror he encountered. This wasn't merely the fear of execution—there was something deeper, more primal in the man's dread.
The deserter began speaking frantically, his words tumbling out in desperate bursts. Luke's translator caught pieces:
"...saw them with my own eyes..."
"...White Walkers..."
"...the dead walking..."
"...not lying..."
Luke felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow. The Force rippled around the man's words with the unmistakable resonance of truth. Whatever this man had seen, he believed it completely.
Stark listened impassively, his face betraying nothing. When the prisoner finished, he nodded once and drew a massive sword from its sheath. The blade caught Luke's attention immediately—it hummed strangely in the Force, unlike any weapon Luke had encountered. Ancient and powerful, it carried echoes of countless lives it had taken.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," Stark intoned, his voice carrying across the hillside, "I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."
Luke watched the boys' reactions. The eldest stood tall, his face a mask of solemn acceptance. The dark-haired youth knelt beside the youngest, whispering something in his ear. Luke caught the words through his now-functioning translator: "Don't look away. Father will know if you do."
The young ward—Theon—watched with inappropriate eagerness, a smile playing at his lips.
The great sword fell in a single, clean stroke. Luke maintained his Jedi composure as he felt the man's life force extinguish in the Force—a brief flare, then nothing. He had witnessed death before, many times, yet it never became easier.
Luke understood this was their justice system—harsh perhaps, but he had seen many variations across the galaxy. On some worlds, criminals were mind-wiped; on others, imprisoned for life in stasis fields. Each civilization found its own balance between justice and mercy. This was their way, and it wasn't his place to judge.
As the men prepared to depart, Luke felt his attention drawn northward by an instinctive pull in the Force. He turned, gazing toward the distant horizon. There, beyond his sight but not beyond his senses, lay something troubling—a vast emptiness that wasn't truly empty. Not an absence of the Force, but something consuming it, like a wound in the fabric of life itself.
The white direwolf, who had watched the execution from the treeline, lifted her head and howled—a sound that carried across the snow-covered hills. The sound resonated with the danger Luke sensed beyond.
"The Wall stands strong," one of the men said, his words now clearer through Luke's translator.
"Winter is coming," Stark replied, his tone heavy with meaning beyond the simple words.
Luke closed his eyes briefly, centering himself in the Force. The certainty grew within him—his crash on this world was no accident. The Force had guided him here for a purpose connected to whatever lay in the north.
As they mounted to return, Luke resolved to learn more about this world, its people, and the potential threat he sensed. The Jedi path had always been one of protection and balance. If darkness threatened here, he would face it.
Their journey back took them through a different part of the forest, the path winding through dense thickets of ancient evergreens. The air was still and silent, save for the muffled crunch of hooves on snow and the occasional creak of leather saddles. Suddenly, the party halted, horses snorting and stamping restlessly. The white direwolf, who had been shadowing their steps from a distance, emerged from the undergrowth, her movements slow and labored. She seemed to groan, a sound of distress that echoed through the trees.
Luke, attuned to the living Force around him, sensed the animal's plight immediately. He dismounted smoothly, raising a hand in a gesture of calm to forestall any action from the startled men. "Wait," he said, the translator rendering his words into their language. "She needs help."
He approached the direwolf cautiously, projecting soothing energy through the Force. The creature's red eyes met his, and an understanding passed between them. She lay down heavily on her side, panting, as the first contractions rippled through her body.
Minutes passed, the men waiting in astonished silence as Luke knelt beside the laboring wolf, his presence seeming to ease her distress. Then, with a final heave and a sharp whine, she gave birth to a litter of pups, their tiny forms wriggling against her white fur, seeking warmth and sustenance.
As the men discussed the pups' fate, Luke sensed the force unfolding. The older two children approached the direwolf cautiously, each drawn to a different pup and the mother allowing them close. The Force swirled around them, creating patterns of connection Luke could clearly see—bonds forming that would shape their futures.
"We should take them," Jon said, stepping closer to the wolf, his eyes fixed on the albino pup with red eyes. "The mother has been following us. It's a sign."
Robb nodded in agreement as he carefully picked up one of the pups, the mother watching them with surprising calm.
Lord Stark considered for a moment, then gave a solemn nod. "Very well. But understand this—these pups are your responsibility, not your servants' or your nurses'. You will feed them yourselves, train them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves."
Through the Force, Luke felt the powerful resonance between the boy and the albino pup—a connection mirroring that between the him and the white direwolf that had been following them. The translator captured the words perfectly, and Luke understood their significance.
Something profound was unfolding on this strange world, and somehow, Luke Skywalker was now part of it.
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Outskirts of Winterfell, The North
The road to Winterfell stretched before them, a winding ribbon of packed snow between ancient pines. Ned Stark rode at the head of his party, the strange visitor mounted on Bran's pony beside him. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the white landscape as the first few snowflakes began to fall.
Eddard studied the foreigner from the corner of his eye. Luke Skywalker sat his mount with the easy grace of a man accustomed to riding, though something in his posture suggested he was more comfortable with a different kind of steed. The man had been silent for some time, his fingers occasionally touching a small device at his belt.
The white direwolf loped through the trees parallel to their path, keeping pace but maintaining her distance. Luke's eyes followed her movements, concern evident in his expression.
"The beast follows you," Eddard observed. "I've never seen a direwolf act thus with any man."
Luke's gaze remained on the white wolf. He nodded slowly, then closed his eyes briefly as if in concentration. When he opened them, he spoke more clearly than before.
"She... is weak. Many pups… birth"
Eddard raised an eyebrow. The man could sense the direwolf somehow. Another piece of the mystery.
"The gods have strange ways of bringing men to where they're needed," Eddard said, more to himself than to the stranger.
They rode in silence for a time, the rhythmic crunch of hooves on snow the only sound. Robb urged his horse forward, drawing alongside them. His young face was serious, eyes assessing the stranger with the wariness of a future lord.
"Father, can we trust this stranger? These are uncertain times."
Before Eddard could answer, Jon Snow moved his mount up on the other side. His dark eyes studied Luke with quiet intensity.
"He does not carry a weapon" Jon offered. "Even if we cannot trust him, it's better to find out his purpose"
Theon Greyjoy snorted from behind them. "Perhaps he's addled in the mind. Claims to have journeyed farther than any map shows."
"Did you see how the direwolf let him touch her, Father?" Bran called excitedly from where he rode with Robb. "Not even our kennelmaster could do that!"
Eddard considered his sons' words, weighing each perspective. The stranger—Luke—watched this exchange with calm interest, his eyes moving from speaker to speaker as if he understood more than his limited words suggested.
The white direwolf, who had been keeping her distance, suddenly drew closer to their party. She padded through the snow, approaching Luke's mount without hesitation. The pony skittered nervously, but Luke calmed it with a gentle hand. Then he extended his other hand toward the wolf, palm down.
Eddard watched in fascination as something unspoken seemed to pass between man and beast. The direwolf's amber eyes locked with Luke's blue ones, a connection forming that was almost tangible.
"Amidala" Luke said softly, the word strange yet spoken with unmistakable affection.
"You name her?" Eddard asked.
Luke nodded. "Brave woman. Strong. Protector."
"Someone dear to you," Eddard guessed, recognizing the look in the man's eyes.
Luke smiled forlornly but didn't elaborate.
Eddard weighed all he had seen and heard. The stranger's appearance, his unusual garments, his affinity with the direwolf—all pointed to something beyond ordinary explanation. Yet the man had shown no hostility, only a dignified patience and evident intelligence.
"We'll offer him guest right and learn his purpose," Eddard decided, addressing his sons. "Winter is coming, and we must know friend from foe."
As they crested the final hill, the massive grey walls of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, towers and turrets rising against the darkening sky. Smoke from countless hearths spiraled upward, promising warmth against the gathering chill.
Eddard watched Luke's reaction to the first sight of the ancient fortress. The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze methodically tracing the walls, towers, and gates. It wasn't simple awe Ned saw in his expression, but assessment—the look of a man who had seen greater fortifications but respected what stood before him.
Luke's eyes lingered on the defensive positions, noting the thickness of the walls, the placement of the guard towers. His glance took in the moat, the drawbridge, the iron-studded gates. Ned recognized the evaluation of a warrior, though the stranger made no comment.
As they approached the main gate, guards called down greetings, the portcullis rising to admit their lord and his party. They clattered across the drawbridge and into the outer yard, where stable boys rushed forward to take their mounts.
Catelyn stood waiting in the courtyard, her Tully-red hair bright against the grey stone and white snow. Her eyes immediately found Ned, then moved to the stranger, widening slightly. Her gaze then fell to the bundle each child carried—the direwolf pups, now wrapped in cloaks—before shifting to the white direwolf that had followed them to the very gates of Winterfell but remained outside.
"Ned, what is this?" she asked, fear and concern evident in her voice.
Ned dismounted and went to his wife, taking her cold hands in his. "A lost traveler, Cat. And a sign from the old gods—direwolf pups, one for each of the children."
Catelyn's eyes returned to Luke, who had dismounted and now stood respectfully to one side. She studied him with the shrewd assessment of a lady who had managed a great house for many years.
"He has a strange look about him," she said quietly. "Not of the North, nor any land I know."
Luke stepped forward and bowed formally from the waist, a gesture of respect that seemed practiced and natural to him. His posture and the precise angle of the bow suggested training beyond that of common warriors—something courtly, almost ceremonial.
Catelyn's expression softened slightly at this show of courtesy, though wariness remained in her eyes. She turned to her daughters, Sansa and Arya, who had been watching the exchange with wide-eyed curiosity.
"Girls, this is our guest," Catelyn said, her voice gentle but firm. "Mind your manners."
Sansa, ever the perfect little lady, curtsied gracefully. "Welcome to Winterfell, ser."
Arya, however, was not so easily tamed. She stepped forward, her grey eyes bright with interest. "Where are you from? What's that thing on your belt? Are you a knight?"
Luke smiled at the girl's enthusiasm, but his attempts to answer were hampered by the language barrier. He managed a few halting words, gesturing to his strange device, but it was clear he could not fully express himself.
"Come," Eddard said, gesturing for Luke to follow. "The hour grows late, and the cold deepens. We'll speak more inside."
He led the way into the Great Hall, where fires roared in the massive hearths at either end. Servants hurried to bring bread and salt, the ancient symbols of guest right. Ned watched as Luke accepted them, his manner suggesting he understood the significance of the ritual.
"The stranger speaks little of our tongue," Eddard explained to Maester Luwin, who had appeared at his elbow. "Perhaps your learning might help us understand him."
Luwin's chain clinked softly as he approached Luke, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the foreigner's appearance. When Luke produced the small device from his belt—the one Ned had seen him touch on the road—Luwin's scholarly interest was immediately piqued.
"Remarkable craftsmanship," the maester murmured, leaning closer to examine it. "Unlike anything in my studies."
Luke allowed the examination but gently prevented Luwin from taking the device apart, making gestures to indicate its delicate nature. The maester nodded in understanding, though disappointment flickered across his face.
The children gathered around, each proudly showing Luke their new direwolf pups. Robb's was grey and fierce, already growling at the world. Sansa's was the gentlest of the litter, while Arya's nipped playfully at anyone who came too close. Bran's had yet to open its eyes, and Rickon's was already the wildest. Jon stood slightly apart, the white pup with red eyes cradled in his arms.
Through the window, Eddard saw the white direwolf—Amidala, a unique name—sitting in the snow beyond the walls. She lifted her head and howled, a sound that carried clearly into the hall. Luke turned toward the sound, and Ned saw something pass across his face—a strengthening of whatever bond existed between them.
"Can Amidala... have place? Inside walls?" Luke asked haltingly, gesturing toward the direwolf. "Need food... for her."
"…Yes" Eddard nodded with a pause. "The direwolf is welcome within Winterfell's walls."
He turned and called to the kettlemaster, who approached with visible trepidation.
"Fetch meat for the direwolf," Eddard commanded.
The man's eyes darted nervously to the white beast, but he bowed quickly. "At once, m'lord," he said, hurrying away to comply.
Eddard watched as Luke's eyes swept around the Great Hall, taking in the massive hearths, ancient tapestries, and the weathered stone walls that had sheltered Starks for thousands of years. The stranger seemed to appreciate the fortress's age and strength in a way few visitors did.
Servants brought platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and winter vegetables to the high table. The aroma of hearty northern cooking filled the hall, reminding Ned how long it had been since their midday meal.
"You must be hungry after your journey," Eddard said, gesturing to the laden table. "Eat your fill. Afterward, we will speak privately in my solar. I have many questions about your arrival in the North."
Luke nodded in understanding, surprisingly his grasp of their language clearly improving with each passing hour. He bowed his head slightly in thanks, the gesture refined and practiced.
"I am grateful for your hospitality, Lord Stark," he replied carefully, the words coming more smoothly than before.
Arya, who had been watching Luke with unwavering attention since his arrival, suddenly pushed forward. Her dark hair was coming loose from its braid, and her grey eyes—so like Ned's own—sparkled with determination.
"Father, I want to come too," she announced, chin jutting forward stubbornly. "I want to hear about where he's from and what that thing on his belt does."
Eddard fought back a smile. His youngest daughter had always been insatiably curious, fearless in her pursuit of knowledge. In that, she reminded him painfully of Lyanna.
"No, Arya," he said, keeping his voice firm despite his amusement. "This will be a private conversation. Our guest has traveled far and needs rest, not endless questions from curious little wolves."
Arya's face fell, but the stubborn set of her jaw told Ned this wouldn't be the end of it. She'd likely try to eavesdrop or find some other way to satisfy her curiosity. That was Arya—wild as the wolf pup she now carried.
"You can speak with our guest on the morrow," Eddard added more gently. "After he's had proper rest."
Arya looked ready to argue further, but Catelyn's warning glance silenced her. With a dramatic sigh that only a child could muster, she retreated to her seat, though her eyes never left their mysterious visitor.